Author's Notes: It's the moment you've all been waiting for! This chapter also contains copious amounts of Molly/Samuel. I'm not sure what ship name to give them, to be honest. Solly? Mamuel? Samolly? Oh, I'll figure it out.
I hope you enjoy this chapter and forgive the reference to Richard III. I'm completely, utterly shameless.
June 1786
There were only a small number of people that Frances Hooper allowed herself to see because of social necessity. Those people, when made aware of the fact, often made great attempts to be removed from that list, for if treated with cold civility with Lady Frances Hooper, you were sure never to be seen at society occasions again.
The latest addition to the list stood before Frances, welcomed but unreceived with nerves etched into his features.
"Is Molly soon to return from Hampshire?" he asked. Frances, preoccupied with her sewing, flicked her eyes up to meet him. They were distinctly cold.
"My daughter made herself clear. She is to remain at my sister-in-law's for the remainder of the summer."
"I understand," Samuel answered, bowing his head. He fidgeted, tugging at the sleeve of his coat. He wore the plain clothes of his profession, little decoration among the brown-coloured suit. "Lady Hooper, forgive me for being so forward, but I have found myself unable to think of anything else but your daughter since she left. I believe – I miss her, my lady. I miss everything about her."
He carried no markers of a lover from those stories her daughter devoured of a day, but Frances knew his predicament immediately. She set her sewing down in her lap. She sighed a smile.
"You silly boy," she murmured. She outstretched a hand, beckoning. Samuel stepped forward and took her hand. Bidding him to sit, Frances twisted her head to focus on him with warm eyes. She slid her hand from his. "You are in love with my daughter."
Samuel fidgeted again. "Yes, my lady."
It was a brave man who admitted so easily his love when confronted with it. Frances shook her head. "My daughter left for Hampshire believing you hold nothing but feelings of friendship for her."
"I never meant—" Samuel began, but he let out a breath. "Is there any way in which I can make up for such a mistake, Lady Hooper? If I could – with your permission – I would marry her the moment she returned to London."
He spoke with care, without waste. Frances hid her delight with a demure smile.
"My permission would gladly be given. Unfortunately, as I said before, my daughter is to stay at Hampshire until September." Samuel appeared utterly stricken at this reminder. Reaching forward, she patted Samuel's knee, as if he were already a son to her. "But not to worry. That can soon be repaired."
The high doors to the townhouse revealed her daughter. Without a word of greeting or acknowledgement to etiquette, Molly ran forward and threw her arms around her mother's shoulders.
"I got your letter in the middle of supper," she said in a rush, "and Aunt insisted I leave at once if you were so ill as your letter described – but you—"
Molly calmed. Her eyebrows knit together into a frown. Frances stared back at her and fanned herself. Into the silence, she called for the doors to be closed. Molly's frown deepened.
"You aren't ill." A hundred accusations lay among the observation.
"The most miraculous recovery," Frances said, threading her arm through her daughter's, leading her through the entrance hall. "Up and about after being bedridden for two weeks – you must write a letter to my sister-in-law and tell her how wonderful my physician is. But my recovery does coincide with another miracle; I recently had a visitor, my dear."
"Who?"
"Samuel Abbot."
She announced it with little formality as she allowed, but surprise still caught her daughter, draining her features of colour. Under Frances' pointed look, Molly regained her composure. Colour soon returned to her cheeks.
"He has come to welcome me back, I suppose," she said.
"And slightly more than that." If it were a proper courtship, she might not have been so blunt with her words, but the season was almost over. Frances made them pause just before the drawing room door. Pride bloomed in her heart. She stroked her daughter's cheek. "My darling girl – he loves you. Not as a friend, he loves you with his whole heart. I have given my permission."
"You have?"
"He loves you, Molly." Frances drew her into a tight hug, stroking her fingers through her hair. The urgency of her travel meant she was not fully made-up, dressed only in an evening dress and travelling cloak, both wrinkled from the long carriage journey. "I cannot assume your heart Molly," she murmured, "but I know his. He loves you, and wishes to marry you. Go."
Stepping back, Frances turned away and walked further down the corridor. She paused at the sound of the drawing room door.
It shut behind her daughter. Frances breathed a sigh, and continued on.
