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Description
Nicholas Quinn heard the news three days after she’d died. It had been slow in the law office that particular Thursday, and Quinn had taken the opportunity to read the paper cover to cover. Veronica Blake’s obituary took up a mere inch and a half of print, her aunt’s, another two. Another two inches on their tragic coach accident, next to the last page of the Sherlock Holmes serial.
Before he read The Times that day, Nicholas Quinn had almost convinced himself that he had forgotten her. Forgotten was a strong term. Rather given up on her. He’d loved her for, helped her, and then she was shamed. It had been nearly four years since he’d seen her face, and now she was dead. Quinn considered himself still a young man at 24, but on that day he had never felt older.

Alone in his flat, he glanced at the only picture he had of her: a sketch done for a formal portrait, and wondered if he should go to the funeral, or if he had even been invited. Veronica’s bright sixteen-year-old eyes flickered at him in the lamp light. He didn’t even know when it was. He could find out, of course. A few boys down at the office owed him a favor.
He briefly imagined the funeral. Veronica’s cousin Thaddeus would be there, of course. He, Thaddeus and Veronica had grown up together: Veronica and Thaddeus, the manor’s blessed children, he, the overseer’s son, like characters from a play. Tad had always been aware of his rank, and had made sure Nicholas had been as well. Obnoxious Prick. Tad’s father and uncle would be there as well, glaring and with indigestion. The last time Quinn had seen the senior Blakes, they both had expressed the desire to see him drawn and quartered. Then there would be Veronica, cold, formal and in a box, very dead, and farther away than she’d ever been.
The Veronica he remembered, the Veronica in his head was lively, laughing, running through the creek with her shoes off and bloomers rolled up to her knees. No, he would not go to the funeral. Nicholas put the clipped obituary behind the portrait and stuck it back in the bureau, wrapping it back in the old scarf that had been its companion since he had moved here two years ago.
Quinn blew the lamp out and went to bed, dreaming of laughing children and careening carriages.

A rather expensive looking envelope arrived at his flat a week later: a formal worded invitation to the will reading of Lady Blake, etc. At “etc.”, Quinn crushed the letter in his fist. Veronica’s scandal was four years finished and she was fresh in the grave. Bastards of men, who couldn’t forgive their own flesh and blood for a youthful mistake. Quinn simmered for a moment, until, confused, he smoothed out the letter again. He’d been left something? The family disliked him more than they had Veronica. But, then, Lady Blake had always had a soft spot for him.
Indeed, “You are cordially invited…” Quinn glanced at the date and address. Of course, it was at the family estate in the country, miles away, and in the middle of the week, with no way he could get away from the office. He rubbed his temples and poured himself a cup of tea. A will reading had more potentially bad consequences. The uncles Blake wouldn’t have the propriety of a funeral service to keep them from doing him harm. Or at the very least making him feel like the scum of humanity. The Blake family seemed to be good at that, whether it was a well toned skill, as in the case of Thaddeus, or naively well-meaning, as Veronica had been.
But Veronica had left him something. Or, he supposed Lady Blake might’ve, but it was doubtful that she remembered him enough to keep him in her will. Anxiety rolled like acid in his stomach to think that Veronica had thought of him at all in these past few years. She hadn’t sought him out, not since that night, four years ago. “Nick, Nicholas! Oh, please, you’re the only one that can help me…” But then, she’d been under a closer watch since then.
He sipped his scalding tea with a wince and glanced back at the letter, scanning it for evidence of the intentions. Near the bottom was a scrawled PS, though the handwriting was clear enough.
“P.S. If unable to attend, come to 17 Alderscroft Lane on the 24th, 4 o’clock. Your item will be there.”
Item? One item. After it all, he would be bequeathed one item. That she had thought of him at all set a fire in his mind, the smoldering embers that had been burning since the night she’d asked for his help. He could almost see her, not the most literate, struggling to put her thoughts on a page, perhaps thinking romantically about her own death, as she was wont to.
Death by carriage accident. She’d have been pleased by that one, I think. Nice and dramatic. Disappointed, however, that she was doing something so mundane as hat shopping. Quinn hadn’t thought of her properly in a long time, though since her death (he still winced at the word, death) she had been a shadow everywhere.
The 24th, at the Blakes’ town home. Another place he hadn’t visited in years. He finished the rest of his tea, adrenaline coursing through his veins, making the meager tea and toast breakfast churn and his fingertips tremble. He folded the creased letter and tucked it into his breast pocket. Nicholas Quinn would brave the Blakes to honor Veronica, despite the pain she had caused him. The 24th was two weeks away. He’d be able to bring up courage by then.

