Chapter Ten: "Whisper of the Garden"
14th May, 1889
It was a fittingly bright and cheery Tuesday early afternoon in mid May when a smiling Dr. John Watson stepped out of the hansom cab newly arrived at 221b Baker Street. Although perhaps it was more fitting to say that he bounded from the carriage with all the expected glee of a ten year old who had just found that he had been given the pet he had always asked for. He was nearly at the door before he suddenly skidded to a halt, and with many effusive apologies, turned back to pay the bemused driver before swiftly moving back to his intended destination, his bag swinging jauntily in his hand as he rang the doorbell.
After a few moments, as ever, Mrs. Hudson appeared to open the door, her face breaking immediately into a smile that reflected the beaming face awaiting her on the doorstep. "Good afternoon, Doctor! You're looking remarkably chipper today!"
"And a good afternoon to you, Mrs. Hudson! Isn't it a glorious afternoon?" he replied, as she stepped back to allow him inside. "Is Holmes at home?"
"Just finishing lunch, Doctor," she answered with a nod. "Or what passes for lunch with him," she huffed slightly.
"Splendid!" he exclaimed, already heading up the stairs after hanging his bowler hat on the peg by the door. "I'll just head on up then."
"Come in, Watson," Holmes called loudly prior to the door opening, not looking up from his perusal of the last of his morning papers, while in one hand a half eaten sandwich seemed permanently poised midway between his plate and his mouth. "You're early...and from the sound of it, just as enthused as I expected."
Opening the door, entering, and placing his bag down on the side table by the door, Watson strode over to his friend, pulling out a large thick card from his inside jacket pocket. "Indeed I am! I, and Mary too of course, have just been invited to the Prince of Wales's Charity Rose Ball! I cannot wait to tell Mary...she'll be utterly over the moon, old man!"
Holmes's eyes not did not move so much as an inch from the paper he was reading, his manner completely unsurprised. "The Kew Gardens affair on the thirty-first. Yes. I had heard there was a scramble for invitations even amongst the more prominent nobility." He absently pointed at his desk with the finger of the hand holding the half eaten sandwich. "My invitation arrived courtesy of Mr. Martin Yeates this morning, and he informed me yours was delivered by courier to your practice. He asked me to convey his thanks to you once more, and hopes this might in some small way convey that gratitude. Apparently one of his uncles, a Sir Ralph Yeates-Lavelle, joined the Prince's staff," he informed him, sounding markedly underwhelmed. "He felt invitations to this exclusive event were the least he could do for our help over that Lucifer's Playground matter...personally I was rather more concerned with his keeping our bargain on his restitution for past deeds." He turned the page of his paper slowly. "Which I'm pleased to say he's doing admirably."
"What a kind gesture!" Watson wholeheartedly acknowledged, not entirely shocked that his friend was not the least bit enthusiastic about the event. "And that is wonderful to hear," he added, continuing to beam at the detective as he took his seat across from him.
His friend nodded. "Yes, it is encouraging...his reparations and repentance for his life of gentlemanly burglary continues apace, and he informs me that our wronged Mr. Pearson and his young widow have been happily married, and are comfortably settled thanks to the 'dowry' he gave them." There was a note of great satisfaction in his voice as he relayed the news, the index finger of his other hand tracing the page of the Daily Telegraph, his eyes following along. "As for the Rose Ball, and His Highness's invitation, I'm sure you and Mary will have a fine time."
Watson stared at him for a full minute. "You are not coming?" he breathed, unsure if he had heard correctly.
"A sharp deduction, Watson," Holmes responded with the slightest of smiles, before glancing up from the paper. "I am not," he confirmed stoutly.
"But why?" the doctor gaped. "This is the Rose Ball! The newspapers have been full of nothing else for months! Invitations are rarer then hen's teeth! You must go! Oh dear fellow...you really should think about this..."
"I have thought about it, Watson...I gave it, oh...at least a full five seconds of my time before I disregarded it entirely," he cut in, and at last placed the hovering sandwich back down on the plate. "Prince of Wales or not, Charity Rose Ball or not, you know my feelings on these overblown social events."
"Yes...but...still, it's for charity, and from reports, it promises to be a once in a lifetime event! The preparations alone are causing…" The older man paused, his brow creased as he remembered something. "What about Miss Thurlow, Holmes? Did she receive an invitation?"
"Mr. Yeates made no indication of it," Holmes replied, pouring himself another cup of tea. "He distinctly said the number of invitations he received from his uncle, quite apart from his own, of course, were two in number - one for yourself and Mary, and one for myself and a guest." He set about adding milk and sugar to his beverage.
The other man's eyes widened. "Well, that won't do! She was a great help to you in the investigation, and not inviting her...well...it just isn't cricket."
Holmes raised an eyebrow at his friend's vehemence over the teacup that was now raised to his lips. Lowering it somewhat, he gazed at him with tolerant amusement. "I'm sure Mr. Yeates meant no disrespect to the excellent Miss Thurlow. He is most probably unaware of her being instrumental in our being called in on the case...and the subsequent part she played alongside ourselves." He moved the teapot towards the doctor. "Please, help yourself, Watson."
Nodding his thanks, his friend's face was marked with a frown of concern as he rose to his feet. "Well, there's nothing for it," he subsequently concluded with determination, retrieving a second cup and pouring himself some tea. "She simply must go. It is only right and fair. Even more so as she is now out of full mourning, which will make matters easier."
"You are assuming, of course, that she wishes to go, Watson. As it stands, I would gladly forward the invitation to her, but it is clearly made out to myself, and I have sincere doubts that Miss Thurlow could pass for me, even in the worst of light," the detective pointed out with a smile.
Watson froze in mid stir, a light suddenly appearing in his eyes as an idea presented itself, and as his head rose the smile forming on his lips was plain to see.
Holmes caught it immediately, and lowered his cup to its saucer. "Watson, whatever it is that has come into that misguided mind of yours, dispense with it directly. Your obvious manipulations last month with regards to Miss Thurlow and myself were quite discomforting enough. Do not compound your error any further with more unsubtle and futile matchmaking. You know my thoughts on social events...you know even better my thoughts on women and romance!"
Reddening slightly at the reminder of the exceptionally stern lecture he had received from his friend in the aftermath of Mary and his own attempted matchmaking in the form of a concert engagement, the doctor shook his head quickly. "No, no, old man! Perish the thought! No, I have merely found a way that Miss Thurlow can attend the Ball," he assured the suspicious consulting detective. "I obviously cannot escort her, as I will be escorting Mary, but you could...as a friend only, of course! You have a guest space upon your invitation…and after all, it is only right that she receive thanks and the reward for a job well done as well. And since she will not be able to participate fully in the festivities...you will not even have to dance with her!"
Still watching him warily, Holmes weighed Watson's words carefully, eventually having to confess to himself, albeit grudgingly, that they held at least a modicum of merit. "She does deserve the thanks of Mr. Yeates as much as we do...of that there can be no doubt," he admitted, his brow creasing a little, as his long fingers began to thrum on the desk. "And it's true that while her escort, I should not be obliged to dance with her due to her remaining in half mourning. Still…" he added, "Miss Thurlow will not be the only woman in the place, and all of them will be highly disposed towards a waltz, a gavotte, or a polka!"
His face reflected more than a measure of distaste at the idea of having to submit himself to such a possibility, but gradually became a veritable picture of dramatically resigned self sacrifice as he resolved that he would simply have to venture into the proverbial lion's den for the sake of a friend and what was the 'right thing to do.'
A moment later, however, his eyes narrowed again at his colleague. "Watson, if I do accept to go and to invite Miss Thurlow, I shall require a serious undertaking from both you and your lady wife to refrain from indulging the nuptial haze you are currently wallowing in with any further attempts at fostering romantic feeling where none exists." He picked up his teacup once more. "There is nothing but friendly feeling for Miss Thurlow on my part...and on hers also. Do I have your word on your own and Mary's behalf?"
