Part Twelve: A Question of Propriety

Christmas Eve

3pm

Baker Street

I heft the cumbersome beast, more forcefully this time, and take greater purchase on the pavement, as it glistens with an unwelcome sheen of slippery frost.

"Do be careful, Doctor Watson!" Mrs Hudson`s voice rises slightly in her consternation, as vividly as our expelled breaths in the freezing air. "You mustn't bruise the white meat; the taste will be quite affected, I must tell you!"

I felt certain that I had encountered more than was my fair share of poultry this festive season, and yet, here I was, bringing home my landlady`s Christmas goose, just in time for the big day itself. Truthfully, I did not resent the task too ungraciously, since the dear woman was a skilled and consummate cook, ensuring that Sherlock Holmes and myself rarely did without a good supper, particularly at times of festivity.

"Certainly, Mrs Hudson, this bird will have been treated more considerately since it`s death than any time during its time on this earth. I am merely avoiding a herniated transverse abdominal – "

"Doctor Watson, I will not allow that sort of language, I have told you before!"

"I am merely saying – "

A glance in her direction quietens me and we continue down the treacherous length of Baker Street in a silence that is equally frosty, until –

"All I know, Doctor, is that impropriety seems rife amongst the young these days; it is almost acceptable to flout the conventions that keep our society whole and proper."

Clearly, something had rattled our dear lady, and I sensed an eagerness for the sharing of a troubled mind. Thanks to my friend, I was quite used to the role of sounding board and auditor, thus I adjusted my load and spoke:

"What troubles you, Mrs Hudson? Have the Irregulars been rattling the dustbins too late of an evening again? I have told – "

"Mr Holmes has been visited twice by the same young lady within the last four and twenty hours, sir; and only one of those times was she escorted by a chaperone. Most improper in my day…"

Not at all what I had expected, thus, I momentarily found myself lost for an adequate response.

"A … young lady?"

"Auburn haired, brownest of eyes and poorly nourished. A frail young girl, who might profit from one of my mince and dumpling suppers. She came yesterday morning in the company of a very fine lady, the Countess Morcar, who has been in the papers this last week."

This, again, was quite new information to the man whose closest friend had dubbed `my Boswell`.

"And then, in the afternoon, she came again – alone – and was let in by Billy (I would have had a few words to say had I opened the door, Doctor). He said she stayed a half hour – a half hour, Doctor Watson! (and Mr Holmes with such a sick headache from yesterday`s shenanigans) What could a young lady need to stay a further half hour for when she had already visited a whole hour that very morning?"

By now, I had gathered myself slightly.

"Mrs Hudson, you must understand that Mr Holmes has a range of clients, regardless of age, gender or gentility, and sees them at his (and their) convenience. You may rest assured that no propriety would have been breeched. I do know of the lady, and I do understand her to be a most gentle, intelligent and articulate young woman. She has assisted Mr Holmes and myself greatly this past week (I lift the dead weight once more) and I believe her sensibilities to be above reproach."

Seemingly appeased (for the moment), Mrs Hudson merely sniffs, inclines her head and continues in our rather uncomfortable procession homewards. Windows along Baker Street do seem quite festive, however – a Christmas treat for tired eyes. Sprigs of holly fashioned above doorways into wreaths; Christmas roses peeping brightly out of vases within frosted windows, and candles glimmering in a warm, cosy and inviting fashion at almost every window.

No, not almost, but actually every window.

It seems that 221B, the last bastion of puritan sparseness, holds a small, flickering candelabra in its window, imbuing a soft, golden glow into the inky glass surrounding it.

"Oh, look Doctor Watson, Mr Holmes has lit my Christmas candlesticks at long last! I ask every year, but he never has until now."

And any remaining wisp of an improper thought is melted away, much as the frosts around the window at Baker Street, as she smiles in happiness. And, as I escort the lady and the monstrous goose up the stoop into the warmth of our hallway, I find myself idly wondering:

Two visits in one day?

~x~

Part Thirteen: An Opportune Circumstance

I am not a doctor. I cannot legally tell a tale of what ails a living body, or, indeed a dead one. I am a woman of little fortune, and as such, I must take my chances where I may.

However, a little miracle has happened, and I am adrift with the kind of joy that transcends a person. The kind of happiness that changes lives and gives succour to hopes and dreams and miracles.

One miracle would have been sufficient, but once Nature has decided where one joy must fall, it seems another must reconcile.

The year is 1895. I live in enlightened times, since an Act passed in 1876 permitted women to train as doctors. A dear friend of mine confided to me that her worst sufferings would have been spared had her physician been a woman, and I felt (feel) so strongly that a Dispensary run by a female staff would encourage the ladies who suffer in silence to come forward. Countess Morcar is good friends with a wonderful woman by the name of Elizabeth Garrett Anderson who has pioneered her own entry into the Society for Apothecaries, and who has extolled and encouraged the starting of a new apothecary - a dispensary for women who wish to speak to other women; who want to be seen, and to be understood.

The Countess has suffered great loss and must mourn daily for her family, yet her strong and benevolent nature has transcended any personal pain to assist her friend in this matter. With the aid of her significant fortune, she is funding a new establishment, the Marylebone Dispensary for Gentlewomen, which will open its doors in just under three months time. The place shall be well equipped with the most modern and high quality medical equipment, medicines and remedies, and staffed exclusively by women, including Miss Garrett Anderson herself.

And, as if this truly marvellous innovation was not enough, dear reader, there is another new and rather nervous employee who starts work at the Marylebone Dispensary in just under three months time.

Miss Margaret Anne Hooper.

Molly Hooper.

Myself.

I shall work in the dispensary as needed and shall also be funded by Countess Morcar to train as an actual physician at St Bart`s Hospital. The Countess appears to believe me deserving of such a great opportunity, and I can do nought but offer my heartfelt gratitude and my will to work my very hardest to justify such faith in a person.

"Faith in the goodness of others is all I have left to console me, my dear," she commented. "I could see your compassion shining forth like a beacon, and felt I must act upon the advice of Mr Holmes."

Mr Sherlock Holmes appears to have procured a little faith of his own.

And therein lies my other little miracle.

Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective, the darling of the newspapers and the populous, who consider themselves much safer with the energy and intellect of such a man on their side. A great thinker, a genius; his body a mere appendix to his brain, indifferent to the emotive desires and heartaches of the rest of the world (unless, of course, they result in a criminal or puzzling act which gleans his interest).

Sherlock Holmes, with his astonishingly bright eyes that see so much (of what we do not) and his dark, unruly curls, sharp cheekbones and long, nervous hands, moving constantly, with an immutable, nervous energy. Long, spare limbs wrapped within fine tailoring; pacing, searching, finding, knowing.

But Mr Holmes does not know all. He does not often explore the motives of his own heart; why would he? He considers himself to be a cold and focused individual, with little time or need for such distractions. This we have read in Dr Watson`s accounts of him, and from his own lips on several occasions, but I know, dear readers ...

I know differently.

~x~