The final notes of Giulio Cesare's first act came to a close, and the curtain fell on an image of a mother and child torn apart by war. Molly stood with the rest, and clapped until her palms stung.
"I can only imagine how you will find the second act."
She whirled around. Holmes stood at the entrance of the box, standing in the way of the curtains. He wore a dull blue, threaded with white and silver, while his waistcoat was a plain shade of indigo. Past him, the sound of the gossip and impatience of the interval grew.
"Holmes!" The snappish call came from behind her visitor. Molly exchanged a glance with Mary. Holmes, smirking, stepped to one side as another entered the box. He wore a grey wig, though his handsome features were as young as any bright-eyed fop in the audience. His clothes were an ordinary colour of summer. His dark brown eyes were reproachful as he bowed.
"My apologies, ladies. Holmes insisted on surprising you, though I don't have a clue why."
"Usually he doesn't have a clue about anything," Holmes remarked slyly, earning a sideways glare from his friend. "Mrs Watson, Mrs Abbot. This is my associate, Lord Lestrade."
"Lord Gregory Lestrade. Pleased to meet you ladies," Holmes' associate said, bowing his head to the both of them. Molly and Mary gave brief curtseys. "Are you enjoying the opera?"
"Perhaps more than I enjoyed my first visit," Molly admitted.
"Considering the surprise which with you greeted us," Holmes remarked, "you were certainly engrossed. My footman arrived earlier to ask if we might be received."
Molly blinked. "Did he?"
"I said yes," Mary explained. "I was going to tell you but I'm afraid – I became like you. Engrossed."
"Of course," Holmes ventured, "if you do not wish us to remain, we can leave."
"No, no. Please, you can stay," Molly replied, her answer finished before she could register it. "Will you sit down?"
The four of them sat, Mary sitting beside Molly, Lestrade sitting behind Mary, Holmes settling himself behind Molly.
"How are you enjoying the opera, Lord Lestrade? Though you asked us our opinion, we didn't ask for yours. Very remiss of us," Mary said. Molly watched the audience. More than half the seats were empty. The ones who did remain were elderly and snored gently, their heads lolling back and snapping quickly upwards as they woke.
"Opera isn't normally to my taste, but it passes the evening," Lestrade remarked, with a grin.
"Mrs Abbot, might I be permitted to make a morning visit to you?"
Molly started, turning in her seat. Holmes straightened. He leaned further forwards, folding his arms across the back of Molly's seat. Molly cleared her throat. Every word of her answer weighed with the force of Mary and Lestrade's polite interest.
"I – I suppose I could receive you, Lord Holmes." Her mind wandered into a night of passion, her husband's mouth on her as he promised her a future with no talk of scoundrels.
The flip of the curtain announced Holmes' footman.
"Milord, the interval. It's almost over."
"Oh yes." Holmes jumped to his feet, quickly bowing to the two of them. Lestrade followed suit. Bidding them goodbye, they left.
"Funny." Mary's chin was tilted up, her forehead lined with thought. She looked to Molly. "I heard he was to return to London tomorrow."
"Tomorrow—?" Molly began, but the curtain rose as the orchestra struck up and the query was forgotten. Down below, in the guise of a civilian, a queen seduced an emperor.
Tomorrow came without hurry. Molly woke with her cheek pressed to her husband's chest. Her eyelids fluttered open. She yawned softly. Tracing her gaze up, her fingers threaded through the light sprinkling of hair across her husband's chest. Still sleeping, he breathed softly and gradually.
The doors to the bedchamber opened. Maids entered. One attended to the fireplace. Two drew a bath. Others attended to the clothes. Molly settled her cheek back against her husband. Her fingers drew circles into his shoulder. A red-haired maid was deciding a set of choices for Samuel. She was short, average in her weight. Her natural red hair poked out from underneath her cap in springs of curls.
Her face, set into hard thought, was plain. Her dress was basic cotton, a bright green its colour with a white apron around her waist and shawl tied around her shoulders. High society would drape her in jewels and fine silk and lace. Her name filtered into Molly's memory.
