CHAPTER 4: MARY'S POV

Every instinct in my body demanded that I shy away when John reached for my collar button. If I was to believe the teachers at my old school, my gender was predisposed to loathing the act that should have already been performed. Loathing was far from the right word, however, for I knew John could not wish to do something to me that I would hate.

A horrible case of the nerves was my true problem. This was entirely unexplored territory, as intimidating as any Indian jungle (though not nearly as deadly, I'd imagine). No matter how much strength it took to keep the tremble from my hands and voice, I took great comfort in knowing I had an apt and gentle guide.

Such an odd sight should anyone have seen it; two married adults half undressed and on the edge of a bed and yet sitting as primly and chastely as if we were at afternoon tea.

When John prompted me for a second boy, a face entirely unlike John's leapt to my mind more quickly than I would have liked it to. Pale skin, white blond hair, the bluest eyes I'd ever seen and the delicate build of a minstrel puppet, opposite to my husband's (what a wonderful word!) stocky and strong frame.

"Aristotle Worthe," I stated, unable to contain a small smile. "As you'd imagine, at a girl's school they kept us as separate from the male sex as was humanly possible, but once a week they would allow us very supervised visits with the boy's school down the street and twice a semester there was a dance in which we could practice our graces and whatnot."

And whatnot . . . Oh, if only the etiquette instructors could hear that denouncement of what we were told were the most important skills a woman could possess outside birthing healthy sons. Curtsies more measured and angled than most bridges, the dynamics of a proper letter, usage of one's fan as a communication device. One would think courting was an invention exclusive to Londoners who could afford decent dresses. I obeyed these customs, but I did not believe half of them.

"Should I be jealous of this Master Worthe?" John questioned, only half serious but still a bit concerned as he reached out to brush a strand of my hair, jarred loose when I had undressed, away from my slightly flushed face.

"Oh, John… Oh, no." He laughed at my firmness, and I shook my head (which only sent more rogue strands of my hair flying about). "That does not come until the end of this, but please keep in mind there is a reason I am sitting across from you and not him."

This seemed to content my retired solider, and he visibly relaxed. He had not shown outward jealousy at my first kiss, but how could he truly hold children accountable? It was no wonder an older, more deliberate romance would rouse more emotions.

It certainly did for me. They were hardly as fond as the memory of Isha.

"I was fourteen," I began, staring at my hands. I was forced to fold them again; fidgeting was in my nature but I have been told time and time again that it was most unbecoming. "As I said, I was in boarding school. I did not take as much pleasure in the measured exposure to masculinity as most of the girls did. I was never entirely silly over them, and they never seemed to pay much attention to me."



"Why on earth not?" John questioned, cupping my chin in a way that set off a thousand nerves that ran shivers down my back, a cold chill combined with the warmness of his touch. "How could they pass up such a beautiful . . ." His face cracked into a mischievous smile. ". . . Himalayan tulip?"

I pushed his hand away, but in a playful manner that was devoid of any hostility. "If you wish to describe me as a flower, then I suppose I was a late bloomer. I still had not . . . developed all that fully, even at fourteen, and at that age the only thing boys seek are what they believe to be 'true women'. I did not mind entirely, I was more interested in books that boys." Here my blush reappeared and deepened to a new shade. "Save for one, however. There was one I would have burned all my books for."

"Master Worthe, I take it."

My nod was bashful and admitting, a guilty plea. "He was the most popular boy at both schools; a star on the cricket team and a wonderful poet. Beautiful, too. More beautiful than handsome. He had pale, pale hair that could probably be stained by pollen and cornflower blue eyes . . ."

John's brow rose substantially. "I am becoming increasingly jealous, I must admit. No one has ever described my eyes as a flower."

Without an ounce of my instinctual hesitance I gave his brow a quick kiss, running my hair through his neat hair. "Because not many flowers are brown, my John. Your eyes are the hue of the noble oak, if that soothes you, and oaks outlive cornflowers by centuries."

His smile was more than reward for my terribly awful attempt at poetry. "Romantic drivel if I ever heard it, but I enjoy it despite myself. Continue; I will keep the green-eyed beast at bay a while longer."

I pecked again at his forehead. "Please do. And you have no cause to be jealous. He was not like you at all." Tentatively, waiting for his consent before touching his bare skin, I began to knead his broad shoulders, being careful of the scarred area no matter how benign he claimed it was. "He was pretty to look at, but all in all, now that I'm grown I prefer a man less feminine than I."

His chortle showed that he had eased, either at my words or my touch, and I was glad for it.

"As I said, Aristotle was terribly popular. His uncle was a duke and his money was as old as they come. His parents claimed to be very bohemian, hence his creative name, but I believe Mr. Holmes would scoff terribly at their idea of bohemian, for it contained an unwholesome amount of gold and silk."

I had never seen the Worthe mansion, but I imagined it was nothing like the chaotic flat John had shared with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There most certainly was never any chemicals lying about or teeth in the butter dishes (although I still believed John was merely teasing me about the later).