July 1786
Three weeks later
The high ceiling of the ballroom was lined with summer flowers and swathes of off-white silk. Candlelit chandeliers bathed the gossipers and well-wishers in their light. The master of ceremonies stood forward in front of the waiting crowd.
"May I present, Mr Samuel Abbot and his wife, Mrs Molly Abbot."
Applause came as the newlyweds stepped through the ballroom doors. Ladies, swimming in clouds of perfume, congratulated the happy couple with perfect poise, wishing them the greatest health. Gentlemen offered them their congratulations, freer in their speech than the ladies.
Coming back from giving her congratulations, letting her kiss to Molly's cheek linger a little longer than any others, Irene returned to the crowd. A social event much talked about, much discussed, a mixture of dark hues and light shades filled the room. Greens, blues, reds. The white of Molly's gown, the white of the bouquet in her hands, was the only unique gown in the room. Irene brushed a speck of dust from her earth green skirts. She raised her eyes to the rest of the room.
Before her, a dark-skinned woman stood. She wore a dress of deep gold, a compliment to her skin, and her curled black hair was pinned up. A fan dangled from her wrist, made of a deeper shade of gold and the edge was laced with white. A tribute to the bride from someone skilled in the art of high society.
Sally Donovan had fought hard in her life to remain within the circles of society. Her marriage into the society had caused many raised eyebrows. When the circumstances of her birth had been spread around the tight circle to besmirch her name, she had remained present at court and every social function of the season by her husband's side. Irene had, for a time, sided with the disbelievers, and avoided the woman. She had assumed that Sally Donovan would disappear from the memory.
Then Lady Donovan had spoken to her, Irene had seen the determination in her eyes, and had known that society had made a rather spectacular mistake.
"Lady Adler," Sally said with a nod, sipping from a flute glass of champagne.
"Lady Donovan," Irene returned. Sally stood to the side of her, letting a duke slip past with a polite smile.
"You can tell we're in the middle of the season. The rumour mill's circling again. Apparently, you've just returned from a stay in the country." Sally drew back, speaking lowly but with a knowledgeable smile. "How was he?"
Her assumed lover. Perhaps they'd connected her with an earl, or a viceroy.
"And that you made a brief stop in Bath on your way to London," Sally added.
"To see a friend," Irene replied with ease. "And he was – rather like the others. Hardly worth the bother."
Far from the truth, her memory oft recalling blue-tinged nights with Molly's features glowing gold from candlelight, hot wax dripping onto her pale skin, making her writhe, arch and softly beg in that gentle way, as if it would not only benefit her, to be fucked with fingers and tongue, but benefit Irene as well.
Amusement twinkled in Sally's eyes. "There's another rumour going around, you know."
Irene snapped open her fan, tilting it against her chin and fanning herself. Sally continued.
"Holmes is returning to London – under much excitement." Sally scoffed. "It's claimed he's been spending the last two years wandering around Bath, sponsored by a wealthy widow, too young to know better."
"I'm sure husbands around London are ushering their wives away on holidays to the country," Irene said casually. In the centre of the room, Molly held onto the arm of her new husband. Lord Stamford was speaking to them, his face flushed. He and Samuel Abbot carried an easy repartee between them, demanding laughter from the bride. She, obliging creature, was happy to give.
Lord Stamford left after a few moments, called away by another. Molly hugged Samuel closer. He smiled, bent down and kissed her. Irene hummed a tune under her breath, glancing away from the private moment.
It had been a long, long time since she had seen her old friend.
Hidden among bedsheets, Molly eyed her new husband. Stood at the drinks table, nude, he poured himself a glass of wine. Daylight fell in shadows through the window, settling on him. Prioritising his son's need for privacy, Samuel's father had bestowed upon them the highest guest chamber of the house. Shifting her gaze, Molly let her eyes wander over the landscape. Derbyshire stretched before them. Beyond the large grounds, a valley stretched up out into a steep grassy hill. The high mountains lined the view.
"Only five days?" Molly stretched as she asked the question. Rolling onto her side, she settled her head against her pillow, tucking her hands underneath her cheek. Samuel nodded. He turned to face her.
"I need to go to Bath and oversee a case for Lord Stamford." Taking a gulp of his wine, he threw back the sheets to sit beside her. His eyes smiled as his fingers stroked her hair free from her face. His forefinger paused to brush the hollow of her cheek. "If I get it right – it could mean a permanent position. Would you miss London?"