The doctor nodded quickly in reply. "Of course! Of course! No matchmaking, I promise. And I am sure Miss Thurlow will be pleased to see you. After all, she commented to Mary last week that she enjoys your conversations...from a purely intellectual perspective, of course," he added hurriedly, determined to avoid another prolonged lecture. "I am sure you will both entertain yourselves accordingly."
Holmes gauged his friend's reaction carefully, before releasing the long suffering sigh that had been threatening to emerge ever since he realised that he had been caught up in Yeates's obligation to their friend. "Very well..." he agreed, shaking his head, as if facing the most arduous of chores in the attendance of this ball, "I will send her a telegram informing her of the invitation and asking to see if she would care to accompany me."
"Excellent!" came the exuberant exclamation of his friend. "Now! What can I aid you with today?"
Putting aside his disgruntlement, Holmes brightened significantly at the prospect of work. Picking up the pages of the Telegraph, he leaned forward, handing them to the doctor, a veritable gleam in his eye as he pointed to a story of a break in to a foundry on page three. "Tell me now, Watson, what do you make of that?"
31st May, 1889
In the distance, the bells of St. Mary le Strand had long since struck seven, the clock now nearing seven-thirty as the hired brougham trundled down en route from Charing Cross towards the Strand, Temple, and the Embankment of the Thames with its lone passenger seated inside, resplendent in a dove grey gown of silk and ribbons that perfectly matched her wide and currently anxiety-filled eyes. Reaching a gloved hand up to her hair, Helen nervously fiddled with the long spiralled curls that hung loose down her back, though most of her hair was caught up in loose twists.
She still could not believe she was en route to the Rose Ball, and was still rather stunned that it was Mr. Holmes of all people who asked her to accompany him. He had stated his reasons plainly enough, and she was immensely flattered and gratified that he wished to include her in the 'spoils' of the Lucifer Hunt case as it were. However, even though he had clearly underlined the 'practicality' of the evening by suggesting they meet rather than his collecting her, the receipt of his invitation and the idea of spending an evening with him in such grand and beautiful surrounds had made her stomach jump and her heart race in so worrying a way that she knew it could cause nothing but trouble, most especially for her.
Having turned down from South Street onto Strand and gazing out at Strand Palace as they approached, she was both eagerly awaiting and dreading the evening ahead. On the positive side, it was tremendously exciting to be part of something so unique and spectacular...and the chance of meeting the Prince of Wales was to be a stunning high point. It was hard to fathom how far she had come in so short a time, from struggling seamstress living in near squalor in a run down two roomed flat in Camden to this. However, her excitement was tempered by these affectionate feelings for her friend, rescuer, and escort, feelings that she was now forced to admit had been growing slowly for months and which had only been exacerbated by their concert engagement a month previous, and that, try as she might, would not leave her in peace.
The harder she denied them, the stronger they returned. There wasn't a day that had passed since Sharapov's concert that her mind hadn't turned to him, wondering where he was and what it was he was doing. It had disappointed her terribly that Dr. Watson, in the aftermath of that concert and for some hasty reason, had switched her subsequent appointments with him to his practice. She had understood that it was indeed more practical given his new marital circumstances, though she feared the truth of it had much more to do with the talk that Mr. Holmes had informed her he would be having with his medical friend.
She could well imagine what had been said - the most strenuous of reproaches to the good doctor, and a stern dressing down for daring to attempt to suggest in a roundabout fashion that Holmes might do well to think on her in a romantic fashion. Dwelling on such thoughts and the words that passed from the imagined Mr. Holmes's lips in denial of that fact proved to be more distressing than she cared for.
In any event, for whatever reason, the good doctor had changed the venue, and the outcome of which was that it deprived her of the legitimate opportunity to interact with Holmes, which in turn had only increased her thoughts of him. So much so that now, she was terrified that she would do or say something to the recipient of her tender musings on meeting him again, or that would turn her into one of those gushing female aficionados that made him cringe and set him to flight, thereby threatening their carefully constructed friendship. A friendship that she would not see harmed for all the world.
A moment later, she was jarred out of her thoughts as the carriage came to a halt beside a barrier on the turn down to Lancaster Place and Waterloo Bridge, which in turn would lead them to Victoria Embankment and her embarkation point. This sentry post was manned by a group of very business-like policemen, who upon finding her name upon a list politely wished her a good evening before allowing her to continue on both in journey and in thoughts.
Forcing her mind away from Holmes, she concentrated again on the reality facing her and the benefits of the night, so that by the time the carriage pulled up behind a stream of others moving along the tree lined embankment towards Cleopatra's Needle, the two bronze sphinxes, and the massively long and plush red carpet which had been laid beyond them, she was again sufficiently excited for the night to begin, and determined to put only friendship on the evening's agenda.
As she alit from the carriage and joined the throng of equally anticipatory guests on the walk along the scarlet runner, they were watched from some distance from behind more barriers at either end of the Embankment at Northumberland Avenue and Temple by what appeared to be half of London. Walking with the other invitees towards the stewards, she watched as they directed their eminent passengers to one or other of the brightly illuminated river boats that stood awaiting them at Charing Cross Pier in the gradually gathering dusk.
Both boats were festooned with literally hundreds of small, ornate pagoda style lanterns especially made for the occasion, which were lit and draped from stem to stern, and strung in lines from stack to prow. Soft renditions of Handel's Water Music emanated from the string quartets on each, as the vessels stood ready and waiting for the elegant and smooth champagne cruise up the Thames towards Richmond and Kew Gardens.
Beyond the stewards, on the bank near one of the carpeted gangways, Holmes withdrew his gaze from the watching crowd towards the Tower Bridge side of the Embankment, and turned back towards Watson and Mary. Both men were pristine in their dress suits, the fine, warm, late May evening making the overcoats and hats they had draped over their arms redundant for the moment. Clad in a beautiful blue satin off the shoulder gown, her hair in blonde ringlets, Mary listened with apparent nervousness to her husband's soft words, as he pointed out certain luminaries and nobility approaching along the carpet as they waited.
Holmes's eyes drifted back over the line, his height giving him an advantage, and raised his chin on spotting whom they were waiting for. "Ah..." he said, "here is Miss Thurlow now." His head cocked slightly on taking in her gown. "I must confess it is something of a relief to see her out of the black of mourning."
Following the detective's gaze, Mary's blue eyes widened, not having seen her friend since she had officially come out of full mourning a week previous. "Oh my, John...she looks stunning!" she breathed. "Indeed...colour suits her much better, Sherlock...though she looks more than a little nervous."
Watson nodded in agreement. "You're quite right, my dear…on both counts." His eyes twinkled, as he smiled at her. "The two of you make quite the matching pair in that regard...on both counts."
Mary gave her husband a shy smile. "Well, it is not every day one meets the heir to the throne, my dearest."
"Quite true," he admitted. "Quite true...and it is not every day he gets to meet someone as charming as you. I'll have to watch my step...and his," he harrumphed jokingly.
She chuckled softly, and squeezed his arm. "On that count, you never have to fear."
Holmes stifled a sigh at the couple's to and fro, having been in its presence since he had arrived in the carriage to collect them from their home. "I believe," he cut in, formulating his temporary escape, "I will escort Miss Thurlow the rest of the way to expedite her passage past the stewards." Giving Mary a quick bow and handing Watson his coat and hat, he turned on his heel, and moved down the carpet in singular opposition to the noble traffic towards his quarry.
Helen, for her part, had slowly been making her way down the carpet in an attempt to use the time to bolster her resolve; however, as she turned her head to see how close she was to the boats, she caught sight of her approaching escort as he strode with a calm and consummately self possessed air down the walkway to her in the late evening sunshine, her breath hitching at how his perfectly his suit was tailored to his long, lean frame.
"Miss Thurlow," he greeted her, stopping by her side and bowing before offering her his hand. "Good evening."
Swallowing lightly, and hoping with her entire being that he would take any stumbling as nervousness to the surroundings, she forced herself to take his hand. "Good evening," she replied, praying her voice was at least level. "It is good to see you once more, Mr. Holmes."