"I was merely the bookworm who had grown up in India, so you can imagine my shock when the most sought after boy of St. Andrew's lowered my copy of Northanger Abbey one visiting day and asked if I thought hiding my beautiful eyes was as much of a crime as he did. Well . . ." I could feel my cheeks burning again. "I couldn't help myself, John. I was 

pure butter. We began talking, I can't even remember what about, and just as the boys' teachers were rounding them up, he held my novel up in front of us and gave me a peck on the lips."

I still remember that sickening feeling that I was going to jolt awake from a dream to damp hair and sheets, perhaps with my roommate making kissing noises having overheard some nocturnal mumbling. But no, there had been no awakening. It had been an actual moment. I almost wished it had been a dream. Almost.

"He asked me . . . asked me if I would be his partner at the ball that was to be next week. I had been planning to go, of course, but I usually brought a book and sat to the side all night. I did not mind it, but there were moments of acetic jealousy when I wished to be one of the graceful girls dancing with a beautiful boy. And this was my chance."

The preparations for that night were wedged far firmer in my mind than the kiss. My roommate was far from being my friend but she was also not one to be jealous; while all the other girls were furious that I of all people had captured the elusive Aristotle, she had conjured up a fine dress for me to spite the lot of them (I never did ask where she had borrowed it from), and she fit it for me so that it slipped on like a glove. I begged my aunt to loan me my mother's good sapphires for the night. I paid rapt attention to the etiquette lessons that week.

I could still see the school's ballroom, every lamp lit up, the boys all in their best formal dress, servants in pressed uniforms. I felt like an awkward caterpillar bloomed into a butterfly.

"To me, the evening was a dream," I sighed, tilting my head away so that John could not see my expression, my hands falling away from his shoulders. Despite the fact that it was so long ago, I had a feeling the degree of my "love" for Aristotle Worthe would show itself still. "We danced and I didn't step on his feet once. He stepped on mine a few times, but I barely noticed. And when he suggested we step outside onto the balcony, well..."

The balcony was really more of a ground patio, being on the first floor, but it had been a private world to girls observing older couples evading the chaperones out there for a few brief moments. For a young girl who had read every romance novel in the school library (though there had not been many), it was almost too much to fathom.

"I'm not quite sure what he did to get me that close. I suppose he sort of looped his arms around my waist and pulled me in. By that time I was so limp and cotton-brained he could have positioned me like a tailor's dummy. I thought I knew what was coming, so I closed my eyes and I kissed him in the most passionate way I knew how."

The most passionate way I knew how was with one foot raised slightly and my hands on the small of his back. In my own defense, I was fourteen. I still remember the mint smell of his aftershave (no doubt worn merely for show, he could not have been shaving at that point and I wondered now if he ever did) and the softer scent of the perfume I had begged off another girl.

"And then . . . ?" I looked over to find John staring at me quite intently. I could see in his eyes that talk of this doll of a boy was making him uneasy. What was a scarred writer-doctor to a duke's nephew? In my mind everything, but apparently he could not read my thoughts.



"I am not sure how long it lasted but it ended when he pushed me away." My gaze fell now. I was fidgeting, but proper manners be damned. I was sitting here in my corset and skirts, not at a garden party. "He... He was laughing, John. And that's when I heard giggling from the bushes."

I heard their laughter now, some higher than others as some of the boys had not yet begun their transformation into manhood. Their laughter joined Master Worthe's, merry and triumphant. It was not until John brushed away a tear from my cheek that I realized several tears had escaped.

"He spoke. He told me it had all been a bet he had to win, to ask out the plain, flat Mary Morstan. He had been the only one to take it. He had played me for a fool, made me look like an idiot in front of this beautiful creature and all his friends, and had broken my young heart entirely. I didn't know what to do..."

"Mary..." John began, making a move to embrace me.

"... so I lifted the skirts of my dress ever so slightly and planted my knee quite firmly between his legs."

His arms quickly withdrew and a grimace crossed his face. The very mention of the act seemed to affect all men the same. "Mary!"

I crossed my arms, tossing my hair in mock contrariety. "Well, you can't tell me he didn't deserve it!"

"Mary, what he did was horrid and cruel, but having taken more than one blow to that . . . specific area, I am not quite sure anyone deserves that."

I risked a rather roguish smile. "Say what you will, it felt excellent. For me, that is. Not an ordinary end to a common crush, but I found it quite satisfactory. Truth be told, I was surprised he had anything there at all. That is how it ends: me exiting the balcony with my head held high and Master Aristotle Worthe, high-class bohemian beauty, writhing on the clay tiles."

John finally wrapped his arms around me, resting his square chin on my bare shoulder. "Mary, my dear?"

I placed a hand on top of his head. "Yes, John?"

He kissed my lips almost tentatively. "Never allow me to anger you."