A Victorian Romance

by Steven Schechter

Table of Contents

Chapter 4: Two Letters

part 1

On a clear, sunny day in early January, in a small rustic church at Ossbourne, Lady Beatrice Belham was wed to Sir Richard Griffith. The church stood in the park, close to the ruins of the old priory, about two miles from the house. At 9:00 a.m., a crowd of villagers and tenants gathered in the surrounding fields while the wedding guests waited in the churchyard. All eyes were on a single carriage coming slowly down from Ossbourne, carrying Lady Beatrice.

Margaret accompanied Beatrice in the carriage, holding her niece’s hand. When the carriage reached the churchyard and came to a halt, young girls in white dresses covered the ground with rose petals for the bride to walk on.

At a breakfast reception after the ceremony, Percy Cargill tapped his glass for quiet, and William added his voice to cut through the noise: “My Lords, pray silence for Sir Percival!”

“I first met Sir Richard at Eton,” Percy began his toast, “where he was captain of the eleven.” The bridegroom watched his friend with solemn affection. “Richard embodied our highest ideals... unselfish and faithful, bold beyond mortals when circumstances required... yet kind to the least conspicuous among us. Loyal to his God and to his Queen” — Percy lifted his glass and nodded to Beatrice — “as loyal he will be to you.” He turned to Richard. “Most true and perfect knight... to whom God has given both strength and gentleness: use them wisely, and be always the nobleman you were meant to be.”

The men drank and thumped the table: “Huzzah! Huzzah!”

* * *

Beatrice was late getting dressed to go off on her honeymoon. Abby and two other maids were fussing over her in the bedroom when Margaret came in to check on her progress. “On my word, Beatrice, you’ll miss that train!” Alcohol early in the day had left Margaret a bit giddy. She helped with Beatrice’s hair. “Lady Selburn is telling everyone about her wedding night. You had better hurry before she catches up with you.”

A wan smile from Beatrice caused Margaret to take another look at her. “You look so tired, darling. Didn’t you sleep?” Beatrice suddenly teared up. “What is it, darling?”

“I had the most horrid dream last night,” Beatrice said, “then I couldn’t sleep at all.”

Margaret leaned in to embrace her. “You’ll be happy now.”

Beatrice returned the hug tightly. “I’m scared, Auntie.”

Margaret pulled back to look at her. “What is there to be scared of?” Beatrice shrugged, with a weak smile. “You need rest, darling,” Margaret said. “Rest is everything for you now. Peace and quiet and air...”

Beatrice’s nightmare was no dream. She had lain awake for hours, gripped by a fear that had become an obsession as her wedding night approached. At 3:00 a.m., she roused herself, lit a candle, and made her way again to the schoolroom in the tower. Several times she almost turned back, but fear pushed her forward. Approaching the open schoolroom door, she saw Digby waiting inside. She stopped at the threshold. “You have sworn on your honor not to touch me.” Digby nodded, and she entered the room.

“Tomorrow is your special day,” he said. He waited a few moments, knowing she would have difficulty broaching the subject. “You wanted to see me.”

“You have ruined me,” she said low. “Richard will find me out.”

“You want to know if there is a way that you can deceive him,” said Digby, not unkindly. “I daresay you’ve waited to the last moment, but I have anticipated your fears.” Digby produced an envelope and withdrew a piece of red cloth about three inches by one inch. “There is quite a trade in town for virgins.” He held up the cloth for her to see. “This is how girls are made pure again.” Beatrice cringed as Digby spoke. “When he goes up-cunny, this—”

“Don’t be barbaric!” she cut him off, turning her head.

Digby placed the cloth back in the envelope and set it down before her. “Just put it in and don’t mind it. This will take care of your problem, like nature herself.”

Eleven hours later, Beatrice and Richard, smiling for all the world like England’s happiest couple, left in a carriage for their honeymoon in Switzerland.

* * *

Since the announcement of Beatrice’s engagement back in November, Thomas Beauton had known with complete certainty who was responsible for his brother’s death, and he meant to have vengeance. However, Beatrice was protected by layers of influence and power, so much so that Thomas believed he needed a wild card of some kind. He considered arranging to meet secretly with Beatrice’s lady’s maid, Abby; he would pay a handsome fee for her cooperation. Or he might trail the couple on their honeymoon in the Alps, perhaps appearing suddenly again, in a restaurant or a railway car.

When the wedding was over and the couple had left for the continent, Thomas wrote a brief note to Margaret stating his beliefs: that his brother was murdered as surely as if a knife were plunged into his back, and that Beatrice was at the root of it all. He offered no evidence except to relate what he had seen the night of the regimental ball: a woman in love, her hand on the arm of the man that even then she was planning to marry. He would prove Beatrice’s guilt, he wrote.

The first person to see any and all correspondence sent to Ossbourne was Digby. Reading the letter from Thomas, he decided to hold onto it for a while. On a train ride returning from the city a few days later, Digby alternated between reading his newspaper, and thinking about Thomas Beauton.

Digby had gone to the city to follow up on tips he’d received, that private investigators hired by Thomas were spreading money around the East End, asking questions about the Russell Square incident. Digby didn’t think they had found anything to worry about; all the principals — Jenny, the boy, the manager — had sailed for America within 24 hours of the event. No one else knew anything.

