Mary Reilly by Valerie Martin Page A

and drawn curtains, was a haven from the cold darkness outside.
    “How many people know about you, Mary?” he said at last. “How many know how you came by those scars on your hands?”
    I drew my hands away, so surprised was I to hear Master speak of them. “Only you, sir,” I said. “It is not a story I care to tell.” I wanted to add that no one had cared to know, which struck me as the wonder of it, but Master cut in quickly.
    “I thought you could not tell it,” he said. “It was for that I asked you to write it down.”
    “Yes, sir,” I said. “You was right in that.”
    “Can I trust you, Mary?” he asked. “As you have trusted me?”
    Then I thought Master must be planning to give me a piece of writing on his own life, which did strike me as too fanciful, especially as he seemed so uncertain and anxious about asking me. “I hope you can, sir,” I said, “in all things.”
    He put down his glass and peered at me another moment, so that I thought he was trying to read my character. “Yes,” he said. “I think I can.” Then he went to his writing desk and took out an envelope, which he tapped against his palm as if still weighing whether to give it me or not. “You have a half-day this week, don’t you, Mary?” he asked, still looking at the letter.
    “I do, sir,” I said. “On Thursday.”
    “I want you to deliver this letter for me,” he said.“It must go by hand on that day. And no one must know of it—not Mr. Poole, not Annie, you understand.”
    “I do, sir,” I said. He held the letter out to me but I felt too timid to step forward and take it, though I was that curious to read the address I could not take my eyes from it. So we stood there a moment, very awkward, then Master closed the distance to me and I put my hand out not thinking, except as I might to stop him. When he stepped back the letter was in my hand.
    Master watched me closely as I turned it over and read the address. I struggled to keep my face from showing what I felt, for I knew exactly where it was and I wondered how Master even knew of such a street. No gentleman could have any business at that address as could do anything but bring ruin to his name. That it was addressed to a Mrs. Farraday troubled me further. How could Master know of a
woman
who would live in such a place as I knew this to be?
    “Can you deliver it, Mary?” Master said softly.
    I turned the letter over again so I would not have to look at it, then, feeling it was burning my fingers to hold it, I opened my wrist buttons and slipped it up my sleeve. “Yes, sir,” I said. “I can certainly do it.”
    “There will be no reply, other than a yes or no. This you can give to me on Friday, when you have returned.”
    “Yes, sir,” I said.
    “It’s a matter of some importance to me,” Master said. “I must be able to count absolutely on your integrity … and Mary,” he paused until I looked up and met his steady, calm gaze, “on your silence.”
    “Please, sir,” was all I could say.
    “Then I am confident,” he replied, “and now I put the business from my mind.” With that he turned back to the fire while I stood a moment looking at his back, at his hair which is thick, silver and a little long for the fashion, curling over his collar, and I thought I would like to cut a lock of it. Then, shocked at my own strange whims, which it seems I never can control, I went out, closing the door quietly behind me.
    I t is very late and our house is asleep, but I cannot sleep. I lay beside Annie for hours, staring into the darkness, having such thoughts as leave me bitter and confused. I got up at last and lit the candle to sort things out if I can by putting them down. The moon is full tonight and makes a white, chilly light all along the windowsill where I sit. There’s no view but the back of the house next ours and a small space filled with blackness and stars.
    It’s all very well for Master to say he can now put the matter out of his