"A pleasure as always," he returned smoothly, bending over her gloved hand and lightly kissing it.
Inwardly cursing the odd flush that shot through her, she managed to give him a friendly smile as he straightened. "And how have you been? I believe the last time I saw you was at the concert," she opined, marvelling that she was able to sound so casual about it.
"I have been passably well, thank you. Busy thankfully…an innocuous theft of steel at an iron foundry that turned out to have more far reaching implications for state security…most interesting, I shall have to tell you of it some time," he replied, offering her his arm. "Though we have yet to continue our discussions from the concert, our last time together as you say." He peered down the slow moving line before drawing her out of it. "A shame, as it was quite enjoyable."
"Only passably well?" she enquired teasingly, a small smile on her lips at his alert manner and his admission that he was keen on further conversation with her. "Yes, I must admit I too found it regrettable that we could not talk more," she understated in the most profound of manners. "Tell me, how fare your articles? Have you managed to complete them?"
Looking eminently pleased at her inquiry and continued interest in the subject, he smiled contentedly. "Indeed, I have. I finished them just days after that. Since then, both have been submitted to and straight away accepted by varying distinguished journals."
He paused for just a moment, and then without any warning whatsoever, took her with him as he walked briskly along the edge of the carpet, straight past the line of now queuing guests towards the stewards, stopping only to say, "Miss Helen Thurlow, she is on my invitation," to the Chief Steward. The unfortunate man could only look after them in the most startled fashion, as he was brushed past and left frantically to search his list for the name, while the other stewards dealt with the huffs of indignation from the other guests. Holmes, oblivious to them all, led Helen straight to Watson and Mary.
Flashing an apologetic smile back at the frazzled steward, Helen hurried along side of him as best she could, one of his strides equalling nearly two of her steps, and she was more than a little relieved, if slightly winded, when they reached their friends.
"Good evening, Doctor...Mary," she greeted them with a smile, as they watched their approach with an odd mixture of mild mortification and resigned amusement at Holmes's impatient nature.
"Good evening, Miss Thurlow." Watson took her hand as she moved it from Holmes's arm in greeting and bowed over it. "You look perfectly charming this evening. Holmes and I are fortunate men indeed in the attractiveness of our companions."
Helen gave him a warm, shy smile in return. "Thank you, Doctor, you are too kind as always...though indeed Mary, you look quite amazing this evening!"
The blond woman smiled, and took a step to give her friend a quick hug, as her husband moved aside. "Thank you, Helen...but it is you that looks wondrous. That dress most certainly suits your eyes. And your hair is quite delightful!"
Holmes's attention drifted quickly as the exchange of feminine pleasantries went on, his own eyes moving from the arriving guests to fix once again on the crowd nearest the Westminster end of the Embankment. "The police are far too lax in their duties," he commented in contrast to the discussion of dresses and hair.
Helen blinked, and turned to follow his gaze. "What makes you say that, Mr. Holmes?" she enquired.
"I number amongst our fellow guests this evening, at least three Members of Parliament, who would be and in fact are excellent targets for political assassination...and two Foreign Dignitaries whose unpopularity in some of our more extreme domestic groupings would see them equally prime for such treatment. Those people are far too close...one well aimed shot with a long barrelled hand gun or rifle, and we could have an international incident and not a glorified garden party."
Watson gazed at the distant crowd. "Really, Holmes...that suspicious mind of yours. The chances of that happening are..."
"Far higher than you would care to admit," Holmes finished, turning back to him.
Shaking his head, the doctor clapped his shoulder. "Admit it, Holmes, you are seeking divertissement from what you fear will be a dreary evening amongst the flowers."
"It is not the flowers I seek divertissement from, Watson," his friend replied, watching the parade of the great and the greatly wealthy. "The flowers and I get along splendidly."
"Well then, Holmes...consider us all fragrant blossoms for the evening," Watson returned with a chuckle.
The detective huffed as he was flagrantly teased. "Really, Watson...you do say the most absurd things. I would keep your husband well clear of the champagne on offer tonight, Mrs. Watson," he addressed Mary with a sniff.
The blond woman's laugh was low but heartfelt at that. "Most assuredly, Sherlock. I plan to keep him well occupied this evening, for I have been quite looking forward for the opportunity to dance...we both heartily enjoyed it last Christmas."
"I wish you well of it," he replied with an air of resignation. "I've no doubt with the Prince of Wales at the helm, this affair shall waltz well into the early hours of the morning." He paused, and regarded her for a moment. "Though...undoubtedly, it would be rude of me not to request at least one turn about the floor when you receive your dance card?"
Mary smiled, and inclined her head. "I shall look forward to it, Sherlock," she agreed, before catching the flash of melancholy that she saw flit over her auburn haired friend's face, and decided to change the subject.
"Excellent," he voiced, before straightening, and clasping his hands behind his back, a somewhat victorious smile forming on his face. "Then I claim the first quadrille...and that should ensure my presence upon the floor is seen so nothing further shall be expected of me in that regard."
As Mary nodded in reply, Helen turned away to gaze out over the river. She had always loved dancing, and though it had been regretful she could not participate at the Foundation's Christmas Party, for this event it was most disappointing. Reining in a sigh, she watched the lights glint over the water, and wondered if coming had been such a good idea after all.
"I say..." Watson mused with a shake of his head, as a rather distinguished elderly gentleman passed by with a much younger woman on his arm and walked up the carpeted gangplank to board. "We are travelling in distinguished company tonight. Wasn't that Lord Saddlestone, the former Tory Party Chairman, Holmes?"
"I believe so," Holmes agreed with a slight nod.
Watson smiled as he watched the pair mingled. "How charming...he's brought his granddaughter with him."
Mary coughed quietly. "Um, darling...that's not his granddaughter."
Holmes's laughter burst from him, as he heartily clapped Watson upon the back. "His granddaughter…Watson, my dear fellow, you do know how to raise a chap's spirits. Really, Watson, there are so many clues it fairly glows."
"Well that's all very well for you to know, Holmes," the doctor grumbled, before turning to his wife with a puzzled frown. "But how on earth did you know that?" he exclaimed.
Mary's fan fluttered over her face to hide her smile. "I read about their marriage in The Times, John. She's from Monaco, I believe."
"I say." Watson looked after the old man in awe. "Well done, Lord Saddlestone, eh?" he breathed, and Helen turned back just in time to see the doctor's wife give him an arch look at that. Catching it, the older man rearranged his features rapidly. "That is...of course...if he was some thirty years younger...as it is now," he stumbled, shaking his head vigorously, "it's quite inappropriate...quite inappropriate."
Glancing over at the retreating couple, Helen resisted the urge to chuckle at the older man's fumbling. "She's related to the royal family of Monaco, and brought quite a tidy dowry with her," she added, confirming Mary's statement. "It was considered a fine match... Maggie…Lady Margaret, I mean, was at the wedding a few months back."
Holmes offered her his arm a moment later. "I'm quite sure the bride and her dowry will not be long separated," he murmured quietly. "A 'mature' husband and a young wife...especially one of a Gallic disposition...are all too soon parted." He smiled at them, before taking on a theatrical mournfulness. "Nature is so very cruel to young lovers."
Watson stifled his laugh into a chuckle. "Holmes, your cynicism on such matters will be your undoing...but for the moment, I'm glad to see your humour improve."
With a smile at the growing air of merriment, Helen slipped her arm around the detective's, and with a respectful nod of his head to her, Holmes led them up the gangplank to board.
The interior of the steamer was lavishly appointed and exceedingly comfortable with plenty of room for well over a hundred guests on each boat. At eight o'clock precisely, the short sharp orders of the ship's officers rang out from on board the two cruisers to the men on the shore. The gangways were removed and the lines cast off, the steamers pulling away smoothly from the embankment to begin their ninety minute journey up the great river to their verdant destination.
