Authors: Donna MacMeans
“You’re a journalist,” Edwina replied, leaning forward. The others followed suit. “You know how to research and have access to the archived copies of newspapers at the Ladies of Print Society. I need Claire’s assistance, as she has access to many women due to her involvement in so many political movements.”
“That’s true,” Faith agreed.
“I would like you two to research a few things for me,” Edwina said, shifting her position.
“What sorts of things?”
Edwina removed the paper Ashton had sent her with the Falcon Freight
mon
from her journal. She smoothed it out on the table. Sarah gasped. “Where did you get that?”
“It’s the symbol of Falcon Freight,” Edwina replied. “The Trewelyn family company.”
“That’s the symbol that has appeared on those mysterious packets of money.” Sarah stared at the symbol, then raised distressed eyes to Edwina. “Why would Trewelyn send money to me?”
Edwina hid her smile, pleased that Sarah had confirmed her supposition about the mysterious benefactor. “The day after Walter told me how his sister met her untimely end, I told Trewelyn. I also told him about Nan, just so that he would understand the consequences of those reported orgies at his residence. I suspect the money is his way of making amends for any suffering he may have inadvertently caused.”
“Inadvertently?” Claire scoffed.
“Sarah has already admitted that Trewelyn is not Nan’s father,” Faith scolded. “There’s no proof that he was the cause of another woman’s violent end.”
“Nevertheless, his need to make amends is not the basis of my request,” Edwina said, bringing the attention of the group back to her purpose. “I have reason to suspect that other companies here in London use a similar design, a circle”—Edwina traced her finger around the outside of the symbol—“and maybe an animal or some other image in the middle.” She looked toward Claire. “I would think your network of women might recognize the symbols as those of their husband’s employers.”
Claire nodded. “I can make inquiries.”
Edwina refolded the paper and put it back in the envelope. Sarah looked up. “What about me? You said you needed my help as well.”
Edwina smiled. It seemed the revelation of the Falcon Freight
mon
had altered Sarah’s attitude toward Ashton. “Didn’t you once tell me that reporting the insignificant facts of a ball or a dance as well as the idle talk of the affairs of the highest classes was a journalistic tradition going back to the earliest newspapers?”
“Well, yes, but I don’t see—”
“I want you to research those papers for any female names that are associated with Mr. Trewelyn’s father in his younger years. I’d also like to know if any of those women currently live in Calcutta, India.”
“Calcutta!” Faith exclaimed. “What are you about?”
“I can’t tell you,” Edwina replied sympathetically. “However, I assure you it’s important.”
“Is there nothing I can do?” Faith asked.
“Not as yet.” Edwina patted her hand. “Just continue to stand by me when I need a friend.”
Their business resolved, the meeting broke up soon after Edwina had requested assistance. Faith walked outside with Edwina after the others had left, and waited while Edwina retrieved her bicycle.
“You’re falling in love with him, aren’t you?”
She hadn’t thought about it in those terms. Perhaps she’d been denying the very thing that was clear to others. “He’s very kind, Faith, and smart. He’s been to the most interesting places and done the most fascinating things. And he’s never said a word against my riding a bicycle, or my desire to explore.”
“That’s because he doesn’t have to live with the consequences. Why should he care about what you do?”
“I feel different when I’m with him. Special and worthy of respect.” She looked down and toyed with her handlebars. “I don’t feel that way with Walter.”
Faith sighed. “He’s Casanova, Edwina, known for his charm where women are concerned. His family is far wealthier than ours are. If a time should come when he must choose a wife, it won’t be from the likes of us, I’m afraid.”
“He writes to me every day. You don’t think he cares for me?” she challenged.
Faith smiled. “Of course he cares for you. Why should he not? I think it’s dangerous to assume his affections are more than that. You’re inexperienced with men of his ilk and your heart thus more susceptible to his charm. Casanova can slake his thirst with just about any woman. Take care that when the time comes, you are not merely the convenient one.”
