Jane did not lend me a dress for the evening. I was dressed in my clean, dark dress and apron.
The guests began arriving just at five in the evening. I was paid no attention to for the most part, except one or two long glances by indiscreet gentlemen, and a very scary moment when Mr. Finch had tried to follow me into the kitchen, only to discover, thankfully, that the doorway was to remain open and therefore did not afford him enough privacy to harass me.
There was no dinner being served; the party was too large. My mother was still feeling unwell, so I delegated the coat handling to her, and I was left all to myself to carry the platters of hors d'oeuvres and glass upon glass of bubbly champagne.
I made a few circles, keeping my mouth shut as the genteel class paid no regard to me, even as I offered them refreshments. Manners and class apparently do not go hand in hand. Or, maybe, manners are just not considered manners unless they are directed at someone worthy.
I did not allow it to trouble me, though. I was used to being invisible, having gone through many jobs with my mother as such.
I retreated to the kitchen, seeing that nobody was in need of another glass. The high class has an interesting way of conversing with one another in large groups – very nearly a low hum. The pitch of the voice never changes, no matter the amount of importance of what is being said.
Someone walked up next to me, and my hand reached for a glass instinctively from a tray resting on the counter. When I turned to hand it to the stranger, I realized he was no stranger at all.
He took the glass, though he scrunched his face up for a moment in distaste. He took a sip, his grey eyes looking at me over the rim.
"Are you enjoying yourself, sir?" I did not know what else to say to him. After our encounter yesterday, I had not seen him. I figured he was avoiding me, either still displeased with me or embarrassed about what he had seen.
His eyes twinkled at me now, though. He considered before answering, "No."
"The finest of your class is here. I find it hard to believe that you are not having a happy time."
"It is not an accomplishment to be the finest of my class."
My performance the previous day in the bath must have erased any anger he was feeling toward me. Concern has that way of blocking out grudges. I was not going to ask him now what the matter was. I was simply happy that he was treating me as though I was again worthy of his attention.
"Listen to them." He nudged his chin in the direction of the main room. Through the kitchen, I could hear the low murmur of conversation. I could see the edges of the crowd through the open door, "All of them like parrots; all imitating, all repeating things that have already been said a million times before, never saying what they really mean."
"And you always say exactly what you mean?" I was goading him.
He leaned even further into me to whisper in my ear, "No, but I always know what I mean, even if I do not enlighten others."
"Is that better?"
He did not answer though I waited, observing his profile. He was not dressed as the others. He wore a well-made suit of the deepest blue with an expensive double-breasted waistcoat, but he was dressed down, intentionally, noticeable in the sea of formal wear and white gloves. His hair was smoothed back, defining and drawing attention to his sharp features, the cut of his jaw. He looked more handsome than I had ever seen him.
He shifted his shoulder and nudged me in the back nonchalantly. "Did you see that man enter a moment ago? With the greying van dyke beard?"
I nodded.
"That was Mr. Norton."
"And his wife?"
"No, his wife is at home sick. That is his wife's sister. She often accompanies him to these things in place of his wife."
"Is that what you wanted to draw to my attention?"
"She does many things in place of his wife."
I frowned sharply at him, "How do you know that?"
He tapped his nose twice, "Magic."
"You have no way of proving that."
He smiled, not at all perturbed by my disbelief. "I can also not prove that Miss Cochrane over there," he nodded to a young, handsome woman with a revealing dress of the deepest crimson that we could barely see through the dining room, "went on an extended holiday for five months, not because of exhaustion, but because of a certain 'unwanted' development."
"You are impossible."
He beamed; his smile impish, "It is the truth. The bouncing baby," he squinted his eyes at her as if looking for an answer, "boy is with some relatives in Florence."
"And how do you know that?"
"It would be rude of me to point out. But extreme weight fluctuations are not always caused by too much sweet cake."
I pointed out a gentleman crossing through our line of sight, "How about that man? Any great secrets?"
"Mr. Godwin? None, except that he is a poor boxer." He raised his voice slightly so that the man, who was now quite close to us, could hear him.
