Holmes took off his hat, shook it once, twice, before he stepped inside. “No more outdoor treks today, Henry. I’m glad we had time for our little exploration yesterday.”
After lunch, we all went to the library. Holmes pulled out another volume on the marine life of the British Isles. Diana was reading Eliot’s Middlemarch, a favorite book of my own, although I found the idealistic physician Dr. Lydgate dragged down by his vain, silly wife to be a sad character indeed. In general, too, the book seemed to illustrate Holmes’s observations about bad marriages all too well. Lady Verr had pulled out a massive tome on beetles of the world, but she seemed more interested in getting Holmes’s attention than in reading.
The maid Angela, dressed all in black, sat in the far corner working on some embroidery in a hoop. Occasionally she would raise her dark eyes to gaze at her mistress. Her mouth was large and sensual, her lips a natural red, and any normal man would at some point have fantasies about kissing her. However, that mouth was contradicted by her general coolness and hauteur.
Around mid-afternoon Lady Verr left to feed the reptiles, begging Holmes to join her. He said he would do so shortly. Once she was gone, he stood, raised his arms and stretched. The pouring rain streaked the panes of the great bank of windows. He advanced toward them, but stopped before Angela, who frowned slightly, although her gaze was fixed on the fabric.
“Have you been with Lady Verr long, madam? You must have joined her in Italy.”
She raised her eyes. “I no speaka the English.”
“No? Perhaps Lady Verr speaks Italian. Still, if it has been many years, I suspect you must understand English quite well.”
She shrugged. “Assai, signore.”
“Parlo Italiano un poco,” Holmes said.
“Veramente?”
“Perhaps sometime we might have a little chat.”
She shrugged again, then lowered her eyes and returned to her needlework.
Holmes looked at me, the right side of his mouth pulling upward. “Want to come along, Henry? I do not think Delilah will be eating today.”
I grimaced slightly. “No thank you. I would like to stretch my legs.”
Diana set down her book. “So would I.”
“I suspect you are not interested in feeding time at the zoo either,” Holmes said.
She shook her head. “I am not.”
We walked down the corridor to the gallery overlooking the hall. Holmes went down the stairs, while Diana and I started along the gallery. I glanced up at the paintings, but she seemed uninterested, perhaps because she knew them by heart. The clouds and rain left the hall itself dim and cold, the fire going against the distant wall a feeble thing.
“You seemed happy to see Mr. Selton this morning,” I said.
She smiled and nodded.
“And he seemed happy to see you.”
“Yes, he was. You do think he cares for me, Dr. Vernier?”
“I do.”
“Oh, I hope so.” She was quiet for a while. I stared up at some red-headed Marsh nobleman with a frilly, Elizabethan-style round collar. “I wonder… Sometimes he acts so oddly. I wish I knew. I wish… Dr. Vernier, do you think…?”
“Do I think what?”
She had turned to look down at the hall, then her eyes shifted back to me, her discomfort obvious. “Never mind.”
“We have known each other only a short while, but you can trust me, Miss Marsh. I would like to help if I can.”
The green of her eyes was lost in the huge dark pupils, and her red eyebrows had come together, creating two vertical creases. “Would you truly?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes… sometimes it is almost as if he is afraid of me, Dr. Vernier. How can that be?”
Her voice was so anguished that I touched her arm lightly and shook my head. “It is not really you that he fears. I think perhaps he is afraid of himself—or, rather, for himself.”
“I don’t understand.”
I scratched at my jaw and wished Michelle were here to have this conversation. “Everyone thinks—or women often think—that men are always confident and brave. They do not understand that men can also be afraid and awkward and unsure, especially when it comes to matters of love.”
Her eyes were fixed on mine. “‘Matters of love.’” She nodded. “But—but I wasn’t afraid—but that would explain it.”
“Explain what?”
She didn’t exactly seem to hear me. “And we were doing so well.” It was almost a whisper.
