A Study In Scarlet Women

by Sherry Thomas

  “I came to return Mrs. Jebediah’s reticule, which she left behind when we took tea together.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Hartford, at a loss for further words.

  “I believe you intend to show yourself out, Miss Hartford,” said Miss Holmes, her voice cool.

  Miss Hartford lifted her chin. “I sure ain’t staying for more insults.”

  She flounced out with great vigor. Mrs. Not-Jebediah stared in the direction of her departure, still not sure what had taken place.

  “I apologize for shooing off your caller, Mrs. Watson,” said Miss Holmes softly. “It is Mrs. Watson, is it not? Mrs. John Watson?”

  Mrs. Watson realized she was on her feet—and slowly sat down again. “How did you find out, Miss Holmes?”

  “I enjoy fashion. I recognized that your hats are from Madame Claudette’s on Regent Street. Chances are, not that many clients ask to have little black crape details appended to their millinery. So I went to the shop, knocked on the living quarters, and told the women inside that I’d met you on the train, that you’d left your reticule behind with no address to be found inside, and that the only way to return it was to identify you via your hat. They were very glad to help.”

  “Thank you for taking the trouble.” Mrs. Watson sounded tremulous to herself. As if she were the woman in dire straits who’d been helped, rather than the other way around.

  “I should be the one to thank you, for taking the trouble.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  Miss Holmes smiled. She had dimples. Of course she did—the Good Lord went to ridiculous lengths to make sure that one of the finest minds in existence was housed in a body least likely to be suspected of it.

  “I can accept that a kindhearted woman would want to feed a stranger a good meal,” said Miss Holmes. “But when she also leaves her reticule behind, a reticule that contains far too much money for a trip across town, in far too usable a combination of coins and notes, I begin to ask questions. I begin to wonder whether it is merely my luck—or your design.”

  The butler returned with the tea service.

  “Thank you, Mr. Mears,” said Mrs. Watson.

  Mears left silently.

  Mrs. Watson poured for her guest, her fingers tight around the handle of the teapot. “Both milk and sugar, if I recall correctly, Miss Holmes.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Mrs. Watson couldn’t remember the last time she saw anyone’s face light up at the sight of a cup of tea. Miss Holmes half closed her eyes as she took that first sip.

  “Some macaroons, perhaps?” asked Mrs. Watson, gesturing toward the plates of comestibles that had been brought in with the tea. She had appeared before audiences of thousands—and yet now she was nervous before an audience of one. “And if you like cake, the madeira is very good. But if I do say so, my cook makes the best plum cake I’ve ever tasted.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever turned down plum cake in my life—and I certainly won’t start now,” answered Miss Holmes, helping herself to a slice. “Oh, you are right. This is scrumptious. Absolutely scrumptious.”

  Mrs. Watson smiled with some effort. “I’m glad you agree.”

  She took a macaroon, so that she, too, would have something to do while Miss Holmes polished off her slice of cake. When Miss Holmes finished, she sighed. Mrs. Watson half hoped she would take another slice—the girl certainly had the appetite for it. But Miss Holmes set down her plate and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

  “Thank you. You are so very, very kind,” she said, gazing fully upon Mrs. Watson.

  Her eyes were clear and remarkably guileless. Mrs. Watson, blood pounding in her ears, braced herself for what was coming.

  “You know who I am, don’t you, Mrs. Watson?” asked Miss Holmes. “You know my story.”

  Charlotte watched as Mrs. Watson stirred her tea.

  Here in her own home, she was dressed more plainly, in a russet velvet dress that Livia might almost approve of, if not for the gold piping that trimmed the flounces of the skirt. The interior of the house was also conservatively furnished, without the wild prints and eastern influences that one often associated with more Bohemian décor.

  In fact, if it weren’t for the stage photographs, a caller might think herself in the drawing room of an ordinary, respectable widow. A kind and beautiful one, but otherwise unexceptional.