"Winifred," she whispered. The red-haired maid looked up. She immediately dropped into a curtsey and bowed her head.
"Ma'am."
"Give him the brown," Molly murmured, careful not to wake the still sleeping Samuel. Outside, Bath was waking. Winifred curtsied again.
"Thank you ma'am."
"Ma'am?" Another maid made Molly lift her neck up. She looked over her shoulder. A black-haired girl, barely sixteen, curtsied. "Your bath is ready."
"Bath?" Samuel stirred. He rubbed his eyes free of sleep. Molly sat up, making room, but Samuel clasped her around the waist, dragging her back towards him. Molly shrieked with laughter as he drew the bedsheets over them both, clambering on top of her, straddling her. His eyes were bright as he pressed his elbows at either side of her head.
"My wife has got no time for baths," he announced, lightly rubbing his nose against hers. He ducked his head up out from underneath the sheet. Molly wriggled underneath him, giggling. "Go on – on to your other duties. I'll attend to my wife myself."
He returned to her with fervour, dipping his head towards her neck and kissing her. Molly moaned, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. His teeth sunk against her skin, sucking. Brief though it was, she yelped. She pulled back from her husband. Samuel looked sheepish.
"I'm sorry. I just wanted – wanted people to know that you…" His hands wandered, his thighs relaxing. His hands caressed her body. His thumbs brushed over her nipples. Molly groaned. "You are my wife."
"Your wife," Molly repeated in a whisper. Samuel's mouth fell down her body, warm kisses at her collarbone, her stomach, and her hips. Later on, when her husband was dressed in black and gone to court, Molly bit back a smile as he dropped a kiss to her damp hair, bathwater covering her breasts.
Tenderly, sinking down to lie within the warm water, she stroked the path of her neck down to the valley of her breasts, the path Samuel's mouth had taken. Her happiness thrummed at her touch. She loved him, she knew. She could never want another.
"You have lied to me, Lord Holmes."
Sat in an armchair in her drawing room, one leg crossed over the other, an hour into his visit, Holmes met her accusation with a surprised blink. His hands, pressed together underneath his chin, lowered into his lap. He tilted his head. His blue-green eyes narrowed. Sat in her husband's chair opposite him, Molly looked back at her book.
"You're surprised," she said into the silence. "At my accusation."
"Not at all," Holmes responded lightly. "I'm accused of lying quite frequently."
"People must have some probable cause to accuse you of it," Molly said. Her focus remained still on her book. It was a thick volume, well-loved and well-used with smudges in the ink, notes scribbled in margins. Her own handwriting, made in the dark by moonlight as her husband slept, reflected back at her.
Holmes scoffed. "Not at all. Society finds every way to mark innocence with sin. Admittedly, in the past, I've found it – an advantage, in some situations, to bend the truth. Overall however, I'm not the great liar people like to believe I am."
Molly turned a page of her book. She no longer registered the words she saw before her. "I wonder what those situations could be, Lord Holmes."
Holmes made a low sound at the back of his throat. Molly glanced up. He was leaned back in the chair, his hands returned to their place underneath his chin. His inquisitive look matched hers. A corner of his mouth flicked up. "You've been warned of me."
"I've only been told what society says of you."
"And do you know what society says of you, Mrs Abbot?"
Molly's thumb stilled against the top corner of her page. Her attention was fully on Holmes. For a moment, she felt as if the floor below them were a chessboard, and they were both pieces. A knight, weaving its way around the board. A queen, with everywhere and nowhere to go.
The illusion fell away with a minute shake of her head. Holmes shrugged.
"Neither do I. Now, what lie have I told for you to accuse me?"
"Mary heard it said that you were to return to London today." Molly's mouth twitched at the simplicity of her reply, and the confusion of Holmes' reaction. He hid it with a laugh, his teeth showing between full lips. He rose to his feet, standing by the unlit fireplace.