The 24th dawned damp and rainy, a harsh contrast to the fire of nerves and anxiety that Quinn felt coursing through him. Each day until the 24th they had gotten worse. The weather should not have surprised Quinn, living in London, but it nevertheless made him nervous. He hadn’t saved the pence for a cab fair, and he needed to pay rent on the first, so he had to walk the route in the rain. It wasn’t long to Alderscroft road, but Quinn was saturated long before he’d even hit Trafalgar. Whichever Blake was there to meet him was going to take one look at him and throw him back onto the street. Or likely just make him squirm, which, Quinn admitted, would have happened regardless of the weather.
He’d never visited 17 Aderscroft while living in London, though he’d been there plenty of times as a child. He knew the way as if he’d walked there every day of his life, and that familiarity made even his nerved, waterlogged limbs sure-footed. His nerves rose with every step: whether it was a step towards humiliation or a step towards Veronica he didn’t know. One final block, and he was there, the stone steps, brass knocker and empty window boxes all the same. Mustering the courage to knock, he was met by an unpleasant looking manservant. The house was much the same as when he’d last been here. The walls, corridors were the same, even the layer of dust on the portraits. He wondered who owned the place now.
In the parlor, surrounded by the familiar moldy chintz covered in graying bed sheets, was a Blake. Not one of the elder, stately Blakes, whose walrus mustaches could strike fear into the hearts of the bravest men. It was Thaddeus Blake, Esquire now, Quinn supposed. The young man grinned at his surprise.
“Well, Nicholas. it’s been a long time. You expected my father, or my uncle, I suppose. My family thought that I might be able to deal with these matters with the most…delicacy,” the young Blake’s mouth moved around the words as if he were enjoying a rich meal.  This final familiarity made Quinn’s nervousness quell, at least for the moment, but not his anxiety. He pulled off his soaked top hat and ran his hand through his lank hair, trying to muster his dignity.
“Well, Tad.” Old nicknames and old feuds ran deep. “I’ve come all this way. In the rain. What do you have for me?” He kept his intrigue and anxiousness to his right fist, where his hat rim would probably never be the same.
“I could bore you with the legal proceeding that led up to this, but I’m sure you get enough of that at the law office: Smith & Henley, right? You should have been at the will readings, of course. Oh, don’t look like that; some of my family would have liked to see you. Good will, respect for the dead and all that. Regardless, here is your inheritance,” stopping dramatically, Blake took a small wooden box from the sill. Quinn’s breath stopped for a moment, and with effort, placed his hat on the end table. Blake handed the box to him with a small flourish.
Even if he hadn’t recognized it with a thrill up his spine, Quinn would have known it had been Veronica’s. It was small, barely wider than his palm. Its rich wood was delicately carved into artistic flowers that looped around a small key hole.
“Well, now, no need to draw this ridiculous will process out any longer,” Thaddeus Blake was brusque, clearly wanting to shake the whole thing off.  “I have business in Westminster. I’ll see you out…”
“This is all then?” Quinn closed his hand around the box, gently as he could, though the shaking in his hands was back. He struggled to keep his voice steady. “Is there no, letter, no key?”
“One item only.” A slow smile spread on Blake’s face. Quinn didn’t like it. “But you know how poor Veronica was at letters.  You did get something very special; don’t take it too hard lad.” Quinn was four months older than Thaddeus Blake. Blake called for his manservant and headed back through the house.
Quinn grabbed his hat and put it back on his damp hair with force. Almost tenderly, he wrapped the box with his driest handkerchief and put it in his pocket. He followed Blake through back to the door.  The rain had let up, for the time.
“I’m sure I will see you about town, Nicholas. Best health to you,” Blake shook his hand firmly. He had a career in politics ahead of him.
“And to your family,” Nicholas nodded at him, and turned away. He walked back to his flat as fast as polite society would permit, his hands in his pockets. One hand jingling his keys in an erratic tempo, the other rested on Veronica’s little box.

