The grating sound of the doorbell startled Jacob from his studies. He turned over his shoulder.
"Evie?" He called across the study.
"Not me," she replied. Jacob made a dismissive noise and turned back to his book. A moment later, the bell rang again, and he heard the distinct sound of knocking. He rolled his eyes as he stood.
"Well, they're either very persistent, or it's a neighbour," Jacob put in, stalking down the hall. Evie followed after him, grumbling under her breath.
Jacob pulled the door open. "Mister Blair," he blurted, startled to see Ellie's parents stood on the stoop. Priya laughed.
"You took your time answering," she needled him. "Here, take this, darling," she added, pushing a wax paper-wrapped box into his arms.
"Would you like to come inside?" Evie asked, motioning inward. Isaiah shook his head as he offered a second package to her.
"No, that's fine, Evie. Pri and I just got back from London, and thought we would stop by to drop off your packages," he replied.
"London? Has something happened?" Jacob interjected. "Is Ellie alright?"
Priya giggled as she tapped the box in his arms. "Ellie's just fine, Jacob. We went into the city for her birthday, that's all," she said. Jacob let out a sigh of relief, then looked quizzically at her.
"Some gifts from Ellie—she mentioned that she missed your birthday, and she also sent a letter for each of you," Priya put in, watching as Jacob's eyes lit up.
"Now then, apologies for the sudden intrusion and swift departure, but we must be off," Isaiah said. The twins nodded, and Isaiah tipped his hat as his wife curtsied.
They hurried down the steps and piled back into the waiting carriage, and as quickly as they'd come, they were off.
Jacob and Evie looked at one another, and then at the packages in their arms. Evie knocked the door closed with her hip, and they both scurried up to their rooms.
Jacob tore eagerly into his box, just as he heard Evie doing the same to hers across the hall. On top of neatly folded tissue paper sat an envelope, his name written in fine cursive script. He cracked it open and tugged the pages out to read. A smaller envelope tumbled to the floor, and Jacob glanced at it as he crossed to his bed and sat down, but remained focused on the letter in his hands.
8 December 1866
My darling Jacob,
I hope this letter finds you well. I must open with an apology for not writing you sooner—I haven't an excuse, unfortunately. Please only know that I am sorry for the delay.
As you may know by now (given that they should have delivered this letter to you themselves), my parents made a surprise trip into London to see me this past week. It was lovely to see them again after so long; the life I live here in the city has become familiar to me, but to be reminded of my old life is still a blessing.
London is ever the same as the last time I wrote you—like the Hydra of Lerna, if you cut off one head, three more will arrive to take its place. I chip away as I can at the blight of Templars in this city, but I fear my sole effort is not enough. I know you haven't leave to come, but I wish you did. There is so much good you could do here—of that I am certain, no matter what your father says.
More than that, however—and perhaps selfishly so—I miss you. I can only hope your father will see reason sooner, rather than later.
Jacob felt an anxious warmth bloom out in his chest, and he squirmed a little as he thumbed over the cursive script on the page. I miss you, too, sweetheart… He cleared his throat as he shook his head, turning his attention back to the letter.
Let us not focus on such matters, for now. Please write me soon, and tell me all I've missed. It has been difficult to sit down and put pen to paper, despite my days becoming mundane. This city seems to have a tendency to make one melancholy, and I fear it has begun to affect me, as well. I find myself listless and foggy of late, and though I know my purpose, I often feel empty of one.
Forgive me, I don't mean to fret, nor to foist burden upon you. Henry is a dear friend, but I miss the companionship of the Brotherhood at Crawley. We are so very isolated here, which is terribly ironic, considering there are a hundred times more people here than in Crawley, and yet… it's lonely.
I have begun to look for ways to help, rather than waiting for them to come to me, as I did in the beginning—this has been of some benefit to improve my mood.
To that end, Sergeant Abberline is a wealth of opportunities, and so I spend a great deal of time helping him. Last Thursday, I helped deliver a scoundrel who had been hiding under a pseudonym in Southwark borough. He was wanted for a number of burglaries and thefts, so while it's not all that impressive, it pleases me to know I'm helping the people of the city. Moreso, however, I'm pleased that it has caused mischief for the Templars.
For the most part, the men and women I'm "collecting" for the good Sergeant are miscreants and criminals who operate under the banner of the Blighters, and therefore, Starrick and the Templars, by proxy.
Mister Wynert has also been useful in some ways, though to a different aspect than that of Sergeant Abberline. Whereas I believe Mister Abberline's intentions are altruistic in nature, Ned's are of a slightly different calibre.