The distant cheers of the watching crowd rose up as the two gleaming boats slid out into the heart of the Thames, building their speed to a gracious glide over the grey waters. Around them, small hired steamers chugged alongside for short distances, crowded with leisure seekers and the curious, the small boats trumpeting their greetings from their high pitched horns, and shooting small spouts of smoke and steam into the air with the noise. The younger and less reserved of the guests aboard stood by the rails and smiled back towards the shore and small floating entourage at the enthusiastic public, one or two even inclined towards a congenial wave in response to the acclamation as they passed.
Standing near the prow with many of the guests, the quartet looked on as London rose up in all its imperial glory around them; the great buildings piled on all sides as they moved towards Westminster Bridge with dignified refinement. Handel's music, composed for royal ears, gave increased weight to the majesty of the voyage, allowing those on board the merest hint of what it might have been like to be that great queen upon her royal barge on the Nile, whose eponymous 'needle' they had just left behind. On the Surrey side of the river, the gardens of Whitehall led pleasantly on to the Westminster clock tower and so on to the Halls of Parliament.
Moving down towards Vauxhall, the boats and barges moored alongside the banks of the Thames became fewer and fewer, the tall chimneys of the industries located there taking the place of the great buildings of government, and replacing them with the candle makers and potters of Lambeth. A hint of a dingier, less affluent part of the city that the onboard guests were immediately distracted from by the emergence of a small army of waiters carrying vintage champagne and the lightest of canapés to them on silver trays that glinted in the increasingly fiery orange of the sunlight as the golden orb started to wane.
They moved smoothly past Battersea Park and Battersea Fields with its renowned duellists' ground towards Chelsea and beyond, the greenery along the banks of the river already becoming more evident. The barges and boats almost completely gone now, giving way to small leisure sail boats and skiffs along the increasingly grassy banks, meadows, and uplands, large formal buildings transforming into villas and pleasure parks.
As they journeyed through the gathering dusk, the hundreds of lights on the boat gave an ever increasing dreamy glow to the journey, the air around them gradually clearing of the effluvium caused by London life and business. Similarly, the grey filthy waters of the river, responsible for the renowned London 'pea-souper' fogs that so often affected the city, began to clear. And as they sailed on towards Oliver's Ait, where Cromwell had sat and considered his strategies centuries before, the waters of the Thames were that of an almost entirely different river, sparkling clear with the waning sun glimmering and bouncing off it, and the meadows and fields that swept down to the banks with their noble houses and cottages inset were all that could be seen as Richmond hove into view.
Finally at just past nine-thirty, the tall building of Kew Palace slid into view and the boats turned inwards toward Brentford Gate opposite the Duke of Northumberland's estate across the river towards an entire cavalry of carriages waiting to whisk the arriving guests to the centre of the mile long gardens and the Ball.
As the parade of guests began to disembark, they waited nearby their belongings in hand. Holmes, the voyage having suited him admirably, had chosen to sit on deck, and, as a consequence, was in far mellower a mood. "A most pleasant journey I must admit," he commented.
"Indeed," agreed Mary, the nervous aura returning to her face as her hand tightened on her husband's arm, feeling very much the army captain's daughter at that moment.
Patting it lightly, Watson gave her an encouraging smile. "Chin up," he said softly. "You've not one thing to fear tonight, my dearest." His eyes moved to those below them boarding the carriages and back to her meaningfully. "This is your true stratosphere, Mary Watson...where a real lady belongs."
Gazing up at him with pure adoration, her cheeks flushing, she replied, her voice low but thick with emotion, "You are too good to me sometimes, John Watson."
Taking her hand from his, he kissed it gently. "Not half as good as you deserve," he returned, before drawing himself upwards. "Now! Let us cast aside all nervousness and enjoy ourselves, agreed?" he asked, holding her hand still.
With a nod and an emotional smile, she gave his hand a squeeze. "Yes," she agreed wholeheartedly.
Satisfied, the doctor gazed at their friends and smiled, wrapping his wife's hand around his arm once more. "Shall we?" he asked them, leading the way.
Holmes moved to the gangway with his own partner for the evening on his arm, looking after his friend. "There is no doubt that Watson's aptitude for putting people at their ease in even the most strained of circumstances is without peer...it is an estimable gift."
Beside him, Helen smiled softly. "Quite so," she concurred, glancing up at him. "He definitely has a way with people...an admirable trait in anyone, though especially so in a doctor. Though you should not sell your own abilities short, Mr. Holmes."
He shook his head slowly, his smile dry. "I have seldom put anyone at their ease in my life, Miss Thurlow...not through words or manner in any event. My nature and outlook don't allow for it, as my levels of sympathy for the feelings of others are too subsumed by the more practical element of keeping them or their property safe."
"And you do not think that having someone look out for your well being is cause enough to give them ease?" she returned. "You have a rare character, Mr. Holmes. You are honest, and there are few such men that are. When you devote yourself to a cause, you follow it through and give your all to accomplish it. How can that not fail to put one, especially one whose life is in your hands, at ease?"
"Of course, there is no doubt but you are right, Miss Thurlow," he agreed without any hubris. "However, Watson's gift requires no application of practice or logic...or thought. He works from instinct and good feeling, and can achieve with a single word what I can only do by force of all my powers and energy. It is not so great a gift as a rational mind, of course, but it is a singular one all the same, and one most easily noted when it is absent," he said quietly, privileging her with another flash of his private thoughts regarding Watson's departure from Baker Street.
Giving his arm what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze, she shook her head. "You are singular men, and fine ones at that…the best and the most complementary of friends," she stated with gentle firmness. "And I am lucky to know you both."
Holmes gazed at her appreciatively, his lips quirking in a teasing fashion as he announced, "I have always deemed you a woman of rare judgement, Miss Thurlow. I see I am once again proven correct!"
Their carriage journey was short, their pathway through the exquisite gardens dazzlingly lit by hundreds of torches taking them past many glorious floral and man made features that had been the private purview of the Royal Family since George II, and which had, by the largesse of the present Queen, been handed over to the public for their ease.
In the distance in the gathering gloom, lit for the occasion, and rising up from amongst the trees overseeing the entire area, lay one of the most striking and notorious buildings of the eighteenth century, the one hundred and sixty-three foot high Pagoda of Princess Augusta, the mother of George III, designed as were many of the most prominent attractions by the prodigious Sir William Chambers. Passing the huge Winter Gardens on their right, they could see private carriages for those guests who were coming from outside London and its environs travelling from the opposite direction and the far landlocked gates.
The great Palm House though was their beacon. Glowing with light, the great glass and wrought iron structure was one of the most prominent of its age and contained an entire acre of glass. Cruciform in shape, at three hundred and sixty-two feet in length, its centre one hundred feet wide and sixty-six feet high, and its wings fifty feet wide and thirty feet high, it was more than spacious enough to allow the plants within to grow to their full size, and on an occasion like this to form the most exotic of tea rooms for the night. The structure that night would afford the guests its unusual surrounds to explore or later sit comfortably amongst the palms, cocoanut, bamboo, tamarind, clove, and other colourful tropical plants, while taking tea, punch, claret, sandwiches, plain cakes, and later in the evening, bouillon and hot coffee.
Right at the head of the Palm House and just feet from its entrance on the large expanse of lawn, there stood another far more recent structure - the largest, most elaborate tented pavilion any of them had ever seen rose two storeys high into the air, complete with turrets and flags fluttering from every corner, and resembled in all respects a huge, gleaming white medieval castle.
"Perhaps, Watson," Holmes's sardonic nature could not resist a comment as they drew up alongside, "we should cross the river to His Grace's estate, and beg a suit of armour or two for the evening?" he said of the great Ballroom, as from within its environs came the lilting, welcoming music of a full orchestra that from its sound could not have been less than fifty musicians in number.
To their left and west of the House and the Ballroom was the lake, its ornamental waterfowl settling down for the night, unheeding of the guests as darkness fell in earnest. The water's near edge was also lined with torches, with small row and pedal boats strung with the same gilded lanterns as their large steamer cousins, and moored awaiting the pleasure of those guests who wished a turn about the water.
