Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The letter came late in the morning, just as Winston was descending the stairs to join the others for luncheon.
A footman, a curious look of effrontery on his face, held out a single folded envelope on a silver tray.
Winston picked it up without breaking stride and almost opened it until he saw the name on the envelope.
Lady Adeline.
Just that. No address and no family name. He stopped.
“Where did this come from?” he asked.
“Delivered by hand half an hour ago, Your Grace. The…man refused to give his name.”
“Man? A messenger?”
“I do not believe so, Your Grace. He had the look of Cheapside about him.”
The man’s tone said that the servant of a Duke was unaccustomed to dealing with such.
“What did he look like?”
“I did not get a good look at his face, Your Grace. He had a hat with a wide brim pulled low. The fingers holding the envelope were none too clean, and neither were the clothes the fellow wore.”
Winston stared at the envelope. The paper was of poor-quality parchment. The penmanship was crude but not uneducated. The work of a sloppy clerk. It was certainly unfamiliar.
A letter to Adeline. It should not occasion notice. Except I wish to know more about her. And this might lessen the mystery.
He knew he could swear the footman to secrecy and open the letter. Not a soul would know he had done it, and he would gain answers to some of his questions perhaps. None would know. But he would.
“She’s in the drawing room?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Winston walked through without another word holding the letter balanced against his fingers. The midday light fell in stripes through the long windows. Adeline sat beside Louisa, reading aloud from some slim volume of fables. Her voice carried softly across the room. She looked up when he entered.
“This arrived for you,” Winston said, setting it on the table beside her. “Delivered by hand, I’m told.”
She stared at it a heartbeat too long before managing a polite reply.
“Thank you.”
He waited. “No direction on the outside. Nothing to say who sent it.”
“No.” Her voice had gone quiet. “It is…private.”
That single word shouldn’t have struck him so hard, yet it did.
He’d questioned her plenty of times about her parentage and what happened to cause her to seek solace with his mother.
But Winston had never pressed Adeline to give details about her life before Greystone.
Suddenly, the need to know who would write her here, under his roof, filled him with something sharp and unpleasant.
“Of course,” he said, and turned toward the window so she wouldn’t see his expression.
He heard the faint tear of the seal, then silence. When he looked back, she was folding the letter again, hands steady now. She slipped it into her reticule as if it were of no consequence.
“Who is it from?” Louisa asked curiously.
“Louisa. That is impolite. It is Miss Wilkinson’s business,” Winston reprimanded her and, internally, himself. “Nothing urgent, I hope,” he said, giving the lie of his words but unable to stop himself.
“Only an old acquaintance,” she replied without meeting his eye. “I wrote to her before we left for London. She is here in town. There’s no need for concern.”
“None at all,” he said lightly, though the words cost him.
I gave her and the others very little notice of this trip. But somehow, she had enough time to pen a letter to an old acquaintance?
Winston tried to dismiss the gnawing suspicion.
Adeline had proved herself to be dedicated to Louisa and very capable.
But the questions remained at the back of his mind.
Cordelia entered then, full of energy, with talk of the evening’s theater engagement.
They would go to Drury Lane and see a new production that promised music and spectacle.
Winston nodded at all the right moments, but his mind was still on that sealed paper and the tremor he’d seen in Adeline’s fingers.
He told himself it might have been from Oswald. The thought stung worse than it should have. Winston knew his friend to be a man who was full of charm, lingering smiles, and easy confidence. He could well imagine such a letter, an invitation written with too much familiarity.
And Oswald is carefree enough to grab the nearest writing stock, even if it is in a gambling hell. And handwriting can be affected by strong drink.
He left the room soon after and shut himself in his study, pretending to read reports. The ink blurred on the page. Jealousy, he told himself, was the indulgence of fools. Yet he could not shake it.
When evening came, the family carriage rolled through Covent Garden to the great facade of the Theatre Royal.
Lanterns burned like tiny suns, and a tide of people surged toward the entrance.
Gentlemen wore dark coats while women glittered in silks and pearls.
Louisa’s eyes were wide; Cordelia was radiant with anticipation.
Adeline sat opposite him, pale beneath her bonnet.
Winston offered his arm as they entered.
Adeline took it, her hand light as air. Inside, the noise was a kind of music itself, the hum of talk, the rustle of fans, the rising laughter from boxes.
They took their seats in a private box. Louisa sat between Cordelia and Winston, chattering in whispers until the curtain rose.
