This was a brilliance of the soul—and the intellect—which surpassed all others.
“And what would you like for Christmas, Amity?” murmured Mirabella, swallowing hard. Now that she had a real job and her Aunt Martha provided her with room and board, she could spare a little to make nice presents for everyone—and her aunt was an excellent seamstress and would be happy to help her, she was sure.
And soon I will be on a real case with the amazing Sherlock Holmes! Mirabella was beside herself with excitement, even having no idea what the mission was as yet. It was just like Sherlock to tell her in his own time.
I am thrilled beyond measure! When she would have expected to feel dread and fear—no doubt there would be some small danger involved—all she felt instead was excitement! She had always thought she wanted to be in a laboratory experimenting, but she found that she longed for the thrill of the chase and the solving of the mystery.
“Hmmm . . .” considered Amity. “I know! A crystal ball!”
The other girls laughed in unison. “You don’t need one Amy,” giggled Susan. “You already know.”
“Maybe a notepad and a paint set, then, to put my drawings and stories in,” giggled Amity. “I so love art. It’s like the best dessert!”
Susan gingerly tore one of the pages from her new treasure and handed it to Amity. “Just don’t draw any bugs on it!”
“Oh! I almost forgot!” Mirabella rummaged in her bag. And then she found the most unexpected luxury: a box of chocolates.
The “oohs” and “ahs” were very loud indeed.
“Where did you get that, Miss Bella?” Amity, her most curious student, asked, leaning over the desk.
“This,” she held up the box, “is a gift from the renowned detective, Sherlock Holmes, to you, girls! When I told him how smart you are, and how you are all young scientists, he could not resist!”
Mirabella reminded herself that she had spoken the truth. The Great Detective was, in fact, not given the opportunity to resist his charitable impulses: his donation to London’s poor was unbeknownst to him and was deducted from her unnecessarily extravagant clothing allowance for her first case (not yet commenced or even disclosed).
She felt only the slightest guilt over the chocolates which Sherlock had paid for; it was wrong to take so much for oneself without giving to those who were less fortunate.
“You did an excellent job today, girls, I am very proud of you.” Mirabella held out the open box to her girls, even as she plopped a creamy dark chocolate orange soufflé into her mouth, savoring the divine confection. “Never forget that we are every bit as smart as the boys.”
Mirabella said it though she didn’t believe it in her heart. For the first time, apprehension encroached upon her excitement.
She hoped that Sherlock and John would not be sorry that they had trusted in her. She didn’t even know the details of her assignment, and yet an uneasiness that it would be well beyond her abilities suddenly reared its ugly head.
The obvious fact that she would be required to present herself as a lady did not bode well. She was about as sophisticated as a barnyard chicken. And the only dancing she knew was country dancing.
For goodness’ sake, calm down, Mirabella Hudson! Even though she felt fear and apprehension over bumbling the case, she would no doubt have a very small and inconsequential part. Perhaps she would be asked to dress up and deliver a note or something in that vein. It would be utterly ridiculous for Sherlock to trust her with more than that.
Of course he would not! She almost laughed at the absurdity of her fears.
“Now, line up and come select your piece of chocolate as reward for your superior performance.”
CHAPTER NINE
9
“A finishing school?” Mirabella fell into the basket chair next to Holmes’ fireside chair, never more astonished in her life. “My assignment is to attend a finishing school for ten weeks?”
“It is,” Sherlock murmured, not looking up from his book, John Clerk Maxwell’s “Molecules,” a book which she herself had thoroughly enjoyed, but it annoyed her to no end that he was ignoring her after pronouncing her terrible fate—a fate which he intended to instigate.
“Have you gone quite mad, Mr. Holmes? When European royalty wish their daughters to become sophisticated—they send them to Miss de Beauvais’.”
“So I have heard,” replied Sherlock disinterestedly, putting his book on the end table beside him and picking up his violin. His white cotton Byronesque blouse was open at the chest as he plucked on the violin, revealing the impressive results of a life of athletic pursuits.
