Secret Letters by Leah Scheier

handle, his fingers came to rest beside my own.
    “Wait a moment, please, Miss Joyce. There is something I must say to you.”
    His voice was low and troubled, his head was bowed, his hand shifted slightly back to cover mine. He was standing very close to me; I could feel his shallow breath warm against my skin.
    “I can see you’re worried about sending me to Hartfield,” I began. “But I promise that you won’t regret it. I know that I can help you solve this case…” I paused, uncertain, swallowing the ending in my confusion.
    “What are you talking about?” he shot out irritably. “I wasn’t thinking about the case! I am only thinking about—” He stopped suddenly, undecided, and exhaled slowly.
    “You have to promise me—” He continued in a softer voice. “You have to promise to be more cautious. I’ve seen how innocent and thoughtless you can be.” I started to turn away, but he grabbed my hand and pulled me back. “Wait, Dora, I’m begging you, just this once listen to me—please.” He was looking directly at me now, his skin deepening to a dark, unhappy scarlet. “You’ve been so sheltered from the world; perhaps you’ll think that I am simply trying to frighten you. I may not be much older than you, Dora, but I have seen some things, some men—brutal, vicious men, who will think nothing of—” He paused again and shook his head. There was an uncertain, wandering expression in his eyes, like a child waking from a bad dream.
    “Please,” I whispered to him and moved to draw my hand away, for his grip had tightened suddenly, and my fingers had gone cold. “Please, Peter, let me go.”
    His hand slipped suddenly from mine. I pulled my throbbing wrist away and leaned my back against the door. Three livid fingerprints stood out in red upon my skin, and we both stared at the marks in silence for a moment.
    “Dora, wait, I’m sorry—”
    But I had already turned away, throwing off the arm which he’d extended, as I hurried past him to the street.

 
    I FOUND A DRIVER waiting for me at the train station. He threw my little suitcase on the back of his dogcart, jerked his thumb at the space next to my bag, and climbed up into his seat without a word. I jumped on, and he flicked the reins and we were off.
    On the way to Hartfield Hall we passed several small tenant farms that belonged to the estate. Sheffield Green, Whitelands, and Donnanfield were just a few of the villages that paid the earl to live on and work his lands. Besides his investments, the farmers were Lord Hartfield’s chief income source, so he acted as both their landlord and their manager. They looked like charming little homesteads, nestled between acres of rolling pasture, with the spire of a chapel poking out behind the hills.
    By the time my hired dogcart had reached the edge of the estate, the mist had lifted, and I was able to view the great house in all of its grandeur. We approached the south side of the sixteenth-century mansion via a paved drive bordered by tall elms. Around us stretched acres of perfectly manicured lawn and a garden ornamented with ivory statues of Roman gods in heroic poses. Two steeple towers connected by a pillared, ivy-covered stone mansion comprised the main part of the Hall. We passed through an arched gateway and pulled up to the tradesmen’s entrance.
    A young urchin ran to take the horse’s harness and was promptly warned off by the stable boy. The little fellow took a cuffing from his superior and moved to the back of the cart, where only I could see him. He touched his hand to the brim of his dusty cap, winked broadly at me, and disappeared. This, I gathered, was little Perkins, the boy who would be my messenger.
    I was escorted to the servants’ hall by the butler, a tall, taciturn man with a red snub nose, who eyed me with distaste. I caught only a glimpse of the winding oak staircase and the crimson and golden dining room beyond before I was hurried by the back passage to the