The play began. Winston tried to watch, but his gaze kept returning to Adeline.
She sat too still, her eyes fixed but unfocused, as though she were listening for something beyond the stage.
When applause broke out, she flinched, smiling too quickly to hide the reaction.
Cordelia seemed to notice his concern and the cause of it. She leaned past Louisa, whispering.
“She’s only overcome by the splendor of it. We all are.”
Winston didn’t argue, though he knew it wasn’t splendor that made Adeline’s hand tighten on her fan until it cracked. Her eyes roamed the audience more than the stage, as though looking for someone.
Did the letter suggest meeting here, tonight? Is Oswald here in the audience?
He found himself dividing his attention between Adeline and the crowd of faces, all turned to the stage.
Oswald was not there, that he could see.
The performance ended to loud applause. The audience rose, milling toward the exits.
Louisa chattered about the costumes, Cordelia about the music.
Winston turned to offer Adeline his arm, but she was staring toward the lobby, face drained of color.
“Adeline?”
Her eyes were fixed on someone across the crowd. He followed her gaze and saw only the indistinct shape of a man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, turning away as though to leave. Nothing remarkable, save for the way she swayed at the sight of him.
“Adeline, what is it?” Winston asked, leaning close. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She didn’t answer. With a sudden, desperate movement, she turned and fled, pushing past a group of gentlemen near the door.
“Adeline!”
He caught Cordelia’s startled look, Louisa’s cry, then he was moving through the press of people, past astonished faces and the murmur of curiosity that followed them both.
She ran through the lobby and out into the cool night air.
The street beyond was thick with carriages, the air sharp with smoke.
For one terrifying moment, he lost sight of her entirely.
Then he saw the pale flash of her gown as she turned down an alley beside the theater.
“Adeline!” His voice carried over the noise. “Stop!”
She didn’t. He followed, heart hammering.
He ran through the dark, noisome alley towards the green square of Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
As she emerged from the alley, Adeline collided with an innocent passerby and cried out.
The man recoiled, raising his hands as though to demonstrate how little of a threat he was.
His hat was knocked from his head and Adeline ran on.
Winston put on a burst of speed and caught Adeline, grabbing her wrist.
“Let me go!” she cried.
“Not until you tell me what’s happened,” Winston responded.
But Adeline kept pulling, trying to extricate herself from his grip. What Winston saw in her face was blind terror. Her breath came fast, the pulse in her throat visible.
“He was there,” she whispered. “I saw him.”
“Who?”
“You alright, miss?” A cab pulled up, its driver leaning from the seat, lifting his hat to peer at the altercation.
“Mind your own business!” Winston snapped, irritated at the interference just as Adeline had been opening her mouth to speak.
It was the worst response he could have given, making it look to the driver that he was the one inspiring the terror in Adeline’s face. The driver vaulted from the seat, hefting the flexible goad he used to spur his horses.
“I think you should let the young lady go, mate,” he said.
Winston ignored him, taking Adeline’s face in his free hand as gently as he could.
“Let me help you,” he whispered. “Who was it you saw?”
“I said, let her go!” the driver snarled, seizing Winston’s shoulder in a surprisingly strong grip.
Adeline wrenched free of Winston’s hold, taking three steps away from him.
But those three steps took her dangerously close to the road, where carriages were rattling by apace.
Winston saw the danger before she did. Adeline was looking up and down the street as though she did not know where she was or what was happening.
Winston tore free of the driver’s hands.
“Adeline, stop!” he barked.
“Miss, look out!” The driver who had sought to be a hero now realized Adeline’s danger too.
Both men lunged for her as her breathing rose to a crescendo, eyes widening, and she turned to run.
Time slowed, and Winston saw the motion of skirts being gathered.
Saw the leading foot raised. Saw the stride that would take her into the road and the path of a carriage.
The oncoming driver hauled on his reins, but the motion of the vehicle was too great.
The horses would not stop in time. Worse, they would cannon into her and then rear at the sudden sawing of the reins, lashing out with steel hooves.
Winston’s shoulder hit Adeline before the chest of the nearest horse.
He pivoted, shielding her with his body, and the animal drove into him instead.
Both he and Adeline were hurled forward.
Winston cocooned her in his arms, holding tight and twisting so that his body hit the hard road surface first. There was an explosion of pain in his ribs as a furious hoof caught him.
Then another stole the air right out of his lungs as his flying body hit the cobbles.