In the few weeks that followed, I managed to establish a routine that was conducive to my need to do as much work as possible and still sidestep any unpleasant encounters with certain members of the family. I found I had a natural skill at avoiding people, and this served me well as a settled into my new routine and managed to move around the house nearly unseen. While Mrs. Holmes was a lovely woman, her obvious cool intelligence made it difficult to feel completely comfortable in her presence. The master of the house and Jane were both unpleasant to be around in their own unique ways. The small interaction I had endured with the son was bearable but unsettling, and I was thankful that he was so sparse around the estate.
My fortune ran dry one day when I chanced into the sitting room late at night to do some mending and came across the son, sprawled out upon the divan, engrossed in reading.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I apologized, turning hastily to leave.
"Is there something you need, miss?" He gazed at me over the top of his leather-bound book, his voice laced with a tired curiosity. All the windows were open in the room, allowing a soft summer wind to ruffle through the thin curtains. He looked settled in his reading, and I hated to intrude upon his peace.
"I was going to do some mending, but I'll go elsewhere." I stepped back, not wanting to give him my back.
"You can sit in here if you'd like," he commented languidly, "It is a sitting room after all; there isn't anything wrong with sitting in it." Behind that ironic tone, I got the distinct impression that he was laughing at me. A gust of wind from the open window sent a lock of hair into my eyes. His gaze followed my hand as I pushed it away.
"I don't wish to disturb you."
"I assure you that you won't."
I ventured into the room, trying to appear sure of myself. "Very well." I settled into the soft, violet cushion of the chair and threaded my needle. We sat in silence for a bit as I worked my needle through the fabric.
He turned a page and then waited a beat; just long enough to let me know he hadn't begun reading again.
"Do you read, Mary?" He twisted his head to look at me, giving me an oddly sincere look, "May I call you 'Mary'?"
"Of course, you needn't ask permission."
"Why not?" He looked annoyed, but it didn't seem to be directed at me, "It's your name, isn't it? Shouldn't you get to decide who's allowed to use it?" I didn't respond, and he fell quiet for a moment again before repeating his first question nonchalantly, most of his attention redirected to his book, "So, do you read?"
"Yes."
"How did you learn?"
"My mother was-" I clapped my mouth shut, wondering how to answer without appearing as if I were talking too much.
He raised his dark eyebrows but didn't move his eyes from the pages of his book, "It's very impolite to trail off. Your mother was . . . ?"
"My mother was not always of the station she is now," I offered by way of explanation.
"I knew that."
"You did?"
His smirk grew, and he looked self-satisfied to the point of arrogance, "Of course, it's obvious."
"Oh yes, it is," I agreed, trying not to appear as dense as to not see what he saw. His grey eyes flickered over my face for a minute, amused, before settling back onto his book.
"So do you like poetry?"
The only books I had ever read were children's books, which I devoured. Poetry and literature were not a staple among the throngs in the East End of London and were among the few things I envied the higher classes for.
"Yes. But I can't afford . . ." I trailed off. I had wanted to justify my ignorance, which was sure to be exposed, but realized how pitiable my words would sound.
He fingered the page he was turned to, ignoring my falter, and then read a bit of Poe to me smoothly.
I sewed a few more stitches while conjuring up something suitable to say. "It's sad." It wasn't very eloquent, but it was true.
He tsked, "All great works are sad."
"There are no happy poems?" I inquired.
He was silent for so long that I thought I had upset him into ignoring me. Finally, he twisted his head to look at me again, and this time I knew he was laughing at me. "You want to hear something happy?"
"Yes."
He flipped through some pages, "Would you like to hear 'The Raven'?"
"What is that?"
"It's a poem," he riposted, slightly patronizingly.
"Will I like it?" I asked wearily, slightly worried by the mischievous look that I saw on his face.
"Of course."
It was decidedly not a happy poem. I glared at him as he finished. "It's not kind to mislead people," I commented dryly.
He laughed. The sound shocked me, and I stabbed the needle into my thumb.
He gave me a look of concern. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, of course. Just carelessness." I sucked on the wound for a moment and then gestured to his book. "Poetry does not seem to make up a large amount of your bookshelf."
He gave me a strange, almost affronted look. "When were you in my bed chamber?"
"I've been in your chamber on many occasions to start the fire and tidy up. Have you not noticed your bed made or the fireplace lit?" I asked, dumbfounded.
He appeared confused, as if trying to remember when he should have noticed such a thing. Finally, he shrugged, unbothered. "I suppose it is not my usual reading material, but I enjoy it. Shakespeare is a favourite of mine as well. Do you know Shakespeare?"
"I do."
He accepted that without question. "What did you think of my collection?"
I measured my words carefully. "It was certainly odd. I noticed many books on crime and chemistry. A few on beekeeping, as well." I paused. "I never see you in the orchard with the bees, so I would not have thought you had an interest."
"I am in the orchard with the bees quite often, actually. The behavior of the hive in connection with the queen is fascinating and much more complex than I believe many apiarists understand. I simply time my visits to evade my father."
"I see."
"He's not well," he stated bluntly. One would think those words would be filled with sympathy, but I sensed none. They were coldly spoken, layered over what I suspected was loathing.
When I said nothing in response, he turned his head to look directly at me. "You can agree with me, Mary." I remained silent, refusing to speak ill of any member of the household. He arched an eyebrow at me and returned his attention to his book. "Ah, I see. I suppose in your position, you must view everything as a potential trap. I assure you that I have no desire or motive to trap you in anything."
Very carefully, I ventured forth, "Your father makes me nervous."
He inhaled deeply, and his voice was somber when he spoke again. "You've done a good job avoiding him. The only advice I can give you is to continue with that strategy."
That did not reassure me. I did not like that he had not contradicted my fears as being unfounded.
"Do I have a reason to be nervous?" I pressed, my discretion overridden by what I perceived as an opportunity to glean information that may be necessary to the well-being of myself and my mother.
He seemed to give the thought serious deliberation and then reassured me, "He has calmed in his old age. I do not think you have any reason to worry. Besides, he has not the strength he once had."
The implications of his words hung very heavy. I realized that his relationship and history with his father were very deep waters that I was not sure I wished to wade into. Had he been my equal in Whitechapel, I would not hesitate to encourage him to confide in me, but he was not my equal, this was not Whitechapel, and this young man did not really seem to be the type to confide in anyone.
I shifted the conversation clumsily, "You went to Oxford?"
If the sudden change in topic struck him as odd, he did not show it. He nodded. "I did. For two years. I took a break. I only returned home a few weeks before you arrived. My mother asked me to visit, and I was growing tired of the company of my classmates."
"Did you not get on with them?"
He snorted. "Not at all."
"May I ask why not?"
With no hint of modesty, or, strangely, arrogance, he explained, "I was better than them at a great many things, and they handled it with the aplomb you would expect from spoiled boys who gained their entrance to the school through their father's money."
"Oh." I doubled back on my seam to reinforce it, mainly to draw out my work and stay here in the warm sitting room for a little longer. "Will you return?"
He sighed. "Most likely. Even my brother is growing persistent in his nagging. Apparently, I am lazing about. An ironic accusation, coming from him."
"Is your brother lazy?"
"His body is. His mind is constantly working, like a great machine."
"I'd like to meet him."
"Ha! That would be a fascinating encounter."
I do not know if he meant it as an insult, but my face flushed hot with humiliation.
He seemed to notice, falling uncomfortably silent and fiddling with the little triangle he had folded the corner of his page into as a makeshift bookmark. He did not seem to know what to say to smooth over the moment.
He opted instead to sit up with an exaggerated groan, excusing himself with a courteous dip of his chin.