As they disembarked onto the carefully laid carpet leading to the Palm House and Ballroom, they could see a second large pavilion laid out on its far side, the ornate tables gleaming with crystal and silverware. That and the waiters, who were dressed in the livery of the Prince of Wales and bustling about within, marked it out as the Supper Room, which would be opened to the guests around midnight as was usual.
Stopping between the doors to Ballroom and Palm House, and allowing others behind to pass them by, the reason for the Ball's name became clear to all four guests. For the entrances to both structures were surrounded by a short, tunnelled pergola covered in climbing roses, and to the east of the Palm House, which was now in their view, lay the renowned Rose Gardens.
Thanks to a warm, early summer, the fifty-four rose beds were already in full bloom, each containing a different variety of rose, and the scent of a thousand blossoms fragranced the air all around them, lifting spirits and enchanting them. A mixture of light and shade lay over the gardens, affording the visitor both privacy or sufficient light to see by depending on which it was they wished, as torches, this time done in a Roman style, lit the winding paths towards miniature temporary Roman 'temples' placed at different spots for the evening, covered and big enough to seat three or four people. Already guests were wandering through in advance of the formal start of the Ball.
"How utterly captivating," Watson said in amazement.
"It's breathtaking," Helen agreed her grey eyes wide with awe.
Turning back and rejoining the queue of guests at the entry to the Ballroom, they handed their invitations in to be announced. The list of names currently being called was a veritable who's who of British and European society as they stepped inside the massive Pavilion. Mary accepted and Helen declined with regret the dance cards offered them, the latter's half mourning denying her the opportunity to take full advantage of the most immaculately polished and ornate parquet flooring which had been lain down, which was perfectly flat and in every way suitable for the dancing that would soon take place upon it.
At the far end of the Ballroom stood a raised railed stage, the huge black and gold crest of the Prince of Wales adorning its front with the crest of the Monarch hanging overhead. There sat the orchestra, just as magnificent as they sounded, and led by August Levant, one of the foremost conductors of the moment. High above them all, along the length of the pavilion, and strung upon the central beam were three huge crystal chandeliers, gas lit and blazing light about the room, and, continuing the motif of the ball, every six feet along the heavy white canvas wall were huge free-standing arrangements of roses, white and red in turn, in huge porcelain vases.
But while the newly constructed room itself was an amazing sight, all eyes were drawn not to the surroundings but to the somewhat portly, mid-sized gentleman of not quite fifty, complete with perfectly trimmed beard and the Order of the Garter upon his evening wear, as he stood, cigar moving from hand to mouth while greeting those selected and brought forward to meet him by his entourage. Prince Albert Edward, heir to the throne, was an imposing man, a man of intellect, but also of uncompromising and often scandalous passions. He bestrode London society like a colossus, and whither went the Prince, there went the fashion.
Unsurprisingly, given his serial taste in mistresses, few of whom went unknown to the public at least in rumour and the newest of whom was undoubtedly there that evening, the Prince of Wales was accompanied not by his wife and mother of his five children, the Princess Alexandra, but by a younger man in a much decorated naval uniform. Tall and lean with large soulful eyes, a man of not overly intelligent countenance, his eldest son, Prince Albert Victor, the Duke of Clarence and second in line to the throne, stood by his father. The Duke was, however, in the company of a Princess Alexandra, and the woman it was thought might become his fiancée- the pretty, regal, and haughty Princess Alexandra of Hesse - and together, these three formed the Royal party for the evening.
"Ah…Mr. Holmes," said a kind faced, grey haired, bearded, slender man in tails, approaching them as they stepped into the Ballroom proper, and were announced in turn. He moved towards the detective as he was writing his name by the quadrille in Mary's dance card, and extended his hand to the tall man. "It is good to see you again."
"Sir Henry." Holmes inclined his head respectfully, and shook his outstretched hand. "You remember my colleague, Dr. John Watson, and this is his new bride, Mrs. Mary Watson, and a friend of ours, Miss Helen Thurlow of St. Albans and Mayfair." Sir Henry greeted each in turn with hand shake or bow finishing with an elegant bow over Helen's hand. "Ladies, this is Sir Henry Ponsonby, Her Majesty's Private Secretary," Holmes finished, before turning his head away to cough lightly once or twice into his hand.
"How do you do?" Helen enquired, glancing at Holmes as the Queen's man rose from his bow over her hand.
"Very well indeed, Miss Thurlow, and all the better for meeting so lovely a young lady as yourself this fine evening," he replied, a smile pulling at his lips. "I trust you are looking forward to the Ball?"
"Most assuredly," she agreed, gracing him with a smile.
"Delighted to hear it!" he enthused. "Perhaps, ladies, if your dance card is not too filled with the pick of the young men here this evening, you might assign a slow waltz to an older more paternal gentleman?" His eyes crinkled as he smiled.
Helen inclined her head, as her expression turned to one of regret. "Under normal circumstances, Sir Henry, I would be only too glad. However, I have only just entered the second stage of mourning for my father, and am not permitted."
His eyes drifted to take in the colour of her dress. "Ah...forgive me. Of course, I should have known...I'm afraid my time touring around the Empire with Her Majesty for her Golden Jubilee celebrations made me forget some of the nuances of our mourning dress...such a beautiful grey is quite the fashionable colour in many quarters." He inclined his head politely. "My condolences on your loss," he said sincerely, accepting her nod before turning his head to Mary. "Perhaps, Mrs. Watson, you might favour me later in the evening? I confess, it would do my standing amongst the young bucks in her Majesty's employ no harm to see me gad about with a most attractive young lady, not to mention making my own wife more attentive," he added with a chuckle.
Mary smiled prettily at the compliment, before inclining her head in affirmative. "I would be honoured, sir," she replied, flashing him a small smile, and her husband a quick look to make sure that he did not mind.
The good doctor's smile showed only pleasure that so prominent a personage should compliment his wife so, and he shook his head as Sir Henry signed his name to a sedate waltz later in the evening. "I shall have to place my own name down beside my allocation with all due haste..." he said to her. "You are hardly in the door, my dear, and two of your dances are gone!"
Mary laughed a little at that, before squeezing his arm fondly. "You have only to ask, my darling, and whatever dances you wish are yours and yours alone."
"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, ladies, to my true business…" Sir Henry smiled at them as he returned Mary's card. "Follow me please." Without further ado, Ponsonby turned and walked across the floor, expecting the quartet to be at his heels. Three of them, however, hesitated as it became clear where they were being led.
Offering Helen his arm, Holmes smiled vaguely at her. "Shall we?" he asked, indicating the Crown Prince with the merest of nods in his direction.
Swallowing heavily, and with a rare full on expression of anxiety, she took his arm, and glanced up at his face which was coolness personified. "Of course," she murmured.
Perhaps because of their earlier discussion on Watson's particular gifts, Holmes paused on seeing her evident nerves, his voice dropping low after a moment. "Princes are but men, Miss Thurlow...and all men are fallible. Princes especially so," he attempted.
Gazing up at him, she gave him a grateful smile and nodded just a little. "You are right, of course...it is just that...well...I suppose you must find me foolish," she murmured with a sigh.
"For being nervous at meeting the next King of England and ruler of an Empire on which the sun does not set? Oh, exceedingly foolish, Miss Thurlow," he teased, his eyes dancing, "exceedingly so."
Staring up at him for a moment, she found her mouth pulling into a smile of ease, her eyes twinkling back at his. "Well...perhaps not then," she agreed. "Though it seems you lead me false upon the boat regarding your abilities, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson is not the only one who has learned a lesson from his roommate. Thank you," she whispered.
Accepting her thanks and her compliment with a small nod, Holmes led her, with Watson and Mary in close attendance, across the floor after Henry Ponsonby to arrive at the Royal Party just as the last guests to be introduced to them departed.
