She had the next envelope in hand but made herself put it down. There were only six envelopes. No point finishing everything at once.
Instead she went to the bow window and picked up the slender volume that lay on the window seat.A Summer in Roman Ruins, Lord Ingram’s account of those adolescent days he spent exploring the remnants of a Roman villa on his uncle’s estate. It contained an oblique reference to their first kiss, but that wasn’t the only hint to her presence.
There was also, for example, this particular passage:
One day, I unearthed a stone object, nearly three feet across and a good ten inches thick, perfectly circular except for a protuberance that appeared to be a handle, except it was far too short.
Clearing the encrusted dirt from the surface of the object revealed a groove that had been etched around the circumference of this large disk, and straight down the center of the protuberance. Not a millstone then, as I had originally supposed.
The function of the artefact baffled me, until someone better read came along with a copy of Bede’sEcclesiastical Historyand pointed to references of vineyards in olden times: It was a grape press—and the protuberance the spout from which grape juice would flow into a receptacle.
Grapes?He had frowned.Here?
She showed him the exact paragraph where the Venerable Bede described vines growing in various places in Britain.
What happened to all those vineyards?
Perhaps the climate or the soil turned unsuitable. Perhaps the plague wiped out everyone who knew how to work vines. Or perhaps French wines were simply better and cheaper, and it made sense to uproot the vine stock and grow something more profitable.
He was quiet for some time.My godfather owns some vineyards in Bordeaux. I’ve visited them. Hard to imagine that landscape here.
Did you frequent any patisseries when you were in France?
Don’t think so—don’t like sweet things.He glanced at her.You like French pastry?
I like the description of them. But I’ve never had croissants or mille-feuilles or cream puffs.
You still wouldn’t have tasted them even if I’d visited every patisserie in Paris.
But at least you would have been able to describe them.
I’ve had croissants. They aren’t bad. But I don’t remember anything particular about them.
She’d sighed and picked up her book again.
But two days later, she’d walked into her room to find a box of croissants, mille-feuilles, and cream puffs.
Neither of them ever mentioned the pastries, but this was the next paragraph in the account:
I hadn’t much cared for the consumption of books, preferring sports and the more physical aspects of excavation. But that moment I realized ignorance would ill serve me—and that if I wished to continue in archaeological endeavors, I must study the history passed down on library shelves, in addition to that evidenced by objects left behind by the long departed.
She closed the book softly.
No, she didn’t wish she’d married him—she was ill-suited to marriage, after all—but she did wish he hadn’t married someone else.
That he hadn’t married the former Alexandra Greville.
The doorbell rang. Charlotte raised her head. Mrs. Watson and Miss Redmayne would not yet have returned from church. Lord Bancroft had left nothing behind. And she herself had no other clients scheduled for the day. Who could it be?
A courier stood on the doorstep, an envelope in hand. He respectfully inclined his head. “I’ve a letter for Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
“I’ll take it to him.”
The courier tugged his cap and left.
The envelope was of a familiar weight and material, the linen paper crisp yet strong. Charlotte also recognized the typewriter that had been responsible for the name and address on the front—typewriters, especially those that had been in use for a while, produced letters almost as identifiable as those written by hand.
Lord Ingram. They’d spoken in person only the evening before. What could have compelled him to send a letter by courier so soon afterward?
