Chapter 2 The Tides
Molly felt numb. Nothing caught her attention except for the gentle breeze coming through the window, as she curled up on the windowsill facing the backyard of the manor. Her cheeks and nose were exceptionally warm due to the tears she'd just dropped. But it was much better now, for she had finally finished crying.
Opposite to her, by the other side of the wooden sill, cousin Anthea sat on a chair, focusing on the needlework in her hands. The colorful silks already formed the outline of the Holmes family crest under her fingers, while she sewed efficiently on the smooth fabric. A mild smirk hung on the corner of her lips, which usually meant something within her reach wasn't to her satisfaction.
'Don't stare, Molly,' sensing her gaze, the lady of the house spoke quietly. She lowered down the wooden hoop before reaching for her headdress, tugging it distractedly. 'Your eyes swell like walnuts. It's not a very pretty sight to behold.'
'I'm sorry,' Molly heard herself murmured.
'Don't be. We both know who is in fault.' She sighed, holding her embroidery up in front of her face to look at it closely, then tossed it in the basket by her feet with a slight snort. 'Your cousin Mycroft sent his regards, by the way.'
'Oh,' Molly groaned while readjusted her position on the windowsill, holding her knees. 'That's…very kind of him.'
'I shall pass on your gratitude…when I see him next time,' she shrugged with a slight nod, looking blankly at the general directing beyond the window, and then let out a wide yawn without even bothering to cover her face.
Molly blinked at her, swallowing hard.
'What?' the lady rose one of her eyebrows.
'Nothing…' she muttered, looking away from her cousin. But Anthea simply leaned forward, her chin resting on her entwined fingers.
'You obviously see something,' she smirked, tilting her head to on side. 'Sometimes, little Margaret, it doesn't hurt for you to just admit that you are smarter than you look, especially when your poor old cousin here is almost half dead due to boredom.'
'But you never get bored,' Molly blurted out. 'You never…I rarely hear you say you're bored…I mean…Why are you sitting here, Anthea? Shouldn't you be elsewhere tending business of the estate? And since when you ever have time for needlework?'
'There you go!' Anthea exclaimed, stretching her arms and legs on the chair. 'Already recover from the cry. You better pretend to be upset for a little longer. We don't want Sherlock to know that you recollected yourself so soon after this morning. I suggest you stay in this chamber at least for the rest of the day so that people will talk.' She gave Molly a big smile. Molly narrowed her gaze.
'I don't want to sit indoors all the day, Anthea,' she wiped her face with the half damp kerchief in her hand. 'And…you still haven't told me why you're here, instead of doing…whatever you usually do during the day.'
'You mean whatever I do when my husband was away?' Anthea chuckled, stretching her arms over her head again. 'Well, the master returns. There's no reason for the mistress still stands in his place. That means I can be idle as long as Mycroft is in charge.'
'I see,' Molly replied, turning away to look down the window. The sun wasn't very high yet and the air felt rather humid and cool. The field looked a bit foggy but that meant the sky would be clear in no time. Everything beyond the window begged her to go out.
'Are you going out?' Her cousin's sigh came to her once again. Molly jerked, as she looked back to the sitting lady, who was reaching down to the basket on the floor, picking up the wooden loop and staring, without resuming sewing.
'Yes.' Molly nodded, noting that Anthea was holding the embroidery upside down.
'To where?' she asked, tapping and fiddling the wooden hoop in her hands. Molly couldn't help but stare at the prick of the needle swinging by the unfinished pattern.
'Field under the hill.' she answered, watching the needle prick flying back and forth by Anthea's hands, as Anthea kept flipping the wooden loop around.
'Riding?' she looked up.
'I suppose not. They kept telling me the ground is too soft…'
'Good.'Anthea finally held straight of her unfinished embroidery. She sighed, again, turning to Molly. 'Bring me back something, then. Flowers, sweetgrass…whatever you can find.' She leaned back, crossing her legs under her gown then she picked up the needle, turning it between her two fingers.
Molly frowned. She rarely saw her cousin behave so fretful.
'Why don't you come with me?' she asked, jumping down from the window, throwing her damp kerchief onto the nearby table, as she went fumbling in the box by her bed for a clean one 'You should come with me if you're so bored. We can go to the market square before going to the field.'
Anthea sighed, heavily this time.
'I better not,' she shook her head, her eyes fixing on her needlework.
'You hate needlework,' Molly remarked, tugging the squared cloth into her left sleeve.