"Your Highnesses..." Sir Henry addressed them, "may I introduce the renowned author Dr. John Watson of Baker Street and his wife Mrs. Mary Watson, Miss Helen Thurlow, the directress general of Balfour & Thurlow, one of our biggest import and export businesses...and of course, you know Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, removed his cigar from his mouth as Holmes and Watson bowed and the ladies with them went into deep, practiced curtsies. "Of course!" he boomed, his voice taking up a considerable portion of the room, as he extended his hand, and fixed an intense look upon the taller man. "A pleasure to meet you once more, Holmes. The crown is always grateful for your aid in her affairs."
"Your Royal Highness is too kind," Holmes replied evenly, taking his hand and shaking it briefly but firmly, his gaze unwavering. "To serve the state in which one lives is to merely repay it for harbouring you. The crown owes me nothing…though if gratitude is to be handed out, it must go in equal measure to my colleague here. Dr. Watson has been my partner through almost all...his part cannot go unsung."
Prince Edward's pale piercing eyes turned towards the doctor who stood stock still with barely a muscle moving. "Yes, Dr. Watson..." the Prince addressed him with a nod. "Your writings are required reading for almost everyone I know. I confess to reading a few on my journeys…capital tales, well told. Both your aid and your talent are much appreciated by the Empire."
Watson's eyes widened noticeably, and he bowed stiffly, trying to keep the smile from his face, as he chose his words carefully and slowly. "Thank you, sir...my talent is poor, certainly not that of a Kipling or a Dickens...but I feel Holmes's work needs to be broadcast to the public so that they may at least know that a force for good is at large in a rather dark world."
Holmes turned to look at him with an expression of surprise and pleasure, as the Prince nodded and slapped Watson lightly on the upper arm. "Good man!" he approved. "The people need their spirits bucked...far too much hideousness in the world. That's partially what tonight is all about! Bringing some beauty into the world and doing some charitable work to boot." His eyes drifted to the woman by Watson's side, and a definite glint hit the Prince's eye. "And speaking of beauty..." he continued, directing a smile at her, "your wife, Doctor, is an adornment any man might be proud to have by his side."
Turning his head to the two Royals by his side, but keeping his eye on Mary, he gestured towards her. "Wouldn't you say, Eddy? Alix?" he asked of his son and the princess. "Exquisite."
"Most definitely, Your Highness," the Princess responded, her German accent clipped and cool. "Very charming."
Mary lowered her eyes bashfully. "Thank you, Your Highness," she replied.
"And the other lady too..." Prince Albert Victor commented, his eyes falling on Helen, reaching up to touch the waxed ends of his moustache. "Mr. Holmes, your party is studded with gems."
"Thank you, Your Highness," Helen returned, with a gracious incline of her head, though her fingers tightened on her escort's arm as if she was drawing strength from his presence alone.
His father's eyes moved to the auburn haired woman and the glint remained undimmed as he chuckled. "My son is quite correct, Mr. Holmes...where on earth are you uncovering such rare prizes? If this is to be the reward of detection...perhaps I should give up the throne to take up the practice." He looked Helen over once more. "The Directress General of Balfour and Thurlow, eh?" He popped his cigar back in his mouth, and puffed on it, taking it out again a moment later. "A remarkable position for a woman…so obviously brains to go with such a pretty face. How find you the world of high finance, Miss Thurlow?"
"Quite fascinating, Your Royal Highness," she replied, her words measured, while taking care to keep her voice calm whilst flashing him a polite smile. "There is always something new to puzzle out and learn."
"Puzzle out, eh?" the Prince repeated. "Yes, I dare say it is a mystery of sorts...not one I ever cared to learn much about myself. I must confess. I prefer the world of the Arts..." He paused a moment. "Thurlow...Thurlow...yours is that Arts Foundation, isn't it?"
"Indeed it is, Your Highness," she replied with another smile and incline of her head.
"Capital! Capital!" he exclaimed. "I'm particularly fond of music and the theatre. If we get the chance, you and I shall talk next time we meet about the work your Foundation does." He smiled charmingly down at her. "Ponsonby, make a note of it, will you?"
"Of course, Your Highness," the retainer agreed instantly, while making a subtle gesture to Holmes to withdraw.
"Your Royal Highness." Holmes bowed respectfully, and was followed in suit by Watson and the ladies before they all drew back, not stopping to talk until they were all on the far side of the room.
"I trust you are all past your bouts of tension?" Holmes smiled to himself, as he watched the Royal Party move towards the top of the room, their audience over for now.
Mary released the nervous chuckle that had been keenly restrained the entire audience, while Helen relaxed the death grip on the detective's arm that she had unknowingly been giving him.
"He makes quite the impression," Watson noted, drawing up chairs for both ladies.
"And now he wishes to discuss the Foundation with me," Helen breathed, as she lowered herself into her chair, a rather worried look on her face, as Mary patted her arm. "I shall either lose my wits or say something entirely wrong."
"One needs ones wits around any Prince, Miss Thurlow," Holmes said, peering around the rapidly filling ballroom, some three hundred guests having already arrived as the time neared for the official start. "But around this particular Prince, a pretty lady needs them most of all. Punch, ladies?" he enquired looking at them, switching track completely with his final word.
"Yes, thank you," Mary replied, as Helen nodded a bit distractedly, until her friend squeezed her arm, causing the young woman to look up and blink.
"Oh, yes please. Thank you," she answered, giving her escort a guilty smile.
"You're welcome." he replied. "Watson? Would you be so good?" Holmes gestured abstractedly towards the Tea Room, and went back to keenly viewing the crowd.
His friend blinked and stared at him, before opening his mouth to reply, but instead, sighed, and nodded. "Of course, Holmes. I shall return directly." Bowing to both ladies, he moved off quickly. Mary gave her husband's friend a bemused look, as the older man disappeared into the other room.
"I would not worry yourself unduly, Miss Thurlow," Holmes said with a slight frown, his eyes still absent from her. "I doubt His Highness will have the opportunity to speak to you again tonight." The young woman nodded silently, taking some hope in that though her nervous look remained. "From Sir Henry's instructions, I would say it is more likely you will receive an invitation to Kensington Palace at some stage," he continued blithely.
"Oh my," she breathed, her eyes widening, as she bit her lip.
Mary's eyebrow arched up at Holmes's back, as she patted her friend's arm soothingly. "I am sure you will do just fine, and perhaps, Mr. Grufsted will go with you?"
Helen nodded quickly. "Yes...I am sure he would...and he is more knowledgeable about some aspects of the Foundation than I am."
"I'm sure he will..." Holmes agreed, his brow creasing further as he watched something in the far corner, his voice increasingly distracted. "Providing the invitation extends to him, of course."
"May I not just have him escort me?" Helen enquired quickly, as Mary shot the man a rather pointed look.
The detective shook his head slowly, his voice, like his attention, drifting further away. "To a Royal appointment without an express invitation?" he mumbled.
The young woman looked on the verge of a panic attack, as he turned on his heel to face them and bowed. "Excuse me, ladies...I have just seen someone I must speak to," he apologised, before turning to Mary. "I shall return in time for our quadrille, you may be assured." And with a quick smile, he turned and disappeared into the gathering crowd.
Less than twenty seconds later, Watson struggled back past the last surge of the crowd with the punch, reaching them both with a relieved smile. "Here we are!" He handed the glasses with the chilled fruit juice to them, before glancing around. "Where's Holmes?"
Mary watched her husband's friend retreat into the distance, before turning back to the older man with a rare look of supreme annoyance. "Apparently, he has found someone he must talk to, after worrying poor Helen here half to death!" she said with exasperation. "Honestly, I do not know what possesses the man sometimes."
Her husband blinked. "He what? What on earth did he say?"
"He got her all worked up about meeting the Prince of Wales at Kensington Palace...and every time I nearly got her calmed down, he found a loophole. Honestly, John...what was he thinking!" she huffed, as Helen downed her punch rapidly.
Watson looked after his friend and back at Helen, before exhaling slowly. "No doubt," he explained, "he was merely trying to be realistic and rational about what one might expect. Perhaps he feels that the Prince might..." he hesitated, coughing slightly, "given his...well...his reputation, perhaps Holmes was intimating that you should decline the invitation? His methods do always leave a little bit to be desired."