“What are you talking about?”
The flush appeared first on her cheeks and spread. “Oh I cannot tell you—I cannot.”
I shook my head. “Nothing you say will greatly astonish me. I am also not one eager to lay down judgment or give lectures on morality.” She smiled at this. “I suspect…” It was more than suspicion, the only question was how far things had gone. “Tell me.”
She drew in a breath. “I was kissing him.”
I nodded. “And at first he was very eager,” I said, “but then he seemed… afraid of you.”
Her flush began to fade. “How can you know these things?”
I smiled. “It is not such a mystery. You mustn’t take it personally. He is only… I suspect he had a bad experience once with a woman, perhaps a woman who wasn’t exactly his choice.”
“How could that happen?”
“Perhaps… perhaps some friends dragged him off to a tavern and tried to get him to… to kiss the barmaid, and perhaps, naturally enough, since she didn’t mean anything to him, he became uneasy. And now he is afraid that history is repeating itself every time he gets intimate even with someone he cares about.” A tortured rendition, but I certainly couldn’t reveal everything.
“Is that really possible?”
“Yes—yes, I assure you it is. I am a physician, and I have seen similar things before.”
She suddenly looked stricken. “But is there a cure?”
I again touched her arm lightly. “Yes. Absolutely. The cure is time, and real affection, the genuine thing. Even when people care about one another, it can still take a while to truly become comfortable with each other.”
She shook her head. “It is so hard to understand. I’m not a child, Dr. Vernier, and what I feel for Adam is… I don’t think it can be wrong.” Again those huge black pupils were fixed on me.
“It is not.”
“He is so big and strong and handsome, and his arms… It seems impossible that he could be afraid.”
“But you must know him well enough to understand that it is possible. Hasn’t he spoken to you about his school and how unhappy he was there? The smaller boys had no difficulty tormenting him.” I smiled. “And he finds lobsters frightening.”
She smiled. “I know. And insects of every variety—especially beetles. He tries to hide it, but it is obvious. I’ve teased him about it often enough.”
“Well, then. You know the old story about the elephant being afraid of the mouse. Size has nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, I feel so much better!”
I laughed. “Good. Be patient with him. If it… happens again, do not act disappointed or angry, and above all, don’t reproach or criticize him.”
“I could never do that!”
“Good. Play it by ear, as they say. These things come and go. If he sees that you are not upset, if you are kind to him, then his mood may change again equally quickly.”
“Yes, yes. There is something else.” Again her cheeks slowly flushed. “You do not think…? A man and a woman…”
“What is it?”
“Aunt Arabella said… She said I should simply…” She could not bring herself to say it.
“Offer yourself to him?”
She nodded, still flushed. “She says then he will do whatever I want. Then he will marry me.”
I smiled ironically. “Did she also tell you that it worked for her?”
Her eyebrows rose, even as she gave a quick nod.
“A
nd what do you think of this strategy?”
“Oh, I don’t know—I don’t know. It must be wrong, but sometimes I think if we could only be together, everything would be all right.”
“Laws and morality and convention can seem stifling and nonsensical, but they exist for a reason. Women have the most to lose. However, in this case, it’s simply a bad idea because he is not ready. If you throw yourself at him, you are likely to frighten him all the more.”
She nodded. “Yes, I see that.”
“Someday, however, things will change, and then you may have to decide. Waiting until marriage is generally a good idea.” Michelle and I had certainly not waited, but then we had been older and experienced. “All the same, marriage is only a kind of… contract. What is important is the bond between two people, the love and the commitment they make to each other. That is the most important thing. A marriage without that is worthless.”
“Yes,” she whispered. She drew in her breath slowly. The flush had begun to fade. She glanced down at the gallery, then looked at me again. Her left hand reached out to grasp mine and squeezed tightly. “Thank you so much, Dr. Vernier—thank you. There has been no one to talk to—not really. I have felt alone for so long. It seems forever now. I thought it would be better with Aunt Arabella here, but it… it has not. She does not understand, not really, and she is so… so condescending. You do not treat me like a child.”
