The Secret History of the Pink Carnation Read Free Page A

reproduction. Different-coloured woods marked out fanciful patternsof flowers and birds across the lid of the trunk, while a large bird of paradise adorned the centre.
    Mrs Selwick-Alderly withdrew an elaborate key from her pocket.
    ‘In this trunk’ – she held the key poised before the lock – ‘lies the true identity of the Pink Carnation.’
    Stooping, Mrs Selwick-Alderly fitted the key – almost as ornately constructed as the chest itself, with the end twisted into elaborate curlicues – into the brass-bound lock. The lid sprang open with well-oiled ease. I joined Mrs Selwick-Alderly on the floor, without even realising how I’d got there.
    My first glance was a disappointing one. Not a paper in sight, not even the scrap of a forgotten love letter. Instead, my sweeping gaze took in the faded ivory of an old fan, a yellowed scrap of embroidered cloth, the skeletal remains of a bouquet still bound with a tattered ribbon. There were other such trinkets, but I didn’t take much notice as I sank down onto my haunches beside the trunk.
    But Mrs Selwick-Alderly wasn’t finished. Deliberately, she eased one blue-veined hand along either side of the velvet lining and tugged. The top tray slid easily out of its supports. Within… I was back on my knees, hands gripping the edge of the trunk.
    ‘This…it’s amazing!’ I stuttered. ‘Are these all…?’
    ‘All early nineteenth century,’ Mrs Selwick-Alderly finished for me, regarding the contents of the trunk fondly. ‘They’ve all been sorted by chronological order, so you should find it easy going.’ She reached into the trunk, picked up a folio, and then put it aside with a muttered ‘That won’t do.’ After a moment’s peering into the trunk and making the occasional clucking noise, she seized on a rectangular packet, one of those special acid-free cardboard boxes they use to protect old library books.
    ‘You’d best start here,’ she advised, ‘with Amy.’
    ‘Amy?’ I asked, picking at the string binding the box together.
    Mrs Selwick-Alderly started to respond, and then checked herself, rising to her feet with the help of the edge of the box.
    ‘These letters tell the tale far better than I could.’ She cut off myincoherent questions with a kindly, ‘If you need anything, I’ll be in my study. It’s just down the hall to the right.’
    ‘But, who is he?’ I pleaded, pivoting after her as she walked towards the door. ‘The Pink Carnation?’
    ‘Read and see…’ Mrs Selwick-Alderly’s voice drifted behind her through the open door.
    Urgh. Gnawing on my lower lip, I stared down at the manuscript box in my hands. The grey cardboard was smooth and clean beneath my fingers; unlike the battered, dusty old boxes in the stacks of Widener Library, someone cared for these papers well. The identity of the Pink Carnation. Did she really mean it?
    I should have been tearing at the twine that bound the box, but there was something about the waiting stillness of the room, broken only by the occasional crackle of burning bark upon the grate, that barred abrupt movement. I could almost feel the portrait miniatures on the wall straining to peer over my shoulder.
    Besides, I counselled myself, mechanically unwinding the string, I shouldn’t let myself get too excited. Mrs Selwick-Alderly might be exaggerating. Or mad. True, she didn’t look mad, but maybe her delusion took the form of thinking she held the key to the identity of the Pink Carnation. I would open the box to find it contained a stack of Beatles lyrics or amateur poetry.
    The last loop of string came free. The cardboard flap fell open, revealing a pile of yellowed papers. The date on the first letter, in a scrawling, uneven hand, read 4 MARCH, 1803.
    Not amateur poetry.
    Dizzy with excitement, I flipped through the thick packet of papers. Some were in better condition than others; in places, ink had run, or lines had been lost in folds. Hints of reddish sealing wax clung to the edges of