"Another mistake of society. I'll still be returning to London in the winter. London in the season isn't for me."
Tilting her chin up to fully see him, Molly's mouth widened into an amused smile. "You're missing out on a great deal, Lord Holmes."
"Then why aren't you in London as of now, Mrs Abbot?" He aimed a piercing, knowing look at her, a reaction exaggerated to such a point that Molly struggled not to guffaw her amusement.
"Alright. I concede the point," she said, and she resumed her book. Skimming the familiar words, lingering over the diagrams, she heard footsteps gradually approach. Holmes' breath tickled the strands of her hair.
"What are you reading?" he asked. Molly closed the book, tilting the cover towards him and twisting her head to find him.
His profile was a mixture of soft and hard. The back of his jaw was angular, a perfect set of lines that set off sharp cheekbones. His nose was well-proportioned, curving into a deep Cupid's bow that trailed down into full lips. Holmes frowned.
"This is an old edition," he said, plucking the book from Molly's hands. "You're much better off with my copy. I'll get Wiggins to send it round for you one afternoon."
He returned the copy to her. "Rare, I'll confess, to discover a woman of your rank to take interest in academic subjects. It makes sense for Mary Watson to take delight in such volumes – but you, Mrs Abbot. You've barely a quarter of that book left."
Molly bristled. "It's perfectly common, even among women of my rank, to take interest in medicine and science and history." Rising to her feet, she turned to face Holmes. "We were taught to read, after all. Isn't that the start of curiosity?"
"I disagree. I was curious about the world while I was still in my mother's womb. And, if you met all the seasonal women in London, Mrs Abbot, I've a feeling you'd begin to agree with me."
A flash of teasing shined within him. Molly sighed, slipping past him, approaching the bookshelves. They stretched along the left wall of the drawing room. Molly put her book away and glanced over her shoulder towards him.
"You are prejudiced, Lord Holmes."
Holmes moved closer, tilting his head. "Tarnished by my years of London society?"
"Perhaps."
Holmes grinned. "Perhaps then we should agree to disagree."
He bent down, taking her hand. Turning her wrist, Molly withdrew it.
"I can't agree with a man who is wrong."
Holmes blinked.
"Who could you agree with then, Mrs Abbot?" he asked after a silence. "A man who obeys your every whim?"
"A man who has his own opinion," Molly replied.
"But not an opinion which is wrong?"
Molly suppressed a blush. "That was rude of me, wasn't it? My apologies, Lord Holmes."
"My apologies, Mrs Abbot." He took her hand again, raising it to his lips. His Cupid's bow hovered above her knuckle. "What I said," he said quietly. His thumb rubbed soft, considered circles into the base of her palm. "It was wrong of me. Forgive me."
A faintly warm shiver found her.
"You're forgiven," she murmured. Holmes let her hand fall back to her side. The artful manner of him returned. It was similar to Irene. The both of them possessed a fault that found humour in the simplest of things.
"I must try to temper my thoughts around you, Mrs Abbot, if we meet again. Otherwise I might never be able to leave."
That was the difference. Irene did not seek danger.
"I've said something wrong." Holmes' remark pulled Molly's attention back to him.
"You didn't manage to temper your tongue quickly enough, Lord Holmes." She stretched her lips into a polite smile. "That's all."
"Then let me beg forgiveness again." He kissed her hand. "Might I be permitted to see you tomorrow morning, Mrs Abbot?"
In the past, some had stretched her mother's surname into its two syllables with societal worship. Usually as they thanked her mother for such a rich dinner. Servants would have dropped the 'H', mumbling the name with shuffling feet and bowed heads. Abbot had such little room for change.
"You may," she answered with a manner already learned from the mothers, daughters, and dukes of Bath and the society of London. Holmes left with a bow.
Overnight, a cold descended upon Bath. Winter biting into summer, it came with harsh wind and hard rain that spattered against pavements. Grey clouds thundered. Sat before the roaring fire in her bedchamber, Molly devoured the last of her book, her legs curled up to her chin and her feet tucked underneath the warm bedsheets. She flicked her thumb underneath the penultimate page. The final page contained a summary of all that had come before, noting alternative recipes for cures if the ones already written failed to work.