I shook my head, smiling. “You are not a child.”
“No.” She released my hand. “I must return to my book. I have troubled you long enough.”
“It is no trouble.”
She smiled at me, then turned and quickly walked away, her long, straight arms swinging at her sides, her fists some six inches from her hips.
“Thank you,” I murmured. I shook my head, rather moved. Twice before I had thought to myself, half mockingly, that I had a friend for life in Diana. Now I knew that was true. All the same… I don’t often talk to myself, but I actually said, “Damn it, Michelle—I need you here!” I was out of my depth. All the same, this was definitely not Sherlock’s territory.
This was the second case with him where I seemed to have become the confidant of a beautiful young woman. While this might be flattering, it also made me restless—especially with Michelle absent. Other than Sherlock, I had few male friends, and I had always seemed to prefer the company of women to men. I walked along the gallery for a while, then returned to my room and wrote Michelle a lengthy letter, briefly presenting our cast of characters. I ended by telling her how much I missed her and how helpful it would be to have her at Diana’s Grove.
The afternoon dragged on and dinner was a welcome break. The cook had again outdone herself with a joint of well-cooked pork, the fat crisp and crackling. An excellent white Burgundy accompanied the meal, a pleasant change after the claret of the last few days. Lady Verr had resumed her charm offensive, including me as well as Holmes this evening. Miss Marsh was quiet and often raised her hand to her mouth, stifling yawns. Dessert was an excellent apple cake.
When we had finished, Arabella dabbed at her lips with her fine linen napkin. “Shall we go to the sitting room and have some port?”
Diana shook her head. “I’m rather tired. I did not sleep well last night. I think I shall go to my room.”
“As you wish, my dear. I hope you have a better night.”
We had all stood. Diana bowed slightly, as did Holmes and I. Her eyes caught mine. “Good night, Dr. Vernier.”
“Good night.”
We left the dining room and started for the nearby drawing room. Diana turned toward the stairway. Lady Verr had taken my arm with her left hand, Holmes’s arm with her right. “You have made a conquest, Dr. Vernier.”
“What are you talking about?” I did nothing to hide my annoyance.
She laughed softly. “Diana is clearly taken with you.”
“That’s ridiculous—Adam Selton is the object of her affections.”
“All the same, it’s a pity you are married. Some competition would be helpful. Nothing like a rival to drive a man to action. It is generous of you to offer her so much of your attention.”
“Generosity has nothing to do with it—she is a charming young woman.”
“My! I see this cuts both ways.”
“Please—don’t be silly.”
“You are gallante, Dr. Vernier. I didn’t mean to offend you. In Cyril’s circle, I grew accustomed to a certain amount of harmless flirtation, even amongst married people. It is more common on the Continent than in England. And you, Mr. Holmes, you are silent. Do you also find Diana to be a charming young woman?”
“I find all the Marsh women quite charming.”
Arabella laughed, then let go of our arms and clapped her hands together. “Bravo, Mr. Holmes—bravo, indeed! Very well done. You would do very well in diplomatic circles.”
We went into the drawing room. A wood fire blazed in the grate, and two lamps were lit, illuminating the dark wood and leather furniture. Hamswell stood by the sideboard, clad formally in his black tail coat with white shirt, waistcoat and bow tie. Somehow a rough-hewn, stout man like him with a bushy beard looked faintly ridiculous in such garb. His massive fingers also looked ready to burst free of the white gloves. He offered Arabella a glass, then said gravely, “Would you gentlemen care for the port as well?” We nodded, and he raised the bottle to pour.
“Hamswell, Mr. Holmes is going to Whitby first thing tomorrow morning. You shall drive him.”
“Very well, madam.”