Edwina bit her lip, afraid to admit that she indeed prayed that someday he might consider her to fulfill those sorts of needs. He was the only one that could take her on the sort of adventure that she’d witnessed on those forbidden prints.
Faith gripped her arm, demanding her attention. “Don’t do it, Edwina. You’ll regret it the rest of your life.”
• • •
E
DWINA
MANAGED
TO
SEND
A
REPLY
TO
A
SHTON
’
S
LETTER
by the afternoon post, advising him of the Guardians’ meeting in one week. Would that mean he’d return to London to be available for the meeting? She missed him. While she could almost hear Ashton’s voice in his letters, she wished she could see his face, the crinkling lines about his eyes, the devilish sparkle that made her knees weak.
He wrote to her about the towns through which the drayage carts passed, and described the people and landmarks with such attention to detail that she could almost see them herself. When the weather aggravated his leg wound, he told her about the circumstances of its occurrence, the pain of the bullet ripping into his flesh, and the guilt and gratitude toward the man who suffered a disfiguring scar in the process of saving him. She recalled it was for this very man that Ashton had originally purchased the personal ad that led to their meeting. She already felt a debt of gratitude to this stranger. He wrote as well that he’d given more consideration to their discussion on rifle scopes. He’d sent inquiries to Thomas Harris & Son, the makers of her spyglass, for their input. While newer rifles had scoping abilities, the newer rifles were never distributed to the ranks in Burma and India. Had he such a scope on his Martini-Henry, neither he nor his disfigured friend would have suffered injury that day.
His letters were so important to her. It wasn’t as if she’d not been involved in correspondence before. Her brothers had written to her for years. They wrote of the scenery as well, but Ashton’s . . . his letters were different. They satisfied her in a way never imagined in others. They were personal, intimate, humorous, and compassionate, and receiving one was the highlight of her day. She’d even purchased a map of England just so she could follow his daily progress as he traveled with the drayage cart.
Yes, she had to admit, she could very well be falling in love with their author.
• • •
T
HE
DRAYAGE
ROUTE
WAS
SO
ROUTINE
THAT
A
SHTON
WAS
able to tell Edwina the days that he would arrive in each town and village. Even though he’d given her the information on how to reach him, he always worried that her letters would not find their way to the country post offices in time. Her letters were the highlight of his day, and he would mourn missing even one of them.
Given that today had been a particularly miserable one, he needed such a highlight. The morning rain had turned the country roads to muck. The heavily laden cart needed manual assistance twice to free it from the sucking mud. Their last delivery had been refused, which affected the entire packing of the cart, and his leg hurt like hell. But even that wouldn’t stop him from coming into the village to check for mail.
The postmaster in Leighton-on-the-Wold also ran a dry goods store. The combination of postal services with other shops or services wasn’t all that unusual in the smaller villages and hamlets. Ashton waited patiently for the store’s customers to finish their business before he approached the young woman behind the counter.
“I was checking for mail. Falcon Freight? Ashton Trewelyn?” He held his breath while she walked toward the cubbyhole cabinet reserved for mail.
“Falcon Freight? We don’t normally receive mail for them here.”
“Could you check for a letter sent specifically to Ashton Trewelyn?” Ashton asked. He’d had similar reactions in other small villages. “I know we don’t have a box here, but I thought you might hold a letter addressed to the post office.” He smiled, hoping enough of his old charm still remained to persuade a little extra customer service.
“Well, I’ll be,” she said, pulling a letter from a slot. “This must be it.”
Ashton let out his pent-up breath. It would be a good day after all.
“Ashton Trewelyn care of Leighton-in-the-Wold post office.” She glanced up, bouncing the letter off her fingertips. “How did they know to send it here?”
Ashton gritted his teeth, wishing he could just grab the letter from her hand. It was from Edwina; her handwriting had become as familiar to him as his own. Besides, it wasn’t as if anyone else would write to him. Even during his time with the Rifles, no one bothered to post a letter, except Constance. She wrote once, right after he joined, but he never bothered to read what she had to say. He’d simply tossed the letter in the fire. She never bothered to write again.
