Author's Notes: Major apologies, people who have been waiting for a second chapter to this story. I haven't managed to update this story as quickly as I wanted to, but a combination of things has led to the delay. Partly it's been the fault of real life rudely intruding and mostly me wrestling with all the set-up that's present in this chapter. Set-up is hard guys. Too hard.

Also, I promise you that Sherlock Holmes is in this story. I haven't tricked you. Remember Luke Skywalker in "The Force Awakens"? Yeah. Sherlock's basically the Luke Skywalker of this story. Though a bit less... uh... space hobo-y.

March, 1786

Over a month later

Molly stood at the window and gazed down at the grey streets. There was something different about the townhouses, she thought. Something quieter compared to the rest of London. A sense of isolation amongst the calm conversation and private walks. Everywhere else, by contrast, had something akin to the beat of a heart, the life always moving, a thought of change seeming to thrum among the markets, the shops and its people. Irene had smiled as their carriage drove through the streets, pointing out the places everybody of note attended of a day and a night. She'd seemed to thrive on Molly's excitement, her smile ever wider as she beckoned Molly past the doors of her townhouse, their accommodation for the night.

"Molly, do come away from the window!" Her mother's command made her turn. Her mother flapped her fan against her features. "There are only a few hours until this evening's assembly, and we need to make you ready."

"I'm sorry Mother."

"Let her look, Frances," Irene interjected. "You said so yourself – we have a few hours, and it is your daughter's first time in London."

Molly's mother sighed heavily, snapping her fan closed, clutching it in her palm. She flicked her impatient glare towards Irene. "She will have plenty of time to look tomorrow. Now, Molly, come. Choose your dress."

Her mother gestured towards the ornate four-poster bed, the centrepiece of Molly's bedchambers. The dark red bedsheets were covered with dresses of bright silk and satin, pretty bows adorning their sleeves. They were the garments of a lady; the garments of a woman who ran households and hosted dinner parties. Molly hesitated to touch them, to feel the dresses under her skin.

"I think this blue will suit you best," Irene walked forward as she spoke, easily picking up one of the dresses. It was the least decorative of the collection, silver embroidery covering its bust. Small ruffles of an opaque white edged the shorter elbow-length sleeves. Irene lifted her head, her blue eyes finding Molly, at which she smiled. "Do you agree?"

Molly held the dress to herself, glancing down. The silk of it fell through her fingers like water. "I like it very much. Mother?"

"I like it too," her mother said decisively, walking forward. "Irene, call for the maid. We'll have to do something about my daughter's hair once she's dressed."

Irene nodded. Putting the dress aside on the bed, she hurried out of the door, letting it swing shut behind her. Molly looked to her mother. She was smiling, a deep smile that made her eyes shine. Wordlessly she cupped Molly's cheek, brushing her thumb softly against Molly's skin.

"You'll be beautiful tonight," she said, drawing her daughter into a hug. Molly sank into her mother's arms, taking a breath. There was such firmness, such a sure belief in her mother's words. Her mother held her tighter. When she spoke again, there was pride. "They won't be able to take their eyes off you."

The drink was poured freely at events such as these. Among the music, attendees mingled, wine glasses in their hands and words flowing from their mouths. Fervent whispers were exchanged, accompanied by brief searching glances. Samuel Abbot felt every one of those glances. He heard the snatches of gossip, the speakers hiding their words behind fans and sips of their drinks.

"Recently taken under the tutelage of Lord Stamford, I believe," said one mother to her daughter. "Very promising – already making waves, and bound to continue," said another.

Samuel knocked back a gulp of his wine. A servant approached him, more drink already being proffered, but Samuel waved them away. It was useful enough he would admit, to attend these occasions, to make himself known to the social elite, but he thrived, truly thrived, among laws and lawmakers. Here he felt like cattle to be auctioned.

The doors to the ballroom were opened. The master of ceremonies faced the crowd, his voice ringing over the music.

"Lady Adler, Lady Hooper and her daughter Miss Hooper."

