The Sealed Letter by Emma Donoghue

by step, little by little," insists Helen.
    "But delay is so dangerous..."
    "You mean we might be discovered?"
    "Spiritually dangerous," snaps Fido. "Corroding your very self, day by day."
    Helen resists the impulse to roll her eyes. "You must help me," she says. "Help us both."
    "Both?" cries Fido, disgustedly.
    "Anderson means me no harm."
    "How can you say that? The blackguard's already treated you like a..." She doesn't say the word. "In my drawing-room!"
    "Half the fault was mine," Helen reminds her. "You must be our friend now."
    "Yours, only yours."
    "His too, if you would be mine. Our confessor. Our saviour."
    Fido's face twists like a sail in the wind. Helen, watching, can see the moment of surrender. "Anything I can do which is consistent with—"
    "Bless you, bless you," Helen interrupts, pressing her mouth to Fido's fiery cheek.
    ***
September 15
Destroy after opening
Little One,
    As promised I have forwarded yours of yesterday to the person in question, and enclose one in reply. You'll see I'm not using my own seal on the envelope, for discretion's sake.
    I loathe these sneaking measures, but having weighed them in my heart I believe they can be justified for the sake of a greater good, i.e., preserving you—and your whole family—from disaster. For all / I've said in critique of marriage, the fact remains that when you accepted your husband fifteen years ago, you set sail in this particular vessel, and your whole future depends on averting a shipwreck.
    It still seems to me that further encounters with the person in question will only lead him to maintain false hopes, but I give way: the breach is yours to accomplish, the safest way you can manage (and after all, what do I know of the opaque workings of the male heart?). His imminent departure from these shores will I trust ring down the curtain on this dangerous drama, and tho' I realize you will suffer, when he is gone, I can promise you all the consolation stored up in my heart.
    I have not slept at all well since you entrusted your awful story to me, but sleep, my dearest, is the least I'd sacrifice to a friendship I thought extinct but which a merciful and mysterious providence has seen fit to return to us, like bread that was cast on the waters. I am at your back: remember that. Don't say you're "unworthy," my sweet girl; it brings tears to my eyes. Your heart is a wayward one, but there's no evil in it. Besides, when has "worthiness" ever been the criterion for friendship? The love of women is like the pull of magnets. Since the first day I met you on that beach in Kent, I've belonged to you, and always will.
    If as you say it's absolutely imperative for you two to meet in a safe place, then I relent: I have told him to come to my house at half past five tomorrow (the sixteenth) and will expect you half an hour earlier. I need hardly say that I will remain in the room throughout, and I trust you not to allow him to take any further advantage of my hospitality.
    Yours as ever—
    ***
    In Fido's austere drawing-room at Taviton Street, Helen avoids the sofa's associations and picks an old straight-legged chair near the fire.
    Fido draws her own chair closer. "Prepare yourself, my darling. You must be very strong."
    "Oh yes?" says Helen, irked by Fido's sepulchral tone, and wondering why there's no cake on the tea table.
    "You believe you know this man, for whom you've risked ruin?"
    Ruin, echoes Helen scornfully in her head; really, she's read too many potboilers.
    "Well. I took it on myself to make enquiries among my Scottish relations, for any insight into Anderson's character, and this morning I received some alarming information."
    Helen smiles. "What have the detectives discovered, that he once lost a hundred pounds at cards?"
    Fido's eyes rebuke her. "He's been linked to one of his cousins."
    Helen waits. "Linked?"
    "With a view to marriage."
    The word makes her mouth curl up. "Whose view? Every eligible bachelor home on leave has the old hens of his