Chapter 6: Fresh Air
Bognor Regis, on the coast of the county of West Sussex, was ordinarily a quiet little seaside resort, its citizens genteel and set in their ways, the air sea-fresh, the tone uniformly peaceful - though not on one fine, warm day in May when the carriage that had been hired and was driven by Sherlock Holmes, accompanied by the Honorable Bertram Ashworth, turned a blind corner and shockingly locked wheels with another vehicle traveling in the opposite direction.
The horses reared and snorted, and the occupant of the second carriage pulled back on his reins, shouting, "Blast you, if you've damaged my carriage I'll take it out of your hide, young man!" He was a large, bearded gentleman whose age, grim aspect, and conservative suit of clothing might (and did) reveal the nature of his profession to an observant man.
"You are the doctor of the town?" Sherlock demanded, handing his own reins to Ashworth. Sherlock hopped down and went to his horse's head.
"I am, and I'm in a hurry just now, so if you'll be so kind as to extricate your carriage from my own I'll be on my way."
Sherlock backed his horse, but as he did so he asked, "Might I enquire if you happen to know a Miss Emily Beaufort, sir? I'd be grateful for any information you might be able to give me of her direction."
But at this the doctor stared. "And what do you want with Miss Beaufort?" he demanded warily.
Having freed the carriages, which by good fortune were only a little scratched but otherwise undamaged, Sherlock walked over to the doctor. "I have reason to believe my wife is paying Miss Beaufort a visit. Miss Beaufort was my wife's governess at one time, and they have maintained an epistolary relationship in the years since Molly left the schoolroom."
"Molly? Molly Hooper, is it?"
Sherlock felt strangely cold at these words, but replied as steadily as he could, "She may be using her maiden name of Hooper, yes, but she is my wife, Mrs. Molly Holmes. You know her?"
The doctor eyed Sherlock with evident disapproval, then did the same for Ashworth, who was still goggling from the carriage. The doctor ignored Sherlock's question and demanded with a jerk of his chin, "Who is your companion?"
But Ashworth himself spoke, quavering, "I am Bertram Ashworth and I'm looking for my wife, too - she… she may be calling herself Miss Copperthwaite. Sir, if you have seen her, I beg of you—"
"Wife?" the doctor said sharply. "Your wife?" And from his expression it was obvious he knew the truth of the matter.
Ashworth flushed, but said, "She soon will be, upon my honor."
The doctor gave a humorless laugh. "Your honor, eh? It seems to me your honor should be horsewhipped! But I've no time now, and I don't suppose it's my place, though I'm a father of three girls myself and… well… I'll tell you this: if all goes as it should, Miss Copperthwaite will be a mother before the day's out, long before she's your wife or anyone else's, more's the pity. I'm on my way to attend her, for they have sent word of some difficulty."
"Difficulty! Oh, God!" Ashworth exclaimed, his shamed flush fading to an unhealthy grey.
"There's no need to worry just yet," the doctor said, a little more kindly. "It's her first, and I told them they might need to send word if the child didn't shift his position."
"It's a boy?" Ashworth exclaimed, almost in a squeak.
"How should I know? It's just my way of speaking. But I suppose you had better come along, since you're the scoundrel that brought her to bed. And you!" The doctor turned back to Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes? Well, I don't know why your lady wife chooses to revert to her maiden name, but she's a good little thing, probably worth ten of you and if I find you abusing her in any way I'll throw you out on your ear - and don't think I won't do it!"
Sherlock couldn't help giving a grim smile. "Sir, if you knew the whole story… but rest assured, there is no cause to be concerned. I'd sooner cut my own throat than abuse her, and my fondest wish at this moment is to be reunited with her once more. Pray lead the way!"
o-o-o
Miss Emily Beaufort's home was located nearly two miles inland from the town, in an isolated, yet idyllic setting as Sherlock could see as the two carriages finally closed on their destination. Yet, as they pulled up against the white, rose-bedecked picket fence that enclosed the front garden, Sherlock was momentarily disconcerted to hear an almost inhuman cry issue from one of the windows in the house's upper story which was standing open to allow entry to any passing breeze, cooling or not, so close had the day now become. Realizing who must have made that sound and in what circumstances, Sherlock turned quickly to his companion. Young Ashworth was staring up at the window, white as a sheet, and uttered in despairing tones, "Lucinda!"
The doctor seemed composed enough, however, and began to calmly descend from his carriage. But as Sherlock followed suit, he saw a figure burst out of the door of the house.
Molly!
She halted in surprise for a moment, and then gave a joyous shout that made his heart leap: "Sherlock!" She picked up her skirts, and flew down the steps.
Sherlock strode through the open gate, almost overset at the sight of his wife running eagerly toward him. He opened his arms to receive her, grinning like a fool, and caught her against him, his heart thudding, his throat tight.
"Sherlock!" she uttered again in a constricted voice.
"Molly!" he returned, with deep satisfaction. "Oh my God. You little wretch."