Dressed in red, her lips coloured a darker hue, Lady Adler led the way. A well-known attendant to these events, she smiled as she turned towards her companions. Samuel paid all of his attention to the younger of the two. Her manner was unlike any of the other ladies in the room. She smiled demurely. She listened intently. She laughed lightly. Nothing about her was created with the intention of bettering herself. Everything about her, everything in the way she acted, was there for the sake of bettering others. Samuel swallowed, but his throat was dry. He blinked, swallowed back his wine, the sweet concoction slipping down his throat, the scent invading.

"Mr Abbot!"

He coughed and turned his head. Lady Hooper, dressed in silver, smiled warmly at him. Quickly regaining his composure, Samuel bowed in greeting.

"Lady Hooper."

"Now, I've heard whispers that you've entered the employ of Lord Stamford." Lady Hooper took his arm, smiling warmly. "Tell me, is there any truth in this rumour? You know how gossip can be. With one rumour here, another there, it all becomes so—" she sighed, searching for the right phrase, "complicated."

"Lord Stamford has been very kind to me," Samuel answered, his eyes still fixed upon Lady Hooper's daughter. It seemed like he could not look away from her. He cleared his throat, briefly directing a politely smile at Lady Hooper.

"So he should be," Lady Hooper stated, her eyes flicking towards the direction of his gaze. She smiled. "And of course, Lord Stamford only takes on the best. Do you enjoy studying the law, Mr Abbot?"

"Very much so, Lady Hooper."

"I'm glad of that. A man must find a profession he adores. Otherwise it's simply not worth the time, is it? Oh, Molly, dear!" They came to a stop as Lady Hooper gave the call. Her daughter turned. Her eyes grew curious as they found Samuel. He felt his chest grow tight; his breath hitched. For a moment, it was as if a thunder bolt had come, struck him, made him numb and unable to focus. In return, her look softened, brightening with recognition.

"Samuel!" she breathed, disbelief in her speech. "I – I haven't seen you since—"

"Since you were children!" Lady Hooper said brightly, looking between the two of them. "Hasn't my daughter grown, Mr Abbot?"

Samuel just about found the courage to reply with a compliment, though his tongue tripped up against the words. "Your daughter has grown very well, Lady Hooper."

"Call my daughter by her name, please Samuel," Lady Hooper urged. "You were friends once. You can do so."

He blushed, immediately lowering his gaze. This was ridiculous. One simple meeting and he was forgetting all rules of sensibility. If Molly Hooper was to see him as a gentleman he had to gain his composure. Straightening his shoulders, he offered out his hand.

"That we were," he said finally. Molly's fingers touched his palm. Samuel studied her for a moment. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Molly."

She may have indeed been much changed in terms of looks, but her sweetness had definitely remained.

Irene noticed Frances long before her arrival at her side. Weaving easily through the crowd, dismissing potential conversations with a breezy greeting and a compliment, Frances raised a knowing eyebrow as she tilted her head towards the dance floor. Irene looked. There, in the centre of the dancers, was Molly in the arms of a beaming Samuel Abbot. Together the two of them turned slowly in time to the music. He was a handsome enough man, Mr Abbot, his eyes blue with his blonde hair scooped back by a black ribbon into a ponytail, his green garments fashionable enough. He danced well and, by the spark in Molly's eyes, spoke well with a degree of intelligence. (It was a poor woman who allowed her friend to marry a fool.)

"You know of him?" Frances asked, voice slightly lowered. Always wary of the value of discretion.

Irene's mouth twisted into a smile.

"A little," she replied. She'd gleaned enough from the whispers to gain a suitable enough portrait of him. Only son, protégé of a respected judge, with a promising career ahead of him. It took little intellectual prowess to discover why Frances was so pleased.

"I doubt they've left each other's company since I introduced them," Frances said, her voice growing low. Though proud, she knew the value of discretion. Frances let out a laugh. "The poor boy's enchanted!"

