Chapter Thirteen: Disillusioned
30th July, 1889
Frascati's of Oxford Street was, to those that knew of it and could afford to dine there, an oasis in the tumultuous heart of London's foremost commercial avenue, and never more so than on a scorching hot, end of July early afternoon when shade and tranquillity were at an absolute premium.
The building, demure and less than pretentious from the simple entrance, was, to the eye of the customer, quite transformed upon entering. Inside, rather than the straight white lines of the interiors of other notable institutions upon the street, the restaurant opened wide, giving the illusion of being far greater on the inside than out. The octagonal shaped sides of the great building spread expansively outwards, its high walls, white marble veined with black, giving an immediate air of coolness and freedom from the heat and bustle outside.
Two tiered and with a separate grill room moreover, the effect of having stepped from chaos and into a pleasure palace fit for a Roman Emperor was enhanced by the grand dome of green glass that covered the ceiling high above and the decorative gold and silver everywhere. The gilded pillars supporting the balcony, and which in a more slender form ran from there to the roof, were topped with silver angels, and the rails of the balcony itself gilt as they ran around the octagonal heart of the place.
On both floors, the dining alcoves that stretched back provided privacy and further tranquillity, and were mirrored and decorated in gold with fawn or pale grey. In addition, the strategic placement of a softly playing string quartet helped further discretion by muffling the sound of conversation conducted by the cool marble and high vaulted ceiling. Large palms and marble and bronzed statuettes had also been placed about the room to further enhance the Romanesque quality of the establishment.
The waiters, immaculate in all black and with a silver number in their button-holes to both indicate their 'rank' as well as to ease their customers' recognition of them, bustled to and from the busy kitchens, and hovered in rapt attention around the tables to which they were assigned.
Currently engaged in neither such activity, was the fleet footed, balding little man with the serene face and handlebar moustaches, who led Mary Watson to her table within a welcomingly cool alcove in sight of the door, drawing back her chair at the table for two.
Mary, clad in palest blue muslin, quickly and happily removed her gloves, nodding to the waiter with a silently rueful smile about the heat, as he finished seating her and offered her a menu. In an equally hushed and exceptionally quick response, he darted away to return almost instantly with a welcome glass of iced water, and a cool cloth which she took with an inordinately grateful look, resolving there and then that he should have the biggest tip she could afford on her departure.
On her declining a drink, and resolving instead to wait for her luncheon partner, the little man bowed sharply, draped his white linen serving cloth over his black clad arm, and slipped fleetingly away to give her privacy and time to collect her thoughts.
She was early, her luncheon appointment being for one o'clock, but the day was such that it had only just gone ten to the hour when the stifling heat of the city had driven her from her hansom cab to the enveloping coolness of her destination. Her pregnancy, though not greatly advanced, was already having its effects upon her, and the heat and accompanying humidity were not helping.
Giving thanks again for her foresight in picking the shaded marbled interior of the stylish cafe as the rendezvous point for this meal, Mary placed the cool cloth she had been dabbing discretely to the back of her neck back to the table, and sat back to peruse the menu half-heartedly. Inordinate heat made it hard to concentrate at any time, but even as she cooled most of her attention was laid not at this luncheon but on the person who would sit opposite her for its duration. The person whose birthday they were there to celebrate and the person she was growing increasingly worried about.
Helen's demeanour these past three weeks or so had been increasingly unlike her own. On her regular visit to John and their own subsequent shopping trips together, she had not been the Helen Thurlow she knew. When not actively engaged in conversation, her good humour, thoughtful and insightful ways, and genteelly extrovert nature had been replaced by a listlessly, quiet, introspectiveness, and…there was no getting away from it…a melancholy air.
For good or ill, it took no great insight to know what…or rather who…was the cause of such dolorous comportment. Of anyone, Mary Watson was probably the one who knew it best - something that did not sit easy with her, as that piece of knowledge resided side by side with the thought that she had played her own part in his affecting this change upon her dear friend.
Frowning gently to herself, as her eyes unseeingly perused the hors-d'oeuvre varies, she knew she could kick herself for misreading the situation so badly, and for not listening to John in the first place when he said that Sherlock Holmes simply wasn't the marrying kind.
But she'd refused to accept it, her own glad heart at her impending nuptials apparently colouring her judgement; so much so that beyond his growing tolerance and admiration for Helen, Mary had been so sure she'd seen signs, glimmers in him of an affectionate attachment he had never shown for any other woman. Bad enough, she now thought, but worse…far, far worse, she'd foolishly chosen to act on it. And, indeed, pursued the matter with her husband until his own romantic nature had been stoked and blinkered by her enthusiasm, and they had nudged their friends forward towards one another, hoping to see the attachment blossom, only to have to sit and watch her friend wither instead.
Not that Helen spoke of it.
Perhaps that was the worst part of it all. Helen, so long used to taking the hardships life had thrown at her and dealing with them silently and quiescently, had continued in that vein, even though she was no longer alone. Whereas before she had only herself to rely on, now she had family and friends, but instead of opening to them she had apparently chosen not to burden them with what she undoubtedly felt was her own problem.
But such burdens, as Mary knew, grew only heavier with time if not shared, and Helen's still, subdued stoicism was, she felt, only making the situation worse both in personal and practical terms. Her friend needed to talk about this…and more importantly…try and find a way to deal with it. Picking up the reading of her menu, she regarded it attentively this time, her head nodding slightly in hushed affirmation of that last statement of intent. If there was one thing that would come from this lunch, Mary Watson was determined that would be it.
Approximately five minutes later, just as the waiter was refilling Mary's now empty glass, Helen walked through the doors, though in truth she looked more like a pale, frailer version of her normal self. There was still that undoubted wistfulness around her, and though she was, like Mary, dressed in light, bright, and cheerful attire that fit the warm July day and the happy occasion that was her birthday, she looked anything but herself.
Approaching the maitre d' and introducing herself, while gazing lightly around the room, she spied her friend seated near the back and with a smile that was genuine but extended to force her cheerfulness to greater heights, she followed the maitre d' over to their alcove table.
