Chapter Thirty-Seven
Johnny stared at the velvet pouch in his hand. It jingled with coins, like something out of a fairy tale.
Ten pounds, that was what Mrs. Claiborne had said.
No, that was only a small portion of what she’d said. What she’d said was, Mr. Underwood didn’t have children of his own. But with the three of you, he came to understand a little bit of fatherhood. He cared a great deal about you and was very proud of your hard work and your beautiful character.
He never made a will, but I know he would want you to be taken care of, especially you, Mr. Esposito. Before he died, he transferred all his savings to me. On his behalf, I would like to present you with a legacy of five hundred pounds. I hope you will always carry his memory in your heart.
In his youth, Mr. Underwood worked at Eastleigh Park, a great ducal estate. One of the scions of the family, Lord Ingram Ashburton, was saddened to learn of his passing. When he heard that I would be making this bequest to you, he doubled it by putting up five hundred pounds of his own.
He would invest the money for you and pay you ten pounds a month, for the next ten years. At the end of which, you may ask for the remainder in a lump sum, or continue to receive ten pounds a month for as long as the principle lasts. But in any case, you will receive no less than twelve hundred pounds over the next ten years.
Here is the first installment.
And Johnny hadn’t heard a word since.
He only gradually became aware of the bustle of the Port of London, the smell of the Thames, the cawing of the gulls wheeling overhead.
“I loved him!” The words left his lips as tears escaped his eyes. He wiped them, the fabric of his sleeves rough on his face. “I loved him.”
“He knew. He took such solace in you—in all of you.” Mrs. Claiborne sighed. “It’s a shame we didn’t get to know one another better before this. But I plan to stay in touch with Mrs. Farr, and I hope to have your news from her. Good-bye and good luck.”
And then she was walking up the gangway, the last passenger to do so. The ship sailed only minutes later, sliding down the Thames Estuary.
Johnny waved until he couldn’t see her anymore, until the ship itself became only a dot on the horizon.
“Better put that in an inside pocket,” said Jessie.
Johnny did so. “I’d put it in my shoes if it would fit.”
Jessie laughed, the sound as clear as bells.
“You two got something, too, right?”
He knew he’d been singled out, but he also knew that the very kind Mrs. Claiborne wouldn’t have forgotten them.
Jessie waved a letter in her hand. “Did you hear nothing at all? We got an invitation to be founding members of the Baker Street Irregulars.”
“What is that?”
“Some sort of intelligence-gathering apparatus,” answered Jessie. “Should be interesting.”
Johnny turned to Mumble. “Do you think so, too?”
Mumble did not answer immediately, which gave Johnny an excuse to stare at his starched collar, immaculate against his golden skin.
“Yes, I do think so. I’m intrigued by the opportunity to work with Sherlock Holmes,” said Mumble eventually. “You, Johnny? Any plans for your ten pounds a month?”
Johnny thought of the garden his mother had longed for since they came to Britain. With a hundred twenty pounds a year, he could give her a garden and provide his sister with a dowry. His brothers would be educated enough to have professions: Earlier his greatest dream had been that they would man ticket booths at railway stations or, if they were spectacularly lucky, work as guards at the British Museum; but now they could become clerks, even accountants like Mr. Constable.
And he said so, stuttering at the grandeur of his new aspirations.
“No, I meant, what do you want to do, Johnny?”
Mumble draped an arm over Johnny’s shoulders. Heat suffused Johnny—heat and a happiness so sharp it hurt. What did he want? He wanted this moment to last forever, the weight of ten pounds in his inside pocket, the fullness of hope in his heart, the smile on Jessie’s face as she said, “Yes, what do you want, Johnny?” and the smell of starch and lavender water on Mumble’s clothes.
He wanted Mumble’s shirt so he could always remember this day.
The thought startled him so much that he stammered, “I—I—is it too late for me to go back to school?”
He could read—and write if he had to. But he felt downright illiterate next to Mumble, who read a book in less time than other people took to have a meal.
“Possibly,” said Mumble. “But I’m willing to hire myself out as a tutor if you are serious about learning.”
“You are?”
Chaotic images flashed in Johnny’s head, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder, heads bent together.
“Of course, but I won’t come cheap,” said the man who had tutored his brothers for free for a whole year.
Johnny didn’t know why, but his cheeks burned—and not in an unpleasant way. “Let me think about it.”
“Come on, boys,” called Jessie, who was already walking away. “I have to go to work first thing in the morning.”