On the top of the fireplace mantel, a clock from 17th century France struck twelve.
A parcel entered her field of vision. It was presented on a silver plate and was roughly the same shape as her book. It had been twice wrapped in thin purple paper, a velvet black ribbon securing the parcel in a tight knot. Molly picked the parcel up with both hands, dismissing the footman with thanks. She slid her fingers underneath the velvet ribbon and pulled. The tight knot gave way. The thin purple paper slid onto the book's final page. In her hands she held a crisp, clean copy of her book. She flipped through the pages. There were no notes, no corners folded down or bookmarks made. The ink was fresh, and the book was newly bound.
"Oh," Molly breathed. Her fingers caressed the pristine words. Distantly, she heard the front door open.
"Welcome sir," said the doorman.
Snapping the old book, filled with its notes and smudges, shut, Molly pushed the purple paper and ribbon to the floor. Coming down from the bed, she picked up her old book and hurried towards the writing desk. Fitting each one into a single drawer of the desk, she returned to the bed. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her palms itched and her fingers trembled.
When she slept, she dreamt of black ink and white pages.
She woke to feel a warm breath on her neck. The weak purples of dawn were beginning to break beyond the window.
"I'm sorry it's so late," Samuel murmured into her ear. Molly rolled onto her back to see her husband's face. His wig was already removed, the yellow spikes of his hair fluffed and mussed. She threaded her arm around his waist.
"It's okay," she mumbled sleepily, pressing a dry kiss to his temple. Samuel's hand lowered down the length of her body, stroking determined circles into the space of her upper thigh. Molly sighed.
"No nasty surprises while I was gone?"
Her gaze flicked towards the writing desk. She shook her head. "None at all," she said, with idle calm. Her husband's hand slipped further up her thigh. She squirmed at his firm, sudden strokes of her clit.
She pushed his hand away. He paused, his brow dipping with the force of a frown. She gave a small, brief smile. "I'm tired," was her explanation. She rolled onto her side, out of her husband's hold. She pulled the sheets over her body. Her throat felt dry.
"Lord!" Molly jumped at Mary's sudden exclamation. "I forgot to tell you. John and I are going back to London."
"You are? Very soon?" She spoke lightly, conversationally, but Mary chuckled as she picked out another book from the shelf, pressing it into Molly's arms. They stood among books, spines of volumes detailing unique medical cases and strange deaths. A musky scent hung, none of the volumes new but second-hand, worn and torn and their leather backings scratched. They were nothing like the edition she'd let herself touch and read before her common sense had returned, with its thin crisp-white pages and fresh black ink.
"I like Bath enough, but – well – I need London. My only regret is that you won't be able to come with us." The pads of Mary's fingers brushed over a thick medical history volume, its backing an emerald green and its pages a crinkled yellow.
"Hopefully I'll be able to visit," Molly said. To lose such a good friend as Mary, one who had sat by her side and giggled at society's quirks, was a small grief. She wouldn't wail as she had done with her father, wouldn't scream for them to come back. All she would do was hope their paths might cross again. Mary grinned.
"That'd be good," she said.
"How many women have you met? In London society." She didn't want to think of Mary alone without anyone to speak to. She was the sort of woman who deserved to be listened to.
"Oh, plenty," Mary replied. Molly glanced at a thick volume, a dictionary of rare illnesses, and added it to the pile in her arms.
"Do they enjoy these kind of subjects?" she asked, imagining Mary trying to converse with an elderly duchess fixated only on her children's upcoming marriages. Mary nodded.
"One woman I know could tell you the entire timeline of every English war fought off by heart, if you asked her. Anyone who says different clearly doesn't know women very well."
Carrying her books, Molly stood at the door of the townhouse and knocked twice. A footman opened the door and bid them come in, asking them to wait. Soon returning, he gave his master's consent for them to enter upstairs into the drawing room.
