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“If you give me permission, Harrison and I will deal with all logistics and funding for this project.”
“But, but the m-materials are not fully paid off, they—”
“They are now.”
“But h-how, I had not…” she began but then she caught the flicker of guilt in his expression. “You paid it off.”
He gave a huff to blow a rogue strand of hair out of his eyes. “I unloaded some burdens that I should have long ago. I will tell you all in due time.”
“But I d-don’t understand.”
“I know you do not, love, but I swear you will. For now, take this.” In her fingers, he placed a key, his eyes beseeching her to take it.
“And what are you g-going to do?”
Rubbing his bare hands together, he then tied his hair back in such a style that recalled a Viking berserker of yore. It was also cursedly attractive.
Giving her a charming wink, he hopped back down into the trench. “I'm going to dig.”
Beside him, his brother paused for a moment, taking in her dumb-founded expression, then gave her a shrug as if to say he did not know what to make of James either, before he went back to digging.
Mariah remained a moment longer watching the brothers find a rhythm of digging next to each other. A warmth pierced her chest that was so at odds with the creeping chill of the biting wind that she adjusted her shawl.
Whatever happened between herself and her husband, he might have a chance of mending things with his brother. And that thought made her smile.
She gripped the key that James had given her between her gloved fingers the entire carriage ride back to Bailey Hall. Upon descending from the carriage, she willed her steps to remain measured, desperately tempering the urge to discover the mystery that lay behind the lock.
First, she searched her chamber, finding nothing on her escritoire.
Ah well, it was silly to hope for…what? Some treasure? Who knew what James had meant. She ought to return to the study to make sure her notes from earlier were organized, for she had left in rather a state of pique, she could not recall if she had tidied after she left. The Irish working man’s daughter in her forced her to always leave an area cleaner than when she found it. Mills were dangerous if there was ever debris or clutter.
Returning to the study in what she hated to admit was a state of defeat, she opened the door expecting to find the monotonous decor of the late Lionel Reed. But the second the light revealed what lay inside the study, a jarring sense of unreality seized her, for the room before her did not align with what she had left earlier that day. Gone was the functional velvet chair, instead replaced with a deep leather wingback chair, draped in cashmeres of burgundy and deep blue. The same mahogany pedestal desk, that once dominated the space, was now angled closer to the fire, but also faced out to the view of Bailey Hall. The estate’s beauty was often obscured by the smoke and the haze of the mills but looking out from this angle, one could see the trees and the sunset perfectly.
Gone were many of the portraits of former Lords St. George, replaced by art she had only read about before, of natural scenes, of women bathed in water or light. But most shocking of all was what was on the desk. Illuminated by an Argand reading lamp, which even her father did not possess, the warm light reflected against an enormous jar of apricot preserves, next to which lay a spoon, butter, and slices of bread. A pot of tea let out a warm steam to complete the tray.
It was too much. Mariah hardly ever allowed herself these little luxuries, yet the scent of mint tea and the glint of the apricot preserves made her stomach twist in anticipation.
Beside the tray, at first escaping her notice sat a box of dark, polished rosewood. At first she thought it might have been a double tea caddy, but as she inspected it more closely, she realized it had a lock. Her pulse picking up, she inserted the key that had never left her hand. With a soft click, the lid opened as though it had been holding its breath for her arrival, revealing a single letter within the silver-lined interior.
Mariah,
Long ago, you offered me the privilege of a glimpse of your soul, and the fool that I was, I did not appreciate that gift when I had it. I understand that glimpse may be all I am ever offered, and if so, I will treasure it until my last breath. Yet, I seek to offer you a glimpse into my dreams as well. Perhaps it can better explain why I was such a blasted wretch these last few years.
I was born a middle son, unexceptional except for a small level of charm that was tolerated by some and appreciated by others. My eldest brother Lionel was the perfect future Baron, staid and stoic, he would never disappoint the Reed name nor the bloodline. If he could have, he would have likely married another well-bred woman whose family name went back to the Conqueror and produced the heir and the spare. My parents adored him and doted on him. Not much was expected of me other than to be charming. Once Harrison came along, I had a companion. In my mind, he would join the army and I would travel. I would get away from Bailey Hall, from the legacy I would never have lived up to, and find my brother wherever he was posted. This was before I ever imagined there would be a war in the Crimea. It’s not that I thought war was a game, but I do not think I could have imagined the lengths humans would go to destroy one another efficiently.
This is no excuse for my neglect or my behavior toward Harrison or you, merely it is my story, and telling it helps me better understand myself. When Lionel died, all those dreams withered, and the title and everything that came with it felt like a millstone around my neck.
Let me be clear. You were never a millstone, and that I ever made you feel such a way brings me more shame and despair than I can ever convey.
Then, when Harrison was injured, it was that final nail in a dream that had been the escape of a young man who could only offer the world charm and fine words.
What I have learned more than anything is that the world is both a beautiful and a terrible place. When I was a young man, I only wished to see the beauty and ran from anything that pushed me to see otherwise. But you Mariah, you have the true gift of finding beauty in the terrible, both as a leader and as an artist.
For that is what you are, my love. You cannot let your background or your gender EVER stop you from documenting your words, for that would be a loss to the world so great, I do not know if we would be forgiven when it came time for Judgement.
When I was in London, my friend Lord Wolfridge’s wife, who also writes and has given me permission to share that fact, told me what she would wish for to write:
Time and space.