“I made our itinerary known,” Ashton explained. He nodded to the letter in the young woman’s hands. “She knows the stops we make along the way and plans the letter’s destination accordingly. Now may I have my letter please?” Again he tried an encouraging smile.
“How do I know you’re the one to whom the letter is intended?” the lady clerk challenged. “I can’t be handing out letters to complete strangers.” If he wasn’t mistaken, she was making a game out of this. A game he had no interest in playing.
“A complete stranger wouldn’t know that this letter is from Miss Edwina Hargrove of 86 Commonwealth in London, would they?” he replied with perhaps a little more annoyance than necessary. “When she writes, she has the unfortunate tendency to get ink on her fingers. There is probably a print of her fingertip somewhere on the envelope.” He looked over the counter and down at the woman’s hands. “Yes, there it is”—he pointed—“lower corner on the left. And if you sniff the envelope, you might get a faint sweet scent of cinnamon and oranges.”
The woman sniffed. Her eyes widened, then she offered the envelope. “The woman is certainly known to you, sir.”
Once the envelope was in his hands, it was as if the late afternoon sun had found its way to his soul. “Yes,” he said, lifting the envelope to inhale its sweet fragrance before slipping it inside his jacket by his heart. “She most certainly is.”
• • •
H
E
FOUND
A
QUIET
SPOT
IN
THE
TINY
VILLAGE
TO
READ
his letter, not wishing to have the others on the drayage crew interrupt him in the pleasure. It was not as if this were a love letter, far from it. There was no gushing of affection, no pronouncements of undying adoration or devotion. Just Edwina’s unique and immensely enjoyable retelling of events of the day. Through her letters, he began to know and appreciate the other women of the Rake Patrol, as she called them. She told of her brothers’ adventures and between the lines he recognized her admiration and yearning to travel as they did. He even had to chuckle at some of the “secret” postings in the personals that Edwina decoded. This letter, though, added the news of a different sort of decoding. The Guardians were to meet next week, which he assumed meant his request for membership would be presented. Traveling at the pace of two Clydesdales pulling the freight cart along country roads, he’d almost forgotten about the Guardians and the threat they potentially posed to his family. Instead he’d spent the time contemplating his future, contemplating Edwina, and realizing that thanks to her, he’d discovered he had the capacity to truly trust again.
• • •
E
DWINA
’
S
HUMOR
INCREASED
STEADILY
AS
IT
NEARED
the date of the Guardians’ meeting. Ashton would surely be back in London. Hopefully, she’d have an opportunity to see him before he returned to the drayage routes. With this in mind, she watched everywhere for his unique gait, his enticing face and listened for his endearing voice. Even as she dressed to accompany her parents to the theater, she did so with Ashton in mind.
After the invitation to Lady Sutton’s soiree, her mother had gone to great lengths to improve Edwina’s wardrobe. She’d received several new dresses, a consequence of her mother’s renewed social obsession, and she relished the idea of wearing one in public. Tonight she wore her favorite of the new gowns. Clearly, the print of bright oranges and orange leaf clusters on a deep blue, almost black, background had Japanese influences. She could well imagine the silk fabric appearing on a kimono on a shunga print. The many pleats in the front and back created a particularly pleasing symmetry while the effect on the fruits gave the gown a kaleidoscope quality that made her think of Ashton’s gift of the spyglass. The neck was designed to be worn either with a concealing lacey jabot, or without. She chose without. Thus a small amount of daring skin was visible—not as much as one might see in a ball gown, but a small amount nevertheless. When she reviewed herself in the mirror, she smiled. She looked bold and fearless.
Edwina suspected attending the performance of Oscar Wilde’s latest play,
Lady Windermere’s Fan, A Play about a Good Woman
,
was part of her mother’s plan to advance their family’s social position. Her father grumbled about the time removed from work and the need to dress to the nines for a play, but her mother insisted, and in the end he acquiesced.