"No, John," his wife replied, before Helen could open her mouth. "He did nothing of the sort. He was just once more relaying the facts..." She sighed and shook her head, realising she was getting a bit defensive for her friend. "I'm sorry, darling...but after he just left..."
"But Holmes never just relays facts without a point, he always..." Watson started, and deflated somewhat under his wife's annoyance for her friend. "I'm sorry if he upset you, Miss Thurlow...and I don't understand his taking off like that. I shall speak to him," he resolved, turned to look for the missing member of their party.
"No, Doctor!" the woman in questioned gasped, rising to her feet. "Mary, I know you mean well…honestly, I do...but...I am not offended, truly...I promise," she continued, her words in a customary rush. "I should not be so silly as to react this way, and Mr. Holmes is free to conduct himself as he wishes this evening, after all it is not as if we were...attached...in any way." She gave them a quick, and what she hoped was a reassuring, smile.
Mary gave her a very dubious look, as the younger woman took her hands and gave them a squeeze. "Helen..."
Any intended words were drowned out by a short fanfare from the orchestra and the introduction of Prince Edward in order for him to formally declare the Ball open and for him to take the lead in the Grand March which heralded the start of all such formal occasions. Taking a rather regretful leave of Helen, Watson led Mary out onto the floor with all the other dancing couples, and the intricate promenade began.
Their anxiety for their friend was somewhat allayed as the second dance was the quadrille, and as promised, Holmes returned in time to take up his allotted spot with Mary, inviting her out onto the rapidly filling floor with no idea in his head that she was in anyway aggrieved with him on behalf of her friend. The regal, almost courtly, dance was again joined by the Royal party...deemed as it was most suitable for their dignity.
Helen watched from the sidelines, smiling over at Mary whenever she looked her way, though as the gap between them widened, the young woman's eyes began to rest with increasing frequency on her dance partner, her stomach clenching in knots almost in time with her hands on her fan until she was forced to look away. It was not on Mary's behalf that she did so...but the sight of him dancing with such obvious skill, and the knowledge that not only could she not participate...but that she should not be reacting so to him...made her heart begin to hurt just a little.
Soon after, Martin Yeates and his wife Lavinia made themselves known to the group, and after mutual thanks were bestowed on both sides, the group descended into conversation, during which some light refreshments were taken in the Palm House as well as an exploration of the great greenhouse. On their return, the Ball was in full swing, and the Yeateses and Watsons paired off, while Holmes and Helen spoke with various people, including the Duchess of Monmouth who had attended on behalf of the family.
The Duchess, for her part, apprehended Helen and led her away to meet one or two of her 'friends,' young men with fine expectations; the intensely forthright older woman merrily intent on marrying the mortified heiress off before the night was through. After the young woman finally managed to escape, she found to her dismay that once again her escort for the evening was nowhere to be seen, and was relieved when the Yeateses and Watsons returned to spare her from becoming a solitary wallflower. But, with barely a glimpse of Holmes amidst waltzes and gavottes, polkas, and minuet de coeurs...the hours passed speedily by for all save Helen, stuck in her limbo, until midnight approached, and following the collection of cheques for the charities to benefit from the night, the announcement of the opening of the supper room was made.
The orchestra continued, as did the dancers, though a great many slipped away to dine. Helen watched as her friends again twirled around the dance floor, oblivious to all but each other and the music. Smiling at the occasional hello by a passing guest and indulging in minor conversation with others was now beginning to take a toll on the woman's disposition. The evening had gone smoothly enough, but her inability to fully participate, mingled with the constant feeling of being a virtual third wheel to her married friends and not much other than the briefest of interests to the other, was wearing on the last of her frazzled nerves.
With a sigh, she turned and slipped into the crowd, fully intending to head for the supper room, but on passing through the door, her feet changed direction and destination as though with a will of their own. The air, warm and still thick with the perfume of the thousands of roses, washed over her as she stepped away from the Palm House and pavilions, causing her to close her eyes and relax in the scented breeze, and with a tiny smile, she moved away from the crowds and headed off into the night.
Keeping away from the better lit areas where a few people were sitting in the small temple like structures, Helen made her way towards the far edge of the garden where the torches were fewer and a line of trees began. The music still wafted across on the floral scented air...the beginnings of a stately Austrian waltz fitting in perfectly with the soft sway of the trees in the lightest of breezes.
With a sigh, and just rather glad to be alone, she rested against the trunk of a tree, and gazed up into the night sky, wondering for the umpteenth time why she had agreed to come to this event in the first place when she couldn't even do the one thing that would make it tolerable to her? She did not need recognition nor thanks for her role in the hunt mystery...neither did she need to get out and mingle with other members of high society, for in truth, as she had always stated, such events were a necessary evil to her. What she really would prefer, at that moment, was to be lying in the gardens at her home, her hair down, unbound by the countless pins currently in it, listening to the sounds of the English countryside at night.
Why had she come? Because he had asked her to. That was inevitable truth...he had called, and she had come.
Closing her eyes with a sigh, she was hastened further to a conclusion about her feelings for the detective from Baker Street...one she desperately both did and did not want to think on, let alone acknowledge. It was impossible, intolerable, and completely laughable on so many levels, and yet here she was at a ball she had no real need or want to be at...and all because he had sent her a telegram asking her to go. And the most laughable crux of it was that even in his telegram, it sounded as though he had no real desire to be there either! Her mind had reconciled her acceptance of the invitation with the notion that at least they would have each other to keep company with all night. It had never even occurred to her that he would barely spend any time with her and disappear for half the night!
She should be furious with him. Yet, she was not.
With still closed eyes, she pushed herself away from the tree, her body unconsciously moving to the music, even as her mind attempted to inform her once again that any ideas it might entertain about Mr. Sherlock Holmes were completely mad, unreasonable, and bordering on confinable. That to continue, to hope, or even react in such a manner with him was foolhardy, and would only put her on a path that led to inevitable heartache.
As she swayed, using the movement to soothe her turmoil, the sound of the match that subsequently struck against the rough cover of the box was surprisingly loud, and the glow in the dark that came from further into the copse of trees by which she stood cast a brief ruddy glow over the face of her watcher.
"You keep excellent time, Miss Thurlow," Holmes commented on her movements, which had increased to waltz steps in small circles. "Though your neck is a little arched," he added, as he moved out of the trees towards her, cigarette smoke curling around him.
The poor woman jumped, her eyes wide with fright, as she took a step back with a hand on her chest in a vain attempt to stop her heart from beating a mile a minute, and realising who the spectator actually was did not help her palpitations one bit. "Mr. Holmes!" she gasped. "What are you doing here?"
"Taking the opportunity to do what I am unable to do inside," he answered, holding up his cigarette, and lowering it slowly, as he moved somewhat closer to her, "and relaxing after an unexpected evening at work. I'm afraid you must accept my apologies, Miss Thurlow, if my attendance upon you was spotty at best...I had been perfectly well set for an evening as your escort, when I received this." He held up a square of paper. "Subtly delivered to me via the handshake of Sir Henry Ponsonby." Her eyes widened at the paper, remembering his small coughing fit, when he had undoubtedly glanced at the contents in his hand. "I'm afraid the little exchange you heard between the Prince and I regarding service to the crown was not related to my past services, but this newest one," he explained with a sigh.
Her curiosity getting the better of even her shattered nerves, she glanced over at the paper before returning her gaze to him. "I see...well then, it is perfectly understandable. I trust all is now well?" she hedged.
He shook his head, drawing on his cigarette. "Just beginning, I fancy, though my unsuspecting target has escaped my watchful eye to return home early. Still...no matter...we have safely ascertained his own target was not to be found here, a convenient summer ague," he murmured half to himself and half to her before his attention moved fully back to her. "And you? How come you to be out unescorted?" he asked, no hint of reproach at her social indiscretion in his voice.