"I'll be happy as long as you're happy," Molly answered, knowing more than ever that Irene's words had been right. The nights she'd spent with Irene, the days she would now spend with Samuel; they were as perfect as one another. She could never ask for one over the other.
Samuel's hand fell away from her face. Finishing his wine, he set it on the side table. He slid down the bed. Molly rolled onto her back as Samuel wound his arm underneath her body. He felt the small of her back with his fingers.
"In Bath we will be able to create a home," he murmured. His free hand dipped under the white material of the bedsheets to rub low at her belly. "A family."
Molly smiled as her right hand sank against his hair to stroke the yellow strands. She cupped her other hand over his. "A daughter," she replied, interlinking their fingers. "Sweet and blonde-haired. Like you."
She brought his hand to her mouth, her lips brushing against his knuckles to place a kiss.
"A son first," Samuel murmured, sleep already taking him. He pulled his hand free from her hold to wind it around her waist. Hugging her, he tugged her closer. His voice rumbled against her skin. "Strong and wise – wise like his mother."
Locked in her husband's arms, Molly watched the dappled shadows move with the wind. London was her home, the home of her friends and her mother. Bath was a separate world, just as this bedchamber was and would be, for the next five days.
Just as Greenwood had been.
The five days bled into hours. Bidding goodbye to her father-in-law, setting off in their wedding carriage, unused still to her new second name, Molly and Samuel arrived at the townhouse long after the sun had set.
Following her husband in through the door, she greeted all of her new staff with a friendly smile for each. The townhouse itself was not as grand as her mother's, nor as opulent as Irene's. White cherubs with blank eyes decorated the upper corners of the entrance hall ceiling. A wooden balustrade lined a white marble staircase. Landscape paintings, bought, hung along the corridor towards their bedchamber.
The bed came from the Elizabethan era, Samuel told her proudly as he removed her travelling cloak, given as a gift from one lord to another and bought by his ancestor for half its value. He called in two maids, who curtseyed and gave her their names before they undressed her. Molly dismissed them when she was in her chemise.
Her husband sat at a writing desk that stood to the left of the fireplace. Climbing onto the high bed, Molly sat and rolled down the first of her stockings. Letters, already posted to this new home, were stacked in a small pile to his right. Molly slid her second stocking from her ankle. Samuel broke the seal of the first, studying its contents.
She slid off the bed, jumping onto the bedchamber floor. Approaching him she rested her hands on his shoulders, scanning the letter.
"How can it be self-defence if the victim was stabbed through the heart? If you're defending an attack, you can't be that precise." The first rule of a gamble, her father had said, was like the first rule of a hunt. Precision was key.
Samuel started at her words, turning his head to see her. A brief frown appeared on his brow. It disappeared as he folded the letter closed and abandoned it. Standing, facing her fully, he cupped her cheeks and drew her up to gently kiss her. Molly smiled as she pulled away. His hands fell from her face, but she reached up, wrapping her arms around his neck. She kissed him again, deeper.
"Do you have a little time?" she whispered into his ear, voice gentle and lilting. She withdrew one hand from his neck, her fingers dancing down his chest towards his lower torso. "Before you leave for Bath?"
His fingers on her wrist stilled her motions. "We will be together again soon. Once I am settled in Bath – I'll send for you. Mrs Abbot."
"Mr Hooper," Molly replied impishly. Samuel gave her a pointed look. She shrugged in return. "Mr Abbot."
"Better." With a smile he kissed her forehead and stepped away from her. Not looking back, he left the bedchamber.
The first ball she attended in London was a tightly packed, warm affair. Fanning herself during conversations with ladies and dukes and foreign princes, she accepted every offer of a dance, afterwards avoiding the gentlemen who found it amusing to let their hands wander over a married woman in the midst of a contre.
Molly fanned herself as she spoke to a duchess. Middle-aged, she was surrounded by the usual cloud of perfume, and spoke at length of her husband's adventures in hunting. When Molly attempted to speak about her husband's career in return, she was subtly admonished with kindly advice. "You are young," the duchess said at the end of her advice, tapping Molly's forearm, "you will learn."
"Excuse me." It was a deep baritone voice that spoke, addressing both her and the duchess. "My apologies for interrupting, but I don't believe we've met."
He addressed the last portion of his words directly to Molly, his eyes sweeping towards her. They were a pale blue-green and lingered as he scanned her.