"Good afternoon, Mary," she greeted the blonde woman warmly as she rose to meet her, each other kissing the other lightly upon the cheek, and there was a flash of her normal sparkle in her eyes as she sat down on the other side of the table. "I do hope I have not been keeping you too long?"
The other woman shook her head. "Good afternoon, Helen, and no, not at all. I was early in fact, and came directly in. It is far too warm for me out there these days," she replied, giving another shake of her head, though this time in wonder at the continued extreme hit of this particular English summer.
Another smile touched Helen's lips, as she nodded. "Indeed!" she agreed, inclining her head in thanks to the waiter for the menu, glass of cool water, and cloth.
As he left them, Mary leaned over the table with a happy smile, and placed a small wrapped gift, taken from her purse, on the table in front of her. "At least you have a fine day for it…a very Happy Birthday, Helen," she enthused.
Helen's gaze turned from the gift in front of her to her friend's face, her own visage filling with affection and gratitude. "Mary, you shouldn't have!" she demurred, her hands going to the mid size box.
"Nonsense," her friend replied with the lightest of scoffs. "It's your birthday! Of course, I should have. And it's not much. Truly. Merely some new handkerchiefs I monogrammed and embroidered for you."
Unwrapping and opening the box, Helen drew out one of the three delicate linen handkerchiefs, and ran her fingers over the delicate climbing roses exquisitely sown into one corner of the handkerchief, her initials tangled like trailing briars amongst the blossoms.
"Mary…" she breathed, "they're beautiful! Such fine work!"
The other woman shook her head, and flushed slightly. "I know that it probably seems foolish giving you of all people something like this, considering you are an expert seamstress…"
"Nonsense," Helen deliberately echoed her friend's word and firm tone. "They are superb, and I will treasure them."
"I'm sure they pale into insignificance with what you have received thus far," Mary insisted, and was rewarded with what was a rare occurrence these days, a pure happy laugh from Helen Thurlow.
"Oh, indeed…." she agreed, "this morning my brothers proudly presented me with two large bars of pure milk chocolate…and two wooden swords. The latter of which they swore I would need to fight off pirates. After much discussion, it was decided that it would be much more prudent if they retained them in order to defend me from the pirates. Whereupon, the chocolate was, I believe…'press-ganged'…into their service to help provide sustenance while on naval patrol." She shook her head, as Mary started to laugh. "I do hope Goodwin is able to keep them from eating it all…Mother has a celebratory dinner planned for this evening, and I would rather little green faces were not staring at me."
Mary did her utmost to contain her humour at the images, and shook her head, her eyes soft. "Oh…Helen, I know it's a trial for you sometimes, but I can hardly wait till that's me."
Helen's smile grew more, remembering her friend's condition and anticipation. "And how are you feeling?" she asked, placing her napkin upon her lap. "Is everything well with the baby?"
Her friend's eyes shone as she smiled happily. "Quite well. Everyone seems most happy with me. Not least John." She chuckled, and leaned forward once more, her voice low and mirthfully confidential. "So much so, I heard him singing Rigoletto after his surgery last night."
The other woman's grey eyes widened. "Singing?" she breathed, a hand flying to her mouth to keep herself from giggling. "Well, I have always thought you both will make excellent parents. There is a lot of love in your hearts...and plenty to share."
"Thank you, Helen. That means a great deal to me," Mary replied, touched, and reached out to squeeze her friend's hand momentarily. "And John will make the most wonderful father, though I may have to struggle to ensure our child is not spoiled terribly. I fear, knowing his chivalrous and admiring nature," she continued with a chuckle, "if it's a girl, he will be absolutely under her thrall from day one."
"Of that, I have no doubt," Helen agreed, her cheeks flushing with life at the happy subject, as she took a sip of her water, her eyes dipping down to the menu, as she tried to decide.
The blonde woman watched her for a brief moment before lowering her eyes to her own menu. "And beyond your birthday celebrations, how are things at home?" she enquired lightly.
"Very well," her friend replied. "The boys are both doing well with their tutoring, though Matthew excels while Andrew has to struggle somewhat...both, however, excel in wreaking havoc as usual." She smiled a little. "Poor Mr. Boots will never be the same. He got caught by one of Andrew's chemistry experiments, and his fur got a bit singed. Though at least the set is now out of chemicals, so Goodwin is breathing somewhat easier."
Laughing softly to herself, Mary nodded. "I can quite imagine. Out of chemicals already? Andrew must have been a busy young man! And your mother? Do you find her progressing still?"
"Mother is doing marvellously," Helen replied, her pleasure obvious on her face. "She is becoming more active, and has a weekly whist night at the house. She is also becoming more involved in charity work for our church. I think having been in poverty herself, she feels as I do, that we should give back to others now we are in more fortunate circumstances."
"That is wonderful!" Mary agreed with a smile. "Both as an attitude and to hear about how well she is doing. Life down there seems to be treating your family well…they appear to be thriving."
"Undeniably," the other woman agreed, finally deciding on a light lunch of filet of sole with a dressed salad containing fresh French garden peas, baby potatoes, and haricots, and closing her menu. "It seems that they have found their niche in St. Albans."
"And you?" Mary looked up at her with an open gaze. "Do you too find that is where you belong?"
The light in Helen's eyes dimmed a little as she nodded. "Indeed...I am quite content there. It is peaceful, and I find I enjoy the country air far more than the city. Even though I come back here often and love London, I must admit when I arrive back at The Birches I do truly feel like I've come home." She flashed Mary a smile, the light returning to her eyes at a thought. "You must come out and visit before the summer is over."
"What a wonderful idea!" Mary agreed readily. "I would love to, thank you, Helen! To take a break from this humid city air would be most welcome, and I must confess I have envied John his frequent visits there. His descriptions…well you know how vivid and alive he can make things sound." She closed her menu with a smile. "Although I often chide him that he and Sherlock must not abuse your hospitality too often and outstay their welcome just because of the excellent teas you serve."
A shadow crossed her face at the mention of the detective's name, but the other woman simply smiled and shook her head. "Nonsense, they and you are welcome at anytime. I enjoy the visits I receive from my friends, and the boys love it when John visits. He's become a much favoured uncle to them."