The older gentleman made his way through a few people and entered the kitchen. "I've gotten in a few good jabs at you son. Do not forget that." He was middle-aged; slender with thinning grey hair. His eyes were warm, though, and I could tell he had been a very handsome man at one time. My companion smiled genially, "Yes, I believe that was right before I knocked you out, however."
A woman appeared at the side of Mr. Godwin. "Knocked who out?" I found myself fidgeting with my apron, put on edge by the appearance of two finely dressed guests in our modest kitchen. My eyes scanned the countertops for anything out of order.
Both men appeared to be uneasy as the woman slipped her arm around Mr. Godwin's waist. She frowned suspiciously at them both, "Are you two men talking about boxing?"
The older man kissed her on the forehead, "Do not worry yourself, dear, we are perfectly responsible men."
She glared at the younger man next to me, her attractive face scrunched up pleasantly. "Are you encouraging my husband to take part in that horrible sport?"
He gave her an exaggerated shrug in response and she cuffed him on the arm with her fan in a maternal fashion. She then leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek.
"It's nice to see you, son."
To my surprise, he kissed her back, smiling sincerely at her. "It is nice to see you also, ma'am. I am surprised though, considering how my father feels about your husband." He directed his attention back to the man, "How did you worm your way into getting an invitation, Godwin?"
"Your mother passed one on inconspicuously. Your father wasn't aware, and now he knows better than to cause a scene. I am sure your mum will have an earful after tonight, though, about me and my club, with our effeminate ways and socialist leanings."
My companion cracked a smile at this last remark, while Mrs. Godwin rolled her eyes. "Dear, must you make such inappropriate comments while we're in public?"
"There is no one around to offend."
"What about me?" was his wife's curt response.
He nestled her cheek, "You would not have married me if you were so offended."
She blushed; a becoming look, and I saw my companion appraise them through narrowed eyes. He seemed strangely fascinated by their domestic bliss and only looked away after shaking his head clear of whatever thoughts he was having.
"John, we are making our friends here uncomfortable," she rebuked her husband, though it was said without much conviction.
"Who said anyone here is friends?" Mr. Godwin joked good-naturedly. His wife threw her head back and laughed merrily; it was a real laugh, as sweet as music.
My companion's grey eyes traveled over her exposed slender and elegant neck for a moment before he tore his eyes away to the rest of the crowd. I felt my chest tighten at the look I had seen; it was a man's look, one that I never associated with him before. I did not like it.
He seemed to take notice of me again as if I had disappeared and reappeared. I found it hard to believe that he had forgotten me, considering he was still hovering over me very closely.
"I beg your pardon," he gestured to me with his champagne glass. I could sense his hand rising to touch me in the small of my back - the warmth of his fingers so hot I thought I could feel them through my layers of fabric - but it dropped back down to the counter without making contact. "I forgot my manners. This is Mary. I do believe we're invading her kitchen here."
Mrs. Godwin peered into my face, "Are you the daughter of that lovely woman taking coats at the door?"
I nodded, feeling even more uncomfortable with the attention on me.
"My, you are an exquisite girl, entirely too charming to be a maid," she continued, then cast a sly glance at the young man next to me, "I can see now why you have rooted yourself to this spot, lad. Mighty good taste you have."
My mouth fell open at her suggestion but he, on the other hand, simply responded dryly, "Very observant of you, ma'am. Nothing gets past you."
They all smiled. I could not help feeling that it was at my expense. I tried to convince myself that embarrassment was the only reason for the large blush that started to spread from my chest all the way to my cheeks.
He, of course, noticed first. He angled his head to look at me, even after I lowered my own to avoid his gaze. "Are you all right, Mary?"
I brought my hand up to my face, trying unsuccessfully to look blasé. "I am fine, thank you." I could not will myself to stop flushing.
He bent his head down to peer at my face with concern, "Are you sure?"
His proximity only made me feel even warmer. "It is warm in the kitchen. I do think I may need some air."
He gave me a curious look, as if I were a science experiment on the verge of producing some result. "You're flushed."
I scoffed at him and jerked away, embarrassed, putting some champagne glasses onto my tray. Hefting it up onto my shoulder, I began to walk away from them. "I have been relaxed too long. I have to attend to the guests."