'Hum…not as much as playing the harp.' Anthea hummed quietly. 'Or singing.' She began to work, moving her chair slight closer to the window.
Molly stared at her, confused.
'You weren't idle when cousin Mycroft and I first came back,' she said, raising her eyebrows.
'Mycroft was in need of some rest. I merely prolonged my interference for a few days.'
'You weren't idle yesterday,' Molly pointed out.
'Well…'
'I didn't expect you to hear us argue this morning. I thought you were busy somewhere else.' Why Anthea kept looking at that piece of embroidery? She clearly disliked it.
'I just happened to be there. And you did cry rather loudly if you hadn't noticed.' The lady smiled, still looking down at her work.
'Cousin.' Molly pressed her lips together.
'Yes?' Anthea still stared down.
'Are you ill?'
'Ah…' she lifted her face, looking straight towards the window. 'No,' she said.
'But you are-'
'Idle,' she finally turned to look at her, a wry smile on her face. 'And bored.'
'Why?' Molly asked, again.
'I'd told you. The master has returned so I don't need to…'
Frustratingly, Molly shook her head. 'You're lying.'
'I'm really not!' Anthea smiled at her.
'But you're keeping something…' she bit her lip. 'From me!'
'I might be,' her cousin tittered with a shrug.
Molly gaped, couldn't quite believe what she'd heard. Anthea, despite her reputation of being preserved and somehow mystical, had always been very straightforward to her. Never for the past four years had she tried to brush her off. Sometimes servants would say the mistress was too harsh on her. But Molly was fine with that. Being away from her home, she'd rather her cousin to be blunt and harsh than keeping her from the truth. And so far Anthea had never let her down. So something must have happened. Something unusual and…private.
'Anthea?'
'Hum?'
'Are you with child?' Molly asked, tentatively.
A laugh escaped her lips. Anthea looked up, brushing the wooden loop down into the basket and giving Molly a wide grin.
'Finally, I was starting to think you wouldn't figure out.'
Molly stared at her, mouth opened. That wasn't the respond she'd expected. Wasn't she supposed to be embarrassed…or blushed?
'Ugh…' Molly opened her mouth, not entirely sure what to say.
'Don't tell anyone, for now.' Anthea cleared her throat, leaning back into the chair. 'It's still early. Do you understand?'
'Yes.' Molly nodded.
'Good,' Anthea said, reaching to the side of her face to adjust her headdress. Molly stood still. What was she supposed to do?
'Anthea?'
'What?' her cousin glanced at her while she untied the hidden knots underneath her chin, unwrapping the white scarf from her head with an annoying sigh.
'Um…do you need anything?' she managed to speak out. The amusing look on Anthea's face already told her what the answers would be.
'Ah, little Margaret,' she chuckled as she pulled the fabric off and started to loosen her hair. 'Don't you worry about me.'
'No, I just want to say that-'
'Are you still bringing me flowers and sweetgrass?'
'Yes!' Molly blurted out.
'Off you go then!' Anthea raised her eyes. 'Go wash you face and put that cape on!' she gestured to the entrance. Molly hesitated but soon trotting away when Anthea started to roll her eyes. She rushed towards the large wardrobe, fumbling for her clothes before she bid Anthea goodbye.
'Try not run into Sherlock!' she heard her voice again when she walked into the hallway. 'The talks must have already begun after this morning. The last thing I need is another fight from you two.'
o0o
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The stable always smelt like…well, a stable.
Molly grinned as she ran pass the backyard. It wasn't noon yet so she expected most of the servants to be elsewhere running errands. She was called by one of the cook to stop for a quick bite as she rushed through the kitchen. But she didn't stop. The entire household staff were always very keen on feeding her ever since she came to the Holmes manor. At first, they nagged about her small stature, saying she was too short and thin. Then before she came back from her father's funeral, they murmured about her lack of menses, blaming it on her poor appetite, much to Molly's distress. For, she was never picky on her food, always tried to finish what she was given. But the talks never stopped. More than a dozen times Anthea had to chide, sometimes even scold, the servants for their opinions on Molly's health and shape. But that still couldn't prevent them from whispering. What made it worse was when the whispers in the household reached the market square of the town. The talks soon became gossips, then before long, slanders. People on the streets looked at her strangely, saying that something was wrong about her.
