I gripped my bag again; this time to keep from striking him.
He shook his head again, plump chest rising and falling with his labored breathing. "No, if you were an immediate member of his family, perhaps…" He looked up, blinking. I clamped my jaw tightly, determined to give nothing away. Surely a slight show of agitation was reasonable, under the circumstances.
"But perhaps, my dear…" He seemed struck by sudden inspiration. He got ponderously to his feet and went to an inner door, where a uniformed soldier stood on guard. He murmured to the man, who nodded once and vanished.
Sir Fletcher came back to his desk, pausing on the way to retrieve a decanter and glasses from the top of a cabinet. I accepted his offer of claret; I needed it.
We were both halfway through the second glass by the time the guard returned. He marched in without invitation, placed a wooden box on the desk at Sir Fletcher's elbow, and turned to march out again. I caught his eye lingering on me and modestly lowered my own gaze. I was wearing a gown borrowed from a lady of Rupert's acquaintance in the nearby town, and from the scent that saturated the dress and its matching reticule, I had a reasonably good idea just what this particular lady's profession was. I hoped the guard didn't recognize the gown.
Draining his cup, Sir Fletcher set it down and pulled the box toward him. It was a plain, square box of unfinished wood, with a sliding lid. There were letters chalked on the lid. I could read them, even upside down. Frayser, they read.
Sir Fletcher slid back the lid, peered inside for a moment, then closed the box and pushed it toward me.
"The prisoner's personal effects," he explained. "Customarily, we send them to whomever the prisoner designates as next of kin, after execution. This man, though"—he shook his head—"has refused altogether to say anything about his family. Some estrangement, no doubt. Not unusual, of course, but regrettable under the circumstances. I hesitate to make the request, Mrs. Beauchamp, but I thought that perhaps, since you are acquainted with the family, you would consider taking it upon yourself to convey his effects to the appropriate person?"
I didn't trust myself to speak, but nodded and buried my nose in my cup of claret.
Sir Fletcher seemed relieved, whether at disposing of the box, or at the thought of my imminent departure. He sat back, wheezing slightly, and smiled expansively at me.
"That is very kind of you, Mrs. Beauchamp. I know such a thing cannot but be a painful duty to a young woman of feeling, and I am most sensible of your kindness in undertaking it, I do assure you."
"N-not at all," I stammered. I managed to stand up, and to gather up the box. It measured about eight inches by six, and was four or five inches deep. A small, light box, to hold the remains of a man's life.
I knew the things it held. Three fishing lines, neatly coiled; a cork stuck with fishhooks; a flint and steel; a small piece of broken glass, edges blunt with wear; various small stones that looked interesting or had a good feel between the fingers; a dried mole's foot, carried as a charm against rheumatism. A Bible—or perhaps they had let him keep that? I hoped so. A ruby ring, if it hadn't been stolen. And a small wooden snake, carved of cherry wood, with the name Sawny scratched on its underside.
I paused at the door, gripping the frame with my fingers to steady myself.
Sir Fletcher, following courteously to see me out, was at my side in a moment.
"Mrs. Beauchamp! Are you feeling faint, my dear? Guard, a chair!"
I could feel the prickles of a cold sweat breaking out along the sides of my face, but I managed to smile and wave away the proffered chair. I wanted more than anything to get out of there—I needed fresh air, in large quantities. And I needed to be alone to cry.
"No, I'm quite all right," I said, trying to sound convincing. "It's only… a bit close in here, perhaps. No, I shall be perfectly all right. My groom is waiting outside, in any case."
Forcing myself to stand up straight and smile, I had a thought. It might not help, but it couldn't hurt.
"Oh, Sir Fletcher…"
Still worried by my appearance, he was all gallantry and attention.
"Yes, my dear?"
"It occurred to me… How sad for a young man in this situation to be estranged from his family. I thought perhaps … if he wished to write to them—a letter of reconciliation, perhaps? I would be pleased to deliver it to—to his mother."
"You are thoughtfulness itself, my dear." Sir Fletcher was jovial, now that it seemed I was not going to collapse on his carpet after all. "Of course. I will inquire. Where are you staying, my dear? If there is a letter, I shall have it sent to you."