Chapter ten: My fair lady

30th April 1887

I dropped in on Madame Lefèvre in the morning, and I took my necklace to see how it matched my evening gown. The colour of the fabric was just as I had reminisced, and the rich, golden tint was repeated in the gleaming jewelry, and occasional sparks in my hair which for once I let down. The mirror reflected my radiating face. You must not think me foolish, or superficial, hearing how much pleasure I derived from this fancy frippery. I beg you to remember I had not had a new dress in years, and certainly not such a splendid one – much less an opportunity to wear it.

I turned to the left, then to the right, then to the left again in my delight, and Madame cried: "Magnifique, ! You look a changed woman. This gown makes you a queen!"

"Thank ya!" I returned with an overjoyed smile, slightly reddening. "You certainly did an admirable job."

It was not an exaggeration. My dress was sheer satin, without any ornaments, but with a small train, and the not too deep neckline had been subtly veiled with organza, so as to blur the sight at the region where the scars began to trail down my décolleté. I found it very considerate of the tailor to have done it of her own accord, and without raising the question of my impairment, which she must have had observed when taking my measures. In addition, I had my mink stole to wrap around my shoulders, so that not a hint of the hideousness was to be discerned.

"Thank ya very, very much, Madame."

My taffeta dress was also prêt à porter, but it was less glamorous and not half as exciting for me. In my gratitude, I bought a nightdress and some lingerie before leaving Madame's shop, with the promise of returning as soon as I saw the need for a new dress.

The following hours I spent at the Cock&Horse, where my necklace went from hand to hand, and I was quite a bit chaffed for my sudden refinement.

"Gimme the necklace", Al Whittaker exclaimed, taking it between two fingers at every end. "Gawd awmighty! How she sparkles! Ain't she fancy? Ain't she a treat for pretty Kitty?", which resulted in much hilarity and my being called nothing but Pretty Kitty for the rest of the day.

"Get yer paws off me jewelry!" I groused, snatching it from his grasp. "All o' you!"

His mouth was agape in comical surprise, and the rest of the bar started to snicker. "Blimey", he finally observed. "She ain't gonna have her price taken off her, that's for sure. Where did you get your temper from, gal?"

"Must be the itch o' married loife!" Ernie called across the bar. "Eh, Kitty, ever'thing going smooth there?"

"Ay", Porkey confirmed. "As long as a woman gets tokens loike those, ever'thing's fine. She's going down well wiv 'er 'usband."

"Nah she must be going down on 'im, more like", Ernie returned with a brazen grin.

I rolled my eyes heavenwards, while Al laughed until he choked on his ale. He amused himself greatly, apparently he believed himself to be surrounded by the most entertaining set of people he had ever met. However it would not take him long to discover we actually were the lamest association of terrible bores.

Because we still laughed about them, little did any newcomer suspect that the stories we told had been repeated a hundred times before, in lack of any breaking news in our lives. The moment I had revealed my betrothal to my friends, I had been aware they would clutch at this juicy piece of sensation interrupting the monotony of their existence, and I had known it would become the target of ceaseless gossip, speculation, prophesy, calculation, betting, surmising, advising, chaffing and lewd jokes.

"I just wisht you wouldn't make me laugh my head off", Whittaker panted, wiping the corners of his eyes with his sleeve. "Jesus Christ. Tell me, Ernie, do you find Pretty Kitty changed? Do you find her real swell now that she's dabbing it up with a gen'leman?"

"Don't listen to them. They don't know how ter behave when a woman's around", Porkey told me, pulling Al's tweed cap over his forehead and eyes.

oooOOOooo

Around noon time, I had quite enough of the banter and returned home, where I was sure to find the sandwich and cup of coffee reliably had ready for me. I had almost climbed the stairs to my room, however, when she called after me: "Madam! I laid out your tea in the drawing room today. Mr. Holmes is in, so I presumed you would like to have it together…"

"I see."

A slight frown etched into my forehead. This was most unusual. As a rule, Holmes would rise early, see clients in the morning, leave the house at some point during the day and return only at dinner time. I had never known him to deviate from this routine in the whole two weeks of our married life.

"Thank you, Mrs.'udson. Take these parcels up fer me, will ya?"

I waited till she was out of earshot, and knocked at my husband's door, entering only when he asked me to. My surprise augmented when I found him in shirt sleeves at his work bench, busy with several small vials of a murky, mud-coloured content. Obviously, he had not left the house at all.

"Oh, it's you. Mrs. Hudson has put your sandwich over there on the sideboard. Ring the bell if your tea has grown cold. You must excuse me, I am not hungry."

He stooped over his curious occupation again, and I went to fetch my luncheon and settled down by the window.

"I am surprised to see", he observed after some little time, and without lifting his head," that you prefer Madame Lefèvre's to all the other tailor shops in Bond Street, for I find her a little conservative in her taste. Then again, I don't claim to be an expert in ladies' couture."

I felt my mouth gape open, and hurried to shut it.

"No doubt you are at a loss to explain how I know of your choice", he proceeded, looking up with a clement smile.