Mister Wynert does care about the city, to some degree—of that I have no doubt—but he is a businessman first, and a citizen second. I would not normally deign to accept requests for assistance with petty theft—train robberies, hijacking cargo shipments, and the like—however, it causes disruption to Starrick's industry, and therefore, I'm happy to do it.
Assisting Ned with his requests has also provided Henry and I with some income on which to live. We do receive a stipend from the Council, of course, but even combined, it is barely enough to scrape by on.
With the additional income I've been able to make from "redirecting" Templar resources to Mister Wynert's operations, Henry and I have been able to live more comfortably. More than that, however, especially with the weather becoming less pleasant, we've been able to help some of the local parishes to run soup kitchens, distribute blankets, and things of that nature.
Henry has begun providing more opportunities to take on Templars, as well. I think he worried in the beginning that pitting me against them more directly was too dangerous, but I believe I've managed to prove myself well enough. I know he detests violence, and has shied away from the more unpleasant aspects of our work but… well, that's a large part of the reason I was given leave to come here, I think…
I've also recently become acquainted with a young girl named Clara O'Dea. She's taken it upon herself to begin managing the welfare of the urchins in Whitechapel, and the surrounding boroughs. She's still quite young, not more than ten years old, but smart as a whip, and twice as capable.
Miss O'Dea's concerns are factories and warehouses where the labour of children is commodified and exploited. I've begun to investigate a few of the leads she has given me, and the number of children under her care and protection seems to grow each day. I think you and Evie would both like her—she's quite the bricky thing.
To speak to my parents' visit, we had our family portrait taken at a lovely studio in SoHo. The photographer was a very friendly young gentleman, and truly passionate about his craft. He even had us smile for the portrait—how delightful! I think that might be the first portrait in at least five years where we don't all have to look so dour.
There was a lovely newlywed couple there to have their wedding portrait taken, as well. They seemed so in love, and it was quite darling to see them trying to secretly hold hands while they thought no one was looking. I'll admit, though, it made me feel a little envious—this distance between you and I is a true torment, some days, and never is it more apparent than when I have to watch other young couples.
I miss you, Jacob. I know we didn't see each other every day, even while I lived in Crawley, but to have gone nearly a year without seeing you, despite being so close… it's worse than Portugal, isn't it? Do you have that feeling, too?
I'm sorry, I digress—I don't mean to cast such a sombre mood.
After our photo, my parents insisted we go down to the shops. There is an absolutely wonderful dressmaker on Old Bond Street, just a little north of Piccadilly. I have no use for dresses or ladies' finery these days, but I still love to look at what the fashion of the day is. Maybe one day, I'll see a use for such things again.
They also took me along to Swan and Edgar on Piccadilly Circus. They sell some lovely prêt-à-porter dresses and men's clothes, among other things. I think I should like to take you there, at least once.
Afterwards, they took Henry and I out for a birthday supper at Brown's, where they'd taken out a suite. Henry and I share a birthday—I don't remember if I'd mentioned that before? Anyway, the public dining room there is quite lavish, and my parents chose an eight course meal for us—I didn't think I would make it through to dessert! They also have a lovely à la carte menu, and I would very much like to go there with you for a meal at least once.
Speaking of birthdays, I had already got you a gift for your birthday elsewhere, though it didn't arrive in time for me to send with the card. However, while I was at Swan and Edgar, I found something that I thought would be of some use to you, particularly in our line of work (once your father stops pretending you're not ready, at least).
If you haven't opened your gifts yet, then I'd ask that you do so now, as I speak to them further on the next pages, and I'd hate to ruin the surprise.
Jacob snickered a little as he stood to collect the box from the floor, setting it on the bed. He glanced again at the small envelope, and picked it up as well, setting it on his bedside table. He brushed aside the tissue paper to reveal two more smaller boxes, and chose the larger of the two first, cracking open the lid and letting out a sound of delight at the contents.
He lifted the silk top hat out, turning it about briefly to admire the handiwork. In the inseam, a hand sewn label read in fine script Gibus. His brows raised for a moment, and he depressed the lid of the hat until it was flattened in his hands. He smiled broadly as he flipped it around, and popped it back open.
"How delightful," he murmured, setting the hat on his head. He stood from his mattress to find the small mirror, and checked his appearance.
"Maybe a little silly without the proper trappings," he commented. He doffed the hat and carefully set it on his desk. Sitting on the bed again, he pulled out the much smaller box this time. Lifting the lid, he took a moment to pause. Set on a bed of plush satin was a pocket watch, and matching chain.
