The Adventure of the King's Portrait

by Amelia Littlewood

  Miss Adler, however, received me with great kindness. “I wanted only to thank you again,” I said, “And to tell you that your scheme has worked wonders. I am quite left alone now and can pursue honorable men.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” Miss Adler replied, ringing for some tea. “Please, stay and take some refreshments. I confess I have been wanting to know more about you since our meeting last night.”

  We talked for some time, and I found her to be an engaging and—as I had already suspected—intelligent woman. She was very well-read and educated on a number of subjects, and far more worldly than I, who had never been out of England. She still spoke with traces of an American accent, but years of singing opera in French, Italian, and German had muddled it. I had not had many occasion to meet people from the former colonies, but when I did, I found their accents to be bothersome to my ear. Miss Adler’s was sufficiently diluted to be pleasing.

  I confessed to her my feeling of inferiority, having traveled not at all and certainly not as knowledgeable on the classics and art. Miss Adler only replied that I was quick witted and eager to learn, and that was all it took to make a pleasant conversationalist.

  “To be honest,” I said, “I cannot find it in me to be drawn to any man. I have recently found myself a profession, and although I should think most would not approve, it fulfills me as I fear a marriage would not. I’m sure that you feel the same way about your artistry.”

  “I do and I do not,” Miss Adler told me in return. “I love my art and I shall continue it, but I have longed for a life companion, someone to properly share myself with.” She leaned in and lowered her voice in a gesture of conspiracy. “I have found myself a proper gentleman recently, one that I dare say I might soon be joined with.”

  This was a twist to the plot. Of whom could she be speaking, I wondered. “What is he like?”

  “He is a proper man, one who respects me despite the ups and downs that my life has seen fit to throw at me, and the fact that I act upon the stage.” Miss Adler pulled a face. “There is a common conceit that all actors are made to sin, even those who act upon grand stages or perform great works of art such as opera.”

  “It is rather hypocritical,” I agreed, “That people should enjoy your art and pay to see you perform, but then scorn you and your lifestyle. It is for your art that they love you and yet they claim it makes you a sinner.”

  “Precisely.” Miss Adler nodded. “And as I hinted before, it has made me a target. Many men of consequence have seen fit to try and win me over, thinking that I will give them what they want without fuss and be content to play their mistress. Why should I, when I know full well it will only give them power over me and they can never make me their proper wife? It will only ruin me—and I have loved none of them powerfully enough to embrace that ruin.”

  “But now you have found someone,” I prompted.

  “Yes. He is not as high class as some of those who have pursued me, but he is a good man. That is all that I want at this stage. You would do well to find one yourself.”

  “I’m afraid that I don’t want to tie myself to someone,” I said. “Especially if they would prevent me from doing my work.”

  “But you will need protection,” Miss Adler replied. “It is wise to have a backup plan.”

  “Now you begin to sound like my mother,” I said, but I was laughing, for there was no judgment in Miss Adler’s tone as there was in my mother’s.

  “I am all for your profession, whatever it may be,” said Miss Adler. “I only think it is smart for a woman to have a safety net of sorts, in case the worst should happen. Unfortunately, in our times, that safety net is often a man.”

  I could see her wisdom in saying so, although my pride struggled with the idea. I did not wish to be bound to anyone, especially someone I did not love—or even if I did love them, the idea of marrying them only to secure my own protection felt a little as though I was using them.

  However, there was one good that was coming out of this conversation: I was beginning to suspect that Miss Adler’s frequent visitor was not merely her lawyer or friend, but rather her intended. I felt that clenching, sick feeling in my stomach as guilt settled and I realized that Mr. Holmes and I had both assumed the worst of their relationship and that Miss Adler would give into intimacy with a man before marriage in such an easy manner.

  “Has he made you a proper proposal?” I asked, just to be certain.