"Yer right, I can't explain it. You would 'ave 'ad a clue if I 'ad brought my packages in, but as it is…"

"It's simplicity itself", he declared. "Ever before you went out today, I suspected she would be your aim, for you mentioned it took your tailor a fortnight to make your dress. The amount of time is unusual, but Madame Lefèvre is known for her independency, she is the rare kind of tailor that employs no other seamstresses and does nearly everything on her own."

"Not bad", I chuckled, "but a somewhat shaky hypothesis, after all."

"Tut, it is not all data I have", he cried, raising one of his vitreous vials to the light. "Apart from the bill sticking out of one of your gloves, your boots supply me with another very suggestive clue. It is due to my current examination that I am able to deduce from it your whereabouts in the morning."

"I'm afraid I cannot guess at what this clue might be", I returned in puzzlement, glancing down at my boots.

"The splashes, my dear! The stains of humid soil! This clayish brick-coloured substance to be found in Bond Street and environments is quite unique, but the only way to come upon bare soil is to cross the public green space in front of Madame Lefèvre's, corner Hannover Square, if I am not much mistaken. I can see you also visited Sevendials, but later, for the splashes are not as yet dried up on the boot-cap."

"You seem to know the colour and consistence of the soil in almost every part of town", I marveled. "Is that what your current experiment is about?"

"Exactly." With a wave of his hand, he proudly indicated the array of glass containers on his bench. "This is what kept me busy during the past weeks. I made excursions far and wide throughout the City, taking samples from every district. Two hundred specimen in thirteen days. I don't count the lost day when I was detained at a police station in Soho for breaking up the pavement on the sidewalk with a chisel."

"You appear to 'ave made a very thorough study o' it."

"It will be of inestimable use to me. I had knowledge in this field before, but it was incomplete and unsystematic. This series, however, will enable me tell any place in Greater London any man or woman may have come from, without fail."

"I congratulate you", I replied, mildly mocking him, but he did not seem to realize, taking my words at face value. I finished my tea quietly and then went over to have a look at the slate-brick-ochre-and ink coloured bits of soil he had distributed on a white sheet of paper, transforming them into muddy splotches with a water pipette. Apparently, he thought it the most sensible and rewarding of pastimes, and I decided to leave him in that belief.

"Well, enjoy yerself", I chuckled, "but if them splotches should take up yer time tomorrow, you 'ad better not change into yer evening dress too early, lest it be besmirched."

"Lest it be…." he turned around slowly, then rose so suddenly I had to recoil instantly. "Besmirched?" he repeated, deeply hurt, "besmirched? My good woman, you will hardly ever have seen me besmirched, or in any other inadequate state of dress! I do not suppose you are in any way entitled to teach me how to attend an event of this category!"

To say I was confused would have been an understatement. "But 'olmes, I assure you I didn't mean ter – "

"There!" he cried exasperatedly. "Mind your own shortcomings! Perhaps you will eventually take the pains of learning to pronounce this name properly. Holmes, it's Holmes, Kitty! Pray tell me you are not going to humble me in public by h-dropping a name that is not only, since recently and by mere chance, linked to your person, but first and foremost to my own!"

I felt my eyes water with burning humiliation. How could he be so cruel and make merry of my low level of breeding and education? I had tried hard to work on my accent, I really had!

He saw very well he had hurt my feelings with his tactless words, and calmed down a little. "There, there, my lass. Don't look so glum. I am somewhat annoyed at times, you know that, and you should also know I am not always serious."

"No", I muttered, "No, I know you aren't."

"So pray don't sulk, I can't stand a sulking woman. There's a good girl."

I made an effort and smiled, and he briefly smiled back at me.

"Alright", I said, taking care not to relapse into my customary speech habits. "See ya ba – later."

I headed over for the door, when he called: "By the way, Kitty…"

"Yes?" I turned around quickly. He had resumed his occupation, his eyes unflinchingly fixed on it.

"How did you plan to spend your afternoon? Are you going out again?"

"No", I replied, "actually I intended to go upstairs and lay down for a while."

"Oh, I see", he remarked casually. "Ahm – I shall – join you – in a couple of minutes, when I'm done here – that is, if you have no objection."

I felt an inexplicable hot and cold shiver pass through my body, and I had to avert my face, which I felt must be flaming red. "No…no, please. I'm - at present - I can't – that is…"

"Of course", he replied hastily, "I quite understand. Naturally, I shall leave you alone then."

He coughed gently. This piece of information seemed to be more embarrassing to him than anything had before.

"Well…so long, then", I stammered unhappily, escaping his presence and sinking against the closed door on the outside with a little sigh, eyes shut. If only, only I could become pregnant as soon as possible, all would be well. How was I supposed to survive this constant ordeal of awkwardness? How was he?

Well Kitty! You have made your bed and now you must lie in it…and no, this is not the least bit a collocation *snigger* I know I have a heart of stone. But perhaps there is a spark of hope somewhere in the darkness…though huh, Holmes is terribly sensitive. Why's that?

Sorry for the disabled pm, it should be fine now. And thank you so much for all of your lovely reviews!^^

Love, Mrs.F

Cockney:

To dab it up with – to have sex with

…my head off – …real hard