“Of all the places I do not belong a finishing school is at the top of the list.” Having been raised on a country farm, she could milk a cow, make butter, grind wheat, shoot and skin a pheasant, and given a little dirt, grow her own vegetables.
“Sadly, I must agree.”
She rolled her eyes at him, but what could she say as he was only agreeing with her?
I am as far from refined as can be! If the truth be known, she could even make whiskey. A country girl did not come of age without learning the truly important skills. She could brew the whiskey, pass it around at the barn dance along with her apple pie, and dance an Irish jig after serving up the dinner.
And this country girl was being enrolled in not just any finishing school but the premier finishing school in London: Miss de Beauvais’ Finishing School for Distinguished Young Ladies.
The horror of her fate took complete hold of her in an instant.
“Then w-w-hy would you—Mr. Holmes, I c-c-annot conceive . . .” she wailed. “I will be the laughing stock of all of London inside of an hour!”
“Indeed?” Sherlock glanced up at her in the most annoyingly condescending manner. “And how will all of London, as you put it, discover your location, Miss Hudson? And why should the good citizens of Great Britain care? I believe you overestimate the general population’s interest in your comings and goings, Miss Hudson.”
“I can never be one of them!” exclaimed Mirabella, throwing her head into her hands. “They will spot me as an imposter within seconds!”
“Certainly they would in those clothes,” Sherlock murmured without argument. “Why haven’t you procured more appropriate attire?”
“Aunt Martha is working on my wardrobe. And this dress is new.” Indignantly Mirabella sat straight up in the basket chair, smoothing her new pink gown framed in white lace which she had only just sewn. “Though my dress might be simple, it is not faded and I think it looks very well.”
“The neckline is lower cut than is common for day wear,” Sherlock muttered.
She raised her eyebrows. “The square neckline is trimmed in lace and still within the bounds of decorum.” She was not a fine lady who could look forward to wearing a wickedly revealing ball gown during her London season and this was the concession she made to herself.
“In the meantime, discard forever the leather corset and procure a new pair of leather boots,” he added.
She stood and tugged at the leather corset vest wrapped around her waist which accentuated her hourglass shape. Her waistline might not be twenty inches, but at least she had one.
Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to make her feel she was inadequate at the very moment she was feeling pleased with herself.
Involuntarily Mirabella pushed her bangs out of her eyes. She had taken great pains to pin her hair atop her head in a simple but becoming style, accented with a pink velvet ribbon, a treasured gift from her aunt. Truly the only part of her outfit to find fault with were her worn brown boots which she had once thought so stylish and which still served her well.
“So you are a fashion expert, Mr. Holmes?” She placed her hands on her waist, standing in front of the Great Detective.
“I am not. Consult with your aunt; her language leaves much to be desired, unlike your own which is passable—there is just too much of it—but Mrs. Hudson is a fashionable woman. If that fails, there is no gr
eater expert on women than our good doctor.”
“I am, in fact, well versed on ladies’ fashions,” Dr. Watson stated, only just entering the parlor from his rooms. “And I would be happy to assist, Miss Mirabella.” She spun around to look at him, which always raised her spirits to behold the handsome doctor.
“Yes, yes, Watson is the man for the job,” Sherlock reiterated. “Take a look at his fine raiment molded perfectly to his form. Any other professional man not in the upper classes would consider a tailor-made suit made to his measurements well beyond his income.”
“And what would you have me do, Holmes? Shop at E. Moses & Son? And wear a mass-produced suit?” John Watson formed the words “mass-produced” with disdain, as if they were poison on his lips.
“That, or shop at Petticoat Lane,” Sherlock replied, nonplussed, placing tobacco into his pipe.
“Second-hand clothing? Are you quite mad, Holmes?” Watson exclaimed, placing his hand to his forehead as if he were preparing to faint.