“Coming, madam,” answered Mumble, letting go of Johnny and starting after her.
“I like what Mrs. Claiborne said about our character.” Jessie turned around and walked backward. “I am going to write it down in my diary.”
Johnny hurried to catch up with Mumble. “Nobody has ever said anything to me about my character.”
Mumble gave him a sidelong glance. “That’s a shame, my friend. Your character—is the most beautiful anything I have ever come across in my life.”
?It had been several days, but Miss Harcourt still couldn’t believe that her aunt Meadows had called on her at her hotel.
She hadn’t recognized the unannounced visitor, but had greeted the woman courteously, thinking she had the wrong door.
The woman, a patch over one eye, had gazed at her and said, “My goodness, for a moment I thought you were your mother.”
And Miss Harcourt, in that moment, had realized exactly who she was.
It had been a teary reunion—most of the tears Miss Harcourt’s own. For dear Miriam, forever gone. For her aunt Meadows—no, her aunt Farr, who’d had to endure so much. And for gladness, because Aunt Farr was still alive and, after everything, still had hope.
When she had proposed a second meeting, Miss Harcourt had immediately agreed—and half expected that when no one came, she would finally wake up from her exceptional dream.
But no, Aunt Farr had not only come again but brought her adopted daughter.
Miss Harcourt had no desire to marry but adored children. She spent a happy half hour fussing over Eliza, planning a special afternoon tea with the girl.
Afterward, Aunt Farr suggested a walk. The day was overcast, the sky pregnant with rain. But Miss Harcourt loved the outdoors and didn’t mind at all.
“Scotland Yard will look into my old case again,” said her aunt Farr softly. “It’s best that Eliza and I left the country for a while.”
Miss Harcourt and her mother had known, from the moment Aunt Farr disappeared from Manchester, that she had most likely been the one. They simply hadn’t known the exact reasons.
“You should come with me—I’m leaving soon, and I can help look after Eliza,” she said, not daring to hope. “Except as I mentioned earlier, I’m set to travel slowly, a tour of the world such as Cousin Miriam would have liked.”
Aunt Farr had told her never to hesitate to bring up Cousin Miriam: She was not afraid of a pang in her chest at her baby sister’s name; she feared only that Miriam, who had so wished to leave a mark on the world, might become forgotten too soon.
“She never did travel as she wished to,” murmured Aunt Farr. “And it wasn’t because she never made any money but because she couldn’t bear to leave me all by myself.”
She patted Eliza on the shoulder. “So let’s travel slowly. Let’s travel for Miriam. It would be good for Eliza to see the world, too. If it’s agreeable to you, we will go with you until the west coast of America. I think I mentioned that the two oldest of my foster children have emigrated to Los Angeles. They’re doing well and have asked several times for me to join them out there.”
She smiled a little. “They said I would have no aches and pains in the Southern California winter.”
“I’ve long wanted to visit California but I never thought—” Miss Harcourt stopped.
“You never thought what?”
Miss Harcourt gathered up her courage. “I never thought that even if we should meet again, you would wish to spend time with me.”
Aunt Farr did not answer immediately. She had lost her beauty, but to Miss Harcourt, her magnetism had only intensified, the magnetism of someone who had stared into the abyss and found her way again.
“You and your mother were two of the kindest people I’ve ever met,” she said slowly. “I dared not embrace your friendship at the time; I feared that if your uncle Ephraim ever went public with his allegations, you’d be accused of having aided and abetted me.
“But I’ve thought often of you over the years. When things were especially bleak, I would remember that little house in Manchester and how glad I always felt when you came to call. Those were some of the happiest hours of my life.”
“Mine, too.” Tears were once again falling down Miss Harcourt’s face. She barely cared. “Mine, too.”
Then she did have to use her handkerchief to wipe her face, because without realizing it, she had led them to the London ticket office of the Union Steamship Company, on whose vessel she would begin the first leg of her journey.
“Shall we buy your passages to Madeira?”
Her aunt Farr inhaled deeply and took little Eliza’s hand in her own. “Yes, do let us.”
Dear Chief Inspector Talbot,
By the time you receive this letter, I will have sailed from Southampton, headed for distant shores.
I write to apologize—and to thank you. I have no excuses to offer for my indefensible action fifteen years ago and can never repay you for your kindness then, and later again in London.
All I can offer is the humble reassurance that I never once took for granted the second chance you gave me.