  “We have skirted around the matter,” Miss Adler replied. “But he comes to me at least once a day, and he is always bringing me gifts or having flowers sent to be waiting for me in my dressing room after a show. If he is not intending marriage, then I think he would have given up by now, sine I have made it clear that all he shall get from me is smiles and conversation.”

  “Your resolve does your character proud, for I have known women to give sway with much less persuasion than that,” I said, thinking of the few women I had heard of—spoken about in whispers—who had allowed a handsome face and pretty words to sway them. Mr. Wickham, for example, was one such a man. He had seduced Miss Bingley, nearly persuaded Miss Georgiana to marry him, and briefly ensnared Lydia before he tried to take too much too soon. Goodness knew how many other women he had ensnared over the years before his untimely death.

  It struck me that I was facing a woman of singular character. She had gone through a challenging career on her own as a woman, one where she was constantly fighting against other women for the lead roles, and derided by the common public as someone inclined towards sin. Actors of all kinds were considered among the lower classes, with perhaps only women who waited in brothel houses to be lower. Many actresses, I am sure, gave into temptation and allowed themselves to be wooed by monarchs and nobility and other powerful men in order to receive some kind of money and stability. They got to hang on their arms for a few weeks and enter into their intimate parties and dinners, and feel on top of the world.

  But all of that ended, eventually, and those women were left with nothing. Miss Adler had seen this and had endured, and now it seemed that she had found herself a man who was worthy of her character. I had to admire her for it.

  I said as much, and Miss Adler thanked me, looking for the first time a bit like a schoolgirl as she blushed beneath my praise. I resolved to tell Mr. Holmes that perhaps we ought to leave the lady alone—but there was the matter of her threat to the king. I still did not understand that, for it seemed out of character for the woman sitting in front of me. Perhaps as we talked I should discover more.

  From there our conversation moved on to such subject as literature and art. She recommended to me some books, and after delaying as much as I could, I found that I had to depart, without having learned anything more of value to us.

  I was honestly sad to have to leave. With my dear Jane caught up with her baby, and Charlotte far away and only reachable by letter, I had been lonely in the way of companionship. Mr. Holmes was a good friend and he filled my life with excitement and purpose, but he was not the sort of man with whom I could sit and talk. Miss Georgiana, although delightful, was younger than I, and a better companion for Kitty and Lydia than for me. Miss Adler with her education and intelligence made for someone I would wish to call a friend, if only circumstances had been different.

  After bidding my farewells I had just stepped out into the lane again when I found myself rushed into by a rude gentleman. I was astonished, even more so when I felt him grabbing for my purse. I reared backwards, hanging onto it, but the gentleman’s hand was also firm—and then a second gentleman, an older member of the clergy, was there and assisting me in beating off the ruffian.

  Unfortunately, the other man struck a blow that quite felled the clergyman. I gave a cry as blood began to flow freely down the poor man’s face.

  You can well imagine my surprise when I bent down and peered into the face of Mr. Holmes!

  I knew at once that I could not give him away, and instead gave quite a
hew and cry about the “poor gentleman who had assisted me.”

  Miss Adler, as I expected, came out at once, and was equally appalled at the treatment the clergyman—secretly Mr. Holmes—had received.

  “Oh, we must bring him inside,” I said. “He’s still breathing, perhaps he only needs some rest?”

  Miss Adler agreed at once, and with some help from the manservants we were able to carry Mr. Holmes inside and lay him upon a couch in the sitting room. In doing so, Mr. Holmes pressed his hand to mine, and I was able to take from it a small sort of bag in which I knew had previously been the blood that had become smeared on his face. I secreted it in my purse as we arranged him.

  I must admit I felt great pangs of guilt at what we were doing when I saw how tenderly Miss Adler attended to him. Mr. Holmes had made himself look quite a bit older and Miss Adler was full of concern for the older clergyman, helping to clean up his face and providing him with tea. I quickly made my excuses, feigning sickness at the blood, and retreated from the room. I had to remind myself that for us to not go through with our plan now would only make us look foolish, and we had made a promise and must carry that promise through with honor.