"He adores them," Mary agreed. "He keeps talking about taking them to the zoo the first time you bring them up when he's not caught up with either work or a case." She shook her head ruefully. "Of course, between your infrequent timetable and his, such things are hard to organise." She motioned towards the waiter to come to take their order. "When was the last time you were in London?"
Even in the subdued lighting of the alcove, Helen's face clearly paled, though she endeavoured to keep her voice and manner causal. "Oh...a little less than a week ago. I came up for a board meeting and to attend a concert," she stated simply.
"A concert?" her friend asked before looking up at the waiter. "I will have the comfit of duck and the salad vert please," she ordered, handing him her menu, after he wrote it down, and then looked enquiringly at Helen, who gave him hers as well.
Handing him her menu, she waited until he was gone before answering Mary. "It was a string ensemble playing Vivaldi. Mr. Holmes was good enough to ask me to accompany him…" she quietened suddenly, glancing down at her hands for a moment, her next words slightly tremulous, "though it seems he was not able to attend in the end." As she breathed in, her cheeks flushed at the memory of how she had found out. "You must thank John for sending his kind note to me at the concert hall to let me know. I'm afraid I haven't seen him to do so myself."
Mary inclined her head in a mildly uncomfortable nod. "Yes, Sherlock was called away suddenly. He burst into the surgery to prevail upon John to join him, quite startling his outgoing patient." She joined her hands on the table. "I am sorry you had to experience that. But I'm quite sure if Sherlock had had time he would have…"
Flashing her a smile that did not reach much further than her lips, Helen shook her head before her friend could finish, both of them knowing that what Mary was going to say wasn't precisely true.
For Holmes, nothing captured his attention like his work, the fact that the note of apology had come from Watson and not him had spoken volumes. Despite this, however, her own words continued the façade. "No...it's quite all right. He's a busy man, and was called away quite suddenly," she insisted, though it was obvious that both that and the method of departure had hurt considerably. "It is of no consequence." Her eyes remained on the table as she fiddled absently with the tableware, nibbling on her bottom lip a little.
A surge of annoyance rippled through Mary, who had heretofore been inclined to her usual forbearance in the face of Holmes's unorthodox behaviours. "Being left unescorted at the theatre is always of consequence," she replied firmly. "He is far too casual with his ways sometimes. He should have contacted you himself, and arranged for someone to escort you back to your hotel."
Helen sighed and looked up at her friend. "It was only a recital, Mary...and there were many people there by themselves. I certainly did not look out of place."
"Nevertheless, it was inconsiderate of him in the extreme. He too often fails to take into account people's feelings in such dealings." The blonde woman shook her head in irritation. "When is your next outing with him?" she enquired
"There is not one…not yet," Helen answered quietly, her gaze intent on the fork she was currently fiddling with. "I suppose whenever he finds he has some free time, and John is too busy to go."
Mary stared at her, both amazed and appalled that such a strong and independent woman was willing to treat that state of affairs so casually, the true depth of her friend's feelings for the detective beginning to make themselves plain. "I see, and how do you feel about that?"
Silently, Helen placed the fork back neatly on the table, and gazed at her friend with increasingly red-rimmed eyes, her voice thickening though she fought to keep it light. "It's a situation I've become used to, Mary. I enjoy his company...and...well, I understand that his schedule is rather random." Her hands shook a little as she removed her gloves.
"Helen…" Her friend frowned gently, her eyes filling with concern at the other woman's position, as she reached out to touch her hand again. "I understand that you understand...but how do you feel about it?"
Her auburn head bowed again, and she seemed almost unwilling to answer or even look at her companion as she sat there, and it was obvious to Mary that she was deeply torn. "I am..." she started after what seemed a long silence, "it is...oh, Mary, what am I to do?" Her voice was a pleading whisper, as she finally looked up into her friend's blue eyes, her own filled with anguish. "I...am twenty and six years old today, and, heaven help me, in love with a man that feels nothing of the sort for me. In fact, I knew this would be the case from the start, and was still fool enough to let myself get to this point. I can't eat. I barely sleep...I'm a confused mess on most days, and ironically, only work seems to take my mind off of it. It's completely intolerable...and yet, I..." She trailed off and looked at her friend helplessly.
Mary gripped her hand tightly in sympathy. "Can't bring yourself to change things, because you feel happy when you are with him?" she finished for her.
Her shoulders visibly sagged, as she nodded in reply. "I...I can't stop myself from going to him...I'd do anything for him. I know I have completely lost my senses...but I do it anyway." She swallowed, and for a moment looked rather irked at herself. "It is an impossible situation, Mary. I can't keep living this way, and yet I can't change it."
Watching her unhappily for a moment, Mary rose and moved her chair around the table closer to her friend, unheeding of any looks or glances that might come her way for such unorthodox behaviour. "I am sorry, Helen, truly so. All the more as I feel I have contributed to this far more than I ever wished I might have." Taking both her hands in hers, the blonde haired woman frowned deeply. "I never should have encouraged John to think that this match might have been ideal for you both. I let myself forget Sherlock's unique viewpoint on life and its softer side...and thought his...well never mind what I thought. I was patently and foolishly wrong. Forgive me."
Helen shook her head quickly. "I do not blame you or John...I never have. Only myself. I knew better, and yet stayed when I knew I should walk away." Her head dropped, as she stared sadly at the table.
After a protracted moment of silence, Mary took a long breath, and spoke again quietly. "Helen...you are quite right. You can't keep living this way. But you can change it...you must...if you do not it will eat away at you if you let it. And you cannot allow that. You have a mother still convalescing...two young brothers to watch over...and business responsibilities that make my head swim." Turning her friend's face to look at her, she gazed at her with blue eyes that were soft and warm. "I know how love can consume one...make one's mind focus solely on it and nothing else. I suppose this is what Sherlock fears so much...and perhaps...perhaps, you must learn from him in this regard, dearest Helen. You are as strong as he is. I feel that you can do as he does…just this once."
Inhaling slowly, her friend's auburn head bobbed shakily. "I should...walk away. Give myself some time and distance between us. Time to let go." Biting her lip, she continued, her voice pained, "I cannot forget him...nor would I wish to...but...I can busy myself...be less available." She gave the other woman a weak smile. "I just hope I have strength you attribute to me."