That night, his small table once again was graced with the face of Veronica, her charcoal eyes flickering in the lamplight. Her carved jewelry box lay in front of the portrait, a little alter to her beauty. The rain outside echoed and mocked him.
“It is pretty isn’t it? A new jewelry box, all for me!”
She had been exceptionally beautiful, and happy in those days, filled to the brim with the joy of being 17. He wished, then and now, that he had been the cause of her happiness, even just to have spared her the pain of years following.
It had been a typical story, really. The servant’s son falling in love with the master’s daughter. Done to death in the plays and serials. She was flighty, brimming with life and a free spirit. Even now he could hear her laughter, trickling down in the sound of the rain. And he, young Nick, gangly as a bean pole, scapegoat for her cousin, was loyal to her to the end. The end that came like a harsh slap to the girl who never could keep her feet on the ground. Quinn picked up her portrait, brushing her cheek with his thumb. Always trusting, we both were.
“Oh, Nick! He loves me so! Have you not seen me in the delight of love these last few weeks? Oh, what words, what gifts, what looks he gives me, Nicolas! How I could die!”
A part of him had died that day, when she told him that of course class didn’t matter to her, why did he think she was in love with the horse groom? A thieving horse groom, more out for her money, as it turned out.
“We’re running away together. Nicholas, you’re the only one who can help me! Help us!”
And of course he had. His feelings for her hadn’t changed, they had solidified, and even when they were caught, when her bastard of a lover had turned Quinn in as well, his passion for her welled. Now she was dead. He would never see her smiling face again, but it burned bright as ever in his mind, in the lamp light. Her smile before she had been shamed.
And there was her box. He placed her portrait back in its position of honor and traced the carvings with his finger tips. It was firmly locked, and he couldn’t tell if there was anything inside. My, yes, he recognized it. It had found a home proudly displayed on the mantle of Veronica’s own little drawing room at the estate, a mere two months before that final night. She had never said who gave it to her.  The implications seared through him.
Veronica had known he loved her. He told her so, his last words before he had sent her and her errant lover through the servants’ quarters, where they had been very soon caught from sheer predictability. Veronica had not been the only naïve one.
“But Nicholas, I…” She never finished the phrase and he hadn’t been able to see her face.
Why would she give him this, the only part of her he now had left? Was it simple? Did the box he’d once mentioned make her think of him? Or was it her last memento of her errant love affair, stashed away with the only man stupidly loyal enough to keep it for her?
But Veronica wouldn’t. She was sweet, never malicious. And oh, so full of laughter. He could hear it, bright as the last time he’d hear her laugh, telling him that she was off to be the wife of a groomsman. In the patter of the rain, the creaking of the floor boards, the whisper of the lamp flame, he could here it. Quinn’s hands trembled so violently that he set the box down, not to hurt it.
And why would he ever hurt it? He sat down hard on his rickety chair, almost giving a squeak of laughter. It was Veronica’s. Quinn remembered Thaddeus Blake’s smile: he had known something about this box.
Questions and their answers burned in him. His passion, his obsession twisted in his belly, the loud sounds of the night pounding in his ears. He could feel the lamplight flickering in dampness of his eyes: he hadn’t realized he’d been crying. Veronica was dead and gone, but her contradictions would always sit in the innocent, locked little box. Nicholas Quinn began to laugh along with the laughing rain that was Veronica, clutching his own arms with hands that no longer trembled but bruised.

Another obituary appeared in the Times a month to the day after that of Veronica Blake and her mother. It told of a quiet man, Nicholas Quinn, only 24, with few friends, who worked as a secretary in the law office Smith & Henley. It seemed that at the death of an old friend, Nicholas Quinn had gone violently mad. It was said that he attacked a former groomsman and two members of the Blake family in his rage. Thaddeus Blake, a promising politician, tried to reason with the man who kept shouting about smiles, motives, and laughter. In personal defense, Blake had shoved Quinn into the street, where he had been hit by an oncoming carriage. He died shortly thereafter of his injuries, bleeding in the street as Blake ran for help. Curious bystanders noted that Quinn held in his hands an intact, carved jewelry box. It was locked.