  There was a window into the sitting room, which when I exited I went to stand outside of. The window had been opened so that Mr. Holmes might get some “fresh air” to help with his recovery. I stood there and waited, and after a minute or two, Mr. Holmes gave me a signal with his hand.

  I cried out at the top of my lungs, “Fire! Oh heavens, fire! Fire!” I then threw through the window a small device, which Mr. Holmes had called a smokerocket. He had given it to me on the walk over—it was an ingenious little device, with a cap on each end to make it self-lighting. Once I threw it in it began to smoke. I then hurried away, and walked up and down the street a bit, waiting for my companion.

  There was some measure of curiosity plaguing me as I waited. This was the first time that Mr. Holmes and Miss Adler had met. What should they think of one another? Would Miss Adler seize upon our plan? Would she know that I was involved?

  After about ten minutes or so, Mr. Holmes approached me—or rather an older clergyman approached me, the blood on his face now cleaned up. “A resounding success,” he said, smiling with pride at himself.

  I might be a victim to pride myself at times, but so is Mr. Holmes. It is part of why we understand one another and also part of why we argue with such frequency. Privately, I thought that perhaps his pride should soon take a fall. “Do you have the portrait then?”

  “No, but I know where it is hidden.”

  “And how did you manage that?” I asked, greatly surprised. “She would not have told you.” I had spoken with Miss Adler at length upon the subject of my supposed issue, and she had not told me where her portrait was, so why should she show it to a clergyman?

  “No, but she did show me.” Mr. Holmes smiled. “When you let out the cry of fire, which was soon taken up by others, what did the lady do? What any sensible person does—she dashed for the most valuable thing in her house. Your sister Mrs. Bingley would no doubt have run to her baby, and your sisters Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia for their favorite jewels. Miss Adler reacted much more calmly than I have seen any other woman react in such a situation. She quickly and calmly went to the bell-pull—there is a recess behind a sliding panel there. The photograph is in there. When I cried out that it was a false alarm she replaced it, saw the rocket, and left the room without a word.”

  “Then we must fetch this photograph!”

  “I am to do so tomorrow,” Mr. Holmes replied.

  “But she might have moved it by then,” I said. “You should take care not to underestimate her, Mr. Holmes, for she is a clever woman. Do not think I am the only one of our sex out there who can match wits with you.”

  As I said this, we had reached the front door for Mr. Holmes’s flat. He was just getting his keys out to unlock it, for Mrs. Hudson was out, when we heard the voice of a young man.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

  We both turned. That voice was familiar to me—yet I saw no one on the street that I recognized. There were several young men about the street—and it must have been one of them, for though masculine, it was not deep enough to belong to someone with a large chest like Mr. Darcy, or of advanced age such as my father. How odd.

  “I have heard that voice before,” Mr. Holmes remarked. “I wonder who that could have been.”

  If Mr. Holmes could not easily place the person, then I didn’t see how I could. Instead I followed him in, wondering all the while.

  Chapter Six:

  Holmes is Thwarted

  The next day I went early to Baker Street, leaving my sisters again unattended. I was too eager to hear from Mr. Holmes about the photograph to wait a moment longer, and I was certain that at any point he should come bursting through the front door with it in hand.

  When I arrived I asked Mrs. Hudson, who indeed informed me that as I had suspected Mr. Holmes had gone out, but had left a message for me saying all was going according to plan and that if I could wait for him, he should return shortly.

  I took some tea with Mrs. Hudson, who was eager to tell me all the gossip going on in the neighborhood. Much of it was what even my mother would have deemed too scandalous, such as children born out of wedlock, divorces, and the like, but it fascinated me. Here right under my nose there had been the entire time this whole other world, one that I had never even properly considered until this moment. It made me think of Sarah and Mrs. Hill, two of the servants we had long employed at Longbourn. What sort of troubles and triumphs had they experienced in their lives that I had never even noticed?