The loose curls of his hair were black. He was tall, a little taller than Samuel, toned, and his clothes were grey. The only winter hue among shades of summer. His singular tribute to the season's fashion was a pattern of navy blue thread, sewn into his sleeves and waistcoat.
He took one step towards Molly. There wasn't anything of study in his eyes, nothing of curiosity. She presented her hand, and he took it. His fingers slid against her palm. His eyes held her, lowering only when he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the skin, just above her knuckle. Molly withdrew her hand.
The man turned towards the duchess, briefly bowing his head. A playful look entered his eye. "Your Grace. Tell me – how is your daughter?"
"Recently returned from the country," the duchess said, suddenly icy. She swept away, disappearing into the crowd. Molly tilted her head and snapped closed her fan.
"You know her daughter?"
The man's mouth twisted into a smile. "I know of her daughter. You, I do not know." He backed away into a half bow, straightening as the next dance was announced. "That needs to be rectified. Would you dance with me?"
Molly nodded, as she had been taught, and offered out her hand. The man's hand returned to hers, and he led her out onto the dancefloor to stand among the line of ladies. His smile widened as he stood opposite her within the gentlemen's line. She had danced with many a stranger tonight, but none had looked upon her with such amusement, such a casual nature. This man spoke to her as if he had known her for years. As if he wanted to continue to know her.
The ladies sank into a curtsey, the gentlemen bowed. The contre formed, the orchestra struck up. The tune was bright, jovial, refined for the society of London. The first active couple came from the far left, dancing a combination down the line. Both portly, drunk on wine, they laughed as they clumsily performed and tripped their way. Molly spied their spouses in the crowd, avoiding the eye of everyone. The next couple were quieter, learned and obvious strangers. The dark-haired man, her companion for this dance, remained opposite her. He appeared fully engaged in the dance, clapping in time like the others, moving down the line as each active couple danced their chosen combination down the aisle. He stepped forward as they came to the head of the line. His hand wound against her waist and held her close, her chest smacking lightly into his. Molly fumbled for an apology. He took her right hand, gripping it tight.
"Follow me."
His lack of warning should have led to disaster, his closeness should have been something she protested; but she fell into his step with instinct, circling and skipping down the aisle, her breath barely able to keep pace.
The dance was finished. Applause for the orchestra surrounded them.
Her fingers relaxed in his hold. Slowly, they tangled with his. Her breaths slowed.
Alerted, Molly stepped back. Her cheeks burned with a blush.
"If you'll excuse me," she said cordially, turning.
She stopped. The applause came to its natural end. His fingers were clasped around her wrist. The gesture was lost among the gathering crowd, coming to congregate with the couples. Men begged for another dance, women sought a new dance partner, or kept their current partner by their side. Gentlemen slipped off into quiet corners to discuss engagements and mergers.
His thumb brushed over her veins, her heartbeat.
"Stay," he began, moving forward and letting her wrist slide from his hold. He did not speak beseechingly, he gave no plea. "I prefer to know the people I dance with."
Molly hesitated, but her laughter could not be stopped. She hid her mouth with her hand, muffling the sound. He joined her mirth with a smile.
With the stone steps of the hall behind her, the grass was fresh underneath Molly's feet. A breeze broke through the humidity. High braziers lit a gravel path lined by clipped hedges and trees, a path down which other couples already walked. Beyond the clipped hedges, sounds of Bath's late evening could be heard.
"We haven't been formally introduced."
Her companion took a bow, his form dropping into shadow. "My name is Sherlock Holmes."
He straightened up. In this light, his blue-green eyes were dark. Molly returned his courtesy with a nod of her head and a small smile.
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Holmes. My name is Molly Abbot," she said, rolling her tongue against the two syllables of her new last name. She loved her husband, he loved her in return and it would fit soon enough. She simply had to keep saying it.
He blinked. A light in his gaze changed, momentarily fading. Molly opened her mouth with her question already on her lips, but his manner changed again, shifting into general curiosity. "And your husband?" he asked, looking away from her in the general direction of the path. "He is not accompanying you."
"No."
"Yes, pity. I did wonder whose wedding was being so discussed tonight—" he turned his head to look at her, "now I discover it was yours."
"They'll stop talking about it when the next wedding takes place."