But Digby puzzled over Thomas’ purpose in sending the letter to Margaret. The letter would be received only as a hideous insult. Did Thomas think it might stir up Margaret’s thinking? Was that the intent? The letter notwithstanding, Digby didn’t believe Thomas had any intention of trying to bring Beatrice before the law. The odds against any success were insuperable, for a host of reasons. It occurred to him, however, that Thomas might be capable of breaking Beatrice down psychologically.

At any rate, Digby decided to show the letter to Arthur — resealed and the date forged — guessing correctly that Arthur would read it himself and, furious at the content, decide that the letter should not sully his sister’s eyes. Margaret never saw the letter.

Digby estimated Thomas to be a sharp, tenacious character. It was only a matter of time, he thought, before Thomas settled on him as a likely accomplice, if he had not already. After all, Beatrice was but a little hothouse flower who knew no-one and spoke to no-one that her family had not approved of in advance. She went nowhere without a chaperone. How would Beatrice ever know or meet anyone who would plan and execute a complex criminal enterprise for her? And the events coincided with Digby’s arrival on the scene. Certainly Thomas had dismissed Richard immediately.

He glanced again at the Society column in the Times — “Major and Lady Griffith Honeymoon at Lucerne” — and wondered if it wasn’t time to leave Ossbourne. He was bored to the chin with politics. Across from Digby in the 2nd class compartment was an elderly gentleman and a plain young woman. He noticed the woman looking at him. She smiled, and he returned the smile. Perhaps a complete change of scenery is in order. I’m told the women of New York City are something to behold.

* * *

The newlyweds returned home on a rainy Saturday afternoon. The tiny village train station had been decorated with colorful flags and banners, and a brass band played, “Here’s a Health to All Good Lasses.” Arthur and Margaret waited center stage on the platform, a servant holding an umbrella over them, and a crowd of villagers and farm laborers cheered the puffing train as it came slowly to a stop. Minutes went by with no sign of the couple.

Inside the train car, Beatrice’s face was a mask of anxiety. With Richard sound asleep beside her, she looked out the car window, straining to see if Digby was in the crowd somewhere. In her traveling coat was a note that she must pass on to him somehow: WE ARE FOUND OUT! I AM BLACKMAILED!

She took out a mirror to check her face again. That morning in London, after Richard had left to secure the luggage at the station, a telegram arrived — someone must have been watching the hotel — a faux telegram, delivered by a faux delivery boy:

Your secrets are known. Unless you deliver 12,000 pounds in Bank of England notes by Friday, you shall find your secret displayed in the Times for the world to see.

That was all, except for instructions on placing the money. Beatrice thought there was nothing for it but to throw herself from the balcony of the hotel. She had climbed out onto the balcony overlooking the street as people waved and shouted to her but, before too long, she saw Richard re-entering the hotel.

It would be a full two days before Beatrice could tell Digby her story. She had first to endure a weekend of celebration and then see Richard off to Ireland on Monday morning. When Digby and Beatrice met later that afternoon in the schoolroom, she sat with her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes bloodshot, as he perused the blackmail note. She had wondered if Thomas Beauton might be behind this, and Digby agreed. But she was alarmed by Digby’s nonchalant tone.

“He’s just fishing. The man knows nothing.”

“Are you stupid!? He sent it to me! To me!

“Yes, he wants to see how you take it, to see if you have anything to hide.” Digby shrugged. “But he doesn’t know a thing. How could he? So you do nothing. Keep your head up and a smile on your face—”

“I can’t go on another day!” Beatrice screamed at him. “You can fly to another country! But I must wait out every day and keep my face up! I can’t bear it!” She was screaming at the top of her lungs. “I will lose my mind!!” She threw herself into one of the little chairs, so slim she could still fit in. Putting her head in her arms, she sobbed, her body trembling. Digby watched her a few moments, then he rose and came closer, sitting atop one of the desks.

“I know you despise me,” he began, “but I am a man of my word.” The slim flowing lines of her back trembled so slightly, beauty and vulnerability compounding. “I promised you that this would never come back to haunt you. As I live, it never will.”

Beatrice showed no sign of hearing him.

“Understand me, Beatrice. I would never let Thomas Beauton threaten you. Immediately I saw this note, I knew what I must do. I thought that perhaps the less you knew, the safer we both would be.” He paused. “I see now that I was wrong. It won’t due for you to be terrified.”

Without lifting her head, Beatrice spoke in a small voice. “What will you do?”

“He can only harm you while he’s alive. But my life is ventured in this, too, is it not?”

They sat a few moments, the silence broken only by Beatrice’s sniffles. She lifted her head and sat up. Digby gave her a handkerchief. “Look here,” said Digby, “tomorrow I’ll go up to the city to see about Beauton. I don’t know how long I’ll be, perhaps a fortnight.” She was avoiding looking at him. “Look here — you must keep up a good face. Will you do that?”

She nodded vaguely.

“It’s just as I said,” Digby continued, “act as if you have nothing to hide, and it will all turn out.” Beatrice made no sign, wondering if Digby had planned on deserting her. “Look here, I will write and tell you how it is. So you needn’t worry.”

“I must trust somebody,” said Beatrice after a long moment, more or less to herself.

* * *

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2023 by Steven Schechter