The cover of the watch was a lustrous sterling silver, the image of an ornate corvid skull carved into it. He popped the cover open, looking at the watch face only briefly before clapping it shut. He admired the handiwork of the carved image once more, then set it in his lap as he took up Ellie's letter again.
Hopefully you'll be pleased to add a Gibus hat to your collection. I hope you're still 7 ⅛ as I remember, or else I'll be terribly embarrassed to have sent you a wrong size. I should apologise that I tested the collapsibility of the hat myself—I was curious, and wanted to see the mechanism work in my own hands. The shop attendant showed us how it worked on a sample, but it's not quite the same thing, is it?
At any rate, I do hope you'll enjoy and make use of it.
The watch was to be your birthday gift this year, but the watchmaker had an accident some weeks before the work was due, and couldn't complete it in time. I still collected when they were ready, about a week ago, but hadn't the chance to send it to you.
I commissioned one for each of you—be sure to have Evie show you hers, as well. I'm quite pleased with Mister Müller's work, and I hope you are as well. We spent some days discussing the design, and he seemed intrigued by my motifs. The mechanism of the watch is gold, so it should last you quite some time.
I'm not certain I can call the photograph a gift, but it is meant as one. I hope it wasn't too presumptuous to send you such a thing?
I hope you'll keep it, and think of me fondly in your moments of quiet solitude, as I do of you.
Jacob's brow furrowed as he paused, swishing through the paper in the box, looking for the named item. He sat back after a moment, perplexed, until the smaller envelope on the bed drew his attention
Grabbing it up, he carefully tugged the sleeve open, turning it over in his hand. The tiny photograph dropped into his palm, and he held his breath for a moment.
Though it was a small portrait, she carried herself with impeccable grace, and her countenance bore a sweet smile. An ache spread out in his chest, and he blinked back the sudden sting of tears.
He huffed as he wiped feebly at his eyes with the heel of his palm, fingers curling around the photograph. "Damn it," he hissed. Shaking his head to try and clear his thoughts, he put his focus back on her letter.
I miss you, darling, most ardently. I keep trying to avoid the subject in my letters, because it brings up a most unpleasant feeling. I've left it go too long, and now I feel I'm nearly overwhelmed.
I miss the sound of your voice, and the colour of your eyes, and the way your nose wrinkles when you laugh. I miss the way my hand fit into yours just so, and the weight of you leaning on my shoulder when we would spend afternoons along Broadfield Brook. I miss the way you would tell me a story, with such delight in your eyes. I miss going to the coffee shops along Brighton Road for tea and drinking chocolate and sweets.
I miss how you would always try to sneak a hand to the small of my back when you thought no one was looking. I miss the way your breath tickled my ear when you would whisper naughty secrets to me, and how your hands acquainted themselves with my body when we were alone. I miss the way you kissed me, and the noises you would make under my touch, and how you tried so hard to keep quiet.
Perhaps it's impolite to speak that way, but I hope you don't think me crass—I'm only speaking my truth.
I miss you, darling. I miss your presence, I miss your support, I miss your affections, and I long to stand at your side again.
Do you miss me in the same ways?
I hope that if you do, this damnable distance that exists between us should only do so for a short while longer. I hope that if you do, you'll tell me a little about it in your next letter.
I shall close this correspondence now, before I grow too much more melancholy—I'm sure you can already see all of the smudged ink from my tears, and I don't wish to depress your mood.
Be well, Jacob. Please take care of yourself. With any luck, your father will pull his head from his arse, and we'll be together in London soon.
I love you, Jacob Frye. Please don't forget that.
Forever yours,
Eleanor Blair
Jacob put the pages down on the bed, and held his breath for a moment, trying to hold back his tears. When he let out the breath he held, he buried his face in his hands to weep. His mind flew into a string of expletives and shouting as he cursed at his father for holding him back, and at himself for not being ready.
When he had collected himself after some long minutes, he picked up the watch and photograph to pop the cover open, tucking the tiny photo of Ellie inside.
"What were you thinking there, love, with that sweet smile of yours? Surely not the naughty things you wrote to me in your letter," he remarked teasingly. The shilling around his neck felt heavy all of a sudden, and he leaned forward on his knees. Holding the watch in his hands like a treasure, he stared longingly at her photograph for a long time. He recalled the words from her letter, the sound of her voice echoing through his mind.
We'll be together in London soon. Jacob closed his eyes for a moment and sighed deeply, snapping the cover closed.
"We will, sweetheart," he murmured, tucking it into his waistcoat pocket. "I'll see you soon, I promise."
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