  Furthermore—and I admit this with some shame—Mrs. Hudson was, to me, almost a replacement for my mother. I loved my mother, but we had never been close. I had never felt that I could go to her with my troubles and hopes the way that my sisters could. Jane and I had taken council with one another instead, or I had written to my dear aunt, Mrs. Gardner, who often accompanied me to balls in London so that we might more easily chaperone the three girls.

  I could not, however, admit all that I was experiencing with Mr. Holmes to my aunt. She was an adventurous woman but busy with her own children, being only a few years older than myself and Jane, and I feared that her adventurousness would not extend quite so far. Mrs. Hudson, however, was my mother’s age, and had seen much darker things than what I had experienced with Mr. Holmes. I felt that I could tell her anything and she would accept it with a cheery grace.

  Despite my enjoyment of my time with Mrs. Hudson, however, after some time I had to observe that it was taking Mr. Holmes much longer than it should have to return. “I hope that he has not been waylaid,” I said, glancing at the clock, for it was now almost noon.

  There came a knock at the door—and at first I thought it was Mr. Holmes, although I saw no reason why he should knock when he had his own key—but then Mrs. Hudson opened it to reveal my sister Mary.

  I stood up. “Whatever is the matter?” I asked, only realizing afterwards that I had done the same to her as she had done to me yesterday, assuming that one of us should only wish to speak to the other if something was wrong.

  Mary looked as though she had run here. “A letter came for you,” she said, trying to catch her breath. She held it out to me. “From a Miss Adler. She wishes for you to meet her at the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road at noon. She said it was most urgent!”

  I took the letter and read it quickly, seeing that it said the same as what Mary had told me. I was at once worried for the fate of Mr. Holmes, and of any other developments that I could not even begin to guess the nature of.

  “Look after Mary, would you Mrs. Hudson?” I asked, fetching my shawl. “I must go at once.”

  I hurried as fast as I was able, grateful that the church in question was not far from Baker Street. Nor was it far from Miss Adler’s home, I noted, as I hurried up the steps.

 
Inside a strange sight greeted me. I had not known fully what I expected when I entered the church, but it was something of the nature of Miss Adler alone, or perhaps with Mr. Holmes, seated upon a pew perhaps. What I did not at all expect was Miss Adler in what was most likely her best dress, with a handsome man standing beside her, and a clergyman—all at the altar!

  There was a fourth person standing with them, a man with the kind of red nose that indicated a longstanding drinking habit and ill-fitting clothes. As I hurried up to the altar I observed the look in his eyes and the way he held himself, and then saw, in his coat pocket, the outline of a pipe.

  Mr. Holmes was here as well? Would wonders never cease? I considered, for a moment, the idea of the universe playing some great trick on me, and that these two had conspired together to make a joke of me—would the king now step out and expose himself as well?

  But when I reached them, Miss Adler took hold of my hands and wrung them gratefully. “I am so glad you could make it,” she said, “For indeed I have no other friend in the world who I could trust, and who was in London at this time.”

  “I am grateful that you trust me so,” I said, “But I’m quite confused as to what is happening.”

  Miss Adler gestured to the handsome young man, perhaps a year or two older than myself. “This is Mr. Norton, a man that I hope shall in the next few minutes become the person to whom I will tie my life. He is a most honorable man, Miss Bennet, but there is a bit of trouble with our license. We are in need of two witnesses before we can make it legal, and it must happen before noon.”

  “I was able to fetch this gentleman,” Mr. Norton said, gesturing at Mr. Holmes. “He was loitering outside the church and no doubt had a lack of anything better to do. I pulled him in here, I fear in quite a rush, he must think me mad.”

  “Only until you explained yourself, sir,” Mr. Holmes replied, his voice thick and bearing a different accent than usual.

  “Now that we are all assembled,” the clergyman said, “We can begin.”