Chapter 23 #3
Mrs. Watson leaned forward and took Livia’s hands. “Not in the way you think, my dear. Not in the way you think.”
But what did that mean?
After they reached Rampling Cottage, Livia was taken to see Bernadine, who looked rounder and happier, and almost acknowledged her presence.
Charlotte was also in the room, looking not very different from how she had when Livia had last seen her at the cottage.
The two of them sat side by side without speaking, watching Bernadine, who was completely absorbed in her own world.
After a while, Charlotte signaled to Livia that they should repair to the parlor, where they took tea by themselves.
Charlotte asked Livia how much she’d been told. And when Livia had rattled through the major points, Charlotte added, “Mott is Mr. Finch.”
Livia leaped out of her chair. “What?”
But as flabbergasted as she felt, the news was not unwelcome: Her illegitimate half-brother had turned out to be someone she liked and cared about. And from time to time she’d thought of him and hoped he was all right.
“Goodness! Last I saw him, he was running away from some people.”
“From Lord Bancroft’s men. He’s still safe, as far as I know.”
“That’s a relief.”
“And your young man is Moriarty’s estranged son.”
Livia fell back into her chair with a thud.
“His mother left Moriarty for the latter’s brother, and Moriarty has been hunting for the entire family ever since. He is also at least five years younger than you, in case that matters. Mrs. Watson’s late husband was eleven years younger than her, by the way.”
Livia blinked. “So do you or do you not approve of his age?”
“It is not my place to approve or disapprove. I am here to tell you everything that I know about him, so that you do not make up your mind in a vacuum.”
“Make up my mind? What is there to make up my mind about? He sends an occasional memento. That’s all.”
“All I can tell you is that his father—not Moriarty, but the man who raised him—was concerned enough to arrange for a face-to-face meeting with me, months ago.”
“About me?”
“And him. Yes.”
Livia didn’t know whether to blush in delight or tremble with fear. “This is—this is—”
“I know,” said Charlotte, handing her a plate of sandwiches. “Life never takes a gentle turn; it always swerves.”
Livia ate two sandwiches without knowing what they had for fillings. “What should I do?”
“What you would like to do, I hope.”
Livia set down her plate to throw her hands in the air. “But I don’t even have any means of contacting him, to tell him that I don’t want any more notes or presents.”
Charlotte popped a fancy-looking tartlet into her mouth. “You can tell me. I’ll pass the message along.”
Livia had been gathering herself up to launch into a tirade about how the young man had never requested permission to write her, how he had never even apologized for misrepresenting himself, and how she really couldn’t care at all if he disappeared off the face of the earth.
Charlotte’s answer punctured all that blather.
“Oh,” said Livia—and couldn’t think of another word.
Charlotte poured Livia a fresh cup of tea.
“You don’t need to make up your mind until you are ready.
And you don’t need to consult me on the matter, unless you wish to.
And if you have any more questions, I’ll be happy to answer them, but I’m almost sure you’d prefer to pose them to Mrs. Watson instead. ”
Livia took a sip of tea and shook her head to clear it. “When—ah—when do I need to arrive at Stern Hollow? Mrs. Newell must be expecting me.”
“If you start from here in half an hour, you should be in good time,” Charlotte said, picking up another tartlet. “And by the way, I know him as Mr. Marbleton. Mr. Stephen Marbleton.”
She bit into the pastry with relish.
Lord Ingram called upon Rampling Cottage the next afternoon, during Mrs. Watson’s nap time.
“My, the prodigal lover returns,” murmured Charlotte as she offered him a seat.
He gave her a look.
“Very well,” she said with a sigh. “The constant friend returns.”
She had severely underestimated his unwillingness to give up his virtue, even after she had explained that to misdirect Lord Bancroft’s attention, they must become lovers in truth. He would check the sheets. You know he would.
I can contribute to the sheets by myself, he’d said stubbornly.
And you think he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference?
Frankly she’d had no idea whether that was a valid argument, her experience having been too scant on that front. Lord Ingram had, however, grimaced—and, finally, yielded. But not without further conditions.
It will be only for the sake of keeping us safe from Bancroft. It ends the moment I am arrested. And it doesn’t count: I have not agreed to become your lover, either for now or for the future.
Goodness gracious, you are a stick-in-the-mud.
And you clearly have a weakness for sticks-in-the-mud, since I’m constantly fending off your advances.
She’d sighed. I am no longer a woman anyone can compromise. You are no longer a married man. Not to mention I have at my disposal every manner of contraceptive known to woman. Why do you still object so?
Perhaps my body in bed is enough for you. But the reverse isn’t enough for me. I have already endured years of unhappiness because I wanted more than what a woman could give. I will not put myself through that again—especially not with you.
And what could she have said to that?
Present day Lord Ingram accepted a cup of tea from Charlotte. They chatted about his guests, Bernadine’s progress, and his plans to host another house party at Christmas, this time for his fellow devotees of archaeology, including Inspector and Mrs. Treadles.
Half an hour later, he rose to take his leave. “If you are still in the area by Christmas, Sherrinford Holmes and Mrs. Watson are more than welcome to the archaeologists’ party at Stern Hollow.”
She shook her head. “Thank you for the very kind invitation, but we probably will not extend our stay at the cottage again.”
“Of course,” he said, “Sherlock Holmes’s livelihood is in London.”
Silence fell.
A weight pressed down on her lungs. She was . . . reluctant to say good-bye. As reluctant as she had been the afternoon he headed out to be arrested.
And you think this won’t have repercussions? he had asked her before they’d made love for the first time.
At the time, she’d responded with something breezy and blithe. But perhaps his had not been an idle concern. Perhaps for her the repercussions were only now making themselves felt as regret and a sense of loss.
“I have something for you,” he said, holding out an envelope and peering at her at the same time.
She raised a brow. “If it’s payment for Sherrinford Holmes’s services, you will need to speak with my bursar, Mrs. Watson.”
“That will be seen to. But this is not pound sterling.”
“Oh?”
She took the envelope, unfolded the piece of paper inside, and, after a moment of stunned silence, burst out laughing.
On the paper he had copied, two dozen times in his own handwriting, the original and unsanitized version of the pangram she had composed for him years ago, which referred to an act that most certainly had been known in Sodom and Gomorrah, pre–fire and brimstone.
“So you did commit that to paper—repeatedly, too,” she said, still smiling.
“Several of my pens burst into flames, my library smelled strongly of sulfur, and I am frankly scared,” he said, also smiling.
She folded the paper carefully. “I will treasure this token of your regard,” she said, meaning every word.
He inclined his head. “Good day, Holmes.”
When he was already at the door, she heard herself call out, “Wait!”
He turned around.
For a moment her mind went blank—and then she knew exactly what she want to say.
“I have my sisters to think of, and you your children. But if—if someday the conditions should be conducive, would you like for all of us to go away together? Spain, Majorca, Egypt, the Levant? By the time we reach India, it will probably be unbearably hot in the plains, but the hill stations should still be pleasant.”
He gazed at her, as if he couldn’t be sure he’d heard her correctly. And then a smile slowly spread across his face.
“Yes,” he said. “I would like that.”