Over the next few days, he seemed to try to avoid me. He no longer came into the sitting room while I was there, and I was offered only the most perfunctory greetings. Even the lure of baked goods and fresh fruit and cream didn't entice him near me.
He could not get far, however. His mother had assigned him the task of moving the furniture or holding it up for me as I swept or mopped under. We also still worked on the fence with James on occasion so we were still thrust together very much, but he was noticeably silent around me. Even his mother perceived the strain; her eyes would flit between the two of us every time we happened to be in the company of each other.
It perturbed me a great deal, but I was not presented a lot of time to think about it. Between the cleaning and the preparations, I was exhausted. We even moved furnishings around so that the best articles were on display. We hung different curtains on all the windows; instead of the sheer white draping, we substituted very heavy tapestries that were obviously more costly but, in my opinion, less attractive.
The porches were whitened; meaning they were swept, scrubbed with water, and covered with whiting. When the mixture dried, I rubbed it with a flannel and then brushed it all. It was merely an aesthetic task, but Mrs. Holmes did not want to appear as if she was derelict in her housekeeping and therefore less moral than her neighbors, who surely whitened their steps every day.
I was also ordered to clean the range which entailed removing the fender and fire irons and raking out ashes and cinders and then riddling the cinders for future use. Then the flues were cleaned and the grease scraped off. I then polished the stove with bathbrick and paraffin and blackleaded the iron parts. I also scraped the whole range and washed it with vinegar and water.
Saturday rolled around, and I felt as if I had been torn in two. My arms ached from fixing the windows and wringing out all the linens; my back hurt from scrubbing the floors, and my hands were cracked and dry from the hot water used to clean.
But the house was spotless, and I felt my first real tinge of pride in my work. The kitchen was well stocked with food for the guests that were to be here on Monday night. Grapes, cheese, wafers, apples, thinly sliced ham, champagne, tortes, chocolates, pastries, croissants, and even caviar were stuffed into the ice box and piled onto the table.
Everything was in order when I knocked on the bedchamber of Mrs. Holmes Saturday morning to help her arrange her dress and do her hair (alas, despite constant assurances, no lady's-maids had been brought on).
After I entered the well-lit room, she gently reprimanded me. "How many times do I have to tell you, Mary, you do not have to knock? Just enter."
I nodded the same as many times before and walked to stand behind her as she sat on her settee. Fluffing her hair over her shoulders, she handed me her ornately carved wooden brush.
I stroked the bristles through her hair, watching as the blonde curls separated and fell in waves down her elegant back.
She noticed me inspecting the tool. "Do you like that brush, Mary?"
"It is quite beautiful." I had never seen anything like it before.
"I bought that at a little shop in Paris two summers ago."
"You visit Paris quite often," I observed.
"I roamed about over there for two months, in fact."
I thought her wording strange. "Roamed all by yourself? What about…" I thought of how to best word my inquiry as I ran the brush absently through her tresses, "Your family did not accompany you?"
"No." She regarded my reflection in the mirror as if undecided as to whether to finish her thought. She must have deemed me worthy of this information for she soon continued, "They were not privy to my whereabouts."
"You ran away?" I tried not to show too much surprise.
"I guess you could call it that." She waved her hand, "I like to look at is as if I merely took a spontaneous holiday."
"Why ever for?"
"Let's just say my husband and I were in a strained relationship at the time. I couldn't tolerate him in such a mood."
"Did he hurt you?"
She gave me a serious look in the mirror. "As much as one person can hurt another human being, which is only as much as you let them."
"But you came back. Did he change?"
"No. But we moved on."
"You feel satisfied with that?"
She shrugged; a Gallic shrug, one that her son obviously picked up from her. "Paris is wonderful."
"What do you like the most?"
"The Cathedral. Notre Dame is stunning; such a testament to beauty and spirituality. I visited there every day."
"What is it like?"
"Wonderful, holds 6,000 people, if you can imagine it. Even though it is esteemed as a transcendent architectural accomplishment, there are all sorts of minor inconsistencies, as is common with the French."
"Like what?"
"Three main entrances are each shaped differently, for instance. Little things like that."
"I would love to go to Paris," I added wistfully.
"It's not out of reach. One can accomplish anything one puts their mind to. Come, sit." She stood and gestured to the seat.