Mary hedged a little before she spoke. "I think…perhaps...you might find it easier to do..." she paused again before she continued, "if you were honest with him?"
Her friend seemed to pale even more. "Tell him? Oh no! I couldn't! It is one thing to know he feels nothing for me, but another for him to say so in his forthright manner that he does not. I would never be able to face him again...no matter how much time passed."
"No, no. What I suggest..." Mary said quietly, calming her, "is not that you tell him of your feelings, and only that. But rather that you are frank with him on how things stand, that you found yourself drawn to him...that you knew it was a dangerous thing, and that such an attachment would never be reciprocated, that you have decided to distance yourself from him for both of your sakes. He would, I think, be far less inclined to press you for further contact. And...knowing Sherlock, he would undoubtedly be the more impressed by you for your self-control and rational thinking." Her blue eyes gazed directly into her companion's grey ones. "Besides, Helen...he does deserve an explanation for why someone he values is withdrawing from his life."
The other woman looked vastly unsure about that line, though she did have to admit to herself her friend had a point. Nibbling her lip again, she gazed at Mary with a rather pained expression. "I suppose...but..." She sighed. "I am an utter coward. He will be either be very gracious or disapproving...and very likely submit me to a lecture on allowing myself to feel this way in the first place. However...he does deserve something of an explanation..."
"I feel it would be best. For him. For you. And, " she gave her friend a sad smile, "he has enough reason in his mind to dismiss women as a shallow lot. For you to simply fade away on him, would, I fear, put a nail in that particular coffin lid. I think your honesty, which is something he holds in great esteem, could only benefit his perception of you...and perhaps of us all."
Helen stared at the table for several minutes, pondering not only Mary's words, but the entire problem and any foreseeable outcomes. Finally, a great shuddering sigh seemed to bubble up from within her, and she nodded. "Very well. Next time we meet, I shall speak with him," she agreed, her voice soft and resigned.
Mary nodded once in reply. "But take some time...I can have John tell Sherlock that you will be in St. Albans for a few weeks thanks to matters there. Between that and his work, you will have the time you need to compose yourself a little." Slipping an arm about her friend, she hugged her gently. "I will visit if you like...we can talk further...and this way, I will get to see the Twin Birches at last."
A small, genuine smile formed on the younger woman's lips. "Thank you, I appreciate that...and yes, you must come visit," she replied, before returning the hug. "Provided you are able to, of course."
"I shall be perfectly able to travel for some time yet," Mary insisted, sitting back into her chair. "Even if I must bring John to flutter anxiously beside me," she huffed slightly.
With a soft laugh, Helen shook her head, feeling somewhat lighter inside for having released a long held-in burden. "Oh dear...well, we can't have that can we?" she voiced. "Let us hope that John is equally busy at the time of your visit then."
"I shall see what I can do to gently nudge him towards Sherlock for the time being," Mary returned with a chuckle. "After all in a few months time, he will be loathe to leave my side at all, and I shall tell him so." She slipped her chair back around the table, as the waiter approached them again, and as she gazed across at her friend, her smile dimmed just a little. "You are quite wrong, you know...you are very brave. And that courage will carry you on from this. You will find your way on from here...from him. In time. Even though you may not believe it or currently want to."
Helen's cheeks flushed with colour, and though at that moment, she doubted her friend's prophetic powers, as the ache was still low inside her, and the flutter of nerves still there at what she intended to do, her smile was warm and grateful. "You are a kind soul, Mary, and I am lucky to have you for a friend," she told her honestly, before giving her a lighter smile. "Thank you."
23rd August, 1889
"Your coat check, sir." The busy cloak room attendant handed Holmes the ticket before swiftly moving on to the next customer of the Covent Garden Theatre that night. Taking the ticket, and slipping it into the pocket of his white dress waistcoat, he turned to his companion beside him, who stood with her back turned, distracted by the elegant crowd entering as they had via the Corinthian colonnaded entrance on the Piazza outside.
The audience for that evening's performance of Donazetti's Lucia di Lammermoor sparkled in strictly enforced evening dress that was de rigeur during the opera house's Italian Season for all save those occupying the upper slip seats far above the auditorium.
They gathered in the vestibule, milling and talking before making their way to the refreshment bar, stalls, or up the sweep of the impressive and richly carpeted stairs to the mezzanine and the grand tier or their boxes. The place was filled and abuzz as it always was on opening night - the lure of the Opera House's celebrated young coloratura soprano, Nellie Melba, reprising her role as the eponymous heroine from her debut season two years prior, too hard to resist.
"Miss Thurlow?" Holmes interrupted her near trance like state. "Your cape?"
"Hmmm?" she replied, turning to face him, before realising what he was asking. "Oh! Yes, of course." Taking off the long, deep green cape that matched her gown, she handed it to him with a smile. "Do forgive me...my thoughts are a little distracted this evening."
With an understanding nod, her companion retrieved the check stub for her sleek, satin garment and handed it to her, watching her slip it into her purse before beginning to walk with her towards the centre of the antechamber. "Would you care for a pre-performance aperitif?" he asked, noting an almost immediate return to her distant demeanour, the reason for it well known to him by now.
She gave him a vague if grateful smile, and nodded. "Yes, thank you, that would be lovely," she answered.
Guiding her in the direction of the bar, Holmes left her near a cushioned sofa nearby, and navigated the crowded spot to locate a convenient place near one corner, beckoning to one of the busy barmen who acknowledged him as next. Looking back at his companion's face across the way it was not hard, even from this distance, to see she had slipped into deepest, distracted thought once more.
It had been some weeks since he had seen her. Her family affairs, his case load...had precluded it. It was entirely possible she would not be with him tonight had it not been for unexpected and tragic events that had taken them all unawares...events that even now were clearly on her mind.
Having watched him move off to the bar, Helen had released the breath that she had been holding deep inside since she had met him outside her hotel that evening. Though the butterflies that were currently swarming in her stomach were dedicated mostly to him and the news she knew she would impart to him that night, her thoughts were still for her dear friend who was currently confined to her bed in Kensington, and whose husband should have been here in her place.