It was a place that was both kept and unkempt. Odd trinkets scattered the window sills, while paintings of war and romance and politics hung in plain wooden frames on the wine-coloured walls, lining a path up the staircase. The drawing room was coloured a pale blue, its decorations Palladian, function more than fashion.
The white fireplace was ornate. Chairs and sofas were lined in a dark blue, striped with a dark grey. More trinkets covered side tables. Papers covered the surface of a writing desk. A mirror, framed by gilded silver, hung above the fireplace. On the ceiling, Helios pulled his carriage along the length of the earth. Heavy drapes hung at the windows, daylight shining through the clean glass. The window seats were the only bare thing in the room.
"You still give your servants vails?" At Mary's question, Molly looked up from her examination of a skull that stood on the fireplace mantel.
Clutching a small coin purse, his footman bowed to the room. His large eyes strayed briefly towards Molly. He bowed his head again and departed. Shifting, threading her fingers together, Molly focused on Lord Holmes. Seeing her, he smiled before looking back to Mary.
"Despite current views on it, I find that salary alone does not guarantee a servant's loyalty," Holmes explained, still carrying his grin.
"Have you ever thought of increasing their salary?" Mary asked.
Sherlock settled into a high-backed chair. "Vails are cheaper."
Molly felt herself smile, the feeling impish, teasing. "We didn't come here to discuss vails with you, Lord Holmes."
"Did you not?" he asked, his tone matching her.
"Mrs Watson has met the society women of London, and she agrees with me."
He registered her words with brief puzzlement. It grew into a second smile, a smile that touched the left corner of his mouth. It was less playful as the first. It was a smile she found in Samuel when they were together, his breath hot on her cheek as he moved inside her.
Holmes stepped forward and bowed his head.
"Then I concede." He bent down and pressed a sudden, lingering kiss to Molly's cheek. Her smile faded. Her heart missed a beat. That single beat frozen in the moment of his warm mouth on her skin.
"Oh, it's starting to rain," Mary said. Molly blinked. Holmes straightened up. The two of them turned. Silvery ribbons of water spattered against the glass, racing each other down converging paths.
Fingertips brushed Molly's palm. She twitched at the feeling, glancing up at Holmes. His hands were folded behind his back.
She looked to Mary, who held her hand tighter, a wordless urge to depart. Mary smiled kindly to Holmes. "Good afternoon, Lord Holmes."
Letting go of Mary's hand, Molly repeated her friend's sentiment and bowed her head, walking out of the drawing room and down the stairs.
"I'll visit soon," Mary said cheerfully. "Conditions of patients permitting, obviously." The rain pattered against the roof of her carriage. Mary drew Molly into a hug of goodbye. Molly found herself managing only a slight smile. Bidding her friend goodbye, she climbed out of the carriage.
Sunlight reflected off the wet pavement, the warm rain spattering the material of her cloak. Tucking her books under one arm, Molly pulled her cloak over them as she headed inside. The house was quiet. One footman took her cloak. Another took her books. Taking a breath, brushing herself down, Molly ordered for the books to be added to the drawing room. The footman bowed.
Up the white staircase, she walked. Her footsteps were quick, her shoes clicking against the marble. She passed the purchased landscapes, fields of spring darkened by the shadows of the continuing rain.
Once Mary had left, she might possibly find other friends. There were plenty of ladies in Bath, married and unmarried. She could do what Mary had done for her. She could take a new arrival into Bath, take her to the theatre and the opera, show them the bookshops and drink the spring waters with them. She could be their friend and their guide, watching gossip unfold and business be agreed upon.
A door opened. She looked up.
The girl stood before Molly's bedchamber door. She was thin, without curves. Chunks of her dark brown hair fell from her bun. She clutched her plain dress to her front. Her white cap was clutched between naked fingers. Molly's breaths shortened, growing shallower by the moment.
The maid curtsied.
"Y-you…" Molly cleared her throat. Her gaze dropped towards the floor. "You may go."