  The photographs told a different story altogether. Charlotte, no stranger to flouting conventional mores these days, was more than a little taken aback by images of a young Mrs. Watson in “hose and breeches.” A woman’s lower limbs were always enshrouded by layers of skirts. Even bloomers, worn by the brave and athletic few, were purposefully billowy, to hide the exact form of the wearer.

  Of course there were postcards of scantily clad actresses. But to see the sight of one’s hostess’s calves and thighs so obviously and deliberately outlined—she could only imagine the shock of those applicants who had come hoping to become Mrs. Watson’s companion.

  Mrs. Watson followed Charlotte’s line of sight. “The public considers all women on stage to be of questionable morals, if not outright whores. But the serious Shakespearean actresses console themselves that at least they aren’t involved in the vulgarity of musical theater. And those of us in musical theater congratulate ourselves on not being involved in the pornographic nonsense that is the burlesque. I don’t know to whom the burlesque performers compare themselves, but I’m sure they feel superior to someone.”

  Charlotte sighed. “My sister fears becoming an impoverished old maid. Sometimes I think that more than eating boiled cabbage in a dilapidated boardinghouse, she fears becoming the most pathetic person she knows—to have no one before whom she could feel the least bit superior.”

  Mrs. Watson set aside her teacup without drinking from it. “What do you fear the most, Miss Holmes?”

  “I . . .” Charlotte exhaled. She knew what she feared, but she wasn’t accustomed to voicing it aloud. “I fear always being beholden to someone else. I want to be independent—and I want to earn that independence. But now I can no longer believe that fortunate state of affairs will ever come to pass, not with all the mistakes I’ve made.”

  “Is there someone specific you have in mind—that you don’t wish to be beholden to?”

  Charlotte hesitated. “My father has a natural son.”

  It wasn’t common knowledge. Charlotte only found out because she wanted to know why Lady Amelia had, in the end, jilted Sir Henry. This might not be the only reason, but for someone of Lady Amelia’s lofty background, marrying a mere baronet would already be a step down. That he had sired a child out of wedlock, hardly an unforgivable sin under normal circumstances, might have tilted the balance against him.

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Watson.

  “My half brother lives in London and works as an accountant.”

  “And you consider him your last resort?”

  Charlotte hesitated again. “I don’t know anything about him. Though I dare say he has no reason to feel any sympathy for me: I didn’t have the hurdles of illegitimacy placed in my path and yet I’ve managed to bungle everything.”

  She blew out a breath and eyed the plate of plum cake. Was it appetite or gluttony that made her want to reach out for another slice?

  Or was it fear and fear alone?

  She looked back at Mrs. Watson. “I guess you’ve answered my question, ma’am. You do know who I am.”

  Mrs. Watson picked up a piece of macaroon and took a delicate nibble. “It must have been three years ago that I first noticed you at the opera. I remarked that you were probably the most darling young woman present. In return, I was told that you were in fact the greatest eccentric in that crowd of thousands. As you can imagine, that left an impression.

  “I’ve seen you a few times since, at the park or coming out of
the modiste’s with your mother. After the scandal erupted . . . Well, the separation between Society and the demimonde has always been porous and I quickly learned of your misfortune. And when I walked into the post office a few days ago and saw you looking pale and distressed, I decided that if I came across you again, I would try to help you.”

  “I cannot tell you how much I cherish your generosity. But it’s no pittance that you left me in that reticule. And I’m not in such desperate straits yet that I can simply take the money without second thoughts.”

  Mrs. Watson smiled. “I cooked up my little scheme before I truly knew anything about you. The moment I stepped out of the tea shop, I realized that it wasn’t going to work. I’d left no identifying information in the reticule. But you knew so much about me from a look—it would be only a matter of time before you discovered my address.”

