BOOK TOUR
Amelia Amesbury—widow, mother, and countess—has a secret. Amelia writes for a London penny paper, doling out advice on fashion, relationships, and manners under the pen name Lady Agony. But when a lady’s maid writes Amelia to ask for advice when she believes her mistress has been murdered—and then ends up a victim herself—Amelia is determined to solve the case.
With the help of her best friend and a handsome marquis, Amelia begins to piece together the puzzle, but as each new thread of inquiry ends with a different suspect, the investigation grows ever more daunting. From London’s docks and ballrooms to grand country houses, Amelia tracks a killer, putting her reputation—and her life—on the line.
MURDER IN POSTSCRIPT
Chapter 1
London, England
1860
Amelia Amesbury hated to admit it, but she was
bored. Mind-numbingly bored. She supposed this was what contentment felt like:
a beautiful young charge, bless her heart, playing the pianoforte; a governess,
prim and proper, turning pages; and three tiers of cakes to choose from in a
tastefully papered drawing room. But if she was so content, why was she itching
for the afternoon’s post?
She glanced at the portrait of her dead husband
above the fireplace mantel. She could put the brunt of the blame on him, bless
his heart, too. When they met, she had no idea who he was. He presented himself
like any young man in Somerset, looking for a room at her family’s respected
inn, the Feathered Nest. Well, not exactly any young man. His manners were a
little too refined, as were his features: smooth skin, straight nose, good
teeth. When he revealed he was an earl, after she’d accepted his proposal, she
was surprised, yes, but assumed that’s how it was done. Wealthy aristocrats had
to protect themselves and their fortunes. Like Lancelot, Edgar Amesbury had
come in disguise, and the subterfuge hadn’t bothered her in the least. In fact,
it added to the excitement.
Amelia set down her flowered teacup with a
plunk, earning her a glance from the governess. Despite her last name, Amelia
was no Amesbury. Yet here she was, now the widow of one of the wealthiest
families in London, with a country manor in Cornwall besides, responsible for
the upbringing of Edgar’s niece, Winifred. She was the reason he’d chosen a
wife so quickly—that and his degenerative illness, which took him just two
months after their marriage. He had wanted Winifred cared for when he was gone,
and Amelia was doing a good job, if she did say so herself. Smart, well
behaved, and kind, Winifred was, in every aspect except blood, her daughter. As
Winifred tinkled her way through Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21, Amelia was so
proud. And yet, there was the afternoon post at the door!
“I’ll get it, Jones,” Amelia called to the
butler. Winifred paused at the instrument. “Please continue, dear. You’re doing
wonderfully.”
The letters she’d been waiting for all afternoon
were here, the letters addressed to Lady Agony, her secret pseudonym and life-giving
alter ego. Amelia’s black dress rustled noisily as she alighted for the door.
She opened it before the deliverer could knock.
“Good afternoon,” greeted Amelia. “A lovely day
to poke your head out for a breath, isn’t it?”
The man blinked. “My lady.”
Amelia inhaled the thick London air—and choked.
It was no matter to her whether it was smoke filled, smelly, or rank, however.
It was the thrum of the city that had enticed her to leave Somerset without
protest. Mells, the small village where she grew up, delivered newspapers
directly to the Feathered Nest—and into her small hands. She spent many
afternoons poring over news from the city, young dreams arising in her heart
even then, and when Edgar asked her if she would move to London, she answered
with a resounding yes. “I’ll take that, thank you.”
The deliverer bowed wordlessly, and Amelia shut
the door, returning to the drawing room as she opened the parcel and thumbed
the correspondence: one, two, three letters. They requested advice on love,
labor, and life. Well, mostly love, but letters all the same. Correspondents
needed help traversing the murky waters of life’s greatest unsolved mystery,
and who better to guide them than a member of the social elite? Her title was
the reason her responses were so popular—that and her honest advice. Times had
changed, and readers were desperate to change with them, reaching for the next
rung of the social pecking order. Plus, they and the ton wanted to know who
Lady Agony really was and how she had become involved in writing in the first
place.
It was her childhood friend and fellow newspaper
fiend, Grady Armstrong, now an editor at one of the most popular penny weeklies
in London, who put her in touch with the task. No one but he and Amelia knew
the true story. A year ago, his office was flooded with letters addressed to
the magazine’s agony column, called such because of the angst in the letters.
When the writer became discouraged with young people’s outrageous behavior and
quit, Grady had neither the time nor the talent to respond. That’s when he
asked Amelia—who needed something to occupy her hours after her husband’s
death—if she would be interested in the chore. He knew she enjoyed reading and
writing. Would she enjoy a secret job at the weekly magazine? Did the queen
enjoy tea? She agreed in a heartbeat. Now Grady’s office was busier than ever
before, but in a good way. Her unconventional wisdom and mysterious identity
kept readers hooked—and buying more magazines.