The dance was a light waltz, reflective of the spring season. Stepping back, Mr Abbot smiled wider as Molly turned underneath his arm, soon returning to his hold. His hand slid against her waist, resting there with an already known familiarity. It was an image worthy of painting; the gallant knight with his lady love.

"I do love my daughter, but I shall admit – this would not have been done without your help, Irene." Frances' gaze was grounded for a moment, the peacock pride edged with something like relief. She held Irene's hand in thanks. "She's wonderful."

Irene said nothing, but watched Molly complete her dance. Giving a gentleman-like bow to her, Mr Abbot left Molly with a brief few words and a kiss to her hand. Soon noting his intended destination, Irene slipped away into the crowd.

It was moments later that Samuel left Frances' side to return to Molly and Frances found her again.

"Mr Abbot has asked my permission to court my daughter," she said slowly, delight battling against her calm tone. Frances left it a moment before she spoke again. "Did you know that they were playmates? As children. I knew his parents."

'Parents' was a diplomatic term. It was small talk that Samuel Abbot had been raised by his father, who in turn had been a wealthy merchant and a widower at the age of thirty-two.

"And your permission?" Irene asked, seeing through the crowd Samuel escort Molly out of the ballroom towards the gardens. Not the most original of places, nor the most imaginative, but not even the most suitable bachelor could have every desired quality.

"Freely given. If he doesn't propose in a month, he's a fool."

Irene bit back a laugh. She could heartily agree with that.

Sat at a chair by her fireplace, a book in her hands and her shoulders slouched as she read, Molly did not look up at the sound of her door.

"Molly!" Hands grabbed the spine of her book, taking it out of her hands. Molly snapped her head up, staring at her mother.

"What is it?"

"Samuel is downstairs, awaiting your greeting!" her mother answered crossly. Molly rose to her feet.

"He's here? But, the ball was only two days ago—"

Her mother waved a hand, dismissive.

"That doesn't matter. He is here for you. You will go to him, speak to him – entertain him – go on dear, go."

Molly nodded, swallowing, folding her hands together against her stomach. Obeying, she followed her mother down the stairs towards the drawing room. Her throat felt dry, her fingernails pressing into her palms. She had expected to see Samuel. That much was true. For him to attend on her so quickly, however, felt strange. Gentlemen, in the books, the stories, waited a week. Not two days.

The doors to the drawing room were opened. Molly paused on seeing Samuel rise to his feet. Her discomfort did not leave her. A man was stood in front of her, and the memories came thick and fast. Despite her memory of the ball, that did not compare to memories of a boy who chased her around his father's gardens until she had stitches and could barely breathe. She briefly scratched at the back of her neck, shutting her eyes. The memories faded.

Seeing her look to him again, Samuel finally addressed her. "Good afternoon Molly."

She breathed easier at the sound of his voice. Clipped, even-tempered, it was far away from the boyish laugh she remembered.

"Samuel," she said, smiling as he approached her. Taking her hand, he gently kissed it, his lips warm against her cold skin. She rubbed gently at her skin as they sat; the sensation still lingered.

In the room, there stood a grandfather clock. Antique, purchased by her father years ago, so her mother had told her. Every tick was slow, rounded in its sound. It echoed in the silence among them. Her mother said nothing, but set about her embroidery. Molly held herself well and said nothing, as Lady Adler had taught her. (She had claimed that if you sat still for long enough, someone else would feel compelled to begin the conversation.)

Samuel's fingers brushed over his knee, tapping out an irregular rhythm.

"I've brought you a gift," he announced suddenly, rising to his feet. Molly quickly followed him, her mother following also, her embroidery deftly forgotten. Molly, sliding her gaze towards the item, failed to hide a smile. On the white cloth was the beginning of a pattern of red roses and green thorns. Not one stitch had been set. She returned her attention to Samuel.