Helen sighed to herself as her memory again slipped to two weeks earlier at St. Albans, when she and Mary had been so happy as they discussed the impending arrival - what would need to be done in the nursery, the clothes that would be made, and Mary's husband's loving if somewhat comically over-attentive behaviour. Everything was possible, and all laid before them.
And now, it was all over.
Out of nowhere and with no warning, Mary had awoken in the middle of the night in pain and bleeding heavily, and no matter what John or her own arriving physician had tried to do, they had been unable to stop it. Within an hour, they had been forced to tell her that her baby was gone.
Mary, understandably, had been devastated, and when she herself had arrived at the Watsons' a day later, it was to a house of grief. For as much as her friend was in mourning for her loss, so too was her husband, his normally upbeat and jovial deportment now hushed and almost anaesthetized, as he grieved quietly on his own, while valiantly directing an attempt to cheer his wife whenever he was with her.
The next week had been spent visiting her pale but recovering friend, staying for a day or two, caring for her when John had to go back to work and in the evenings when he returned and dined downstairs alone, and slipping to him to be a soothing and sympathetic ear when he needed it.
As much as she loathed to take any good from so sad an occurrence, it been quite the distraction from her own troubles. So intent on devoting her time and energy to them, she had been able to put aside her active and anxious thoughts of the consulting detective of Baker Street. So much so, that when Watson had asked if she would mind filling in for him as a companion to their mutual friend on this night, preferring to stay at home with the thankfully improving Mary, she had agreed readily, the implications of what such an outing would mean only striking her rapidly as she had left to go back to her hotel that evening.
Holmes, himself, had been away, but had called upon Watson one evening to offer his condolences in person. The two men had talked briefly before he had departed, though she had not discovered it until his after he had gone, having been companion to Mary in her room that night. She had not dwelled upon it then, but now seated here all her conflicted feelings about him were again to the fore, and as much as she would have liked to forget about them and what she needed to do, she could not. She would tell him...tonight, and resolved herself to it, though it did not make the task any easier.
The pull to him had been almost instantaneous upon seeing him waiting for her on the pavement outside her hotel - a pull that ensnared her senses and threatened to wreck everything. It had taken all she had not to give in to the desire to ignore the misery she had endured and remain at his side - to walk away from her plans…to not stare into those vivid eyes with their gold and green flecks and lose herself completely.
It would be easier, so much easier to do so. What she had to do tonight scared her…no, terrified her to her very core. She must not only take command of her own wavering emotions, but of a situation regarding Sherlock Holmes, a man who could, if he tried, reduce almost anyone to a quivering mass of nerves with a look or word. She had to be strong and confident with no trace of her second guessing herself. Her resolve must be as clear as the logic in her withdrawing from him. She did not want him to see her weakness, or how hard this was for her…even as she left, she did not want him to think her just another foolish, feeble-willed woman.
She had been tossed about on a sea of emotions all this time, and this was, at last, her chance to exert some power over her own fate.
But deep down inside, there was another fear…one she dreaded even more. That she might look up into those eyes that so attracted her, and in them, even momentarily, see pain at her decision to end their friendship so. The thought that she might hurt him with her inability to control her own feelings was like a crushing weight upon her chest. He was so remote and emotionally aloof now, that the idea that she might be responsible for a scar that would further that removal tied her stomach in as tight a knot as it could be.
But walking away without a word, avoiding him at every hand's turn, would definitely achieve that damage and in a far less kind a manner. This way, at least, there was a chance he would do as Mary had suggested, and find merit in her actions, understanding and appreciation of her logic and her control. Even now, the desire that he think well of her consumed her.
Glancing over at the bar, and seeing him pay the bartender, she attempted to clear her mind and focus for now solely on the evening, and when the time came take her opening.
On returning to her side, Holmes proffered the sweet sherry he had obtained for her, and sat with his small snifter of brandy, pulling up a chair to face her across the low gilded coffee table between them. "How is Mary?" he asked without further preamble, voicing what he felt her thoughts still to be, though there was the merest hint of disguised discomfort in his voice at the topic. "The importance of my work has kept me away again these past few days, and Watson is..." He let the sentence hang as to his friend's understandable absence.
His own talk with him had been concise, sympathetic, but reserved - a few words of inquiry and condolence and a firm handshake. It had been a difficult conversation for both of them, but for entirely different reasons, and a measure of guilt resided within Holmes for his controlled nature at these times.
"She is on the mend," Helen replied with a sigh, taking a small sip of her drink. "She is still very upset of course...they both are…but they seem to be taking heart that nothing appears to be wrong with her physically, and are free to try again." She flushed a little at that, and moved on hastily. "I have invited them both to stay at the house if they need to remove themselves from the city, but both seem very keen to get back into the normal schedule of their lives."
"Work is often the best remedy. A routine that keeps the mind occupied," he agreed with a quick nod, both sympathetic yet still vaguely uncomfortable. "Will you give her my best regards when you see her again? With the plans I have, it is doubtful I will be near their home again for at least a while longer."
"Of course," she assured him, his words catching her attention. "And how has your work fared as of late?"
"On the cusp," he replied with some relief. "The case I am working on threatens to unfold before me at last, and that quivering possibility is the reason I fear I shall not be in London for some few days at least after today." He placed his brandy upon the table. "I await word on certain developments, which I expect will come first thing tomorrow, and when received, I shall be striking out immediately for..." he paused and smiled a little, "well, that remains to be seen."
Her eyebrow arched a little. "Well then, I hope you manage to enjoy your night off tonight," she returned with a hint of amusement. "A mystery in a mystery...should be most interesting."
"It has a certain intrigue," he conceded before enquiring, "Something, I hope, has not been the case with your own affairs? I understood from speaking with Watson before his loss that you were keeping yourself to St. Albans. Though he was somewhat vague on the details. Everything is well there, I trust?" He picked up, and swirled his glass of brandy slowly.