“Letters!” exclaimed Winifred, leaving the pianoforte.
“Are any for me?”
Amelia slipped them into the crevice of the
chair. “I’m afraid not. But your performance was top-notch. I’ve hardly
enjoyed Mozart more.”
“Really?” Winifred pushed a fair lock of hair
from her face.
“Really.” The Amesburys were known for their
handsome hair, and Winifred’s was no exception. Winifred would grow into a
beauty before long, but for now Amelia was enjoying the plumpness of her
cheeks, the crookedness of her smile, and her enthusiasm for life. At ten years
old, Winifred was at that precious age between child and young woman, and
Amelia was going to savor every moment.
Unlike Winifred, Amelia had long auburn locks
with honey highlights that hung to her waist when it wasn’t swept up, which was
only at bedtime. Her hair, streaming behind her as she rode into the inn’s
stable, was the first thing Edgar had noticed about her. The second was that
she wasn’t riding sidesaddle.
The governess tsked from the corner. “Lady
Winifred, you’ve not been excused from the pianoforte. The last page went
dreadfully fast.”
“That’s all for now, Miss Walters,” said Amelia.
“I’d like to have a cup of tea with Winifred before I reply to my
correspondence.”
Miss Walters bowed deeply, her light brown bun a
perfect swirl. “As you wish, Lady Amesbury. Please send her up to the music
room when you’re finished.”
Winifred jumped into the patterned chair next to
Amelia, her feet not touching the floor. She reached for a strawberry tart,
then drew back her hand, waiting for permission.
When Miss Walters was gone, Amelia turned to
Winifred. “Would you like a sweet?”
“Yes, please, and tea also.”
Amelia poured out the tea. “Do you like playing
the pianoforte?”
“Very much,” answered Winifred. “Three sugars,
please.”
Amelia raised her eyebrows but dropped in the
sugars. “I can tell. I can feel it when you play.”
“Governess Walters said I played it too fast.”
Winifred took a bite of the strawberry tart, closing her blue eyes as she
savored the sweetness. Only a child could enjoy the full pleasure of tartlets.
“She knows best.” Amelia placed the girl’s tea
next to her. “She’s been classically trained.” It was one of the reasons Amelia
had hired her; also, she was terribly good at French. Winifred had a talent for
music, and Amelia wanted to make sure her musical instruction was taken
seriously. Much to Amelia’s delight, Winifred performed for her every afternoon
in the drawing room. Most of the practice went on in the music room, so the
performances were a treat. They also helped Amelia keep an eye on her lessons.
“Amelia, may I ask you something?” asked
Winifred. When no one was around, she called Amelia by her Christian name.
“Anything, dear.” Amelia took a sip of her tea.
Winifred leaned in. “What’s really in those
letters?”
Amelia paused, her cup at her lip. Children were
smart, and she and Winifred had spent a lot of time together since Edgar’s
passing. In some ways, they’d weathered the tragedy together. There was no
lying to the girl. First, she would know it, and second, Amelia respected her
too much to deceive her. “The most wonderful things. Secret things that I
cannot discuss with you today.”
“But someday?” Winifred gulped her tea.
“Yes, someday I will tell you. I will show you.”
Amelia set down her empty cup. “For now, it must be enough to know they bring
me pleasure, as your pianoforte brings you pleasure. And for that reason alone
you must keep quiet. Can I trust you?”
Winifred popped the rest of the tart in her
mouth and nodded.
“I know I can,” said Amelia. “Now you had better
be off to see Miss Walters. She’ll be wanting you to rework those last
measures.”
Winifred gave Amelia an impulsive hug, and
Amelia breathed in the beautiful strawberry scent of the child. Edgar hadn’t
given her love—he wouldn’t risk passing on his degenerative condition— but he
had given her his dear niece, and for that, Amelia would always be grateful.
When the girl was gone, Amelia took the letters
into the library, her favorite room in the house. It was something else Edgar
had given her that she’d enjoyed very much—a home with books. While the
Feathered Nest had plenty of room for dining and entertaining, it did not
afford much room for books, just the special theatricals the family loved and
performed. One of her favorite performances was Romeo and Juliet, probably
because she and Grady were central characters. Most times her eldest sister,
Penelope, took the lead roles. Indeed, Penelope was better at memorizing lines,
but Amelia was better at improvising.