You, sir, are the greatest benefactor of my life, and I will always remain,
Yours gratefully,
Mrs. Winifred Farr
Livia visited the Jardin des Tuileries each day, even though it necessitated a substantial commute from Mrs. Watson’s house much farther down the Seine.
But soon she wouldn’t be able to anymore, because soon Mrs. Newell, her dear elderly cousin with whom she’d embarked on this grand voyage, would reach Paris, after a few pleasant weeks at Lake Como in Italy. And once they were reunited, it would be time to head back to England.
Livia patted the sun-warmed planks of her bench. She and Mr. Marbleton had sat on this very bench last December, when they’d come to Paris as Charlotte’s fellow burglars.
On that day she’d told him that she’d finally finished her first Sherlock Holmes story, and he had been delighted for her. Now she was mulling another story, based on recent events, one that had the potential to be quite a crowd-pleaser.
The most ridiculous part of the entire business had to be the way Lord Ingram had obtained old Mrs. Sylvestrina Calder’s house.
The tunnel between De Lacey Industries and City and Suburban Bank had, of course, not been dug from the wine cellar at the former but from a house that was located not far from either. Instead of purchasing the house outright, Lord Ingram had opted to make up an entity called the Sylvestrina Society, based on the owner’s unusual name.
The Sylvestrina Society was purportedly begun by an extremely wealthy German aristocrat who, having been both proud of and embarrassed by her name, had decided in her will to honor other Sylvestrinas by gifting those her lawyers could find three months at the seaside, all expenses paid, with a weekly stipend besides.
The only significant stipulation was that each recipient must swear to absolute secrecy, lest everyone start naming their daughters Sylvestrina to take advantage of the society’s largesse.
Mrs. Calder, after overcoming her initial skepticism, had had the time of her life on the Devon coast, looked after by none other than Norbert, Livia’s mother Lady Holmes’s former maid and Lord Remington’s agent.
Livia’s mind buzzed with ideas. Instead of a very rare name, she could make the requirement something like, oh, bright flaming hair. The Red-Headed League. And a red-haired fellow is paid to leave his house so that a tunnel could be dug to the nearest bank.
Yes, that could work. Sherlock Holmes, when consulted, would realize the deceptive nature of the ruse immediately and—
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” said a soft voice.
Livia turned and saw a woman with a drop-brim hat in a very fashionable dress of printed cotton.
“No, please feel free to sit.”
“Thank you.”
Livia returned her attention to the statue of Daphne she’d been staring at. Now where was she? Yes, Sherlock Holmes. She ought to find out what the inside of a strong room looked like, so she could write a convincing one. She ought to—
Wait. The woman who had sat down beside her—where had she seen the woman before?
Her head whipped toward the new occupant of the bench, who was twisting her handkerchief in a rather shy manner.
Dear God! Before Sherlock Holmes and company had come to Paris last December, they had met at the house near Portman Square, and a maid who looked somewhat like this woman had opened the door.
Except the maid had been no maid but Mr. Marbleton in disguise!
“Have you been well, Miss Holmes?” said he, his head still bent.
Livia’s eyes filled with tears. She looked back at the statue, as if he were but another stranger she’d encountered at the park. “I have been—I have been very well.”
She knew, of course, that he had been freed. But no one she knew had witnessed this escape, and the Marbletons had not sent word afterward. It was as if they had disappeared into the ether. As if they had never been there in the first place.
But now he was here.
He was here.
“Have you been well?” she managed to ask.
“I am as well at this moment as I have ever been in my entire life.”
Was his voice breaking, like hers?
“And now that we’ve got that out of the way, Miss Holmes, I can no longer keep my impatience at bay. Has your story been published yet?”
Her tears fell. “No, but it will be published in this year’s Beeton’s Christmas Annual. They paid me twenty-five pounds.”
“I am beyond happy for you.”
“I am beyond happy for you, too.”
“Please allow me to apologize for the very ill manner of my speech last December.”
She barely remembered now how he had pushed her away, so that she would not realize he had lost his freedom. “You are forgiven, sir.”
His handkerchief appeared on her lap. She wiped at her eyes. “Will you disappear again very soon, Mr. Marb—actually, may I call you Stephen?”
He moved so that he sat immediately next to her, their dresses touching. “I thought you’d never ask, dear Livia. Yes, I will disappear for a while. But I will return to your side as soon as possible—I always will.”