The Gentlewoman's Deception

Ch. 3 // Sincerely Comma William Baker

There's something eerie about finding a normal object where it shouldn't be. Hidden or not, Louisa always thought that there should be a specific place where all her material possessions should be kept. Her hairbrush in the second drawer of her vanity, or the kettle always on the stove. It would simply be strange for her brush to be in the galley cabinet or the kettle under the chaise lounge in the sitting room.

But here, under a loose floorboard in her father's study, lay letters upon letters.

"What is the meaning of this?" Louisa pondered aloud as she peered over her newest discovery. "Why would my father have all of this hidden?"

Hesitantly, she reached into the hollow space and grabbed the first letter on top of the pile. It was written on a half sheet of paper with only a few words. It read, Thank you, Sir. I shall meet with you in a fortnight to go over what we last discussed.

This was most odd. The letter had no address, nor was it signed at the bottom. Louisa sifted through the old parchment to find any other clue as to who wrote this mysterious note. Unfortunately, it seemed that many of the letters were the same--a few words written with black ink.

"Come on. There must be something in here of use. Surely he wouldn't have stashed away such waste for no good reason," she said.

Louisa picked up more letters, quickly scanning the contents of each for anything that would tell her who wrote them and why. It wasn't until she read through what must've been her tenth letter that she noticed a peculiar crumpled note that seemed to be calling "open me."

Not understanding her fascination at first, she soon realized the handwriting was different. The clean script of the previous letters was now a sloppy mess of un-dotted I's and hastily crossed T's. Stains of ink blots peppered the paper as though the writer was quick to get their thoughts on the page before time ran out. Why such a rush? Louisa intended to find out, and quickly.

"These letters. I know them," she whispered, barely able to make out the phrase "meet me at the eleventh hour."

Upon further inspection of the note she was gripping rather strongly, it finally dawned on Louisa as to why this letter seemed to be calling out to her. This handwriting belonged to her father. How did she not see it before? The loops on the cursive L's were the same ones written on her birthday cards every year. She even remembered telling her father that his handwriting was barely legible as they laughed while she struggled to read his heartfelt words. Louisa started to tear up as she held what was left of her father's memory.

There must be more written by him, she thought, desperately searching through the papers as she pocketed her father's letter.

At the very bottom of the pile, she did indeed find another letter from her father, but it wasn't what she expected to see. Instead of loopy cursive letters, the page was filled with numbers. Taking it out of the hollow space in the floor, she held it up under the light of the afternoon sun streaming through the parted curtains, only to read...

Dear H.,

Hope 43.8.8 is well with you. It has been 108.22.1 in our household, but not uneventful 9.1.2 any means. 17.17.12 weather has been splendid and my dear Louisa tends to spend many afternoons down at the 276.5.8.

212.26.4 matter how many times I tell her to focus on her studies, she insists that being in the salty sea air is a 14.8.5.6 good fortune, something about forming an 372.7.2 with the creatures of the deep. I wouldn't be surprised if one day a mermaid comes 379.17.7.8 her as one of their own. 3.6.1 the heavens, don't let her hear that or who knows what ideas she'll get! I'll have to keep her in her room and 127.16.2 the door in fear that a siren calls to her. I jest, but she has my 43.4.2 and, as you know, is the only 2.10.12 I have left.