Chapter Nine

It was not until they were ensconced in a treatment room, enjoying a body wrap, that Molly had the opportunity to put the question that she'd been dying to ask all day.

'Caro, what was Sherlock's mother really like?'

The other lady took a deep breath and then replied with another question.

'What do you already know about her?'

'Hardly anything. Sherlock rarely talks about his childhood but when he does, it's always something negative. But I understand that his parents had very little to do with him but that Mycroft was the apple of their eye,' Molly replied, succinctly.

'Well, that is a pretty fair account of the situation and that could lead one to make some rather damning assumptions about the Holmeses as parents and as people but, obviously, it doesn't really tell the whole story.'

'No, of course not. I've always assumed that there must be more to this than meets the eye. I do find it hard to understand how a mother could reject her own child so completely. It's unfathomable to me,' Molly replied.

'Well, let me start at the very beginning and tell you about the Violet Holmes that I knew,' Caro declared. 'When I met Violet, we were both thirteen and we had just arrived at Roedean, a most prestigious girls' boarding school. She was so bright and bubbly, such a beauty even at that young age. And she was so intelligent, too. We were there for three years, until we had taken out O-levels – I think they call them GCSE's, now. Violet's results were the highest of our year. She got straight 'A's in all her subjects – English Language, English Lit, History, Geography, Maths, Chemistry, Biology and four languages – French, German, Spanish and Latin. She absolutely excelled at both science and languages.'

'I can see who Sherlock takes after, then. Those are his strongest areas. I think he speaks about ten languages and he picks up new ones really easily.'

'Yes, you're right. Mycroft is his father's son but Sherlock is his mother's child, which makes it all the more tragic that she never bonded with him. However, I digress. Despite her exemplary exam results, there was never any question of Violet staying on at school to take A-levels and go on to university. Her family had already decided her fate. Being a girl, she was destined to become someone's wife and someone's mother. We both were. That's how things worked in our kind of families, in those days.'

'At the age of sixteen, we were both packed off to Finishing School in Switzerland, to learn how to be ladies in order to attract a husband and make a good marriage. We travelled there together and I remember Violet cried all the way. She actually cried virtually non-stop for the first six weeks of term but no one had any sympathy for her – except me, of course. I didn't mind being there, to be honest. I wasn't academically bright and I had no illusions about my appearance. I was a 'sturdy girl', they used to say. I was quite chunky in build – much as I am now – and I was cheerful and practical. But those characteristics don't necessarily attract good husbands, so going to Finishing School was a saving grace for me.

But for Violet, it was like a death sentence. She had an active enquiring brain and a very low threshold for boredom.'

More parallels with Sherlock, Molly thought.

'But, after six weeks of utter misery, she seemed to accept her fate and just knuckled down and got on with it. She was so beautiful and elegant; she barely needed any lessons in deportment. We learned ballroom dance and she was like a ballerina on the dance floor – so light and graceful. They taught us to cook and sew, to make charming conversation and to organise social events. Once she put her mind to it, she came top of the class in everything. Floristry was perhaps her favourite subject because she knew all the Latin names of the plants and flowers. It was the closest she could get to Science.'

'We both 'came out' when we were eighteen and it came as no surprise that she was the leading debutante of our year. She made the front page of all the society magazines – Tatler, Country Life, Horse and Hound. She even made the fashion magazines because she could wear anything and still look fabulous. It was at one of the debutante balls that she caught the eye of Randolph Holmes. Her parents were absolutely thrilled. He was such a good catch. He came from a very good family, related to the British peerage on his mother's side, and a real rising star in diplomatic circles. They were engaged within the month and married three months after that.'

Molly was shocked to her core. She could not believe that something as important as choosing one's life partner could be done in such a cold and calculating way. It put her in mind of a stud farm.

'I can see what you're thinking, Molly, but I must tell you that arranged marriages are still very common amongst the British nobility. I met my husband in much the same circumstances and we have been happily married for over forty years, now, so it can work sometimes.'

'But not in Violet's case?'

'No, sadly not. To Randolph Holmes, she was a trophy wife, something to be shown off, something for other men to covet. She was just an object of desire to him, like an Armani suit or a Jaguar car. It was a loveless marriage.'

For the first time, Molly began to feel a little sorry for Violet Holmes. She must have been a very unhappy woman. But it still didn't explain her rejection of Sherlock. After all, she had adored Mycroft.

Caro was speaking again.

'Mycroft was conceived very soon after they married. Violet was barely nineteen when she gave birth to him – still a child herself, really, but she actually rather enjoyed being pregnant. It was the happiest I'd seen her in years. But Randolph was a selfish and impatient man. He resented her complete emersion in her pregnancy and he was jealous of the attention she gave to the baby, even before he was born, so he had affairs. To be honest, he had always had affairs when he was away from home but he began to have affairs at home too.