Molly cried, more than once, on cousin Anthea's shoulder. Her cousin comforted her with stories of Lady Violet, Mycroft and Sherlock's grandmother, telling her that the unusual lady had once believed that women should wait until nearly twenty years of age to consummate their marriage and have children. Of course, her view had been quite extreme. But due to all kinds of reasons the Holmes family did have a history of delaying consummation. So she really shouldn't have avoided Sherlock just because she was embarrassed by some meaningless gossips. Especially when Sherlock had always been quite friendly, not yet expressed any wishes to further their involvement.
That had put Molly at ease, if only for a little while. She resumed her walk to the town, dismissing the looks and talks behind her back. She quickly befriended John Watson's new wife Mary, a quick-witted woman who could wield a sword better than any men in the town- including her husband John. It was Mary who suggested Molly try to go on horseback. How can you never try it, Molly? You like horses and love to run around so much!
It was true. Molly was fond of horses. Her father used to take her with him on horseback when she was still at home. But she never imagined riding astride on her own. Mother wouldn't approve. And cousin Anthea was always looking up to her mother. Never had Molly imagined that she'd agree.
But she did. Without a word, Anthea summoned Gregory the senior steward, asking him to take some time off each day to teach her. What happened next was like a dream. The first time she settled herself on the saddle, she was hooked. The gentle mare became a bouncy rabbit under her command. All of the groomsmen were terrified but Molly didn't care about that they said - or shouted. She only knew that she felt like floating on clouds. It felt right! Until Gregory rode to catch up with her and gave her an exasperated lecture when he drove her back to the manor. He made her promise in front of Anthea that she wouldn't just ride away in the future. Only to give up on the very next day when Molly rode off immediately after mounting the horse. After that, he only gave her advice before she got on horseback and had people follow her so that he could fetch her back when it became late.
She thought Sherlock would be pleased to know that she learned to ride in such short time. But she was wrong. She had seen him following her with the strangest look on his face on the day she slipped when she dismounted from her new horse. He rushed to her after she cried out. For a moment Molly thought he'd pull her up like he once did the first time they met at her mother's gardens when they climbed up to the cherry tree and fell down on a pile of straws, causing a stir among mother's maidservants. But he didn't. He stood aside when she struggled to her feet but failed, then insulted her when one of the men of the manor asked her to lean on his back so that he could carry her home.
She cried to sleep in Anthea's bed that night, not quite realize what happened around her. All she could hear was Sherlock's sneers and snorts, saying what a fool she made of herself. And when she woke up the next morning, Sherlock already awaited her. He brought her a bunch of flowers, then laughed at her again, until Sally threw him out.
She didn't remember how long she'd cried after that. Anthea was busy. So Molly was mostly stayed in her chamber with the company of the cats…and occasionally Sally. Her foot was more serious than she first thought. After a full week of resting, she could barely leave to the parlor to meet Sherlock. He was nicer that time, asking about her injury. But all Molly wanted was to smack him on the head and see who'd be the foolish one there. Of course, she couldn't do that. Sally was there keeping an eye on them. So she held her temper, then decided that she was done after Sherlock said she shouldn't ride again.
'I don't want to see him. I just don't! ' she told Anthea, who initially dismissed her but soon realized Molly was serious. 'If you're serious, dear cousin,' the lady of the house sighed, 'The best way to avoid him entirely is to go back to your parents. Stay with them for the time being and decide what you want to do next.'
Molly was more than happy with the arrangement. She had only gone back to her father's estate once during the years. Her parents, although never short of sending her gifts and words, had only visited her once as well, much less than they'd promised her when she first left home. Because her father had never been in his best condition.
She never thought it would be her last visit to him.
Father was like his usual self when she first went back, cheerful and loving, if only a little lack of spirits. To Molly's surprise, neither of he or mother had asked her if something was wrong with Sherlock. In fact, looking back, they were oddly at ease of their only daughter coming back from her husband's family without saying anything. All they did was make sure that Molly was comfortable, allowing her to do whatever she wanted. Mother even held her tongue when Molly decided she wanted to try riding father's old stallion to the shore. She praised Molly's skills after she went back that day, saying she was very proud to see how Molly was as good as her father on horseback.
She should have known that something was wrong.
A few weeks later, father was taken ill. It was until the physician was summoned that Molly realized the severity of his condition. He had, according to her mother, always suffered from the old injury at his stomach received from a battle years before Molly was born. He had been severely wounded to an extent that no one believed he would survive and was only pulled out of the battlefield because he was a Lord. But he had managed to recover, if not fully. Molly was stunned at the knowledge. Never in her fourteen years of life had she heard of anyone talking about this.