“There is an excellent quality of clothing available at Petticoat Lane,” rebuffed Sherlock. “Much of the clothing was cast off by the upper crust.”
“Several seasons ago,” Watson rebuffed disdainfully.
“Almost every item in my wardrobe is from that source.”
“That is most evident,” muttered Dr. Watson, “including your women’s corsets and bonnets, Holmes.”
“I have to procure my women’s clothing somewhere, and I certainly won’t pay top dollar.” Sherlock shrugged. “The assortment at Petticoat Lane is exceptional, and the quality not far behind.” He turned to Mirabella. “But I will admit that Watson has the right of it where you are concerned, Miss Belle. Clothing made specifically to your proportions will immediately set you apart as a high-born miss. Pre-fabricated clothing will reveal you to be of the middle-class. That will never do. It must be believed that you are of the upper class.”
Sherlock took a puff on his pipe before adding, “You must pretend you are wealthy—just as Watson does.”
“Really, Holmes! Just because I wish to dress with distinction,” Dr. Watson protested.
“And what do you think of my outfit, Dr. Watson?” Mirabella interjected, turning towards him as he moved to be seated in his armchair next to the fire. She curtsied before him.
John Watson took a moment to answer as he was visibly shaken from Sherlock’s suggestion that he could save money by dismissing his tailor.
“Although the leather corset is most becoming and I know it to be the style in some circles,” John Watson smiled appreciatively at her, “an upper class young lady would not wear it. It does define your station in life, Miss Mirabella.”
“I guarantee if I take off the corset, no one will be fooled as to my station in life!” she exclaimed, almost in tears as she covered her mouth with her hands.
“Very likely,” agreed Sherlock, looking about for a piece of sheet music, adding distractedly, “A lady does not flaunt her goods. She knows her worth.”
“A bit more coarsely than I would have put it, old man,” Watson reprimanded, leaning back in his seat. He cleared his throat. “I’m not saying that you shouldn’t wear a corset, Miss Mirabella, but it should be worn under the clothing.”
“Well naturally a corset must be worn on the inside of the clothing,” Mirabella muttered, picking up the duster to keep her hands busy as she glanced at him through her eyelashes. It was a most embarrassing topic, which ordinarily she would never discuss with a gentleman, but he was a doctor after all. “A young lady can’t go without one.”
“Of course. There are a great deal of health benefits to corseting,” Dr. Watson stated in his professional tone of voice. “A corset supports the back—and holds women’s organs in place.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrow at his mate, placing the sheet of music on the table before him, studying it while he conversed. “You believe that women have a greater need to hold their organs in place than men do?”
“It is not my belief, but a medical fact,” Dr. Watson replied in his professional capacity. “It is well known in medical circles. The male is the stronger sex and in less need of support. The corset is also needed due to the childbearing functions of women.”
“Ah. I marvel that the women in Jane Austen’s era were able to bear children at all—as did my mother and your mother, being as they were without the aid of corsets.”
“M-men are much more active in their everyday lives,” Dr. Watson protested.
“And yet our organs follow us about quite nicely.” Sherlock chuckled, glancing up momentarily. “I would question that supposition, Watson. Consider that the corset is nothing more than a whim of fashion. And, as such, Miss Belle must wear one—and on the correct side of her clothing.”
“You, unlike me, are not well versed in medicine, Holmes,” Dr. Watson retorted.
“Back to the matter at hand.” Sherlock turned his gaze to Mirabella, now dusting the fireplace mantle. “More than clothing or speech, a woman’s attitude defines her station in life. I can assure you that if the Duchess of Devonshire were dressed in a barmaid’s clothing, you would know she wasn’t a barmaid.”
“So it is hopeless,” she concluded, turning to face him. Sherlock’s words were the final nail in the coffin, having the effect of convincing her that she was incapable of performing this assignment. “No matter what I wear, I will be unable to fool anyone. Is this what you are telling me, Mr. Holmes?”