I sat as requested, and she took up my previous spot from behind. She wielded the brush and began running it through my thick hair. She pulled it up and began wrapping it stylishly.
You're such an attractive girl, Mary. Sometimes I wish I had a daughter."
I thanked her quietly, feeling strangely moved by her words.
"Where is your father?" she inquired.
"He died when I was young."
"How?"
"Some factory accident. My mum did not give me details - perhaps I do not want any."
"Men control you in life and even more so in death. You can imagine trying to raise children all on your own."
"You have an older son, is that right?" I said softly, trying not to flinch as the pins lodged tightly in my hair.
"Yes, he is seven-and-twenty this year."
"Where is he?"
"Off doing something officious. I am not quite sure. He was much harder to deal with - much like talking to a brick wall sometimes. Though Sherlock often comments that we are the most alike. Perhaps that accounts for it." She finished pinning my curls and then looked at me much like a doctor examining a patient.
I could not help but comment, "Are you sure you want a daughter, ma'am, or a doll?"
She merely laughed and smoothed the top of my hair.
I made my way down the staircase into the foyer after I had been done up by the hands of Mrs. Holmes. Her son was standing in the foyer, having evidently roused himself from the black mood he had been in enough to shift through the telegrams and correspondents on the end table. My mother was standing next to him, a hand on his arm, asking where I was.
Before he could answer her, he looked up from the unopened envelope he was examining, and his tired and morose eyes caught sight of me. "Have you fallen into a vat of lip-rouge and hair-brushes, miss?" His voice was icily cold.
"Your mother apparently was of the opinion that my, as you say, 'dainty form' could be much daintier with a little effort." I could not help the bitter edge that permeated my words.
"Mary!" my mother reprimanded, not at all oblivious to the venom in my tone.
His eyes narrowed at me, but I could not tell if it were from confusion or anger. He tossed the packet back onto the table and started out of the room.
"I am not quite certain that is possible," he demurred as he passed me, and I was left wondering if that remark had been a compliment or a scorn.
"Mary," my mother spoke in hushed tones even though he was long gone, "what has gotten into you? Need I remind you how we speak to gentlemen?"
I came down the steps and rearranged my collar at my neck, "Well, when I come across a gentleman then I will remember to heed that advice."
"Mary!"
I came to her and leaned forward to peck her on the cheek reassuringly, "Do not worry, mum; I can handle him."
She caught my chin in her hand before I could plant my kiss. Her unfocused eyes settled on me for an uncomfortably clear moment. "People are not things for you to handle, Mary."
I clenched my jaw and then kissed her, "Some people are."
Sundays were delightful for me. I was left to my own devices for most of the day as the family, excluding the son (the contrary person that he was), went for their weekly religious services.
I arose early this Sunday even though it was my off day to brush my lady's hair. I found some weird comfort in this task. She often spoke of things that I had a shy interest in. She was an amazingly well-read woman with a practical mind. After our revealing and warm talk yesterday, I felt closer to her than I thought she would allow.
After hearing the door close and the wheels of the hansom cab rattle off, I checked to be sure my mum, who had fallen ill a few days before, was still resting peacefully before making my way to the bath.
Settling into the warm water, I relaxed and let my muscles unwind. A week's worth of hard work and cleaning was not so easily washed away with the basin of water I was allowed on the other days of the week; only a soak in the tub seemed to truly do the job. This week had also been especially trying with all the work going into this party for Jane.
I hated to admit to myself, though, that there was a tension in my shoulder from something other than physical labor. I was still not on speaking terms with a certain male member of the household, and I could not for the life of me fathom why. With every day that passed that I received no cordial greeting or the usual friendly words, the pull in between my shoulders seemed to tighten, and I knew that it had nothing to do with muscle strain.
I ducked my head under the water in an attempt to wash these frustrating thoughts away until a time when, perhaps, I could decide on a solution to them. I broke the surface and sighed. Perhaps if I managed to procure that flask for him, it would soften his mood.
Lifting a glistening leg out of the bathtub, I peered closely at my calf. I wondered if it were exceptional in any way. I had never seen any other lady's bare legs, except my mum's, of course. I knew I wasn't supposed to think of such things - of how certain parts of me would look to other people.
