Chapter Eleven
On Hypotheses
Holmes found me staring out the window as the London suburbs flashed by. He sat across from me, but did not take out his tobacco. We watched the scenery flash by in companionable quiet.
"What will you do now?" He asked.
"I'm not sure." I said. Up until this point I had been focused on finding Jensen, in the somewhat deluded belief that he would be able to fix everything. That was clearly not the case.
"There is always America." Holmes offered. "I understand the western provinces are more accepting of brains and ability, no matter the vessel."
"No." I said simply. America: the land of my father's people. The temptation would be far too great. If not for the death of my family, I likely would have never met Holmes on the Downs, and if I had things still might not have turned out as they had. Perhaps it was selfishness, but I didn't want to risk losing what I had. Despite my actions in the Sauvignon case, I was beginning to realize any interference could have disastrous consequences.
"A governess position?"
"I don't think that would be wise." I shuddered at the thought of being in charge of two or three screaming brats and at the beck and call of the lady of the house. I'd probably go mad within the week. "I'm not terribly good with children."
"I suppose teaching would carry the same difficulties." Holmes said, with the barest hint of amusement creeping into his voice.
"Even worse than being a governess. Three children would be hard enough, but thirty?" I shuddered melodramatically and Holmes chuckled. I had utmost respect for those benevolent dictators who ruled the classroom, which was only increased by the sure knowledge that I would never have the patience to do the job myself.
"I can't sew, I can't cook and I detest cleaning. I think that covers everything that a 'proper young lady of breeding' may do for a career." I spat the words with the venom which usually accompanied any mention of my aunt. She had quoted that exact phrase at me before I went off to Oxford. Holmes raised a single eyebrow at my tone, but wisely didn't pursue it.
"You forget secretarial work." He pointed out. I winced. I had tried this profession before, in the course of a case, and found it to be curiously hazardous to a young, single woman.
"I suppose that is a possibility."
"There are many things that a woman may do that a man may not."
"Such as?"
"Maid work." Holmes answered vaguely. "There are many places that women may go where men are not allowed." This time I caught the undertone.
"Mr. Holmes, are you offering me a place in your Corps of Irregulars?" I nearly laughed at the idea. For the second time, I had fallen into this man's life.
"As I said, a woman may say and do things that would be considered strange or out-of-place for a man. An inside view of a household would have been invaluable on any number of cases, and everyone expects women to gossip."
I scowled, but he was right. A man asking questions was suspicious, but a woman was just a gossip.
"I'm not willing to give up on Professor Jensen just yet." I said, putting off the moment of decision. "He managed time travel once, if only by accident. He may yet do it again. Though I don't know if it is entirely wise to encourage him."
"He does not seem to realize the repercussions his discovery will have."
"If you even suggested the possibility that someone might misuse the ability, he'd be shocked. It's strange that such an intelligent man can be so daft."
"Not at all. I have always thought that educated people can be the most extraordinarily naïve. You are set on continuing this research, then?"
"I dare say you have no immediate need for another Irregular."
"No, I do not." Was I imagining the smile twitching at his lips? "But how will Professor Jensen carry on with no laboratory, no funding and no place to live? Never mind. I can solve at least one difficultly. I'm sure that the hotel has another room."
"I seem to be quite the drain on your pocketbook."
"Worth every penny my dear." I looked sharply at him. Holmes covered his sudden confusion by searching out the cigarettes and matches. I knew Holmes' tactics too well to be put off by this. Once he had the tobacco going, I was still looking at him, more than a little shocked at the frank undertones in his voice.
Holmes: the archetypal bachelor; Holmes: the cold-blooded thinking machine; Holmes: the misogynist; Holmes flirting?
"We are nearing Victoria Station." He said unnecessarily, after a few puffs. He crushed the nearly-whole cigarette out and stood. I stood as well, and that was when the train hit the switching points.
The carriage rocked violently. I was pitched forward; Holmes half turned and I tumbled directly into his arms. Fortunately the dining compartment wasn't very large, or else we would have both tumbled to the floor. It was quite natural that he should throw an arm around my waist; steadying us both until the train stopped swaying. It was not at all strange that I should throw my arms around his neck to brace myself. It was no use at all telling myself this, because my breath quickened and I could feel his pulse quicken to match mine.
My intellect told me that this was not my husband, but my body called it a liar. I think Holmes was having the same difficulties, but for different reasons. It seemed ages, but could only have been a second or two before the internal battle could resolve itself.
Reason won out in the end, and I flung myself backwards, breaking his grip. I collided with the chair and nearly fell over, but recovered. I stammered something unintelligible even to me, and left in a rush. Fortunately, the notoriously difficult compartment doors gave me no trouble, allowing me the illusion of a graceful exit.
I put two cars between us before slumping against the wall, trying to regain my composure. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remind myself that this Holmes was not my husband. But I couldn't help but wonder if it could be considered infidelity to be with your husband after you were married, but before he'd met you.
I tried to shake conundrum out of my head, rather shocked at myself, but I had the sudden image of myself sitting among a circle of my fellow students in an Oxford pub laying my dilemma before them.
•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•.
"Hypothetically, let us say that time travel is possible." A few chuckles, the rustle of cloth as some sit forward to hear better and other sit back, divorcing themselves from such a silly thesis. "Let us say that one travels back in time, oh, ten years or so."
"Only ten?" Someone would call. "Heavens, H.G. Wells had the ambition to travel thousands of years."
"And in travelling back in time, you meet your future spouse. You know that you will one day marry this person, but they do not. In fact, they have not met you yet."
"Why not travel back fifty years and accidentally prevent yourself from being born?" Another wag would call. I ignore the academic heckling and plunge forward to my key point.
"If you were to fall into bed with this person, would that be considered infidelity?" I lean back, satisfied that I have finally reached the crux of my hypothesis and listen to the silence while the others rally classical quotations, theological writings on marriage, and the new theories of physics in order to defend their positions. The ifs and the buts and the conditional clauses roll over the table like waves in a storm. Points and counterpoints chase each other around the table until the "Yes" and "No" and "What a daft question" camps are firmly entrenched in their positions.
And no doubt the whole thing would collapse in laughter with a delightfully crude observation from one of the neutral parties.
•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•.
Theories of metaphysics often cropped up in my chosen field of theology, but to be personally mired in a conundrum rather blunted its appeal. I found myself standing outside our compartment, and took myself inside before a conductor came along to ask me my business.
Jensen had fallen asleep, lulled by the rocking motion of the train, and his notes had spilled on the floor. Holmes was not back yet, and I wondered if he would be coming back at all. I gathered up Jensen's notes and leafed through them, not really looking at the writing on the page.
Despite Holmes' general indifference towards the social norms of his generation, it was still terribly improper for an unmarried man to embrace a married woman in public. And I knew, though I would never admit it, I could have kept my balance perfectly well without falling into Holmes.
Oh Lord. He probably knew it as well as I. What he think of me now?
But then, he didn't have to hold me quite so tightly either.
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Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!
.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.