The maid's bare footsteps made little sound as she scurried down the corridor, slipping past her mistress. Molly's hand fluttered to her stomach. Nausea made her vision swim and thrummed inside her head. She stumbled; her hand caught the handle of the door.
"Who's there?" Her husband's muffled voice drifted from inside the bedchamber.
Her vision cleared. Her grip on the door tightened. She turned her wrist.
The door gave way.
Her husband lay on the bed in a nightshirt only. His wig was abandoned haphazardly on the floor. His blonde hair was mussed. He drank wine from a crystal cut glass. As she entered, he smiled and put his wine to one side. He stood up from the unmade bed and walked over to her.
"I missed you," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. His hands wandered down to her waist, her hips. "Was your day good?"
"Is she your mistress?"
Her question was a flat quiet. Samuel blasted out a laugh.
"Heavens." He flicked up a grin. It seemed to her mean and spiteful. His hands curled around her hips. He tugged her closer. "It was nothing. Come now. Let's to bed."
He had used the girl, the servant, for satisfaction. No lust, no love behind it. Bile stuck in her throat, stinging as she tried to swallow. Samuel's grip tightened, manoeuvring her towards the bed. Her legs touched the foot of it, her shoulder tucked against the wooden post. Through her skirts, she felt his half-hard cock pressing against her thigh.
Firmly, she pressed her hands to his chest. "I won't share this bed with you."
Samuel's crack of a smile fell. His left hand remained on her hip. His right came to her neck, slipping and sliding up to her jaw. Molly jerked her head away. The hard wooden floor looked back at her, engraving its pattern into her head.
"I won't share this bed with you," she repeated. Her tone was sharp, venom rising to the surface.
"It meant nothing," Samuel replied. His fingers sank further into the material of her dress. His right thumb stroked the hollow of her cheek. "You think I'd risk our future for some servant girl?"
She lifted her eyes to meet his. Samuel laughed again.
"Fiend seize it!" Both his hands cupped the sides of her face now. He brushed his fingers through her hair. "The girl meant nothing, Molly. How many times must I repeat myself? You are my wife, and I love you. It was nothing at all. It's like that ridiculous flirtation you had with Lord Holmes. I knew you'd come back to me in the end."
Trembling, Molly grew still. Her eyes narrowed. "Flirtation?"
"Yes. Back in London. I know what happened there, Molly. What, did you think you could dance with another man in the way you did and not have it noticed by society?"
Molly drew Samuel's hands away from her face. She slipped out of his reach. She wandered the length of the room. Her hand wobbled, her bottom lip trembling, as she sank into her dressing table chair.
"I danced with him for politeness' sake," she said calmly.
"And acknowledging him at the theatre?" Samuel scoffed. "Spending time with him at the theatre? Letting him visit each and every morning this last week? That was politeness?"
"Yes it was!" Molly shouted. She shot to her feet. "Why should I flirt with another man? I love you!"
"And I love you," Samuel replied, again calm and smiling. "So come, let's to—"
"I will not share your bed!" She snatched her arm from his grip. Tears spurted in her eyes. "Are you blind? Oh God! This isn't a game! You can't fuck someone else in our bed, in our home, and then expect to take me as well!"
"How do I know you haven't?"
His accusation had the precision of his occupation. Molly felt deathly cold.
"What?"
"It is quite clear to everyone, Molly, excluding you it seems, that Lord Holmes wants you." Molly blinked. A shiver trailed down her spine. Her cheek tingled with the memory of a lingering kiss. Samuel's words came again, biting, stinging. "I am not here when Lord Holmes makes his visits. Am I? I hear of his coming, I hear of his going. How am I to know that you have not taken him into this bed and fucked him too?"
Every word was a numbed struggle. "He visits me – for politeness' sake."
"Politeness! Every time! Is it politeness that draws him into our bed, that makes you fuck him every time my back is turned? We are married, Molly. Marriage demands loyalty."
Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I am loyal."