She lifted her face to his, her eyes swimming with tears. "Kiss me immediately!" she demanded.
He did, quick and hard, then said unsteadily, "Ah! How can I help but love you? But by God, Molly, I should put you over my knee and make you sore as bedamned for leading me such a dance!" The embers of his wrath suddenly flaring to life, he took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. "Practicing upon me in such a way - and I've had to endure lectures from Mycroft, Watson, and even Alphonse for permitting it, as well as being forced to travel to Bath and apply to your family for Miss Beaufort's direction."
She gasped. "You went to Bath? Oh, Sherlock, what did you tell my mother and sister?"
"Barely anything - only enough to get the information I needed to find you. And I managed to refrain from assaulting Cavanaugh."
"Oh, how truly heroic!" she exclaimed. And then she said, contritely, but with a spark of mischief (for she knew him too well), "Oh, my dear, I'm so very sorry to have brought such trouble upon you, and I quite understand your desire to… to exact retribution - entirely justified retribution, I fear - and of course, I have in the last few months heard that certain men find such pursuits most strangely stimulating. But indeed, husband, I beg-."
"You, wife, are an impertinent baggage!" he said with all the asperity he could muster, "and you may consider yourself extremely fortunate that I am not one of those certain men. But by God, Madame Celeste has much to answer for when we get back to London."
"Oh, no!" Molly protested, now genuinely dismayed. "Please don't take her to task! It was entirely my fault. My horrid curiosity - and… and my excessive love of you, too, of course."
He pulled her close and kissed her again, but then said, "As if that is an excuse for deceiving me for months."
Abashed, she reddened, and had some difficulty meeting his gaze. "I know. And I promise that I will never lie to you again! Or… I mean… I'll tell you everything, for I never did precisely tell you a lie."
"Such quibbling!" he tsked. "My love, you may not always be able to keep such a promise, but in future I do hope that you will feel you can be honest with me, and trust me more."
Her eyes filled with tears, and she hugged him fiercely. "Oh Sherlock! I do love you so!"
"I know you do. I love you, too, Molly. With all my heart." He kissed the top of her head, then fished a clean handkerchief from his pocket for her. As she straightened and took it from him, he asked, "How is Lucinda doing?"
She wiped her wet cheeks and quickly blew her nose, then said, "She is in some distress as the baby is not positioned correctly and must be turned, if possible. That's why we sent for the doctor." And just then another wail came from above and Molly started, exclaiming, "Oh! Oh dear, I must go to her!"
But at that moment, Mr. Ashworth stumbled from the carriage.
"Molly," said Sherlock to his startled wife, "this is the father, the Honorable Bertram Ashworth. He has acquired a small inheritance since last seeing Lucinda, as well as two hundred pounds through the publication of a number of his poems, and he says he means to live up to his thus far undeserved honorific by marrying the mother of his child, if she can but succeed in surviving the ordeal before her."
Molly, far from showing any sign of spite, rounded on Ashworth and gripped his limp hand with both of hers and shook it vigorously. "How do you do! Oh, this is most fortunate, I cannot conceive of anything more encouraging for Lucy in her hour of need. You must come up to her - Doctor Harrington, you will permit Lucy's young man to attend her? It seems they are to be married as soon as may be contrived!"
The doctor, who had retrieved his bag from the carriage and was coming toward their group, looked doubtfully at Ashworth. "Well, it's far from usual, and it's for the patient to decide whether she wants him there or no. But I won't have time to tend to him if he falls over in a faint."
"Oh, I'm sure he will not!" said Molly, smiling bracingly up at the trembling Ashworth. Another cry was heard from above and Ashworth looked to the window, swallowing convulsively. But Molly grabbed his hand again and said, "Come, we must make haste. Your presence will reassure her and the doctor will make all right." And she pulled the terrified young man after her, up the flower-lined path toward the house, the doctor following along after them and shaking his head.
Sherlock stayed outside in the fresh air, so filled with happiness to be reunited with Molly that he was little disturbed by Lucinda's distress. Presently her cry was heard again, but this time the words were intelligible: "Bertram! Oh, Bertram!" Then the doctor's gruff tones were heard, barking orders. Things grew somewhat quieter after that, and Sherlock was just beginning to think that he might as well unhitch the carriage horses and give them some food and water - a small stable lay off to the side of the house - when a middle aged woman emerged from the door and came down the steps toward him.
"You are Sherlock Holmes!" she exclaimed with a smile.
"I am," he acknowledged. "Are you Miss Beaufort?"
"Yes, indeed," she said, and held out her hand. As he took it, she said, "Molly has told me all about you, and I have been most anxious to meet such a paragon of husbandly virtue."
He gave a short laugh. "It's possible she may have perjured herself somewhat. She is good enough to overlook my considerable faults."
"Oh, no," said Miss Beaufort. "I don't think that's true at all. But she loves you very dearly, in spite of all, and I can see that your attachment to her is in a similar vein."
"I…" Sherlock's voice became oddly constricted, but he pulled himself together. "It's been a difficult time without her, ma'am," he said simply.
