Chapter 3 #2
Having been turned down once by Miss Holmes while she was still eligible, Lord Bancroft had done the extraordinary deed of asking for her hand again, after her fall from grace.
To Mrs. Watson’s relief, he had later withdrawn that proposal of marriage.
Lord Bancroft had always made her uneasy, and she was a woman who, on the whole, enjoyed the company of men.
“Rest assured my regret is as deep as the sea,” replied Miss Holmes, her tone breezy.
A small silence fell. Mrs. Watson rather fancied that had they been alone—and had Lord Ingram been less in command of himself—Miss Holmes would have been set against the nearest tree and ravished with a kiss.
“How are your children?” asked Miss Holmes. “Have they been well?”
Much of the heated charge in the air dissipated.
Mrs. Watson had avoided asking after his children. Pleasant as their chatter was, no one could be unaware of what had not been mentioned: Lady Ingram’s absence.
Lord Ingram did not answer immediately. Ahead the house came back into view, so exquisite that, like the Taj Mahal, it seemed to float. Mrs. Watson’s heart pitter-pattered.
“The children are well. Enjoying themselves with Remington,” he said at last. “When they return, I would be pleased to bring them to call on you—with your permission, of course.”
“We would be delighted!” exclaimed Mrs. Watson.
She had only ever met them at the park in London, during the Season, when Lord Ingram took them for their Sunday outings.
“I’m not sure we will be here that long,” said Miss Holmes, pouring cold water on fervid plans in that measured way of hers. “The cottage is ours for only another fortnight.”
The duration of Miss Livia Holmes’s stay at Mrs. Newell’s.
Lord Ingram glanced again at Miss Holmes—a quick turn of his head. Then he looked to where they were going: his house, which a moment ago Mrs. Watson had yearned to admire up close and in person.
But now she saw it as he must, a wilderness of solitude. Miles of echoing corridors, acres of empty rooms, long, hushed days, and longer, even more hushed nights.
“You should spend more time in the country,” he said quietly. “Nothing in London this time of the year but rain, fog, and the odors of industry.”
“And Sherlock Holmes’s livelihood,” Miss Holmes pointed out, her logic cutting through his sentiments with the sharpness of surgical implements.
“My oversight,” he acknowledged after a moment, clasping his hands behind his back. “That is, of course, an overriding consideration.”
The silence that followed made Mrs. Watson squirm. She endured it for no more than a minute before blurting out a question about the condition of his trout stream.
Conversation resumed.
Mrs. Watson asked to be introduced to the head gardener so that she might compliment him and in turn receive advice about her own future horticultural endeavors.
Lord Ingram had known her since he was a child. In all those years, she had never evinced the slightest interest in the cultivation of anything with roots. As far as he could tell, her entire interest in botany began and ended with the arrangement of bouquets.
He managed not to raise a brow at her sudden fascination with the composition of soil and the best way to divide bulbs. If Mrs. Watson was so naked in her desire to leave the young people alone, then they must not let her effort go to waste.
“You were behind the house when I first saw you,” he said to Holmes. “I assume you were looking for the kitchen garden?”
“I was indeed. May I have a tour?”
He gestured. “This way.”
Her abiding interest in what would end up on a dining table, hers or anyone else’s, for that matter, used to strike him as completely at odds with the cool ferocity of her mind. To his younger self it seemed that a person ought to be one or the other, a thinker or a gourmand, but not both.
He had pointed that out to her once, as he removed encrusted dirt from the handles of an amphoriskos he had dug up.
She, sitting a few paces away, had listened attentively, a book in one hand and a jam tart in the other—the fourth consecutive one she’d eaten from the small picnic basket she’d brought.
When he’d finished speaking she’d looked at him for some time, then gone back to reading and eating, as if he’d never taken the trouble to voice his opinion aloud.
It was the first time he’d told anyone how they ought to be. It also happened to be the last time: He had been beyond mortified that she’d treated his considered commentary as if it were an ant that had crawled onto her jam tart.
Years later, in the early days of his marital courtship, when the future Lady Ingram had seemed sincerely interested in and impressed by his every last utterance, he had experienced what he’d believed to be a profound gratitude.