Description
Nicholas Quinn heard the news three days after she’d died. It had been slow in the law office that particular Thursday, and Quinn had taken the opportunity to read the paper cover to cover. Veronica Blake’s obituary took up a mere inch and a half of print, her aunt’s, another two. Another two inches on their tragic coach accident, next to the last page of the Sherlock Holmes serial.
Before he read The Times that day, Nicholas Quinn had almost convinced himself that he had forgotten her. Forgotten was a strong term. Rather given up on her. He’d loved her for, helped her, and then she was shamed. It had been nearly four years since he’d seen her face, and now she was dead. Quinn considered himself still a young man at 24, but on that day he had never felt older.

Alone in his flat, he glanced at the only picture he had of her: a sketch done for a formal portrait, and wondered if he should go to the funeral, or if he had even been invited. Veronica’s bright sixteen-year-old eyes flickered at him in the lamp light. He didn’t even know when it was. He could find out, of course. A few boys down at the office owed him a favor.
He briefly imagined the funeral. Veronica’s cousin Thaddeus would be there, of course. He, Thaddeus and Veronica had grown up together: Veronica and Thaddeus, the manor’s blessed children, he, the overseer’s son, like characters from a play. Tad had always been aware of his rank, and had made sure Nicholas had been as well. Obnoxious Prick. Tad’s father and uncle would be there as well, glaring and with indigestion. The last time Quinn had seen the senior Blakes, they both had expressed the desire to see him drawn and quartered. Then there would be Veronica, cold, formal and in a box, very dead, and farther away than she’d ever been.
The Veronica he remembered, the Veronica in his head was lively, laughing, running through the creek with her shoes off and bloomers rolled up to her knees. No, he would not go to the funeral. Nicholas put the clipped obituary behind the portrait and stuck it back in the bureau, wrapping it back in the old scarf that had been its companion since he had moved here two years ago.
Quinn blew the lamp out and went to bed, dreaming of laughing children and careening carriages.

A rather expensive looking envelope arrived at his flat a week later: a formal worded invitation to the will reading of Lady Blake, etc. At “etc.”, Quinn crushed the letter in his fist. Veronica’s scandal was four years finished and she was fresh in the grave. Bastards of men, who couldn’t forgive their own flesh and blood for a youthful mistake. Quinn simmered for a moment, until, confused, he smoothed out the letter again. He’d been left something? The family disliked him more than they had Veronica. But, then, Lady Blake had always had a soft spot for him.
Indeed, “You are cordially invited…” Quinn glanced at the date and address. Of course, it was at the family estate in the country, miles away, and in the middle of the week, with no way he could get away from the office. He rubbed his temples and poured himself a cup of tea. A will reading had more potentially bad consequences. The uncles Blake wouldn’t have the propriety of a funeral service to keep them from doing him harm. Or at the very least making him feel like the scum of humanity. The Blake family seemed to be good at that, whether it was a well toned skill, as in the case of Thaddeus, or naively well-meaning, as Veronica had been.
But Veronica had left him something. Or, he supposed Lady Blake might’ve, but it was doubtful that she remembered him enough to keep him in her will. Anxiety rolled like acid in his stomach to think that Veronica had thought of him at all in these past few years. She hadn’t sought him out, not since that night, four years ago. “Nick, Nicholas! Oh, please, you’re the only one that can help me…” But then, she’d been under a closer watch since then.
He sipped his scalding tea with a wince and glanced back at the letter, scanning it for evidence of the intentions. Near the bottom was a scrawled PS, though the handwriting was clear enough.
“P.S. If unable to attend, come to 17 Alderscroft Lane on the 24th, 4 o’clock. Your item will be there.”
Item? One item. After it all, he would be bequeathed one item. That she had thought of him at all set a fire in his mind, the smoldering embers that had been burning since the night she’d asked for his help. He could almost see her, not the most literate, struggling to put her thoughts on a page, perhaps thinking romantically about her own death, as she was wont to.
Death by carriage accident. She’d have been pleased by that one, I think. Nice and dramatic. Disappointed, however, that she was doing something so mundane as hat shopping. Quinn hadn’t thought of her properly in a long time, though since her death (he still winced at the word, death) she had been a shadow everywhere.
The 24th, at the Blakes’ town home. Another place he hadn’t visited in years. He finished the rest of his tea, adrenaline coursing through his veins, making the meager tea and toast breakfast churn and his fingertips tremble. He folded the creased letter and tucked it into his breast pocket. Nicholas Quinn would brave the Blakes to honor Veronica, despite the pain she had caused him. The 24th was two weeks away. He’d be able to bring up courage by then.

