And then she froze.
The pocket watch was still lying on the brass-cornered chest of drawers. Except now it was alone.
Jasper’s keys were gone.
Twenty-Nine
Julia raced up the spiral stone staircase that led to Jasper’s study, her skirts clutched in her hands lest she trip over her hem. The location was unfamiliar to her. Despite her curiosity, she’d never before climbed the stairs to the tower. She hadn’t dared defy the condition Jasper had made on their marriage.
“The door of my study on the fourth floor of the Hall remains locked at all times. You’re never to enter it.”
Images of Bluebeard’s castle danced across her mind as she reached the door at the top of the stairs. Like the door to her bedchamber, it stood open. Her pulse skittered wildly as she crossed the threshold, expecting she knew not what.
But no gruesome sight was there to greet her. Nothing like the one that had awaited Bluebeard’s wife.
It was only a shadowy, sparsely furnished room, containing a large wooden desk, a leather-upholstered chair, and a wall of bookcases. The drawers of the desk had been wrenched open. Papers were strewn about over its surface.
Charlie stood in front of the desk, holding one of the papers in his hand, struggling to read it in the light filtering through a high window.
“Charlie! Put that down!” Julia went to him in a rush. “You know you can’t be in here!”
He looked up at her. “It’s nothing private. Just some rubbish about a chap called Colonel Dryden and a nurse named Eloise.”
Julia tugged the paper from his hand, careful not to tear it. “Out,” she said. “I’ll not have your father find you here.”
“Are they people he knew in the war?” Charlie asked.
“If they are, it’s none of our business.” She gave Charlie a little push toward the door. “My goodness, the mess you’ve made. What on earth did you hope to find here?”
“Whatever it was he’s been keeping secret. I thought it must be something terrible.” Charlie flashed a disgusted glare at the heaps of paper on the desk. “But all this time, he’s only been writing his stupid memoirs!”
“Yes, yes, it’s very deflating.” Julia attempted to console him, even as she felt an overwhelming wave of private relief. “Life isn’t like a penny novel, you know,” she said, as much for Charlie’s benefit as for her own. “Sometimes people’s secrets are really quite ordinary and uncomplicated.”
“I thought he was a criminal.”
“I know you did.” She gave him a look of gentle reproof. “Your father isn’t the same man he was before the war. It may be hard to trust that, but after all these years, I would hope you could at least give him a chance.”
“Is that why you married him? Because you think he’s changed?”
“I believe he has. People can, if they have a mind to. Sometimes all it wants is time. You’re wise to be skeptical, but it’s all right to have a bit of faith now and then.” She urged Charlie out of the room. “Go and have your tea. I’ll join you after I tidy up here.”
Charlie stopped on the threshold. His face was drawn with a sudden worry. “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
“I daresay I should.”
“He’ll probably beat me.”
Julia doubted that. If anything, Jasper would be disappointed. Charlie had broken his trust. It was unfortunate. Their relationship didn’t need any additional strain put on it. “Perhaps he doesn’t need to know,” she said. “You’ve done no real harm, not as far as I can tell.”
Charlie shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you. I’m . . . I’m sorry, I—”
“Go and have your tea, dear,” Julia said again. “Go on.”
He flashed her a rare smile before darting off down the steps. His footfalls faded into the distance.
Julia returned to Jasper’s desk with a sigh. His memoirs. That’s all it was. Pages and pages of reminiscences about the war, written edge to edge in Jasper’s characteristic scrawl.
She gathered them up, trying her best not to read them. Sentence fragments nevertheless caught her eye as she organized the pages. There were mentions of Colonel Dryden and Eloise. References to cannon smoke and a corpse-strewn battlefield in Belgium.
Waterloo.
The single word jumped out at her from the page. That’s what Jasper was describing. Not the Crimean War, but the Napoleonic Wars.
It made no sense. The Battle of Waterloo was nearly fifty years ago, long before Jasper was even born.
She permitted herself to read a little more, her gaze flicking over one paragraph, then another. There weren’t only descriptions of the aftermath of the battle, there was dialogue, too. Romantic dialogue.
Good heavens. These weren’t Jasper’s memoirs at all. This was a novel!
She sank down in his leather chair, continuing to read.
She felt a strange sense of recognition. Something about the narrative structure. The way the sentences flowed together in elegant harmony. It was almost lyrical in its beauty. And the emotions described! They were poignant and heartfelt—and exceedingly familiar.
A slow-dawning realization came over her.
Setting aside the loose pages, she retrieved the full manuscript from the open drawer of the desk. She riffled through it, heart beating swiftly in anticipation of what she might find.
And there it was at last, tucked out of order amid the rest of the papers, a cover sheet written in Jasper’s own hand.
Reunion at Waterloo
by
J. Marshland
The truth crashed through her with an impact that stole her breath.
Good gracious.
Jasper was James Marshland.
The remaining evidence was easy to find. Indeed, it was right there along with the manuscript. Correspondence between Jasper and Mr. Bloxham. References to advances, royalties, and dwindling sales numbers.
Julia didn’t know how long she sat there, reading it and putting it all together.
She was amazed she hadn’t done so before.
In hindsight it was all glaringly obvious, beginning with Jasper’s visit to Bloxham’s Books, where she’d overheard him ask to see Mr. Bloxham, and ending with his questions to her about Marshland’s novels themselves.
She shuddered to remember the things she’d said. The criticisms she’d levied against Marshland. Good Lord. What must Jasper have been thinking?