morning she retrieved the torn paper and replaced the two halves beneath her pillow. She washed her body, scrubbing her thighs with a brush until her skin chafed. Still she felt soiled, for the stain lay deep.
‘Are you all right, Molly? You look sick,’ Ruth asked, full of concern.
‘Yes, a little tired, that’s all.’
‘Lord,’ Ruth said to Annie, ‘she’s been having it with someone; I’d stake my life on it. Do you think it’s our Mr Whitstone? He’s lusted after her for weeks, so he has.’
By the morning’s end, all the downstairs staff were talking.
Mrs Wright stood before Molly triumphantly; the bloodied sheet a trophy in her arms.
‘Found this on the master’s bed. When the mistress finds out, you’ll see what happens, my girl. It’s the workhouse for you! What do you think of pretty Molly now, Mr Whitstone?’
Dorothy was on an errand for her mother when she heard the whispering.
She pushed open the swing door and was halfway down the passage when she heard hushed and excited voices coming from the scullery. Dorothy couldn’t make out the words, and when she entered the room, the talking stopped.
‘Please, may I have some rose water?’ she asked Mrs Wright.
‘Yes, Miss Dorothy. I’ll get you some immediately.’
When Dorothy retreated down the passage she wondered what had caused such fuss. Mrs Wright’s sharp eyes had looked flustered, and her prompt response was unusual.
She forgot about it upon seeing a letter on the hall table. It was from Thomas, his final letter from school. On this occasion, hers was the only letter. She took it to her bedroom and shut the door.
Darling Dotty,
I am not sure whether you will receive this letter or your brother first. Either way I am writing to you with a mixture of anticipation and regret.
I shall see you at last, but if I am honest, my days in this damp, low-lying town beneath Windsor Castle have been some of the happiest in my life.
How time has flown. I imagine you must have grown enormously. I hope not as much as your brother, for I am now over six feet.
I have grown to love Eton. I play fives in the buttresses of the college chapel. It is a sociable form of exercise which needs cunning rather than skill. (Would our dear father count it as sport? I rather think not.) I am a member of the college chapel choir – how you would love the singing.
Two incidents occurred last term. I won’t bore you with the details, but it is now generally believed that I have supernatural powers. It has secured me quite a reputation. In retrospect both occasions were rather more luck than anything else but it seems sometimes even this most unwanted gift can have certain advantages.
There have been many changes, mostly good. The dreadful ritual ‘Tossing the Blanket’ has been banned from my house and lock-up abolished, and though we work hard, we are given more time for our own amusement.
On Sunday afternoons in fine weather, we row on the River Thames. We tell stories, anecdotes of things we have done, and countries we would like to visit. I believe my dreams have been rekindled and I shall travel after all. In the winter months we take tea in our lodgings and regale each other with news and political gossip. Even Kirkpatrick has softened and shares the occasional joke. Gilbert Paxton-Hooper continues to be my friend and I have spent time with his family. You would love them – chaotic, learned and totally unlike us.
Yesterday, according to tradition, I inscribed my name into the lid of my desk. When I had finished, Paxton-Hooper added a postscript, ‘Thomas Charles Edward Keyt has the gift of second-sight.’ And so I am there, buried in the wood for future generations to find.
Tomorrow I will say goodbye to my friends and teachers. Lorenzo will come to collect me, and, little sister, I will see you again. We shall spend Christmas together, and you will help me to decide how to spend the rest of my life.
In anticipation,
Your affectionate
‘Are you all right, Molly? You look sick,’ Ruth asked, full of concern.
‘Yes, a little tired, that’s all.’
‘Lord,’ Ruth said to Annie, ‘she’s been having it with someone; I’d stake my life on it. Do you think it’s our Mr Whitstone? He’s lusted after her for weeks, so he has.’
By the morning’s end, all the downstairs staff were talking.
Mrs Wright stood before Molly triumphantly; the bloodied sheet a trophy in her arms.
‘Found this on the master’s bed. When the mistress finds out, you’ll see what happens, my girl. It’s the workhouse for you! What do you think of pretty Molly now, Mr Whitstone?’
Dorothy was on an errand for her mother when she heard the whispering.
She pushed open the swing door and was halfway down the passage when she heard hushed and excited voices coming from the scullery. Dorothy couldn’t make out the words, and when she entered the room, the talking stopped.
‘Please, may I have some rose water?’ she asked Mrs Wright.
‘Yes, Miss Dorothy. I’ll get you some immediately.’
When Dorothy retreated down the passage she wondered what had caused such fuss. Mrs Wright’s sharp eyes had looked flustered, and her prompt response was unusual.
She forgot about it upon seeing a letter on the hall table. It was from Thomas, his final letter from school. On this occasion, hers was the only letter. She took it to her bedroom and shut the door.
Darling Dotty,
I am not sure whether you will receive this letter or your brother first. Either way I am writing to you with a mixture of anticipation and regret.
I shall see you at last, but if I am honest, my days in this damp, low-lying town beneath Windsor Castle have been some of the happiest in my life.
How time has flown. I imagine you must have grown enormously. I hope not as much as your brother, for I am now over six feet.
I have grown to love Eton. I play fives in the buttresses of the college chapel. It is a sociable form of exercise which needs cunning rather than skill. (Would our dear father count it as sport? I rather think not.) I am a member of the college chapel choir – how you would love the singing.
Two incidents occurred last term. I won’t bore you with the details, but it is now generally believed that I have supernatural powers. It has secured me quite a reputation. In retrospect both occasions were rather more luck than anything else but it seems sometimes even this most unwanted gift can have certain advantages.
There have been many changes, mostly good. The dreadful ritual ‘Tossing the Blanket’ has been banned from my house and lock-up abolished, and though we work hard, we are given more time for our own amusement.
On Sunday afternoons in fine weather, we row on the River Thames. We tell stories, anecdotes of things we have done, and countries we would like to visit. I believe my dreams have been rekindled and I shall travel after all. In the winter months we take tea in our lodgings and regale each other with news and political gossip. Even Kirkpatrick has softened and shares the occasional joke. Gilbert Paxton-Hooper continues to be my friend and I have spent time with his family. You would love them – chaotic, learned and totally unlike us.
Yesterday, according to tradition, I inscribed my name into the lid of my desk. When I had finished, Paxton-Hooper added a postscript, ‘Thomas Charles Edward Keyt has the gift of second-sight.’ And so I am there, buried in the wood for future generations to find.
Tomorrow I will say goodbye to my friends and teachers. Lorenzo will come to collect me, and, little sister, I will see you again. We shall spend Christmas together, and you will help me to decide how to spend the rest of my life.
In anticipation,
Your affectionate
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