She managed to give him a flash of a smile, before taking another sip of her drink, affording her the time to collect her thoughts as he revealed the curiosity to her absence from London that she knew he would. His inquisitive mind would afford no other reaction. She wondered if that moment would be a good time to begin her now well-rehearsed speech. But with the opera just minutes away, she decided it was likely not, and she had hoped to have one last pleasant evening with him before all this came to an end at last. Letting the sherry slip down, she shook her head and lowered her glass. "All is well, Mr. Holmes. I have just been rather busy with affairs at home."
"Yes..." a suggestion of a frown touched his forehead, "precisely as Watson said. Word for word in fact." He drew on his brandy, before gazing over the top of his glass at her again, noting the same distant quality slip into her words, and wondering now if her bearing this evening was attributable to more than just concern for her friend. His eyes upon her became more penetrative, as he straightened in his seat, leaning back…considering.
After a momentary silence, he spoke again. "I was wondering, Miss Thurlow...whether you might consider a suggestion of mine?"
Taking another sip of her sherry, she nodded. "Of course," she agreed with genuine curiosity.
"While Watson and I have been attending concerts and performances such as these for some time now...it appears now that with both Mary and your good self, that our circle of intimates has extended itself somewhat. I had spoken to him some time ago about the benefits of obtaining season tickets. He for himself and Mary...and I for myself. Seeing as it is as often you and I who travel out to these events together, and rather than it merely being a case of you inheriting a ticket meant for Watson, I was wondering whether you too might partake of a season ticket which would make the arranging of our trips together that much easier...and more frequent?" His gaze was level and direct as he spoke, the level of interest he took in her response to what he had to say natural yet quietly intense.
Her initial reaction was surprise, not having expected this offer in the least. The second less obvious one was that of a clenching in her stomach at his intention that the bonds be tightened just as she intended to severe them, manifesting in a flash of nerves was hard to suppress. "That...that is very generous of you, Mr. Holmes," she hedged, only for the bell to sound, followed by the voices of the ushers announcing for all to take their seats.
Finishing his brandy, he offered her his hand. "Shall I take that to mean you will consider it?" he asked of her opaque response. Still a little off balance, Helen nodded, as she slipped her gloved hand into his, wondering if she should perhaps re-examine her decision yet again.
Leaving their glasses, and stopping once or twice along the way to greet and talk briefly with a few of his acquaintances, the orchestra was finishing their tune up as he led her to their seats. Entering a box to the right of the stage, the great crystal chandelier glowed above them, as the great auditorium, second only to La Scala in Milan and The Pergola in Florence, filled rapidly.
Helping to seat her, Holmes handed her the playbill for the evening. "You will no doubt find Melba a marvellous soprano," he predicted. "She is justly celebrated for one so young. From what I understand, there are a great many renowned tenors and baritones lined up to play with her and the Royal Opera Company." Taking his own place on the matching gilded plush scarlet seat beside her, his eyes turned to the curtained stage as he continued to talk. "A season ticket does seem the way to go. It would be gratifying to know that all my friends would be so similarly well equipped to join me."
Glancing down at her playbill, she felt her stomach roil with each word. He could not possibly know how much it meant to her to have him think so highly of her, and yet...the word friend just lay there like a rapidly sinking stone, leading her inexorably back to her plan which now seemed more urgent than ever under his new intentions. "I am looking forward to hearing her..." she began quietly, only to have the rest of her words again dry up in her throat.
His eyes moved back to her once more, for he could not help but notice that she had again failed to answer the salient point of his questioning. "Miss Thurlow," he leaned forward slightly, as the crowd below, around, and above hushed, "be assured, if you do not wish to consider the ticket at this time, you have only to say. I place no obligation on you at all."
She bit her lip. He knew something was wrong, he was pressing her in his way to discover what, and silently and gently she cursed him for it. For hastening the end. She had to tell him. It was only fair. So, with an inward sigh, she turned to face him. "Mr. Holmes, I would be most glad certainly to attend the opera with you, for you know I enjoy our outings, however..." Her words were cut off with the sudden dimming of the lights and swell of the orchestra as the opening overture began.
Even as the curtain drew back and the setting of Lammermoor castle in Scotland in the Sixteenth Century was revealed, setting up the tale of violence, feud, illicit love, and tragedy that was to come, an initially uncomfortable silence settled over the box, both occupants aware of something left yet unsaid.
They had just begun to settle into the libretto, however, and Holmes was about to point out to her a slight flaw in the recitative, when there was a dull knock on their box door. Jolted out of her intense concentration of the drama on stage, Helen turned to her companion with a slightly perplexed and questioning look. "Are you expecting someone, Mr. Holmes?" she enquired lowly.
"No." He shook his head, speaking quietly as he stood. "Not at all."
On opening the door, he was faced with an apologetic usher. "Your pardon, sir, but are you Mr. Holmes? Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he enquired, and as the detective nodded, was promptly handed a message. "For you, sir."
Taking the arrival with a surprised expression, Holmes tipped the man, and left his foot in the door to hold it a little ajar so as to utilise the light from outside, as he opened the communication.
"Is everything all right?" Helen asked, rising to her feet, and crossing over to him, an anxious look on her face that perhaps Mary had worsened.
"Yes..." he assured her absently with a nod, before glancing up. "There is nothing to worry about on that score." His brow creased at the words facing him. "However, I'm sorry to say I must depart at once." Slipping the note into his coat, he regarded her briskly. "There is a carriage awaiting me downstairs, and I do not have time to see you home." He indicated the chair she had just left. "Please sit, and watch the rest of the performance."
She stared at him; stunned by the sudden turn of events, as for the second time in a little over a month, she was faced with abandonment at a public event. "You...now?" she stumbled dumbly. "But...I wanted to…I…" And again the awful feeling of hopelessness descended once more into the pit of her stomach. "Of course," she said, her tone resigned, and with a shake of her head, though her back stiffened slightly, gazed at him with an expression that betrayed nothing. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes," she finished strongly, holding out her hand.
Taking her hand quickly, forgetting to bow over it, his other hand searching for his coat check ticket in his waistcoat, he nodded, his mind already turning to events outside their box. "Goodnight, Miss Thurlow. We shall reschedule, of course." And with a quick bow over her hand, he turned on his heel and slipped out, closing the door behind him and leaving her in barely relieved darkness.