'I didn't know you had gone to battle,' she said to her father by his bed. Father simply smiled, patting her head as if she had been a five-year-old begging for treats.
'There's nothing worth talking about,' her father answered with his hoarse voice. 'A disastrous defeat. I wasn't expected to survive,' then his smile widened to a joyful beam. 'Or still be able to father a child after that.'
'But…' Molly didn't know what to say. 'I never knew…why didn't you tell me you're in pain?'
He began to chuckle. 'I'm not always in pain, Molly. Besides,' she could see the moist in his eyes started to form. 'What good would it do…having you worry about me? Those quacks…always say I'm to die within a couple years, only that I've been like this for almost two decades…'
He then laughed, ever so lightly. Molly watched his chest heaving steadily, trying to swallow the saltiness down in her mouth. And suddenly she remembered. The last time her father had been taken ill…it was right before she first met Sherlock.
She couldn't recall those days very well. But now, she began to remember seeing a lot of people in her home, talking to mother. Molly hadn't been pleased with them. She was constantly asked to play in mother's gardens during those days, far away from the other part of the house…because his lordship needs his rest. And then one day, Sherlock was brought to the gardens and introduced to her, they suggested Molly show him around the house.
'Molly?' father called her gently while she was still thinking.
'Yes?'
'Are you happy with the Holmes?'
'Yes,' she answered without a thought, but father's eyes narrowed.
'Cousin Anthea wrote to us and said you and Sherlock had quarreled, quite seriously.'
'It wasn't that…bad…'
'But you've come back for two months. He never sends a word…'
'Sherlock doesn't write…to anyone…'
'Molly.' Father squeezed her hands, 'just bear in mind, if you wish to come home, then come home. Even after your marriage is consummated you can still come back. Remember, alright?'
'Yes, father.' Molly whispered, rising to her feet as she saw her father fading to sleep. Her mother was standing behind her, tears on her face.
That was the last time father had talked. He remained unconscious for the following days. Physicians weren't able to do anything. So the priest came. Molly didn't like priests. But she kept her silence and stood aside as they prepared…whatever it was they needed to prepare. As it turned out, there wasn't really much had to be arranged further by mother and her because even the coffin had already been made three years ago.
Cousin Mycroft arrived the night before father drew his last breath. Molly didn't know mother had sent him words. She didn't pay much attention to anything else, still hoping father would wake up from his sleep. She spent all of her waking moments looking at him, brooding over the past years. I should have known, she thought. Why did I never notice? He always has that strange face when he thought I'm not looking. He always stays at home, rarely traveling around like other lords…Why didn't he and mother tell me?
She didn't care much when her mother came and sat beside her, holding her in her arms, for the obtuse pain was slowly taking over her. Food was brought to them. But neither she or mother touched it. She wanted to scream but wasn't sure to whom. Then she was removed from the room…after they rubbed him with oil and covered him up. She passed out immediately when her head hit the pillow, falling asleep while the dull pain in her belly increasingly throbbed.
She then woke up before dawn, crying out. Struggling to her feet, Molly called for help in the dark as the warm liquid between her thighs dripping down, leaving stains on her nightgown. A woman barged in, scooping her up as soon as she saw the blood. Within no time others were there. Mother was the last the to appear and she was still wearing the clothes before Molly went to bed.
After that, everything was a blur. A lot were told but few actually listened. All Molly knew was that she did everything they asked. When things finally came to a halt, it was already winter. Her monthly curse had visited again.
'You must go back to your husband,' mother told her when she was confined in her chamber because of the pain. It was almost unbearable. 'The only cure for such pain is married life, that much I know.'
'But what about you?' she asked.
Mother shook her head. 'I should be fine. I'm not lack of company, as you can see.'
'But-'
'You ought to be cheerful, my dear.' Mother gave her a weak smile. 'It's a new start of your life. Things won't be the same once you go back. And it's bound to change for the better, I'm sure.'
Molly didn't believe her.
Mother liked to make things sounds hopeful, even if she was unsure. Everyone knew she could hardly eat and sleep properly after they buried Father. So she went to cousin Mycroft, asking him if it was appropriate for her to invite mother back to the Holmes estate with her. He said yes.
But he also told her that it might be better for Sherlock to invite her to stay in their house- 'I mean yours and Sherlock's, little Margaret.' And when Molly expressed her doubts, Mycroft simply smiled before he straightened his back.