"Ah, but that isn't for another few months. An autumn wedding, for a viceroy's daughter." They paused along the path. Holmes turned on his heels to fully face her. "Are you enjoying married life?"
She thought of discussions of children. Of Samuel's hands caressing her stomach. His voice rumbling against her skin. "Very much. He is away on business in Bath, but once he is settled, I'm to join him there."
"Hm, that's a remarkable coincidence," Holmes said, with a tinge of humour, "for I'm returning to Bath soon myself."
"Returning?"
"I've spent the last few years there," Holmes explained. They turned, resuming walking down the gravel path. Only a few couples remained, others drawn in by the sound of music and laughter. "I only visited London to acquire apartments, and to attend this. I wouldn't get very far in society if I didn't indulge on occasion."
"So – you're coming back to London?" Molly asked, with little interest. Irene had taught her the art of societal discussion with one simple phrase: ask people about themselves, and they'll be willing to tell you anything.
"In the winter."
Molly glanced up at the sky. Through tendrils of smoke from the braziers, she saw stars and constellations.
"You'll miss the season," she remarked, turning back towards him. He shrugged.
"So will you. The rumour mill works hard among our society, Mrs Abbot,"—part of her wondered what it would be like to be named Miss Hooper by this stranger—"and I think everyone of note knows of your husband's imminent promotion."
"I don't think I've been congratulated more," Molly replied, turning from the idle thought.
"Could you bear another?"
She came to a stop at his question, fully facing him. She swallowed the need to return his playful smile, bowing her head. "I could."
He took a step, eyes on her and he bent down, gathering her hand into his. "Congratulations to your husband," he said softly. He kissed the bare space of her hand and withdrew. Molly dipped into a brief curtsey.
"Thank you, Mr Holmes."
"My pleasure, Mrs Abbot."
They walked side by side back into the assembly hall, not feeling the need for any further conversation. The orchestra was at rest for the moment, the conversation loud and the crowd crushing. Figures in dresses and suits wandered and squeezed past, throwing greetings and societal apologies over their shoulders and towards friends, acquaintances. A duchess eager to reach her friend pushed past the pair of them as they entered. Molly stumbled. Fingers clasped tight on her upper arm stopped her fall. She looked, and found Holmes staring at her. Her breath held.
"Molly! There you are. Molly, come, we must be going," came her mother's hurried words, hurrying expertly through the crowd. Holmes' fingers slid from her arm. Molly turned and smiled at her approaching mother.
"Mother, I'm sorry if I worried you. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes," Molly said, gesturing towards Holmes.
Her mother dropped into a curtsey. "Wonderful to meet you at last, Lord Holmes." Molly gaped but quickly shut her mouth. Ignoring the mistake, her mother continued. "How are you enjoying London?"
"As much as I did when I first arrived, Lady Hooper. My apologies for keeping your daughter from you for so long. She was a delight to dance with."
"Oh thank you, Lord Holmes. I'm only sorry she couldn't be kept longer, but it is soon to rain and with my illness being the way it is—" she sneezed into a handkerchief, a smooth apology following the motion, "I'd rather avoid it."
Holmes looked aghast. "You're ill?"
"My mother suffers from a seasonal cold, Lord Holmes," Molly explained, hiding her smile at Holmes' exaggerated concern.
"It'll be gone in a matter of days," her mother said.
"If there's anything I can do, let me know. Good evening to you, Lady Hooper." He smirked as he swept his eyes towards Molly. "And Mrs Abbot."
He turned away into the crowd. Molly did not watch him leave. Her hand tingled with the feel of his lips on her skin. It faded to a faint itch which she scratched as she entered the entrance hall of the townhouse. Her mother, tired from the evening, left her with a brief kiss to her cheek and a request for Molly to visit her soon. Entering her bedchamber, Molly smiled. A letter was left on the writing desk, the address written in a familiar hand. Opening it, she scanned the words. With every word, Lord Holmes' eyes finally left her head.
Friends of her mother came first to visit her once she was fully settled in Bath. Among them were other mothers, seeking husbands for their daughters, and wives for their sons. Their attentions mostly focused on Samuel, sizing him up, as if he were a sample of what their own children might achieve. Some were dukes, members of the aristocracy, acquainted with her mother from when she had been young. Those men scratched their beards and slurped their tea, entertaining Molly with stories about her mother's youth. "Your wife looks much like her mother did when she was her age," they remarked as they shook her husband's hand and bid them both a happy time in Bath.