She turned, and almost slumped against the wall - abandoned once more, her carefully thought out speech never said, and the strenuous farewell she had uttered, the closest she had come to informing him of her intentions. Aware that their movements and his exit had caused a mild disturbance, she resumed her seat with all the appearance of a woman listening avidly to the arias and canzone on stage, though inside her mind was still reeling.
He was gone, and though she had resigned herself to the idea that when the time came to say goodbye to him this evening it would be with that note of finality, the loss of him now was palpable. She had the distinct impression that she must be experiencing a most similar feeling to someone who has lost a limb - the ache of it was still there, though she knew the part itself would never return.
As she sat, she found her misery mirrored in that of Nellie Melba's Lucia…but unlike the increasingly bewildered stage heroine, flecks of annoyance at her own situation began to creep into her thoughts. People who had seen and heard his departure were watching her as she now sat alone, and she felt a flush of embarrassment while they regarded her with a kind of curious pity, and made assumptions about what had happened that would lead to his abandoning her that way.
She was alone, as she had been throughout this entire one sided affair, and the casualness with which he had left her again, this time in full view of others, drove home once and for all the idea that she would always have been second best to his work. That nothing mattered to him quite so much as that. But though she knew it was important, and she did not begrudge his leaving, she only wanted…a little more consideration.
Her brow creased a little as she thought on it all, and it struck her as suddenly absurd that she should be worried that she might hurt him. That he truly cared only for his work never seemed more obvious to her, and her annoyance flared once more. How could she hurt him? John, not he himself, had written her that note of apology when they both had left on a case. And now here, he had hardly even given a second thought to her when he left.
He'd left smartly, blithely, and it ached and irked all the worse at the knowledge that he still expected her to reschedule. But she never would. What was the point of telling him why she was drawing away when, continuously caught up in his work as he was, it was doubtful to her now that would he even miss her presence beyond a mild disappointment at not having a companion for these events. The time had come. Explanation or no, it was time for her to go...to walk away.
As the lights rose again, and the intermission began, she rose silently to her feet, wanting nothing more than to leave and end her miserable night. Closing her eyes, and inhaling quietly, she steeled herself, just as surely as he must do, and keeping any hint of tears at bay, she closed off her heart, drawing on her annoyance just a little to fuel her determination and her dignity so that she would not be a spectacle of any kind.
Moving swiftly towards the carpeted steps, and not paying much heed to those around her, she began to descend, pulling out her coat check ticket, so as to be ready to cross the foyer to retrieve her cape and make a dignified exit.
"I say!" a familiar booming voice carried up the stairs to her. "Sarah! Look who it is!" At the bottom of the flight, the tow blond head of Sir Roger Howley looked up towards her with a wide smile. "Helen, dear girl! Fancy meeting you here!" he greeted her, as he made his way up towards her to escort her the rest of the way down on seeing her alone, glancing behind him as he did. "Here with someone?"
She blinked up at the face of her cousin's husband as he towered above her, before relaxing just a little, and giving him a tiny smile. "I...I was, but he had to leave. I was just on my way to get my cape," she replied.
"Leave?" Roger repeated, leading her downstairs. "Leave...alone? Sarah!" he boomed again, trying to attract her attention from the small group she was attached to in conversation. "Sarah, some ill mannered reprobate has left Helen here by herself, expecting her to make her own way home!"
Repressing an inward groan, Helen shook her head quickly as her cousin turned, and moved swiftly over to them. "Honestly, it is nothing to concern yourselves with. There are cabs outside, and I was somewhat weary at any rate," she assured them, simply desiring to be away from public in general.
"Helen, how can we not be concerned! We are family, and you have been left here alone and unescorted. It simply won't do," Sarah returned, watching her closely with a carefully managed worried look on her face.
"Indeed not," her husband agreed. "Height of bad manners leaving you alone, and we'll not compound it by letting you travel unescorted. You must come with us, and watch the rest in our box!"
Helen's eyes widened. "Oh no, Roger...thank you, but I really do just wish to get home. It has been a busy week, and I have to visit a sick friend tomorrow. Honestly, I would just rather get a cab."
"Ah..." a secondary male voice, tenor in tone and with a slight tut to follow, said from behind Roger, "that is a grave disappointment, I must admit."
Around the giant fair-haired peer stepped a slighter man. He was tall, over six feet in height, clad in the red and gold dress uniform of a Captain in the Cavalry, and in possession of a mane of dark brown hair that he wore slightly long and with trim sideburns in the style that some mounted officers did as an homage to older heroes. And underneath that thick head of hair was a tanned and decidedly handsome face, bearing a small smile which set off his fine features to great effect. But more noticeable still, were the deep, warm, blue eyes that danced a little in the chandelier light above them, eyes that were focused now on Helen as he stopped where he stood, his hands clasped behind his back, and his smile widening a little more, before he glanced up at Roger expectantly.
"Ah...yes..." Roger nodded. "Helen...this is an old school friend of mine from Rugby. William Edwards...Captain William Edwards soon to be Major, I might add...newly returned from India in service to the 16th Queens Royal Lancers…or the Scarlets as you can tell from his uniform," he continued with a chuckle. "Captain Edwards, my wife's cousin...Miss Helen Thurlow," he introduced.
The Captain extended a white gloved hand, and bowed a little. His eyes, however, never left her face as he waited for her hand in return. "A very great pleasure, Miss Thurlow," he said sincerely.
It was not his looks that first struck Helen, for indeed she had seen many a handsome man as of late at social events and outings, but rather his eyes...they were startlingly direct, nearly impudently so, but completely and utterly sincere and almost...innocent. It was an odd mix for a man that looked from her estimation to be about thirty.
Despite her gloomy mood, he also seemed to possess a smile that rather irritatingly one could not help but return, and in so doing, she took his hand and inclined her head. "How do you do, Captain Edwards," she greeted him. "I believe I have heard talk of you from Sarah and Roger...albeit briefly, regarding the dinner they planned for your return."