The 24th dawned damp and rainy, a harsh contrast to the fire of nerves and anxiety that Quinn felt coursing through him. Each day until the 24th they had gotten worse. The weather should not have surprised Quinn, living in London, but it nevertheless made him nervous. He hadn’t saved the pence for a cab fair, and he needed to pay rent on the first, so he had to walk the route in the rain. It wasn’t long to Alderscroft road, but Quinn was saturated long before he’d even hit Trafalgar. Whichever Blake was there to meet him was going to take one look at him and throw him back onto the street. Or likely just make him squirm, which, Quinn admitted, would have happened regardless of the weather.
He’d never visited 17 Aderscroft while living in London, though he’d been there plenty of times as a child. He knew the way as if he’d walked there every day of his life, and that familiarity made even his nerved, waterlogged limbs sure-footed. His nerves rose with every step: whether it was a step towards humiliation or a step towards Veronica he didn’t know. One final block, and he was there, the stone steps, brass knocker and empty window boxes all the same. Mustering the courage to knock, he was met by an unpleasant looking manservant. The house was much the same as when he’d last been here. The walls, corridors were the same, even the layer of dust on the portraits. He wondered who owned the place now.
In the parlor, surrounded by the familiar moldy chintz covered in graying bed sheets, was a Blake. Not one of the elder, stately Blakes, whose walrus mustaches could strike fear into the hearts of the bravest men. It was Thaddeus Blake, Esquire now, Quinn supposed. The young man grinned at his surprise.
“Well, Nicholas. it’s been a long time. You expected my father, or my uncle, I suppose. My family thought that I might be able to deal with these matters with the most…delicacy,” the young Blake’s mouth moved around the words as if he were enjoying a rich meal.  This final familiarity made Quinn’s nervousness quell, at least for the moment, but not his anxiety. He pulled off his soaked top hat and ran his hand through his lank hair, trying to muster his dignity.
“Well, Tad.” Old nicknames and old feuds ran deep. “I’ve come all this way. In the rain. What do you have for me?” He kept his intrigue and anxiousness to his right fist, where his hat rim would probably never be the same.
“I could bore you with the legal proceeding that led up to this, but I’m sure you get enough of that at the law office: Smith & Henley, right? You should have been at the will readings, of course. Oh, don’t look like that; some of my family would have liked to see you. Good will, respect for the dead and all that. Regardless, here is your inheritance,” stopping dramatically, Blake took a small wooden box from the sill. Quinn’s breath stopped for a moment, and with effort, placed his hat on the end table. Blake handed the box to him with a small flourish.
Even if he hadn’t recognized it with a thrill up his spine, Quinn would have known it had been Veronica’s. It was small, barely wider than his palm. Its rich wood was delicately carved into artistic flowers that looped around a small key hole.
“Well, now, no need to draw this ridiculous will process out any longer,” Thaddeus Blake was brusque, clearly wanting to shake the whole thing off.  “I have business in Westminster. I’ll see you out…”
“This is all then?” Quinn closed his hand around the box, gently as he could, though the shaking in his hands was back. He struggled to keep his voice steady. “Is there no, letter, no key?”
“One item only.” A slow smile spread on Blake’s face. Quinn didn’t like it. “But you know how poor Veronica was at letters.  You did get something very special; don’t take it too hard lad.” Quinn was four months older than Thaddeus Blake. Blake called for his manservant and headed back through the house.
Quinn grabbed his hat and put it back on his damp hair with force. Almost tenderly, he wrapped the box with his driest handkerchief and put it in his pocket. He followed Blake through back to the door.  The rain had let up, for the time.
“I’m sure I will see you about town, Nicholas. Best health to you,” Blake shook his hand firmly. He had a career in politics ahead of him.
“And to your family,” Nicholas nodded at him, and turned away. He walked back to his flat as fast as polite society would permit, his hands in his pockets. One hand jingling his keys in an erratic tempo, the other rested on Veronica’s little box.