Molly fiddled with the fork in front of her. The staff, all adorned in lavish uniform and powdered wigs, lay their breakfast in front of them. Samuel sat at the other end of the table, engrossed in a letter. Already he wore the garments of his career.
"How is the case?" Molly asked. Samuel lifted his eyes briefly to find her.
"Nearing its close. It hasn't been announced formally, but – well – the promotion seems ever more likely." His attention returned to the letter, but he looked to her again within a moment. "Are you unhappy?"
"No," Molly answered, "but aside from when we have visitors, I barely see you. If there's something I could do to help with the case?"
Samuel's brow dipped into a frown, the oval shape of his face affected with remorse. He got to his feet, walking around the table towards her. His footsteps echoed on the marble floor. "I – I know I haven't been the best husband so far – leaving you in London to go off to Bath and deal with this case. But once it's done—" Reaching her, he took her hand and wound his arm around her shoulder, crouching until he was in her eye line. "I promise, we'll begin the future we spoke about. Once the promotion is secure, this case over… There will be time. There'll be so much time we'll hardly know what to do with ourselves – and eventually, there will be that son we spoke of."
"And a daughter," Molly whispered, leaning towards him. Their foreheads touched and Samuel breathed a laugh, his mouth stretching into a smile. Pulling away from Molly, he tilted his chin up to look at her. The hand he had at her shoulder moved up to hold her neck. His grip was gentle, a reminder of his presence and the future they had.
"And a daughter," he echoed. He planted a kiss on her lips and stood. "I have to go – but I promise, I'll see you tonight at supper."
The door was closed behind him. Alone, Molly went back to her breakfast with a smile.
It was a few hours after breakfast that she received another visitor. Expecting an elderly friend of her mother's, Molly stood, ready to curtsey and give a polite smile. The polite smile vanished into a puzzled frown as a blonde-haired woman walked through the drawing room door. Much like Irene, she obeyed the rules of fashion while making them entirely her own. Her blonde hair was not the towering wigs of usual high society (that was one fashion rule Molly was not eager to follow herself) but was pinned up with only curled blonde ringlets framing her face. Her blue dress was the desired style but it didn't carry the lace and intricate patterns of Rococo.
Both she and Molly sank into a curtsey to greet one another. The blonde-haired woman spoke first.
"My name is Mary Watson. John and I live opposite you. I'm sorry for not visiting sooner, but some lord or other got his leg injured while off hunting and it's been a battle not to let it get infected. Are you enjoying Bath?"
Mary sank into the sofa, congenial and warm in her manner, inviting conversation. Molly sat slowly opposite her, avoiding her visitor's eye.
"I haven't had much opportunity to explore it," she admitted. "But I look forward to the day that I can."
"I suggest you try the bookshops first. So many medical journals! The owners will try to prevent you from buying them – apparently we ladies do not have the constitution to deal with such matters – but just tell them your husband's in need of them and they'll leave well enough alone."
Molly brightened. "You read medical journals?"
"Partly because I need to, for if John's away—"
"John?" Molly asked, growing more confident in the face of her visitor's manner.
"My husband," her visitor explained. "He's the top physician in Bath, as well as London, and therefore everyone comes to him whether they've got a cough or gout. If you are going to buy a medical journal, by the way, the first one I recommend is Marine Practice of Physik and Surgery. Hard to get, a few years old now, but very useful. Especially when you get lords coming in bleeding from a gunshot wound in their leg in the middle of supper."
Molly let out a laugh into the brief silence. Mary Watson was different, deliberately different, to the mothers and the daughters and the elderly barons, earls, dukes and viceroys that populated Bath.
It was after a long conversation about how exactly to treat an infection and the advances made by medicine, that Mary invited her to attend the theatre in three days' time. Molly accepted without hesitation.
A medieval world of war engulfed the theatre's stage. Under the light of the chandeliers a queen feared for her life. Little attention was given to her woe, a woe which echoed against the domed painted ceiling. Boxes, above the general audience, were filled with society's best. The ladies attending with their husbands exchanged snatches of conversation with the companions they shared with. Their husbands leaned across between boxes to bid a greeting to neighbours they recognised.
Molly leaned towards Mary, whispering. "Something I'm learning – everywhere you go, there's someone talking."