  “I didn’t mean to call upon you—my intention was only to ring the doorbell and give the reticule to a member of the staff. But as I approached the house, I saw Miss Hartford emerge from a carriage far too grand for her supposed station in life. She turned around and said to someone in the carriage, ‘’Ow do I sound?’ and a man’s voice replied, in a similarly exaggerated accent, ‘Like a proper Cockney, luv.’

  “It made me uneasy. She was still some distance ahead of me. When I turned the corner and saw that she’d been admitted into your house, I went back to the carriage, knocked, and asked for directions to the Strand, claiming to be lost.”

  “I imagine the young man in the carriage must have bent over backward to help you.”

  Charlotte smiled slightly. “He was very chivalrous and even brought out a map of London to help me orient myself. After I spoke with him, however, I became even more suspicious about his purpose here. So when I did knock on your door, instead of merely handing over the reticule, I asked to be brought to you. And a moment outside the drawing room was enough to let me know what Miss Hartford wanted.”

  “I did think her accent was put on,” said Mrs. Watson. “She’s a talented mimic, but she’d entered into it with too much enthusiasm and sounded as if a Punch caricature had come to life.”

  “Perhaps it would be a good idea to retract the advert. I imagine you wouldn’t wish for any more young women to show up at your door trying to claim you as a mother, whether they are sincere or intent on swindle.”

  “You are right,” said Mrs. Watson. “The experiment has run its course.”

  Something in her tone struck Charlotte. Mrs. Watson of this evening was different from the exuberant woman she had been earlier in the day: quieter, more solemn, and more . . . apprehensive.

  She rose from her seat and walked to the mantel. There she stood with her back to the room, studying a row of framed photographs. Many featured a dark-haired young man with a steady, but mischievous, gaze.

  He was in uniform in their wedding photograph—the army then. Dead six years, according to what Mrs. Watson had told Charlotte—and six years ago there had been a war with Afghanistan.

  Distant colonial wars that one read about in the newspapers were like theatrical plays: vivid and dramatic. One could get caught up in the excitement of the battle, the unexpected turns of events, the high passions in the halls of Parliament. But in the end, they didn’t seem quite real.

  At least they had never felt real to Charlotte before this moment. Before she stared at Mrs. Watson’s elegant back and saw thousands of dead men strewn across a harsh, brown landscape.

  Mrs. Watson turned around. Charlotte half expected to see the very embodiment of grief and fragility. Instead she was reminded of the reason she had intuited that Mrs. Watson had been successful on the stage—she exuded a sturdy confidence, that of a woman who trusted herself because of a lifetime of good choices.

  “Shortly before you arrived, I came to a decision,” said Mrs. Watson, her voice soft, her tone firm. “I knew it wouldn’t be long before you called, bearing my reticule. And that would be an excellent opportunity to offer you the position of a lady’s companion.”

  This development Charlotte had entirely failed to foresee. Her lips flapped a few times before she managed a reply. “Me? To you?”

  “We do have a lack of respectability in common, don’t you think?”

  “It isn’t your disregard of my scandalous recent past that astonishes me, ma’am. Most people tend to want nothing to do with me after I enumerate what I see about them.”

  In fact, it had been a singularly effective means to persuade a gentleman to withdraw a proposal of marriage.

  Mrs. Watson smiled wryly. “I can see why. It was extraordinarily uncomfortable to be laid so bare. But in my case . . . in my case it was also a tremendous relief.

  “I stopped wearing mourning after the regulation period. I had a young girl under my care and I wanted her to see that life went on. That the loss of a man, even if he had been the love of her life, was not the end of a woman’s existence. That such a loss was something she could recover from, with both courage and grace. But now that my niece is away in Paris, now that I have no audience for whom to perform this role of the merry widow, I—”

  She pulled out a handkerchief that had been tucked into her sleeve, straightened it, and then tucked it back in. “In any case, I thought, let me try it. Let me try having as a companion someone before whom it is useless to pretend that everything is all right. Let me try living without hiding my grief, because to her that grief would already be plain as day.”