That night, his small table once again was graced with the face of Veronica, her charcoal eyes flickering in the lamplight. Her carved jewelry box lay in front of the portrait, a little alter to her beauty. The rain outside echoed and mocked him.
“It is pretty isn’t it? A new jewelry box, all for me!”
She had been exceptionally beautiful, and happy in those days, filled to the brim with the joy of being 17. He wished, then and now, that he had been the cause of her happiness, even just to have spared her the pain of years following.
It had been a typical story, really. The servant’s son falling in love with the master’s daughter. Done to death in the plays and serials. She was flighty, brimming with life and a free spirit. Even now he could hear her laughter, trickling down in the sound of the rain. And he, young Nick, gangly as a bean pole, scapegoat for her cousin, was loyal to her to the end. The end that came like a harsh slap to the girl who never could keep her feet on the ground. Quinn picked up her portrait, brushing her cheek with his thumb. Always trusting, we both were.
“Oh, Nick! He loves me so! Have you not seen me in the delight of love these last few weeks? Oh, what words, what gifts, what looks he gives me, Nicolas! How I could die!”
A part of him had died that day, when she told him that of course class didn’t matter to her, why did he think she was in love with the horse groom? A thieving horse groom, more out for her money, as it turned out.
“We’re running away together. Nicholas, you’re the only one who can help me! Help us!”
And of course he had. His feelings for her hadn’t changed, they had solidified, and even when they were caught, when her bastard of a lover had turned Quinn in as well, his passion for her welled. Now she was dead. He would never see her smiling face again, but it burned bright as ever in his mind, in the lamp light. Her smile before she had been shamed.
And there was her box. He placed her portrait back in its position of honor and traced the carvings with his finger tips. It was firmly locked, and he couldn’t tell if there was anything inside. My, yes, he recognized it. It had found a home proudly displayed on the mantle of Veronica’s own little drawing room at the estate, a mere two months before that final night. She had never said who gave it to her.  The implications seared through him.
Veronica had known he loved her. He told her so, his last words before he had sent her and her errant lover through the servants’ quarters, where they had been very soon caught from sheer predictability. Veronica had not been the only naïve one.
“But Nicholas, I…” She never finished the phrase and he hadn’t been able to see her face.
Why would she give him this, the only part of her he now had left? Was it simple? Did the box he’d once mentioned make her think of him? Or was it her last memento of her errant love affair, stashed away with the only man stupidly loyal enough to keep it for her?
But Veronica wouldn’t. She was sweet, never malicious. And oh, so full of laughter. He could hear it, bright as the last time he’d hear her laugh, telling him that she was off to be the wife of a groomsman. In the patter of the rain, the creaking of the floor boards, the whisper of the lamp flame, he could here it. Quinn’s hands trembled so violently that he set the box down, not to hurt it.
And why would he ever hurt it? He sat down hard on his rickety chair, almost giving a squeak of laughter. It was Veronica’s. Quinn remembered Thaddeus Blake’s smile: he had known something about this box.
Questions and their answers burned in him. His passion, his obsession twisted in his belly, the loud sounds of the night pounding in his ears. He could feel the lamplight flickering in dampness of his eyes: he hadn’t realized he’d been crying. Veronica was dead and gone, but her contradictions would always sit in the innocent, locked little box. Nicholas Quinn began to laugh along with the laughing rain that was Veronica, clutching his own arms with hands that no longer trembled but bruised.

Another obituary appeared in the Times a month to the day after that of Veronica Blake and her mother. It told of a quiet man, Nicholas Quinn, only 24, with few friends, who worked as a secretary in the law office Smith & Henley. It seemed that at the death of an old friend, Nicholas Quinn had gone violently mad. It was said that he attacked a former groomsman and two members of the Blake family in his rage. Thaddeus Blake, a promising politician, tried to reason with the man who kept shouting about smiles, motives, and laughter. In personal defense, Blake had shoved Quinn into the street, where he had been hit by an oncoming carriage. He died shortly thereafter of his injuries, bleeding in the street as Blake ran for help. Curious bystanders noted that Quinn held in his hands an intact, carved jewelry box. It was locked.