"Would you follow me?" he asked after a silence. He gestured towards the door. "It's in the carriage, you see—"

Molly sucked in a breath, threading her fingers together. "Gladly," she answered. She could feel her mother follow on behind her as Samuel escorted her out of the drawing room, across the entrance hall, out onto the quiet street. In the cool spring breeze, others stood at their doorways, greeting guests and bidding farewell to others, with smiles and handshakes and hugs.

"Please, stay there," he instructed, hurrying down the porch steps towards his carriage. Within one moment, he'd reached inside and turned back to her. In his hands, he carried a small square shaped box. Molly glanced towards her mother. She only gave an encouraging nod.

Approaching Molly, Samuel opened the box as he stopped in front of her. His smile was wide, so eager.

"It's beautiful," she said softly, staring at the gift. The necklace was not new, but an antique. Its ribbon pastel pink, its pendant was an oval. A portrait was carved into the pale stone. The portrait was a woman, young and imperious in her look. An heirloom perhaps. Molly's head swam a little at the thought. She felt her stomach flutter. He perceived her worthy enough to possess something entirely his; of his family.

"I found it yesterday in a shop window," Samuel explained, removing the necklace to hold it in his palm. "And thought of you. So I bought it."

Her panic subsided. She stared again at the necklace, hesitating to touch it. With a breath she picked up the pendant. "That's very kind, Samuel. I – I can't thank you enough."

Samuel bowed his head. "Thank me by wearing it, Molly."

Molly smoothed her thumb over the white stone. It was silly of her to think of childhood. She had to think of the present. For that, she returned his look with a smile. And, later on, when Lady Adler made her visit and noted the necklace with a playful remark, Molly smiled again.

The letter came to her at breakfast. Her mother's eyes skipped over it as she sipped her wine.

"Who is it from?" she asked. There was little curiosity in the question. Molly supposed it had become something of a routine for her mother, over the last five weeks, to see a footman enter with a letter laid out on a silver tray. Molly flipped the letter over in her hands. Catching the mark of the sender's seal, her smile faded.

"It's from – father's sister."

Her mother's eyes brightened. "Oh! What does she say?"

Molly broke the seal with her thumb, unfolding the letter. She scanned the words, written with an elegant, well-practiced hand. "She invites me to stay with her for the summer – at Greenwood."

Molly found little joy in the invitation. She had spent summers as a child at Greenwood House, and most of her memories were plagued by long evenings of being read the Bible after supper. Her aunt, widowed soon into her marriage, had spent most of her life alone; her days were singularly spent tending to the upkeep of the manor her husband had left her. As such, she was very much a woman who, though warm, did not find in herself the ability to listen to another's opinion (especially on the matter of religion). Molly's mother smiled.

"Just yourself?"

"She says she will be my chaperone. It's funny – I thought this would be a letter from Samuel—"

"Of course you would," her mother said flatly, buttering a piece of bread. "You've been writing to each other for five weeks now. What day does she want you to attend?"

"A – a fortnight on Thursday."

"Well then," her mother said, suddenly bright again, "you must write to Samuel – and anyone else you wish to – to inform them of your absence." Her mother stood, walking towards Molly. She took the letter from her hands, scanning the words. "So she wants you to stay until September. Obviously my sister-in-law feels she hasn't seen you enough."

"Mother, are you sure you want me to go?" Molly asked.

"Of course. I'm sure you'll be missed while you're gone, but it'll be good for you. Get some of that lovely fresh country air." Her mother returned to her seat with a sigh. After a moment, she put the letter to one side. She gave a pointed smile as she bit into her bread. "Just make sure to write to Samuel to tell him of your absence."

Molly struggled to hide a smile. "Yes Mother."

Announced, Mr Abbot hurried through the doors of the drawing room still in his travelling clothes, his cloak heavy on his shoulders. Drops of rain, sliding from the cloth, soaked into the carpet while he stood at the door. Frances lightly cleared her throat as she stood.

"Samuel," she greeted, bowing her head. "Are you well? You seem rather flushed."

He remembered himself enough to bow deeply to her. "Lady Hooper. I received your daughter's note. Is she – is she to be at Hampshire for the whole summer?"