Someone gossiping, someone murmuring into another's ear of secrets and rumours and overheard stories. Mary laughed. She wore an evening gown of a sharp pink, a little more opulent in its patterning than her day dress but still without the demanded frills and lace. The noise of the crowd increased as more conversation was exchanged.
"Keep that in mind and you'll fit in well."
Behind them, the curtains were pushed back. A footman bowed as he came to a stop before them. He was thin with hollow cheeks and large inquisitive eyes. When he spoke, he spoke with training but the tinges of his upbringing followed his words.
"Lord Holmes requests your company at the interval, Mrs Watson – and Mrs Abbot."
"I'm surprised," Mary said drily before she nodded. She grinned as she spoke. "Tell him we will be there."
Molly examined the curved body of the theatre. Regardless of the exchanged conversations, everything was designed for focus on the stage and the worlds of the stories. The building itself was made into a 'U' shape, the balconies and boxes gilded with gold and the icons of mythology. Molly's focus found its target in a box close to the stage. There were four chairs in a line. Holmes sat nearest the stage, one leg crossed over the other. He wore a brighter colour than their previous meeting, a green overcoat and breeches with a bronze waistcoat, threaded with a dark gold. Holmes had his eyes on the dramatic scene before him. He turned when the footman entered the box, bending down to convey the news to his employer. Holmes' brows arched and his eyes lifted upwards towards the main body of the theatre. He found their box in a moment. Molly acknowledged him with a nod. From the stage, she heard centuries old words of pain. "Ay me, I see the downfall of our house," was the mourning. A flicker of a smile appeared on Holmes's face. He let her go, watching the scene. The second act was coming to its close.
Holmes' footman returned and bowed to them both. Standing, Molly followed Mary as they walked the empty corridors down to Holmes' box.
A gap in the curtains showed Holmes, still watching the stage.
"Mrs Watson and Mrs Abbot for you sir," the footman said, entering and bowing to Holmes. Turning his head, Holmes blinked and stood.
"Oh, yes, of course. Mrs Watson." He bowed swiftly to her. There was a flip of the heavy curtain as the footman stepped outside. Holmes suddenly pressed a kiss to Molly's cheek. She blinked, turning her head to look back at him. He smiled in return. "Mrs Abbot. How are you enjoying the play?"
Molly swallowed. Finally, she returned his smile. "Very well. How are you enjoying it, Lord Holmes?"
On the stage below them, final hopeful words of sanctuary led to the curtain fall.
"It's good enough for an evening." Holmes returned to his seat, settling himself against the plush patterned cushioning. "I suppose Mary has been translating for you all the way through. Oh, please, sit."
"It is easy enough to follow," Molly replied, sliding into the chair furthest from the stage. "'It is a quarrel just and reasonable, to be revenged on him that slew my husband.'"
Holmes' eyes brightened. "'He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband, did it to help thee to a better husband.' Do you remember the rest?"
"'His better doth not breathe upon the earth'," Molly quoted in return as Mary sat beside her. Holmes raised an eyebrow.
"This is not your first time seeing it."
Molly nodded. Her attention traced over the general audience below. Some had broken out into song, singing gaily old English songs. An acting troupe had been her introduction. They had passed through the town, a brief stop on their journey towards London, but her father's commission kept them for another day, and he had held her in his lap as they performed for him a comedy. At his command, her governess had taught her the meaning and encouraged her to read the rest. Another addition to her growing intellect, another set of opinions her mother encouraged her not to speak.
"Seems I've found a rival," Mary remarked. "Someone who goes to the theatre because they actually like it."
Holmes tilted his head towards Mary. "That was my joke," he said carefully.
"I borrowed it," Mary retorted. "You can have it back."
Molly watched them. The affection they carried between them was a conflict of teasing and fond. The dynamic an only child might long for. "How long have you known each other?" she asked. "If it's not too impolite a question."
"Since before I first came to Bath," Holmes answered, his eyes lingering on Molly. An innocent question with an innocent answer. Molly stared out at the general theatre again, watching people return to their seats. Her mouth felt dry. A beat pulsated at the back of her head.
"The interval will soon be over," Mary said, drawing Molly to look at her. She took her hand and guided Molly to her feet. "We'd best return to our seats."
Holmes stood, calling for his footman.