“To the contrary,” Sherlock replied. “I am saying that you must also work on the manner in which you present yourself to others, Miss Belle—in addition to improving your wardrobe.”
“How can I be anyone other than who I am? Oh no!” She gasped, suddenly realizing her situation, as she dropped the duster where she stood and covered her face with her hands. “I’ve already spent half of your money on apparel, Mr. Holmes! Even with all the frugalities it was a huge sum!”
“Precisely.”
“I’ll have to pay it back,” she gulped. “I can’t go there.”
“Can’t go where?” Sherlock looked up momentarily from plucking his violin. His complexion was clear, healed of all wounds, and he was unusually well-groomed, his hair over-long but his face shaven. He was of a calmer bent than she had seen him in recent days.
Unlike herself, whom he had only just ignited a fire under.
“I can’t go a finishing school.”
“Why not, pray tell? From your complete lack of knowledge on how to be a proper young lady, you would seem to be the perfect candidate.”
Dr. Watson cleared his throat, sitting across from them. “Now, Holmes, if she doesn’t want to . . .” He tipped his brown derby hat at Holmes, running his hands along his leather suspenders, the muscles in his arms accentuated as he leaned forward in his chair.
Mirabella shook her head vehemently. “Because I would be found out even before I opened my mouth, your cover would be disclosed, and it would be impossible to place someone who might be successful at that point in Miss de Beauvais’.”
“Before you open your mouth, Miss Hudson? In the first place, it is not possible to measure the unit of time before you open your mouth—that moment of silence is not be detectable to the human ear,” Sherlock considered. His tone was strangely consoling. “But I shouldn’t regard it, my dear. Fortunately we are not so foolish as to place our hopes for success on the rare instances when you are not making noise.”
“What Holmes means to say is that all will be well,” Watson choked in his attempt to stifle his laughter, forming a fist in front of his lips. “Clearly there is a plan in place masterminded by our friend here.”
“If I am so stupid and have nothing to contribute to this conversation, I wonder that you should wish me to be part of your ingenious plan, Mr. Holmes,” Mirabella retorted, attempting to appear sophisticated and aloof although her heart was sinking. Sherlock’s rudeness had, at least, taken her mind off her devastation as she narrowed her eyes in anger at him. “And besid
es, you only prove my point: we are all in agreement that I am not sophisticated enough to enter Miss de Beauvais’.”
“I beg you do not concern yourself, my girl,” Sherlock replied consolingly. “There will be many awkward, gangling females without polish in the institution—hence their presence alongside you. The only difference between them and you is that they are awkward, gangling females with money.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, my confidence has risen to new heights with your encouraging words. I am much consoled.” Her eyes moved along the mantelpiece where a wax replica of Holmes’ head proudly sat—a hole carved through the wax by a gun shot. At this moment she could well understand the sentiment which caused the shooter to put it there.
“Excellent. I am glad to be of service.” Sherlock pronounced.
“Neigh!” As the sounds from the activity outside their London flat drifted through the window, Sherlock picked up his magnifying glass and began studying his violin strings through the device. Almost as if in the room with them, the whinny of a horse being walked in the street and the shouts of a hansom cab driver joined the conversation.
“And now may we discuss how you might be of service, Miss Hudson,” murmured Sherlock, not moving his eyes from his violin. “Then may we proceed to the outline of your assignment?”
“No! I cannot do it! Have you not been listening? I am a total and utter failure at . . . at . . . being a girl,” she gasped, standing to move to the bay window and glance at the passers-by on Baker Street, her back to the gentlemen. “And what’s more, I don’t want to be one!”
“At that, you have failed miserably.” Dr. Watson cleared his throat, making a point to look away, selecting a teacake from the table between them while eyeing the blueberries and cream next to the tea service.
“At everything I have failed miserably!” She spun around to face Sherlock. “I want to be a scientist. I have no need whatsoever to go to finishing school.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess Page 8