  For a minute, neither of them said anything.

  Mrs. Watson retook her seat and looked at Charlotte. “Will you take the position, Miss Holmes?”

  Would she?

  Charlotte left her seat and walked to a window. It gave onto the same street where Miss Hartford’s carriage had been parked, waiting for her return. The carriage was gone, but in its place, a man stood underneath a streetlamp, reading a newspaper.

  At first she thought he was the man from the carriage. Instead, she recognized him as the one who had waited out the rain across the street from her earlier in the afternoon.

  The one she’d suspected of following her.

  She was not alarmed: Whoever had commissioned the man’s service had not done so with the intention of harming her, but to keep an eye on her.

  This did not make her happy—she did not care to be closely monitored. She wasn’t angry at the person responsible for this surveillance—in his place she might have done the same. Nevertheless, she wished her secret guardian hadn’t felt compelled to be so positioned as to be able to effect a rescue at any moment.

  It implied that such a rescue was not only necessary, but imminent.

  That she couldn’t in good conscience—or cold logic—disagree with the assessment made it feel as if the air was slowly leaking from her lungs.

  Of course she would have preferred to pull herself out of her difficulties by her own competence alone. That, however, was not the world in which she lived. If accepting the kindness of a stranger would stabilize her situation and give her another chance at ultimately improving not only her own lot but Livia’s, too, then she must set aside her pride and do what was necessary.

  She turned around. Mrs. Watson was still working on the same macaroon. She glanced up at Charlotte, her gaze kind but uncertain.

  “You are absolutely sure you wish to have me as a companion, ma’am?” Charlotte asked.

  Mrs. Watson set down the remainder of the macaroon. “Yes, I am.”

  “Then I will accept the position. Gladly and with much gratitude.”

  Dearest Livia,

  I have a position.

  And not just any position, but one that provides good wages, light duties, and excellent accommodation. In fact, I am sitting in my new room, which boasts of a four-poster, silk-draped bed, a painting of a lovely and abrupt seacoast that must surely belong to the Impressionist school of works, and a vi
ew of Regent Park outside my window—not that I can see much now, it being late in the evening.

  My belongings have been conveyed from the boarding home where I had been staying. They fit perfectly into my new wardrobe. Nothing looks out of place—my brushes on the vanity, my typewriter on the desk, even my magnifying glass on the nightstand. It is as if this room has been waiting for me to arrive and make myself at home.

  I am a lady’s companion.

  And now that you have gathered yourself from where you had fallen on the floor, allow me to repeat myself. I am a lady’s companion. Not a Society lady, obviously. And most definitely not a matron or rich spinster of the grand bourgeoisie—they care more about respectability than even we do. But a lady of the demimonde, a former stage performer, comfortably off and most amiable.

  Please do not worry that I might have been ensnared into some scheme. My new employer is both sensible and kind and I have found not only employment but acceptance. My only worry is that I shall manage to repel her, when I have every intention to the opposite.

  For the moment I will not set down my new address. The last thing I want is for this letter to fall into the wrong hands and Mamma to show up at my benefactor’s front door, in a fit of trembling outrage. You know she would, whatever Papa’s orders to the contrary, if she heard that I, in my exile, had taken up with an actress.

  I will post this letter first thing in the morning, and hope that by afternoon, when I go to the post office on St. Martin’s Le Grand, I will already have a response from you. God bless the eleven-times-a-day delivery in this great city and may it bring your words to me at the very earliest hour.

  Charlotte

  Charlotte had, as usual, chosen to paint an optimistic picture for Livia.

  To put it mildly, she was ill suited to acting as a lady’s companion. It hadn’t been merely greed that had made her decide on becoming a headmistress at a girls’ school. It had also been the autonomy, the authority, and last, but not least of all, the relative isolation of power. A headmistress made all the decisions—and she was not expected to make friends. To be paid five hundred pounds a year to be aloofly in charge—well, it would have been earthly paradise.