Private Research: An Erotic Novella

Private Research: An Erotic Novella by Sabrina Darby Page B

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I had already read. Her voice had always been humorously observant.
    My chest ached as I gently wrapped the photograph back in its tissue paper. I didn’t know much about preservation, but I’d have to find out immediately.
    I riffled through the rest of the trunk quickly and, finding nothing else of immediate interest, placed everything but the daguerreotype back.
    Then, all of the trunks in the addition having been sorted through, I turned my attention to the packet of letters that I had previously set aside, and untied the twine that bound them. The first letter was from a Mrs. Howell. I opened my backpack and pulled out my laptop. Luckily, there was still some charge. I clicked on the “character” list I had created for Anne’s life, searched for “Howell,” and found the name of a second cousin. Interesting, but how close a confidante was this Mrs. Howell?
    I turned my attention back to the letter. I’d grown comfortable decoding the slanted script of many nineteenth-century correspondents and within two lines realized this was a dull recitation of domestic life. Like, what little Henry was up to and how Mr. Howell’s ague fared. Mrs. Howell did not have nearly the way with words of her cousin. I scanned the rest of the letter quickly, looking for anything that jumped out as interesting. A reference to Anne’s visit six months earlier required a notation in my files, but other than that, nothing.
    Three more letters from Sarah Howell, with more about her son and her husband. Then a letter from another cousin, Gordon Albany (Albany being Anne’s maiden name). There, at least, was a reference to her novels—although somewhat scathing—with a lecture on why she should refrain from putting any more into print. I took a photograph of the letter and then typed the pertinent text into my notes. It gave interesting context for Anne’s life and the reception of her work yet still provided no connection between Anne and James Mead.
    Nor did any of the other letters, which continued in the same vein: all from family members, some mentioning her books, some only domestic matters, and some both. I was very curious as to how Anne had responded to these, but simply thinking about the task of attempting to track down possibly already discarded letters overwhelmed me.
    I placed the stack of letters next to the daguerreotype with the intention of getting them copied or scanned at some point, and picked up the Gracechurch household accounts from the year 1856. Why had this particular volume been saved when so many others appeared to have been discarded? Or if not discarded, kept elsewhere?
    I flipped open to the first page. Studied it. Tried to get a sense of its rhythm. I wasn’t entirely certain what I was looking for, maybe a notation of income earned from the publisher or anything of that nature. After all, she had published her second to last novel in 1855. Instead, what greeted me were grocery items, butcher bills, coal for heating, and more of the day-to-day expenses necessary for keeping a midnineteenth-century home. I kept turning pages, one after the other, until finally I reached the last.
    While certainly Anne had earned money from her books, and supposedly that was her original impetus for writing, she didn’t appear to keep track of that income here.
    I left the Mallards’ home with smiles, thanking them for their time and generosity and with the promise to return in a week with the items I was borrowing. I was half-amazed they actually let me leave with them. With everything carefully packed away in my backpack, I slid into a taxi and headed for the station.
    But the minute the taxi pulled away, my smile was gone. If my goal were only to learn more about Anne Gracechurch and her life, then the day was a success. But my intention was not to be simply her biographer or historian but to extend my discussion of her work with a critical analysis of her choice to adopt an alter ego.
    This had been a true treasure

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