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The space where the dress form once stood is raised. I crouch down and use my phone flashlight to get a better look. It’s an envelope, the exact buttery faded yellow of the new floors. I use my nail to separate it from the floorboard. It’s as thin as tissue paper.
My heart plummets to the ground when I see the name inscribed on the front:
My darling Beatrix.
Carefully, I open the letter. Dust crumbles out. The handwriting is blocky, nothing like Beatrix’s delicate script. It reads.
Dearest Beatrix,
Since you told me that you are with child, I have not slept. Instead, every night, I have prayed until the wee hours of the morning, begging for forgiveness and the safety of you and our child. It should be a joyous occasion. Instead, I know that if you were to have this child, it would only bring you pain and shame.
If I were to find you a house, the news would spread on the island. It’s much too small. I think it would be best if you returned to England—not for my reputation, but for your own. I know a woman in Manchester who is mistress of a convent. She takes pity on women like you, who are in unfortunate predicaments. I have told her about you, how bright you are, how skilled you are at mending and cooking. Although I have told her nothing of your beauty, I’ve kept that to myself. She knows nothing of our entanglement, and I ask that you use discretion. She went to boarding school with Adelaide.
If you do go to Manchester, I will continue to send money to you. I’ll tell Adelaide that I’m investing in the railroads. I’ll set up a private account for you. You and our child will want for nothing. If it is a boy, he can go to the same boarding school where I received my education.
It seems every road leads back to Adelaide, doesn’t it? I think of her, but not fondly as a husband should. When I think of her, I am overcome with a sensation of dread. You are the only woman I want. I long for only you, and yet I cannot have you. We can never be together. It is the greatest tragedy of my life that I cannot love you or know our child. When he is born, please tell him that his father loved him so.
I am trying to do the kindest thing. If you stayed on the island, it would bring ruin to us both. You can be angry, but I hope you will understand someday.
Yours,
Martin
My jaw drops along with the temperature in the room. My hand shakes as I slip the letter into another plastic bag. No wonder Beatrix is so furious all the time. Martin tried to ship her off to a convent! For the first time, I experienced a pang of sympathy for Beatrix. When I told Joseph I was pregnant, he was ecstatic. I can’t imagine going through this alone.
The floorboards groan behind me. I whip around, but no one is there. My breath comes out in an anxious puff.
“I told you. Idylewylde men will only bring you pain,” Beatrix hisses in my ear. Her breath is icy against my cheek. I whip my head around again, but no one is there.
“Beatrix?” I call.
“He killed me,” she confesses, “Threw me into the sea like garbage. Who’s to say he won’t do the same to you?”
My heart drops out of my chest at her confession. It makes perfect sense. Martin couldn't bear the thought of news of what happened with Beatrix getting around the island, so he decided to go straight to the source: discard Beatrix and make it look like a suicide.
I wait for one minute, then two. I can feel her; the tsunami of pain and rage that must have swirled inside her as she watched Martin greet Adelaide with a kiss and point out which rooms would make good nurseries while Beatrix grew beneath her apron. I picture her sleeping alone at night, uncomfortable on a straw mattress at a boarding house, while Martin and Adelaide made love on downy pillows and silk sheets. I realize Beatrix isn’t mad at me. She’s angry at the circumstances.
She wants what I have: a child and the love of an Idylewylde man.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. The floorboards creak again. I see the flash of a skirt just out of the corner of my eye. I hear the fabric rustling. But of course, no one is there.
The next morning, Joseph greets me downstairs with a kiss and a massive bowl of oatmeal.
“You need to keep your strength up,” he whispers against my lips. I relax against him, but I can’t help but feel oddly guilty as I dig into my oatmeal, and he hands me my prenatal vitamins.
“Did you find anything good in the attic last night?” he asks.
I swallow my vitamins with a gulp of water, “Yeah, actually. Martin tried to ship Beatrix off to a convent when he found out she was pregnant.”
I retrieve the letter from the padded envelope I’m using to transport it to the library. As Joseph reads, his brow furrows.
“That scheming bastard,” he mumbles.“I know. Pretty cold, right?”
“Arctic.”
“And it gets worse. I think Martin killed Beatrix and tried to cover it up.”
Joseph's eyebrows shoot up to his forehead, "What makes you think that?”