She stopped and inhaled a breath. The room
smelled of cloves and paper and past cigars. Hundreds of leather-bound tomes
filled the wooden bookshelves that lined the two-story room. She bypassed the
books and made for the large rosewood desk, situated in a bright alcove of
windows. It faced a dark green couch, striped chairs, and an ornate oval table.
In a nearby corner was a smaller table, with heavy crystal glasses and fine
liquor. And on the far wall was a grand stone fireplace, surrounded by two soft
damask chairs, comfortable enough for reading and dozing. She’d spent many
nights there doing just that.
Slice went the letter opener, revealing the
contents for her eyes only. She scanned the penmanship: hurried, sloppy, and
slightly smudged from tears. Definitely a relationship problem. Settling into
her chair, she began to read the letter.
Dear Lady Agony,
You are a lady of repute. Please tell me what to
do. I love the boy next door, but he’s unaware of my feelings. I am certain we
possess a special bond, for he smiles at me so. But he’s going to ask another
girl to marry him. He told me his plan on the way to the well. I stumbled away,
confused, but how I longed to tell him the truth of my feelings. Am I too late?
Devotedly,
Too Late for Love
Amelia dunked her quill in the ink. This one was
easy, a drop in the bucket of love letters. She began her response, which would
be printed in the magazine. Readers’ letters weren’t included, and a good
thing, too. Amelia had a feeling many writers would be embarrassed later by the
emotion they’d poured into their requests.
Dear Too Late for Love,
It’s never too late for love. In fact, I prefer
the old, and perhaps wiser, adage, Better Late than Never. In your case, it
cannot be truer. You love the boy and are late to admit it. Yes. However, there
is still time. He hasn’t asked anyone to marry—yet. Best he knows your true
feelings before he proceeds. Even if he does not reciprocate them, you will
feel secure in the knowledge that you told him. And that is a feeling you can
live with. The other is not.
Yours in Secret,
Lady Agony
The next letter was just as clear-cut. It was
from a reader who was jealous of her friend’s hair, though she didn’t say so
outright. The letter accused the friend of spending too much time dressing her
long, blonde, thick locks, but it was obvious to Amelia that the letter writer
wished for the hair herself.
Another dunk into the inkwell, and Amelia was
poised to respond.
Dear Hair, There, and Everywhere,
Some women are born with great hair. Others are
born with great wit, vivacity, or kindness. Cultivate one of the latter. Or
purchase a wig. The choice is just that simple.
Yours in Secret,
Lady Agony
She waited a moment before opening the last
letter, savoring the unknown contents. It would be tomorrow afternoon before she
received more letters, the mysteries that made up her day. Because of the
popularity of the column, Grady made certain the letters arrived daily so that
she wouldn’t fall behind.
She turned the envelope over in her hands,
positioning it in front of the light. A few drops of spring sunshine shone
through the windows, making burgundy flecks on the wall as it bounced off the
nearby decanter of brandy. Soon a housemaid would be in to start a fire, to
warm the chill brought on by the late afternoon. Then Amelia would enjoy a
glass of sherry before dressing for dinner, a complicated affair that she had
never quite mastered.
She noted the seal of the envelope had been
hastily done. Dashed out at the last minute, perhaps, the letter might contain
time-sensitive information. Amelia unfolded the paper. The handwriting, no
better than chicken scratch, was hard to decipher. Written at a slant, possibly
in this morning’s rain burst, it was wrinkled and marked. Yet the writer’s
desperation was clear from the first sentence. Amelia scanned the letter twice
before dropping her quill, splattering ink on the desk. She grabbed her
spectacles and read it a third time. Her eyes must be deceiving her. It was
indeed dated this morning.
Dear Lady Agony,
You are my last hope, for I have nowhere else to
turn. Could you meet me at St. James’s Park at nine o’clock this evening? Make
sure no one follows you. I believe someone is following me. I’ll be at the
bench by the pond. You will know me by my red hat. Please make every effort.
I’ve witnessed something dreadful, and I fear the worst.
Devotedly,
Charlotte
Postscript: I think my mistress was murdered.
About Mary Winters
Mary Winters is the author of Murder in Postscript, the debut novel in A Lady of Letters Mystery series. A longtime reader of historical fiction and an author of two other mystery series, Mary set her latest work in Victorian England after being inspired by a trip to London. Since then, she’s been busily planning her next mystery—and another trip! Find out more about Mary and her writing at marywintersauthor.com.
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Thanks, Lisa. I’ve been seeing lots of positive posts on social media about this one.
ReplyDeleteHappy Monday!
Pat T
Sounds like a great book.
ReplyDeletethis sounds like an interesting book. ladies through out time have stepped forward to help others
ReplyDelete