"You are not loyal," Samuel growled, a snarl in his lips. "You're his whore."
Bile rose back into her throat. Clapping a hand over her mouth, muffling her cry, Molly ran from the bedchamber. Her husband did not stop her.
The rain came in drops now, the sun faded behind dark clouds. The raindrops splashed on the pavement, intrusive to her ears. A butler finally opened the door, standing before wine-coloured walls and paintings of war. He bowed.
"Mrs Abbot."
Molly drew the hood of her cloak back, hurriedly wiping her eyes. "I'm sorry," she began softly, rain soaking her skin and hair, "but I—"
"It's perfectly alright," the butler said, standing to one side. "I'll fetch my master. You can wait in the drawing room."
Molly stepped out of the rain into the entrance hallway. In her gleeful visit before, she had not paid much heed to it. A bookshelf stood by the staircase, and there was little else. Only the hanging portraits up above. Approaching her, a footman took her damp cloak from her. She shakily thanked him. He guided her upstairs towards the drawing room with wordless gestures and a single bow, shutting the door behind her.
Shadows of rain crossed her face. She should not have known the layout of this place. She should not have been able to walk the path of the staircase quicker than a footman who traversed it every day. She shouldn't have known that a human skull, possibly centuries old, stood atop the fireplace mantel. Numb, she stared at the white and black damask wall covering.
The drawing room door flung open. Molly automatically jumped to her feet, ready to greet the arrival. Holmes wore a dressing gown of blue. His hair was tousled from sleep. Molly turned round.
"I'm sorry, it's too late – I've disturbed…" In the corner of her eye, Holmes came to stand beside her. Slowly, Molly faced him. She lifted her eyes to meet his. They were blue, shaded with green, and kind.
"You're crying." He said it without malice, without concern. Just as a cold, hard fact. A truth. Molly touched the pad of her forefinger to her cheek. A teardrop rested at the tip of her finger. It trailed down her skin, wrapping itself around her finger, falling into her palm. She dropped her hand down to her side. It clenched into a fist.
"I didn't know where else to go."
"Mrs Abbot—"
"Don't call me that. Please don't call me that," Molly begged, whispering the plea.
"Molly," he said. "Sit down. Tell me – tell me what's wrong."
Holmes crouched down before her. His hand touched her knee. He was obedient, gentle and kind and all without question. Lord Holmes wants you. He could not want her. Scoundrels, the ones who had their stories told, always wanted something. Power, money. Notoriety. All she had was a marriage.
"I knew men took mistresses," she confessed, her hands pressed together, her head bowed. Holmes' hand did not move from her knee. "But I believed that he – he wouldn't. He – I saw her. A servant girl."
"Your husband," Holmes said. His fingers slid from her knee. "He clearly didn't see your worth, if he was willing to abandon you so cruelly."
"Abandon," Molly echoed softly. She found his eyes again.
His right hand slid into hers. Hesitation flickered in his features. His eyes changed, dulling with the thought of a decision. The hollow of his cheek twitched with the movement of his mouth as he attempted to speak. Of his left hand, his forefinger drew a line against her jaw, sweeping up to her cheek. He wiped the tears away. The lightest touch and yet it held to her skin like scars.
"You are not a fool. Molly."
Mary would tell her that. Mary would curse her husband, and hug her tight.
Molly's arms threaded around his neck. She clung to him, her forehead tucked against his shoulder and she breathed. The sound was fragile like thin glass, already cracking and waiting to break. The cool room warmed as his arms lightly held her waist. She pulled herself closer to him until she was sat on the edge of the sofa, her knees touching his, begging for a gap so she could slide into him, hold herself tight and never let go of the security, that slow steady pulse of her heartbeat. The growing deepness of each breath.
She lifted her head and faced Lord Holmes. His face was centimetres from her. His full lips took a breath. Samuel's snarling lip, growled words, entered her mind's eye. It was a faint image, faint like smoke, shimmering like water. Words of goodbye were ready on both their tongues.
She pressed her mouth to his.