Page 9 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke
“I was kind because he was innocent,” she argued quietly. “A child’s voice ought not to be met with cruelty. But most of these letters come from those who know precisely what they’ve done, hiding their guilt behind poetic phrases and indignant protests. You’ve read them, Mr. Finch. Pompous mothers. Unfaithful husbands. Employers who treat their servants like beasts of burden.”
“I know,” Mr. Finch said, his voice softer now. “But they are also the ones paying your salary. And keeping this paper afloat.”
Wilhelmina rolled her eyes and began to sift through the letters. Some were signed with names—real or otherwise—though most chose the safety of pseudonyms, as was wise. She skimmed a few, already forming responses in her mind.
Balanced, polished, diplomatic.
Then, she paused.
Her eyes lingered on one envelope, her fingers tightening ever so slightly as she tugged out the folded page.
“What is it?” Mr. Finch asked, watching her closely.
“It’s the boy,” she murmured.
“The boy?” He leaned forward, peering over his spectacles.
“The one who wrote about his lonely father,” she clarified. “The one you said I responded to with uncharacteristic gentleness a fortnight ago.”
“He’s written again?”
“Yes. It’s not signed, but I can tell it’s from him. No grown man would write like that; there was a distinct innocence in his tone. A man of status and standing would not phrase things so plainly, or so earnestly.”
“Hm. A remarkably perceptive child,” Mr. Finch muttered, frowning. “How did I miss that? It reminds me, the father?—”
“—likely doesn’t know how to speak to his son,” Wilhelmina cut in smoothly. “Let alone express himself in ink. Many among the nobility are barely literate in emotion, Mr. Finch.”
He grunted. “Perhaps. Regardless, our agreement remains unchanged. You will continue to respond, but with greater care.”
Wilhelmina returned her eyes to the letter, reading aloud, half to herself, “Dear Lady Silverquill, I have tried all I can to find someone who can make my papa happy, but?—”
Finch suddenly snatched the letter from her hands.
“Mr. Finch!” she protested.
“You will not respond to this,” he said flatly, his cheeks flushing.
“And why ever not?” she demanded.
“Because youmust not,” he said firmly. “That boy made very clear what he did with the first letter—he sent it to your column. We cannot encourage correspondence between children and a column meant for adults.”
Wilhelmina narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re hiding something, Mr. Finch.”
He froze. Caught. She could always tell.
“Hiding? Nonsense, My Lady. I?—”
“Mr. Finch,” she shot him a pointed look, one that would hopefully show him she could see right through him.
He looked down, then up again, and sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of discretion. “His father has insistedon anonymity. He threatened to sue theGazetteerif you write back to his son again.”
Wilhelmina felt her face flush, not with shame, but something far sharper. Indignation.
“Sue us? For what? Kindness?” She straightened in her chair, her voice hardening. “Surely there’s a mistake. If they believe I?—”
“You may not have meant harm,” Mr. Finch said, cutting her off, “but you humiliated him. He claims your letter was far too transparent. Those who read it deduced correctly who he was.”
“That may be,” she relented, her lips thinning. “But then I must ask: why did his son feel the need to write at all? Why seek help from a stranger in print? Why not go to the man himself? Unless?—”