'In that case, my dear sister,' - it was the first time he called her sister instead of cousin- 'all you need to do is to persuade my wife so she may invite Lady Margaret to our estate.'
Molly kept his words in mind. She wished to find a chance to talk to Sherlock after she went back to the Holmes estate, only that she didn't feel like doing anything after arrived there. The manor and the town seemed to remain the same. But somehow she felt different. Before she had left, all she had ever cared about was how to pass the days. She had missed her parents, of course. But only until now she realized she would remain here permanently. There was a chance she may not ever go back to the place she was born. Father had died. And mother…perhaps she wished to die there too.
She told all of that to Anthea after she was found crying in her room. Her cousin shed tears with her, telling her a thing or two she knew about her father before Molly was born. But there was little she could do. Molly knew she was to move to live with Sherlock after she returned. But neither Anthea or Mycroft had ever mentioned it. They allowed her to stay in the manor for however long she wanted. Molly knew she should be grateful.
But she still couldn't help but be sad. She was still mourning even though she knew she should stop. She hadn't talked to Sherlock for months. And he had never bothered to visit her as well. The only visitor she had was the nine-month-pregnant Mary Watson, who always brought her sewing basket with her for she was about to have the baby at any moment but still not yet finished much of her needlework.
'I feel sore sitting still,' Mary said, as Molly finished up the sewing for her. 'John says I become even more active after I got pregnant. And he's right…'
'Is that how it feels? Sore?' Molly asked her. Mary merely shrugged.
'Ah…not really…it feels…rather odd.'
'Odd?'
'Come here.' She moved forward, grabbing Molly's hand to press on her swelling belly.
It was moving. Molly gasped and withdrew her hand.
'It's alive,' she said.
'Of course!' Mary snorted at her. 'What else it would be?'
'Ugh…I didn't mean…'
'I know you don't.' She waved Molly's hand off. 'Ah, those in town say it's a boy because it fidgets a lot and sometimes I can't sleep. But-'
'You fidget a lot, too,' Molly pointed out.
'Exactly.' Mary laughed out loud, leaning back. 'I can't wait to get it out! It becomes so heavy!'
She went into labor the next morning. Molly didn't know until she went home from the chapel when Anthea told her, asking her to visit the Watsons the next day. Molly grinned when she heard it was a girl, then ran back to her room to finish up the needlework Mary left there. For the first time in months, she was actually looking forward to something.
She didn't expect Sherlock would be there. And worst of all, she didn't expect him to hear her saying he was cruel.
But he did hear her, as he kicked out of the door and stormed away. Molly could barely stand up from the ground by the baby's cradle when Mary called out for him. She couldn't say anything until John came home and asked them what had happened. She didn't remember how she went home- John walked her back, perhaps - only that she wanted to bolt herself away from the rest of the world…but of course, Anthea would never allow it. Her cousin didn't say anything after she learned what had happened, which only made Molly feel worse.
She kept silent for days, then decided she could no longer stay that way. She walked to Sherlock's house and knocked at his door. But there was no one answering, much to her confusion. Later that day, Mycroft summoned her to his presence. Molly thought he was to lecture or chide her. But no. The master of the house merely asked her why had she gone on knocking Sherlock's door and what had she tried to say. So she told the truth. She told Mycroft that she wished to ask Sherlock if he'd invite her mother to the town after she moved to him. She had put it off far too long. There was little reason to wait any longer.
Mycroft sighed, looking at her for quite awhile until Molly began to fret. He then told her if that was what she wishes, he could summon Sherlock to the manor so that she may speak him directly. Molly agreed. He then suggested it may be better if he accompanied her when they spoke…much to Molly's surprise. Surely Mycroft knew how much Sherlock disliked his interference. Yes, he may be rude. But how rude could he be when Molly knew for certain that she'd seen the worst? So ever so politely, she turned Mycroft down. After all, as long as she remained civil, there's no way Sherlock could say anything more harmful than accusing her of being foolish, right?
Thinking of such, Molly leaned into the stable wall and burst into laughter. The morning sun was still rising as the air became warmer. The horses inside the walls began to rustle, as her voice pitched higher. Before this morning she'd probably keep it down or else someone may chide on her manner. But now…
Why would I care for manners when I have the nerves to call my husband a brute? she thought as she kept on giggling. Running to the fence separating the backyard and the field, Molly jumped up to it with a single leap, then landing on her feet, stamping into the ground regardless the damp earth soiling her boots and dress. She then resumed running, lifting her gown up to her knees before dashing to the hill at the far end of the field.
