24. Chapter 24
Istare rudely at the stranger in the brushed wool coat over narrow shoulders, pale academic face with papers tucked under his arm, who looks immediately out of place standing outside our Dunn Cottage.
Having no valid reason to deny him entry, I open the door wider and allow him in. I glance behind him for a carriage or horse, but of course there’s nothing but the narrow footpath and the sea beyond it.
He perches on the throne-like chair I’ve lately pulled up to the refractory table, settling neatly in and folding his hands in his lap. As if he makes a business of being discreet and halfway invisible. I smile and attempt conversation while I wait for him to state his errand.
Moments after I close the door, Uncle Elias bursts into the house with a blustery growl and throws firewood at the hearth. Then he turns and blinks at the visitor, his posture automatically straightening as the formal host of Dunn House. “Good day to you, sir. I trust you were adequately welcomed?”
“I was.” The visitor places his folded spectacles on the table. “I come on behalf of His Excellency, the Duke of Ashbourne—I am his clerk. He would like to commission some of your work, if that suits.”
Uncle brightens. “It does suit. It suits very nicely, and I’m honored to accept.” He sinks into the opposite chair. “Circumstances may delay my start, as I need to procure the finest materials...”
“His Grace understands you are at a distinct disadvantage at the moment, and he will see you have access to the needed tools for each project.”
“Each project?”
“Indeed, sir. He is requesting several pieces, and he’s prepared to secure your time with five hundred pounds up front. I trust that is sufficient to engage your services?”
His mouth moves for a minute before he speaks. “That would be quite agreeable.”
The Duke of Ashbourne hadn’t even looked at Uncle’s work during the house party. I’d given him the tour, but only his wife had spent time examining the pieces on display. I stare at the man across from me. “I suppose this a charitable commission, due to the fire.”
A boot digs into my shin beneath the table and Uncle Elias directs a warning glare at me.
The visitor smiles calmly. “Your circumstances did motivate the haste in which His Grace has extended this offer, but I assure you he genuinely wishes to commission the work. He hopes you’ll be agreeable to meeting him in London.”
“Wonderful.” Uncle claps his hands together. “We shall set affairs in order here and meet with him as soon as we arrive.”
“I suppose you have no staff to see to, or other guests to disburse before you leave…”
Uncle stiffens. “None of that. We will depart presently.”
“Not even an extra hand about, simply to…”
When he glances my way, I become keenly aware of whom he’s enquiring after, and precisely what has motivated this unusual interest. “There’s no one here,” I say firmly.
His gaze snaps to mine. He reads it, tries to weigh what I know. Then he lowers his gaze. “I don’t suppose they’ve uncovered that unfortunate Balfour fellow from the ruins.”
I press my lips together. “They have not. The constable can only assume he perished in the blaze.”
“’Tis a shame, that.” His gaze finds mine again. “I had been authorized to extend an offer to him as well, should he have survived. My master is quite impressed with his artistic skill and hopes to invest.”
Present tense. Concerning a man who has not died.
Did he mean to say it that way? Past and then present?
It seemed a slip. I sit forward, reading every twitch and movement of his face.
Perhaps I am imagining it means something.
That he knows something. Surely no one else even suspects Simon survived the fire.
“Miss Snow, His Grace is loath to think of you and your uncle in these conditions. We do hope you will visit at Belgrave Square until your own town house is readied.”
“We’d be honored to accept,” Uncle Elias says, nearly cutting the end off the man’s sentence.
I swallow down what I wish to say. It’s no use now.
Staying with the Duke of Ashbourne will do wonders for Uncle’s rebuilding. He could work with his client directly and find new ways of impressing him. I would merely keep my head down and go about my business.
“Very good.” He rises, fingertips on the table. “I’m glad we’ve spoken, Miss Snow. Mr. Dunn.” He unfolds his gloves and slides his hands in. “I’m pleased we’ll be seeing so much more of one another.”
Simon’s first letter arrives at the London town house before we do. I let it sit unopened on my desk for ten days.
On the eleventh night I take it to bed with me and break the seal, the steam of my breath dampening the page beneath the covers.
It’s all about Papa and the coat, and everything that cannot be undone.
There’s no apology—not directly stated—but the truth is laid out in plain terms, as if that will fix anything.
I come to the end and read it again.
Then again.
By morning I know most of the lines by heart, but wish I hadn’t opened it.
I reply before I can think better of it, words coming sharp and quick, shaped to wound. Watching those words form draws the pain out of my heart and darkens the page with it. Then I tuck those barbed lines into the box alongside my unsent letters to Mr. Dickens… and close the lid on them.
I cannot bring myself to send these bitter words. Nor can I write more cordial ones.
In the coming days, more letters come. I learn the look of his hand, even when the envelope bears no name save mine, the recipient.
I grow accustomed to intercepting them before anyone notices, for I cannot trust the staff not to mention it to the duke or his ever-present clerk.
Someone from our household has informed them of Simon’s survival—I’m certain of it. How else could they have known?
As London society tightens around me, I read each of Simon’s letters until the words lose meaning and I can recite them in my sleep.
His words are simple yet weighted, honest in a world that is increasingly opaque.
It is, perhaps, enough that warmth still exists somewhere in the world—even if it cannot be mine.
The duke is quick to form a connection with us, and when conversations fall quiet, he’s often watching me, as if weighing something I cannot see.
Yet Uncle has come alive. Work consumes him again.
We go on in this manner until I lose a wager with Jane, and I am forced into a trip to some unknown location that is meant to be restorative. Diverting. I suppose it must be Bath.
At the time, it seems inconsequential.