When Violet found out, she was so hurt. She had kept to her side of the bargain. She had run his home, entertained his guests and bourn him an heir and he couldn't even be faithful. So she made the decision to deny him his conjugal rights. She told him he could have as many affairs as he wished but she would never sleep with him again.'

She stopped talking and the big question hung in the air. Molly dared not voice it. It was too explosive an issue. The uncomfortable silence stretched on and on.

Eventually, Caro spoke again.

'I can't tell you the rest of the story, Molly. I don't think it's fair that I tell anyone but Sherlock himself. But I must ask you whether you think I should tell him the facts about the circumstances surrounding his birth. Do you think he would want to know the truth?'

Molly could not answer that question right away. It took some consideration and soul searching and trying to put herself in Sherlock's place. But, at last, she came to a conclusion.

'I think Sherlock would prefer to know the truth, however uncomfortable that might be. He is obsessed with facts and truths. Truth is absolute and unchanging. You only have to come to terms with it once. I think you should tell him – as soon as possible.'

Caro gave a firm nod.

'You know him better than anyone, possibly even better than Mycroft does, now. I'll take your advice. I'll tell him on Sunday – after the garden party is over, if you think that's soon enough.'

'After all these years, I think it can wait until after the garden party. If he's really upset by what you tell him, it would make it impossible for him to advocate on behalf of the Centre. So after is best,' Molly concluded. 'Just one thing, though, Caro. Can I ask, does Mycroft know the truth?'

'Oh, no, Molly, he has no idea. I am the only person alive who knows. I've kept Violet's secret for all these years. I haven't even told my husband. It's the only secret I've ever kept from him.'

The rest of the afternoon went by in a bit of a haze for Molly. She was so preoccupied with what Caro had told her. She felt such a deep sorrow for poor Violet, the brilliant scholar who was denied the opportunity to use her intellect, virtually sold into a loveless marriage of convenience and then treated like an object by a selfish, arrogant man.

She really could have cried for the poor woman but for the fact that she seemed to have taken out her misery on her youngest child. Molly had always felt there must be more to this story. And it was high time the full facts were heard by the person to whom it meant the most. She just hoped that this truth didn't destroy him completely.

ooOoo

Had it not been for this enormous weight she felt on her shoulders, Molly would have been thrilled with her Pamper Afternoon. From Body Wrap and body scrub to Aromatherapy Massage; full facial, hair treatment and styling, manicure and pedicure; waxing and threading, she had been primped and groomed to within an inch of her life. When she looked in the mirror, at the end of it all, she barely recognised herself. She positively glowed.

'Oh, my dear, you look so lovely!' Caro exclaimed. Molly smiled, shyly. She had never in her entire life had so much attention paid to her by so many people in such a short period of time. It felt odd but rather nice. She couldn't wait to see what Sherlock would say. He would notice the difference, of course. He noticed everything.

Caro took her leave late in the afternoon, with a promise to be back the next day to take Molly for her dress fitting. She thanked her, waved goodbye and carried her shopping bags into the lift and up to their suite. She opened the door and stepped inside. The sitting room was empty, with a few of Freddie's toys scattered on the floor, but the big windows to the balcony were open and she could hear Freddie chattering out there.

She put her bags on the table and walked outside. Sherlock was stretched out on the sun lounger, with Freddie sitting between his knees and William tucked under one arm. They were looking at something on Sherlock's tablet but when she appeared in front of them, she was greeted by excited squealing from Freddie and admiring looks from the other two.

'Come and see what I bought!' Molly squealed back, scooping Freddie up off the lounger and holding out a hand to William, who scrambled out from under Sherlock's arm and rushed to take it.

'You, too, Daddy,' she added, as she disappeared back through the window.

Sherlock rolled off the lounger and followed after, curious to see her purchases but, more to the point, fascinated by the aura that seemed to surround her. It reminded him of when she was pregnant. Her natural beauty was shining through. She had clearly had a lovely time.

He sat on the sofa and watched her taking items of clothing out of the various bags and showing them to the boys. For Freddie, she had bought a pair of knee-length shorts in khaki, a green and white striped t-shirt and a green baseball cap; for William, a pair of blue denim knee-length shorts and a pale yellow polo shirt, with a marching denim baseball cap. She'd also bought both boys a Onesie – a rabbit one for Freddie and a Snoopy one for William. They were very keen to try these on and, having done so, both ran round the sitting room, squealing, Freddie trying very hard to keep up with his big brother but never quite catching him.

Molly sat down on the sofa next to Sherlock and put a small package into his hand. He looked at it – the size, the shape – and knew exactly what it was without opening it - a bottle of Attimo pour Homme by Salvador Ferragamo. He leaned over and kissed her.

'Thank you. I needed some more of that. And, by the way, may I say that you look absolutely lovely? Have you enjoyed your day?'

She smiled and nodded and curled into his side. She wasn't going to say anything at all about Caro's revelations. She didn't want to spoil this moment. Come Sunday, he would hear it all, first hand.

ooOoo