She arched an eyebrow at him, half in response and half in amusement. "Mary and the doctor are dancing, and the Duchess with her stream of eligible young men was eyeing me once more, I wished to take in some air, and as you were evidently on a case…" she answered, letting him lead himself to his own conclusion.
"Quite right." he agreed. "There is no rational reason why you should remain shackled to a ballroom where you are not only deprived of dance...but my company." A smile lit upon his face his egotistical remark, as he tossed his cigarette away. "The latter has been remedied...and I see you were halfway towards the former yourself," he noted of her private dance. "I see your desire to dance this evening burns quite strongly in you."
Her face turned bright pink at the reminder of having been seen dancing alone by any man, least of all him, and she turned her eyes to the ground in embarrassment, her retort to his amusingly conceited remark lost. "I have always enjoyed music, Mr. Holmes...dancing is just another form of expression," she replied, steeling herself, before gazing back up at him. "However, it is one I am currently not permitted."
"Yes," he agreed, that thoughtful expression that pre-empted the expounding of a theory or statement flooding his face. "Though…it seems odd and illogical to me sometimes to remain in mourning for such a highly defined period for those lost to us. To grieve, I can understand…that is natural...a part of life, it can pass in a week or two or never abate...but 'mourning,' that is a measurement of appropriateness set by societal convention. Respectful certainly, but too often it only prolongs misery." He leaned against the tree she had been previously at. "Do not mistake me, Miss Thurlow, I do not flout convention lightly...but it seems to me that you have dutifully fulfilled your obligation to your father...and I have my strong doubts, considering how long you were without him before and how much he wished your happiness, that he would wish you to deprive yourself of that which would make you happy. To whit..." he pronounced, reaching his conclusion, "you should dance, Miss Thurlow."
She stared at him rather dumbfounded, before blinking slowly, and shaking her head. "Well...that is very kind of you to say, Mr. Holmes...and very likely true in respects to my father's wishes...however, that does not change what is or can be. And I do think it would not be taken well, if I were to go back to the ballroom, and suddenly asked for a dance card," she pointed out, not sure whether to laugh or scold him to toying with her so.
He smiled at her answer, before replying, "I did not mean to risk your reputation...merely to service your desires. Dance..." He glanced around them at the shadowed and torch lit garden, "here."
Her eyes widened. "Dance...here..." she repeated, not sure she was hearing him correctly.
Nodding, his hand slipped the paper into his pocket. "It is, you must admit, the most rational of solutions. If you are not permitted to dance at a social event...then dance while removed from it," he rationalised, his smile softening a little. "You do wish to dance, do you not, Miss Thurlow?" he enquired, taking a step closer so as to better see her expression.
She stared up at him, as he moved towards her, her mind feeling as though it was trudging along with all the speed of being under the pull of molasses. "Well...yes...but I believe, I'd look a trifle odd just dancing here by myself," she replied, trying to retain her dignity when all she wanted was for him to sweep her up in his arms.
"Yes," he agreed. "No doubt, it would not be seemly for you to dance here in front of me like some Music Hall girl or Eastern harem attendant. Which leads us two inescapable conclusions...either I must leave…or you must acquiesce to dance with me," he said enquiringly, as he opened his hand and offered it to her slowly. "What say you, Miss Thurlow? Will you allow me to make some slight amends for my horrendous record as an escort this evening, and honour me with this dance?"
"Dance...with me?" she repeated, her mind reeling heavily at that, though her gloved hand had already slipped into his without any hesitation at all. "I...I would...be honoured," she stammered out with obvious confusion. "But, I thought you did not like dancing…"
"It is not dancing I dislike...quite the contrary, I find the discipline rewarding for body and mind. As I believe I may have mentioned before, what I do not care for is being cornered into that I do not wish to do or have no inclination towards." His fingers closed around her gloved hand, his other hand slowly slipping to her waist, curling around it, drawing her closer. "And that," he said, gazing down at her, "hardly applies in this situation."
Swallowing lightly, she rested her hand on his shoulder, her body tingling with heat at his touch. "Then...shall we?" she replied, her words soft and barely above a whisper.
With a slow nod, he turned his attention to the music, and after a brief moment to catch the rhythm, he began to move with her to the slow, easy Strauss waltz emanating from the pavilion, deftly leading her over the small patch of ground, the grass beneath their feet offering no resistance as he turned her smoothly and elegantly.
Helen closed her eyes, as she glided in perfect complement - where he led, she followed, when he turned, she did as well. And as she lost herself in that moment, in mind, body, heart, and soul...she knew with perfect clarity that she had lost that inner battle waging within her these past few months...that it had been hopeless before she'd even begun. And it was a confirmation that was both amazingly wonderful and utterly wretched.
Holmes watched her eyes close as she lost herself to the music and dance, not overly surprised at the ability she so clearly had, for her grace had always been physical as well as mental, and his smile grew a little at the rapturous expression on her face, a part of him pleased at his encouraging her to take these first steps back into a world of normalcy and colour. And he took heart that she might one day look back on this moment, and realise her new life of comfort and happiness had begun in earnest the night she had waltzed in Kew Gardens with an odd friend of hers, a famed but eccentric man who daringly coaxed her from her mourning early, knowing she could always be forgiven for it due to humouring his odd quirks and ways…a tale to amuse her husband and children one day.
Drawing her in a little closer, he twirled her in a quick rapid spin, his nimble footwork responded to easily by hers, and as the music ended, his smile was still in place, pleased at how well they had danced together. "You are an excellent dancer, Miss Thurlow," he complimented her, gazing down at her still closed eyes.
Realising they had stopped, her eyes fluttered open and stared wondrously into his, before some part of her gave her a quick if solid kick back into reality, and with a slight flush inclined her head in reply. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. But a dancer is only as good as her partner," she returned.
"Then we make a most excellent paring indeed, Miss Thurlow," he replied instantaneously and in absolute seriousness. "A shame we could not show our fellow guests. So let us do consider something public that is not frowned upon…would you care to take supper with me?" he asked, releasing her and offering her his arm.
A soft smile graced her features, as she gazed up at him. "I believe I would, Mr. Holmes," she replied, taking his arm, though she was no longer the least bit hungry…not that it mattered, for she would have agreed to walk barefoot over the Himalayas if he had suggested it at that moment. For, for good or ill, Helen Thurlow was a woman in love, and such women do not do what is rational, right, or follow common sense...even if every fibre of their beings tells them that it is the worst thing they could have done.
Authors' Notes: Thank you all again for the wonderful reviews! It really warms our hearts to see that so many are enjoying the tale and are taking such interest in it:D Okay...lots of questions (actually a few people saying the same ones...heh).
1. Helen's gloves: Yes, they were off. Why? Because our girl has some impulsive tendencies, and though that was a bit of a breach of ettiquette...she occasionally follows her impulses. Bad girl!
2. The psychological paper, aka...the sex crimes: Perhaps this was mentioned a wee bit too soon...however, this was done to highlight how Holmes simply sees Helen not as a woman but as another Watson, or perhaps a Watson in training.
3. The cramming of words: Yes, I think this is something on fanfiction's end, as our copies in Word are not affected nor does the other archive we post to seem to be. Sorry about that, I did try to go in and fix it, but couldn't find the errors.
4. The musical terms: Our serious bad on the Hayden...Haydn has now been corrected and we honestly apologise to Papa! I'll fix any other musical terms as I come across them again. However, Rondeau is correct, and Lfire found this in her research. :D
5. Helen's thought on Oysters: Yes...this was again, my bad, and yes, was meant to be funny...and was only not saying it, so I thought we could get away with a canon reference without causing too much of a mis-timeline. Heh...
Right...that should be it...and I hope everyone enjoys this chapter, we are working on eleven, however, with my wedding in just over a week, and my co-author going on holiday till July 3rd...it may not be feasible. If we can't, please check in over at the dispatch box over on livejournal. Again thank you all for your reads and kind and thoughtful reviews. Hugs to all! Aeryn(of aerynfire)