"I know. I beg you will forgive her. She has a good heart, but she is a trifle... unconventional? And a little headstrong. It was always so, and this is not the first time she has landed in a scrape because of it. But you will know better how to handle her in future, I daresay."
"I very much hope you are correct," Sherlock said wryly.
o-o-o
The house had been quieter for some time, though footsteps could be heard, and occasionally voices. Miss Beaufort had brewed him a pot of tea while he'd seen to the horses and then installed him in her formal and very feminine parlor while she went back upstairs. Somewhat later, Molly came running lightly down, dashed in and kissed Sherlock, said, "Thank you for bringing Mr. Ashworth! His presence has given her such courage! She barely cried out at all when the doctor turned the baby into the correct position. Just a little longer now, I think," and dashed out again to fetch something from the kitchen and disappear up the stairs again.
It was more than a little longer, but finally, something over an hour later, there seemed to be some sudden commotion, excited voices, exclamations, one terrible, guttural scream from Lucinda that made Sherlock's hair stand on end, and then, at long last, the sound of a newborn lustily squalling.
Sherlock slumped down in his chair, muttering, "Thank God!"
After a very few minutes, Mr. Ashworth staggered down the stairs and into the parlor. "It's a boy!" he told Sherlock, his face deathly. "My son. Oh my God…" And he collapsed onto one of the ornate and uncomfortable side chairs, covering his face with his hands.
Sherlock got up and went to him, pulling a flask from the inside pocket of his coat. "Here," he said simply.
Ashworth looked at the flask, then at Sherlock as though he were some sort of angel of deliverance. He took it in a trembling hand, opened it, and drank half of it off at once.
Sherlock took it back, took a sip himself, then capped it again and put it back in his pocket. "You don't want to be jug-bitten when they call you to come back into the room. I presume they're cleaning up? Is Lucinda well?"
"Yes! She did marvelously! And there was very little blood, really - some at the end, when… when her flesh tore…" His color faded again.
Sherlock could hardly blame him. "The doctor says she'll be fine though?
"Y-yes. He said the damage was minimal and she will heal."
"And the child?"
"He's very well." Ashworth laughed weakly. "He looks exactly like my father, when he's in a passion."
Sherlock laughed. "Perhaps you should let your father know that. I expect it would go a long way toward reconciling him to your marriage. And Lucinda is gently bred, for all her misfortune in ending up at Celeste's."
Ashworth said, "I cannot count it misfortune. I would never have met her, else."
"Very true," Sherlock agreed, wondering a little at the vagaries of Fate.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, but then Molly's footsteps were again heard coming down the stairs, and Sherlock smiled as she came into the room.
"He's beautiful!" Molly said, returning his smile with one of her own.
But Sherlock, rising to go to her, said, "That's strange. Ashworth says he looks like a choleric old man."
Ashworth looked up with a laugh, a healthier color in his face now, and Molly chuckled.
She said to Ashworth, "Would you like to go back upstairs? Lucinda wishes to see you, now that she and the baby are tidy."
Ashworth rose with alacrity and went out of the room.
Molly turned to Sherlock. "Are you alright?"
Sherlock gave a short laugh that she should be concerned for him, and he looked her over with a more discerning eye as he approached. She was very tired, the strain of the last month and particularly of the last twenty-four hours obviously starting to catch up with her. She brushed a wisp of hair back over her ear, and looked up at him, her great brown eyes even more enormous than usual, and the bone structure of her face too prominent.
He set his hands at her slender waist and frowned. "More to the point, are you alright. You've lost weight. Six pounds? Six pounds that you could ill afford, slight as you are. Molly, you have not been taking good care of yourself."
"I have tried, but… there were reasons." She reached up to caress his cheek.
He caught her hand and dragged it over his shoulder, bent and swept her up into his arms, carrying her over to his chair, the one comfortable one in the room, probably Miss Beaufort's easy chair, set by the tiled hearth. As he sat down again, with Molly in his lap, she curled into him, laying her head against his neck and shoulder. He picked up her other hand, kissed it and held it warm in his own. She sighed, utterly content.
Presently he ventured to say, as though in jest, "How glad I am that it was Lucinda and that ridiculous Ashworth that were put to the test today, and not you and I. To be frank, my love, I'm not certain I will ever be ready to see you endure such agony."
But she had stiffened slightly at these words and now she sat up and looked at him, flushing. "Oh, Sherlock! I… well… you must be brave. And you will have eight months to accustom yourself to the idea."
He stared at her, his mouth suddenly going dry.
Molly cocked her head to one side, eyes bright with both joy and sympathy.
He found himself blurting, "Molly! Don't tell me…", but found he could not continue, instinctively drawing back from the utterance of words that would place the staggering disclosure forever beyond denial.
"I won't then," she said gently, and kissed his cheek. Then she settled back down against him and added apologetically, "Though I fear, my love, if all goes as it should, the deduction will soon be quite obvious."