But it had been less gratitude than smugness: At last he’d met a woman who knew how to be a woman; the hell with Charlotte Holmes and her insufferable self-sufficiency.
He’d known nothing then.
Alas, he knew nothing now—but at least now he was aware of it.
The walled kitchen garden occupied a sizable lot and supplied all the fruits and vegetables the estate consumed, either fresh or preserved in jars, during an entire year.
Her gaze immediately went to the fruit trees that had been espaliered against the inside of the stone walls: apples, pears, plums, peaches, and cherries, each a different variety.
“Your kitchen must produce legendary quantities of jams and puddings,” she said, her voice wistful. “And there are fig trees, too. Does anyone here know how to make a fig tart? Did you ever replace the pastry chef Lord Bancroft poached from you?”
Speaking of Bancroft… “What happened between you and my brother?”
That courtship had been excruciating for Lord Ingram. Given her situation, he couldn’t possibly advise that she reject Bancroft’s offer. Had she accepted, however, it would have been a phantasmagoric horror.
When she’d related that Bancroft had withdrawn the suit, it had been all he’d needed to hear. The train had stopped at the edge of the precipice, no further details necessary.
Now he was no longer so sure.
“Nothing,” she said with perfect equanimity. “A grand total of nil.”
“He hasn’t been the same since you declined his second proposal.”
They were walking down the central path of the garden, lined with ornamental flowers grown for the house’s many vases. She caressed a crimson chrysanthemum the size of a large pom-pom. “I didn’t decline—he rescinded his offer.”
“Semantics.”
“You give Lord Bancroft too little credit.”
“And you give yourself too little credit for your ability to cause turmoil in a man.”
This earned him a considering look—of course he’d given away too much of himself. “You say that because you are a romantic. You would be deeply disturbed to have your suit be unsuccessful twice in a row. Lord Bancroft is not remotely similar to you.”
“I haven’t been a romantic in a very long time.”
“Being disappointed in love does not change a man’s fundamental nature.
You are more cautious, you wonder whether you can ever make a good choice, but you do not question the validity of romantic love in and of itself.
And you still first assume that others, such as Lord Bancroft, love as you do, deeply and protectively”—she held up an index finger to forestall his objection—“before the voice of experience reminds you otherwise.”
The woman was a holy terror: the sweetest face, the pillowiest bosom, and a perspicacity that stripped a man naked in seconds.
Fortunately, today at least, she didn’t seem interested in further dissecting his fundamental nature. “And when did you see Lord Bancroft? Were you in London?”
“Can’t you tell whether I’ve been in London at some point in the past three months?”
She didn’t often turn her deductive powers on him. But ever since the day she’d taken one look at him and casually commented, I see you’ve lost your virginity, he’d been half convinced he couldn’t have a single thought without her knowing everything about it.
“Well, from merely looking at you,” she said without looking at him, her gaze on a patch of cabbages.
“I can tell only that you have been extremely preoccupied and that you do not wish for me to guess at this preoccupation. But I shall venture to say that no, you haven’t been in London, except perhaps to change trains when you brought the children back from the Devon coast at the end of summer.
So Lord Bancroft visited you here—a rather unusual occurrence, wouldn’t you say? ”
To her statement on his virginity or lack thereof, he’d replied, with all the haughtiness he could summon, I will not deign to address that. The momentary satisfaction of embargoing the subject, however, had led to years of wondering how Holmes had fathomed what she couldn’t possibly have known.
He chose to spare himself that futile speculation today. “Why would you think I’m more preoccupied than usual? My circumstances practically mandate a degree of preoccupation.”
Now she inspected him, a head-to-toe sweep and back again. “Your valet was gone for a few days and returned day before yesterday, in the evening.”
“Yes?”
“You prefer to shave yourself when Cummings is away, rather than entrust the task to another manservant. And you’ve always been competent at the task. I saw you in Devon, less than two days after Lady Ingram’s departure. Cummings wasn’t there. You shaved that day and you didn’t nick yourself.
“But looking at you now I can see at least three places where your shaving blade had broken skin. They are all at different stages of healing, which tells me that not only have you been preoccupied to a remarkable degree, it is a preoccupation that does not let up.