"Thank you for your company," he began, glancing towards his footman as he entered. Holmes took Mary's hand and kissed it. "Mrs Watson. Mrs Abbot. Are you as well versed in opera as you are in Shakespeare?"
Molly shook her head. "My apologies, but I am not, no."
Holmes took her hand and kissed it. Straightening up, letting her hand drop from his fingers, he spoke. "Then I hope to see more of you."
Walking through the curtains into the corridor, Molly found herself in a throng of people squeezed together, seeking refreshment and cool air. She felt Mary's hand grip her wrist. Mary grinned at her.
"The worst part of the theatre," she said cheerfully. Holmes' footman went on ahead of them, clearing a path. Mary steered Molly through the laughing, heaving crowd. Holmes' box, as Molly turned her head to look, grew smaller and smaller until, all at once, it was out of sight.
Dismissing her maids, Molly watched her reflection in the mirror, shadowed in the low candle light. A week gone and her brown eyes danced and shone with the memory of the play. She pouted and gurned, tapping at her cheek. Giving a laugh, she straightened her back and began to unpin her hair. Behind her, her husband sat on their bed in a nightshirt. Letters and newspapers surrounded him. Headlines spoke of his case, cartoons satirising his employer's girth, depicting him as a creature of drooling cruelty with stupid eyes. Molly hated the cartoons as much as Samuel did. She laid the last of her hair pins on the dressing table and picked up her brush. Each curl disappeared as she thoughtfully pulled the brush through the thin strands. In the mirror, she noticed Samuel engrossed in another of the newspapers.
"Apparently that play you went to see was rather good. Makes me wish I went. People might start thinking I'm a hermit. Never to be seen again." He dropped the newspaper into his lap. "Actually, speaking of which – did you see Sherlock Holmes when you went?"
Molly paused. Samuel lifted his head, his eyes connecting with her reflection. "You know of him?" she asked.
"Not especially – but I know his reputation."
Molly set down her brush. "Reputation?"
Samuel narrowed his eyes. "You didn't know?"
When Molly shook her head, he sighed. "Seems he's a scoundrel. I've heard others speak of him. He seduces women, without a care for their husbands or family. And when they are most hated by society, most ready for humiliation – he abandons them."
It was more than rumour, Samuel's words. He spoke with an edge, and as he continued to look at her, that same edge entered his eyes. A warning. Molly realised the look with a jolt. She looked away, fiddling with the line of pins before her. "I attended with Mary," she explained. "She is friends with him, and he requested her company."
"Didn't you dance with him as well? In London?"
Molly flicked her eyes up. Samuel still looked at her. Curiosity had replaced the warning. She breathed, smiled and gave a nod. "For politeness' sake."
Samuel tilted his head. He put the newspaper to one side. Standing up off the bed, he approached her. His hands settled on her shoulders and he bent down, tucking his head against the space above her collarbone. "Enough talk of scoundrels—" He emphasised the word with a comical growl, and Molly giggled, reaching up to caress his left cheek, staring up at their joined reflection. Her eyes fluttered closed, snatching the memory and burying it away.
"Yes. Enough talk of scoundrels," Molly echoed. She snapped open her eyes as Samuel bent his head, kissing her neck. His breath warm on her skin. She sighed into the touch. One hand slowly slid from her shoulder, curving around her waist as he kissed a path up to the underside of her jaw. He nibbled softly at her ear. Her sigh became a deep throated moan. She felt for his hand around her waist and threaded her fingers into the touch, guiding him further down her body.
"We have a future," Samuel murmured. His breath of a promise was hot and wet in her ear.
He turned her chair, its legs scraping against the wooden floor, until the back of it touched the table. He sank to his knees. Without his wigs, his hair was a mass of tangled spikes soft to the touch. A dimple sat underneath his bottom lip, his oval-shaped jaw both boyish and masculine. Molly tipped her head back as he spread her legs, hands shifting up the hem of her nightdress.
Hugging her close to his face, he kissed her hot wet centre and she writhed underneath him, soon coming with a groan and a sigh of his name, her ankles curling between his shoulder blades. Samuel wiped his mouth as she glanced downward at him, boneless in the aftermath. Her hands ran over his hair and down his shoulders.
"Come, my love." He spoke softly, standing and scooping her up into his arms. She held his neck as he walked, snuggling her face to his body. His mouth traced a kiss into her hair. "Let's to bed."