"Then I am afraid you have me at the slightest of advantages," he returned, bowing over her hand, "for I have yet to hear of you. Something I shall have to take Roger and your fair cousin to task over." He gave them a light-hearted reproving glance. "For how they could have failed to mention you, I fail to understand."
"Ah..." said Roger, his eyes moving to his wife, as a glimmer of a smile played around his lips at his friend's reaction to her cousin. "Well...yes, we had planned to invite Helen to the garden luncheon next week. I'm sure you would have met there."
"Yes," Sarah agreed. "I was going to write to you in the morning. How fortuitous it is to see you here, instead."
Helen's eyes narrowed just a little at the exchange, smelling the almost inevitable scent of the matchmaker at work. And it seemed she was not, for once, the only one so taken, as the blue eyes of William Edwards moved to his friends, an eyebrow arching slightly in the act of informing them that he knew exactly what they were up to, before he looked back at Helen and to her surprise surreptitiously tossed his eyes heavenwards in an act of exasperation and confederation with her at their actions.
Her pithy reply to her cousin died on her lips, which were now twitching upwards in an attempt to rein in an increasingly hard to repress smile. "Well," she conceded, after a moment, "I am free on Wednesday...for lunch." She stressed the last two words for the couple's benefit.
"Lunch is an excellent meal," Captain Edwards agreed, his own smile growing at her acceptance, and his tone grew exceedingly relaxed as he looked around at them all. "Quite possibly my favourite...especially here in England," he added, turning his gaze back to Helen. "And do you know why?"
She arched an eyebrow at him, her face doing a passable imitation of hiding an enjoyment she was sure she should not feeling in the circumstances, and shook her head. "No, Captain Edwards...why?"
"It's all served up in wonderfully, clear, perfectly understandable English." He sighed, and held up his programme for the opera with an expression of a man completely lost.
Her eyes moved from him to his programme and back again. "I see...well, Italian is not my best language either," she consoled him. "I'm afraid I am bound to either English or French." She paused for a moment. "Are you not enjoying the opera?"
Roger turned his gaze to his friend. "I fail to see why you shouldn't be, William! After all before it started, Sarah and I went through the entire libretto with you!"
"No, Roger..." William replied genially. "You and Sarah went through the libretto...you left me behind blundering around at the overture unable to tell my Edgardo from my Enrico..." His brow furrowed a moment. "Or was it Arturo from my Raimondo...I forget." He sighed again, though his eyes never ceased to lose their sparkle as he regarded Helen. "I'm afraid my Italian is utterly non existent. I enjoy the music greatly, Miss Thurlow...but I truly have no idea what is going on, and Roger and Sarah are entirely too advanced in their knowledge to be able to drop back to explain it all to an operatic novice like myself. Their technical terms make advanced military tactics seem like mere child's play."
"You should have said!" Roger huffed. "I would have been only too glad to go through it with you again, old man!"
The look that William gave him was one of pure pain, and he raised his hand in mock horror. "No, Roger...I beg of you."
Helen raised a hand to her mouth to hide her wide grin at his playful antics, the young Captain's cheerful good humour a wave of welcome relief that she had hardly known that she craved after the turbulent events in her life as of late. "Oh dear..." she chimed in with a chuckle. "Well...it is not too complicated, Captain Edwards. If you forgo the musical terms the story itself is rather easily followed, especially if you have read Sir Walter Scott's original novel on which this drama is based."
Turning his head back to Helen, he gazed at her like a man out at sea who had just caught sight of a raft with sail and full provisions. "Miss Thurlow," he began, drawing himself up, "I realise we have only just been introduced...but I would deem it a great boon...nay, a veritable act of heroism...if you would consider, perhaps...remaining to guide me through the rest of this evening's theatrical intricacies?" His blue eyes seemed almost puppyish, as he added nobly, "I would, of course, return the favour by freeing you of any obligation to any lunch my friends insist you attend in order to make my acquaintance. Even one on a Wednesday?" His lips tugged slightly upwards at his last words.
Sobering a little, she glanced down at her coat check ticket still grasped in her hand, and bit her lip. A twinge of sadness ran through her, before she pushed it back with that little flare of annoyance, and reminded herself that she had made a decision regarding her heart and future, and now seemed just as good a time as any to enact that resolution.
Pushing the ticket back into her purse, she raised her eyes back to the handsome and charming man in front of her and smiled. "How can I refuse such an offer?" she replied.
Straightening, the young officer looked to her relatives and back to her, his smile exceedingly pleased as he offered her his arm to lead her back upstairs. "I really have no idea, Miss Thurlow, and am remarkably glad you don't either." His eyes twinkled, as her hand slipped to his arm, and together, they moved off towards the stairs, a decidedly smug Roger and Sarah in their wake.
Authors' Notes: Thank you again to all that have read and/or reviewed! We love hearing from everyone, and please be assured your comments (and spelling corrections) are taken to heart. It always kinda bums us that we aren't able to just hit a button and reply to each person individually…but alas…no such feature here.
Okay, on the grammar/spelling – hope you noticed that some errors have been fixed (well, all the ones we could and our trusty editor at another archive we post at could find). Hopefully, that makes reading easier, and please, keep checking on those! Often I miss a few (as does my co-writer) and if you notice, we correct it within 72 hours. This is the lag time at the other archive, so we don't get those corrections back till most of you all have seen it!
Um…got rather amused at the comment about "Poor Helen! Do something!" Um…that's kinda the point…she is poor Helen. Alas, there will be no heroic measures here.
Thrilled people are liking the Duchess still (she's a right hoot, isn't she!), and are empathising and loving Miss Thurlow. Just shows we are doing our job right. Hooray!
And yes, Baskerville Beauty, we have both now read (devoured really) the HBP…and are reeling in shock and more plot bunnies than you can shake a stick at! Sigh…like we don't have enough to do! Headesk
Well, on a final note…just an epilogue to go folks! This chapter was originally to be split into two, but found it worked better as one. So…now you know where Helen stands…next up…Holmes! And hopefully, all questions will be answered…and a few new ones raised. Waggles eyebrows
Hugs to all! And thank you again! And relax…this is not the last you will be hearing from us. - Aeryn (of aerynfire)