“My dearest dear Emily: I know not how to pour out all that is in my heart. I have admired you for so many years and yet, when we have danced or shared picnics at the lake, I have been unable to speak. At home I stare at myself in the mirror and hate my cowardice. But now at last I must speak my tenderest thoughts or go mad beyond salvation. I fear to offend, and this small letter will take many hours to rewrite. Dear, dear Emily, know my affection and willingness to share some part of my life near or with you. If you could look upon me with the smallest kindness, I would be overcome with happiness. I have had to stop myself from touching your hand. And the thought of anything more, the merest kiss, shakes me that I even dare to say these words. My intentions are honorable. If you would permit, I would like to speak to your parents. Until that hour and day, I send you my affections and kindest thoughts for your future life and existence.”
Rose’s voice sounded clearly with these last words …
“Signed William Ross Fielding.”
Rose glanced at Emily. “William Ross Fielding? Who was he, writing to you and madly in love?”
“Oh, God,” Emily Bernice Watriss cried, her eyes blind with tears. “I’ll be damned if I know!”
Day after day the letters arrived, not by mail, but slipped in the box at midnight or dawn to be read aloud by Rose or Emily who took turns wiping their eyes. Day after day the writer from a far year begged Emily’s pardon, worried on her future, and signed himself with a flourish and an almost audible sigh, William Ross Fielding.
And each day Emily, eyes shut, said, “Read it again. I almost got a face to match the words!”
By week’s end, with six ancient letters stacked and crumbling fast, Emily fell into exhaustion and exclaimed, “Stop! Devil take that sinful blackmailer who won’t show his face! Burn it!”
“Not yet,” said Rose, arriving with no ancient yellowed note, but a spanking bright new envelope, nameless outside, nameless in.
Emily, back from the dead, snatched it and read:
“I am ashamed for assisting all this trouble which now must stop. You can find your mail at 11 South St. James. Forgive.”
And no signature.
“I don’t understand,” Emily said.
“Easy as pie,” said Rose. “Whoever’s sending your letters back is making affectionate approaches with someone else’s notes from when Coolidge was president!”
“My God, Rose, feel my face: red-hot. Why would someone climb a ladder, rob an attic, and run? Why not stand on our lawn and yell?”
“Because,” said Rose, quietly, turning the new letter over, “maybe whoever wrote this is just as shy now as William Ross Fielding was way back where you can’t remember. Now what?”
“I wonder …” Emily stared out the window. “… who lives at 11 South St. James.”
“Here it is.”
They stood in front of it late in the day.
11 South St. James.
“Who’s there looking out at us this very minute?” said Emily.
“Not the gent who sent you the confession,” said Rose. “He just helped carry the ladder but can’t carry the guilt. In there now is the mad fool who’s been sending your notes. And if we don’t move the whole street’ll be a beehive. Shake a leg.”
They crossed the porch and rang the bell. The front door drifted wide. An old man, well into his late seventies, stood there, astonished.
“Why, Emily Bernice Watriss,” he exclaimed. “Hello!”
“What,” said Emily Bernice Watriss, “in hell’s name are you up to?”
“Right now?” he said. “Tea’s ready. Yes?”
They sidled in, perched themselves, ready to run, and watched him pour teakettle water over some orange pekoe leaves.
“Cream or lemon?” he asked.
“Don’t cream and lemon me!” Emily said.
“Please.”