Moving my head forward a little too quickly suddenly caused my vision to blur and, for an unsettling minute, I saw everything in twos. Shaking my head to clear it did not help the way I thought it would. Before everything went black, I felt something hard strike my arm.
When I opened my eyes - a mere second later, it felt - everything was indistinct and fuzzy, and I had the definite impression that I was floating. I gasped, and began sucking down water through my nose and mouth at an alarming pace.
I started to panic. I knew I needed to calm down, knew it because my mind was screaming it at me. But I couldn't muster up enough strength in my arms to propel myself to the surface. And then, suddenly, something was holding me, preventing me from saving myself, and I started to struggle against it. I tried to reach my hand up to strike out. But my arms were pinned. Opening my mouth to call out for help was not a wise idea - the feeling of warm water rushing down my throat was gagging - and right before I blacked out from the lack of oxygen, I was pulled violently up.
Racking coughs welled up in my chest as I took in much-needed air. I pushed back my wet hair from my eyes. I noticed that the table next to the bathtub was knocked over. I also noticed that I was looking over someone's shoulder. The bathtub? Was I in the bathroom?
Despite the dizziness that was leaving me a tad disoriented, I managed to pull my head back to look into the face of the mysterious person who had me in such a tight hug.
Two familiar grey eyes stared back at me, filled with uncharacteristic worry.
"Are you all right?" He sounded worried too. I had never heard that tone from him before.
I pushed lightly against his chest, "Yes, yes. Why would I be anything but all right?" I still wasn't quite sure where I was or why he, who just a day before was treating me as if I had the plague, was looking at me with his face full of worry and something else that I couldn't put my finger on.
He would not let release me though, and I pushed harder against him, "Let go."
"Wait." He seemed as though he were trying to get a better hold of me with one arm.
"Why? What are you doing here?" The words were rushing out of my mouth, but he did not respond; he merely tightened his hold on me as one of his arms disappeared to grope around next to him for a dressing gown that lay nearby.
It was then that I caught sight of my discarded dress and boots lying on the floor. The situation hit me, and I felt a hot blush rise all over. He was trying to allow me some privacy by looking away, but I was already too embarrassed to appreciate it.
He finally got a hold of what he was reaching for and with a quick show of strength, he righted himself and lifted me to a standing position. I felt the warm water of my bath slide rapidly down me before he swiftly wrapped the soft robe around my shoulders and held it together in front. He stepped away from me, still clasping the robe closed with one fist. His shirt was completely soaked through from holding me. The dampness pulled at the collar, dragging it downwards and revealing one stark collarbone. I stared at him in my disorientation, and the world spun. He grabbed me before I almost collapsed on my shaky feet.
I couldn't seem to catch my balance and he held onto me, though I protested against it. "You shouldn't be in here," I choked, my vision already fading in and out sickeningly.
"You cannot stand on your own." He supported me with his arms, holding the robe closed where my hand was slipping. "Come, you have to lie down."
"No, I can manage." In my distress, I began to sob. "You shouldn't be here, it isn't proper." My body ached all over, and I knew if he let me go, I wouldn't stay upright. But I could only think of what would happen if the family saw this. He started to guide me to the hall, though my limpness, coupled with my emotional weeping, hindered him considerably.
"You can't take me to my room. You can't go in my room." I tried to wipe away my tears, but could not keep hold of the robe if I did so.
"It will be our secret."
"No, my mum will see." My head started to lull, and I knew I was about to slip away from consciousness.
"Are you about to faint on me, Mary?" he asked worriedly and quickened his step. We were nearing my chamber.
"Perhaps," I responded sluggishly.
"Well, that may be a bit inconvenient for me, you see, so if you could strive to stay awake, it would make things much easier." He was trying to soften the worry in his voice with a bit of his peculiar dry humor, but I could hear the almost desperate edge of pleading wrapping around each of his words. He nudged my door open with his foot, and we stumbled in, waking my mother. She sat up, peering at us sleepily, but I could not focus on her face.
"Mary! What happened?" She came and took hold of my other shoulder and together they guided me down onto the bed, wet and unclothed beneath the large robe. I felt a cool wind against my thigh as I settled down, but my mother efficiently covered me with the quilt.
I heard the beginning of a hushed conversation between them but my pounding head and sore limbs prevented me from catching any of it before falling fast asleep.