Holmes shook his head. “If you have other work for him, I can certainly drive myself, as I did this morning.”
“There was only room for three in the dog-cart, or I would not have allowed such a thing. You must let him take you. Besides, he also has some business of mine to attend to in Whitby.”
Holmes took his glass of port. “Very well, madam. Thank you. It is most kind.”
“Not at all.”
Holmes sat down at the far end of the sofa, and Arabella promptly sat in the middle. I took the big armchair. We all sipped our wine. The wood in the fireplace crackled and popped, throwing out an ember which landed on the hearth rug.
“A fire is truly agreeable on such a foul night.” Arabella turned to me. Her eyes were shrunken and obscured by the green lenses of her spectacles. Her nose was still red from the sunburn, her skin peeling there in earnest. “I hope, Dr. Vernier, that you understand that you were being teased. I certainly was not questioning your fidelity to your wife.” I shrugged. “I still hope we may meet her soon. You spoke of some possibility that she might join us.”
“It is possible.” I suspected it was becoming more possible all the time.
“Then I should have Mr. Holmes all to myself.”
Holmes smiled politely, but I noticed certain subtle signs of annoyance.
“You told me, Mr. Holmes, you did not care to share details of your personal life with strangers. However, since Dr. Watson has already written of the adventure, perhaps you could at least comment on Irene Adler. Is she the woman?”
Holmes inhaled through his nostrils. “She is most definitely not the woman. Watson’s story is ridiculous on the surface of it—would I be smitten by a woman of so brief an acquaintance, merely because she bested me on one occasion?”
“I found it credible.”
“Well, it is not—it is fiction.”
“Well, if she is not the woman, then who is?”
Holmes smiled. “My reply of the other evening still holds true.”
Arabella laughed, a high rippling sound. “I should not have tried so obvious a ruse. I am convinced there is someone. I can tell, however, that you really are something of a misogynist, Mr. Holmes. I don’t think Watson erred in that case.”
Holmes only shrugged, but I said, “That isn’t true.”
She turned to me. “Isn’t it?”
Holmes frowned. “No,” I said. “He only dislikes women who behave stupidly. That hardly make
s him a misogynist. You would have to put me in that category too.”
She grinned wickedly. “So your wife never behaves stupidly?”
“No—hardly as often as I do.”
Again she clapped her hands together. “Bravo to you, too, Dr. Vernier. I wish I had had such a husband. But you must admit, that sometimes men want women to behave stupidly. You cannot deny—” her lips twitched upward “—men find nothing so dangerous as an intelligent woman.”
I shrugged. “There is something to what you say.”
“And you, Mr. Holmes—do you fear an intelligent woman?”
“Not in the least. Intelligence is a virtue. Nothing is more tiresome than a truly stupid woman. Intelligence only becomes reprehensible when combined with greed, vanity, cruelty, jealousy, ambition, or their like.”
A smile lingered on her beautiful mouth, then she glanced mockingly at me for an instant. “I suppose there is something to what you say.” She sipped at her port, then cupped the bowl with her long, elegant fingers. “All the same, as men, you cannot truly understand. You are used to being in charge of your life, used to doing as you please. We women have no such freedom. We must fend for ourselves with all the constraints that society puts upon us.” She looked at me again. “You should understand that, Dr. Vernier. It cannot have been easy for your wife to become a doctor. That must have been a battle.”
“It was, but she persevered.”
“Then you should admire perseverance.”
“I do, when it is combined with a noble goal. If the end is something base or venal, it counts for nothing.”
She shook her head. “All the same, I think you hold women to a higher standard than men. Ambition or greed are often seen as virtues in them.”
“Not by me,” I replied.
She turned to Holmes. “You cannot deny, I think, that you are ambitious, Mr. Holmes?”
“No. But it is as Henry said—ambition for a worthy end is admirable. My ambition, my greatest ambition, has always been to seek out evil, wherever it may lie, and eradicate it.”
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