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I write to you from the depths of despair. Throughout our time together, I’ve known no greater happiness. It has been a unique pleasure, a joy, perhaps the greatest of my life, to fall in love with you.
And now, I must ask your forgiveness.
I know that I don’t deserve what I ask of you. I know that I’ve done you wrong. I know that we cannot come back from all that’s happened.
I only wish you’ll consider it, Brooks.
Meet me tonight. I want to say everything at once, without pause, without regret. If I never see you again, then I want to at least leave this with the belief that I did all that I could to keep you, to keep us.
Eternally yours.
The letter wasn’t signed with any name. Charlotte furrowed her brow, finding this to be incredibly strange. In her experience, women loved signing dramatic letters with a flourish—branding themselves as the keepers of such emotion. She re-read it and tried to place this woman in her rather loose understanding of Brooks’ life. Who was she?
Upon the rereading of the letter, Charlotte discovered the date it was written, etched at the top.
The date just happened to be the date that Brooks had been murdered.
Charlotte’s heart drummed against the side of her ribs. Was it possible that this woman knew something about Brooks’ death? After all, if he’d met her that night, there was a possibility that the woman had seen something, or heard something, or even been involved.
The letter was terribly suspicious. In Charlotte’s view, it was the first piece of a puzzle. As she simmered with guilt about Brooks’ death and her knowledge about it, she felt that cracking the code of this letter and ultimately finding Brooks’ murderer might reduce her guilt.
It was the only thing she could think of to do.
Slowly, she folded up the letter, returned to the door, and slipped back into the dark and cavernous corridor. She found refuge for the letter in her bosom, then walked back towards the parlour. When she appeared in the doorway, her mother gave her a firm nod, and her Aunt Cecily said, “Oh, darling. I hope I didn’t chase you away. It’s such a dear thing to have you here. Won’t you sit?”
Charlotte did. Her aunt looked at her brightly, struggling to keep the tears back.
“It really is such a pleasure to have visitors,” Aunt Cecily said. “Your Uncle Thomas and I have struggled to speak with one another since it happened. There are so many questions that we’ll never be able to answer …” She bit her lower lip, then gestured towards the platter of shortbread, the steaming cups of tea. “I hope you’ll take some tea. Your mother and I have found it difficult to eat as of late, but I find that the shortbread is a bit too delectable to resist.”
Charlotte lifted a cup of tea with a quivering hand. After a pause, she said, “Thank you. I suppose I wanted to find a way to mourn, as well. Brooks was such a dear cousin, a marvellous man.”
“Thank you for saying that,” Aunt Cecily said. “I suppose you must have seen him at many parties over the years.”
“I did.”
Aunt Cecily furrowed her brow. “I don’t suppose he ever got into any sort of altercations at these events? Anything that turned your head or made you wonder if he was up to something?”
Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t think so. He was always so jolly.”
“This is what I thought, as well,” Aunt Cecily returned.
“Brooks was ever popular with the ladies,” Charlotte continued delicately. “I remember many of my friends thinking he was terribly handsome. But he must have been courting someone seriously in recent months …”
Aunt Cecily shook her head. “He never mentioned anyone …”
This struck Charlotte as most odd. The mood of the letter she’d found had been quite romantic, simmering with sensuality and tension.
“Nobody at all?”
“No. His father and I worried about it a bit. We thought he would have settled by now. And perhaps, if he had …” She trailed off, peering into the distance. In her eyes, Charlotte could feel regret and sadness, brewing up once more.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Charlotte offered hurriedly. “He was loved by so many, and his memory will live on through us all.”
“Thank you for saying so,” Aunt Cecily said.
Charlotte nibbled the edge of a slice of shortbread and blinked towards the thick curtains. Her mother drummed up another conversation topic, one that involved the recent burial of Brooks. The fact that this was all logistical, somehow purposeful, seemed to ground Aunt Cecily even more.
“Yes. We chose the spot near the far tree. He always liked to go out there to read poetry and think,” Aunt Cecily said. “We imagined that he would have found that to be a worthy resting place. It’s not the sort of thing you discuss with your children.”
“No. Why would you?” Charlotte’s mother agreed. “Such a sour conversation holds no place. And I know Brooks would have loved it. He was always out there, gazing at his books.”
“He was. He really was,” Aunt Cecily said, heaving a final sigh.