Frances swallowed a smile. "Indeed," she answered, "but quite fortunately she is not leaving us for two weeks. You are welcome to speak to her, if you wish."

She glanced over to Molly, already stood. Her garment was a plain one, unfortunately, with a modest level of decoration and a pattern of spring flowers covering the cotton material. Without the expectation of visitors, she had tied a shawl of white muslin around her waist to cover her shoulders. It was to her fortune that Samuel seemed oblivious to the relaxed nature of her daughter's clothing. Rather, the look of her appeared to increase his desperation. With a sense of social discretion, Frances made to depart, an excuse light on her lips. The doors closed behind her. For a few moments, Frances hovered at the door, listening to the muffled conversation.

"Your mother didn't answer my question." It was difficult not to smile at the tremble that lined his calm tone.

"My aunt requests my company at her estates until September."

"That – that is an awful long time, Molly."

"It is only a few months," Molly replied, sweet and innocent; sweetness which dripped with truth. A truth which took some people years to cultivate. (With her daughter, Frances thought with pride, it came naturally.)

"But still," Samuel was insistent now, the calm receding, "it doesn't leave me much time… Molly, I—"

Frances' lips widened into a grin. Hope flooded her daughter's tone. "Yes?"

"I shall see you on your return."

Frances hurried back from the door, reappearing as the door to the drawing room was opened. Samuel barely gave her notice as he left, heading back into the driving rain of London.

"Molly?" Frances called, entering back into the drawing room. Her daughter was stood where she had left her but there was little confusion or upset to be found in her features. She fiddled with the hem of her shawl and sat on the sofa. Frances approached her. A book was once more in Molly's hands and she read with quiet study.

She spoke suddenly, not looking up from her reading, saying: "It's alright Mother. Samuel will see me in September, and that's as much as I expected – it's fine."

"No it is not!" Frances snapped, the outburst coming too quickly for her to quash, as if she was nothing more than a distempered child. She sighed, squared her shoulders. "What I meant to say was that I thought – well, it's entirely obvious what I thought. It seemed as if he would. But women have been led along by worse men. Admittedly, your aunt's stipulation that you stay until September does make things difficult, but when you return, we will find you another suitor. How would you like that?"

Frances watched her daughter's silence. For a moment, as her daughter's face remained drawn and solemn with quiet, she was gripped by a terrible fear of visiting her daughter in a convent, forced to witness her only child pray to God for the rest of her life. Then a smile broke onto her daughter's face, her book was lowered into her lap, she tilted her chin up, her eyes sparked with a renewed curiosity and Frances knew her daughter was too good to face such a fate.

"'My dear Lady Adler,'" Irene began, sat on a chaise longue, the letter tucked between her thumb and palm, "'I was most sorry to hear of your reason for visiting Hampshire. The country air will surely do you good. My doctor often recommends going on long walks when I find myself ill of health'… Hm, no, I'll skip past the doctor bit, she goes on for a while there – ah, here's the important part. 'I am happy to invite you to stay at Greenwood for as long as you wish, or at least until your health is of a better temperament. I am also hosting my niece, Molly Hooper, at my estate over the summer, but she is a lovely girl and shall not bother you too much. It shall be arranged for your arrival in a week's time.'"

Folding the letter closed Irene stood up. Her butler stepped forward, smoothly taking the letter from her offered hand.

"Ready my things for travel and call for the carriage," she said brightly, moving towards her desk. Molly's letter lay open, the seal broken. Irene scanned her friend's words, bemoaning her invitation to Greenwood. "Hopefully the weather will be better in Hampshire."

"The carriage? When do you wish to travel, my lady?"

Irene shrugged her shoulder, standing in front of the window. She stared out at London. The grey March rain stared back at her, rainwater spattered against the glass. Gently she pressed her palm to the cold glass.

Molly had looked upon London with a curious eye, a natural greed to know more about it. By contrast Irene couldn't wait to leave it.

"Tonight, obviously."