An hour later, my mother woke up as the guest took up dancing in the medium-sized ballroom. She insisted I take a break as she took over the duties. I was still seething with humiliation and skulked off to the library to fume.
He was there. Of course.
I stood in the doorway, watching him as he either didn't notice me or pretended to ignore me. He was lying on the top of Mrs. Holmes's treasured grand piano eating an apple. He continued to stare at the ceiling as I frowned at him, wishing I could do damage with a look.
"Could you close the door behind you?" he finally asked, still not raising his head to look at me. My jaw clenched in anger, his abruptness bordering on unkindness in my opinion. Could he not even acknowledge that I was upset with him? Or maybe he didn't notice. I remedied that by letting the door slam unnecessarily loud behind me. He started and finally peered at me, his apple halfway to his mouth. I crossed my arms and waited. The music from the ballroom wafted into our space, muffled a bit but still clear enough to recognize the tune.
He propped himself up on his elbows.
"Is something the matter?" he demanded, his voice half concerned, half annoyed by my performance.
"Perhaps," I spat out. Behaving was of no importance to me. I was angry about how he had treated me.
He frowned, "Are you mad at me?" He spoke condescendingly as if he knew that there was no valid reason for me to be.
"Perhaps," I repeated. He stared, the rise and fall of his chest the only movement from him. I had confused him, and I felt strangely satisfied by it.
He abruptly moved, sliding his feet to the edge and sitting upright. He muttered something about women that I ignored before addressing me more civilly, "Would you care to tell me what it is I have done?"
I was about to demand that he work it out himself but somehow suspected that he would only be bothered so far by my hurt feelings before he shut me out and refused to be concerned.
"You humiliated me on purpose."
I expected him to plead ignorance, but his eyes focused, and his face became alert. It angered me even more that he knew what I meant as if he had done it intentionally. "I was just teasing you. I know those people well; they would not think ill of anyone or take my comments seriously."
"I am not a child. Don't tease me, especially not in front of respectable people. It wasn't proper of you, and you know it." His expression didn't change, though his eyes did wander hastily over me at the word "respectable" as if measuring up how I compared.
"And do not behave as if you know what I am thinking at all times," I continued.
"I am sorry." The statement was neutral, its sincerity inscrutable.
"I don't want to talk to you anymore." I sat at the instrument. He tilted his head at my contradictory action but wisely chose not to comment.
"You shouldn't be sitting on the piano," I snapped, "I just dusted it. And why are you in here anyway?"
He slid off the piano and came to sit next to me on the small bench. I moved away from him, huffing disgustedly.
"I was listening to the music," he answered.
"You could listen to it out there."
"Badly played live music annoys me." I turned my head to look at him, startled by the illogic of his words. My fingers began pressing random keys on the piano as I tried to work out his statement.
"So how does it help to come in here?"
"It's muffled." He grabbed my hands, flinching at the discordant notes I was producing, and then gazed into the fire, his hand still holding mine. We stayed that way for a bit before he directed his attention at my captured fingers, stroking them slowly. I started to pull my hand away as my arm twitched in surprise, but he held fast.
"What are you doing?" I breathed, sounding more irritated than I was.
"Looking at your hands," he muttered, his attention intent on my fingers and palm, feeling my hand and putting his face close to it as if it was some intriguing science experiment.
"I can see that, but why?"
"Hands say a great deal about a person," he stated firmly, still engrossed as I unconsciously pulled my hand closer to my stomach to look at what he was doing. My curiosity won out even as I noticed that his head was now dangerously close to my chest as he bent over, his attention rapt.
"And what do my hands say?" I asked, humoring him and enjoying the opportunity.
He didn't respond for a while, feeling between my fingers and rubbing the soft flesh of my palm. I watched him for a while as he continued to examine me minutely, turning my hand over a few times. When he ran the edge of his fingernail down one of the lines in the center of my palm, my fingers curled instinctively, either to push the feeling away or to hold it close. He flattened my hand again without comment, though he must have felt it.
"You have a callous here. . ." he trailed off and bent over more. He was so close that his breath slipped around my skin, crawling across my palm and up my fingers, dissipating before it could touch my fingertips. I resisted the sudden, almost irresistible urge to move my hand closer, so close that his mouth was pressed against the lines and scars of my flesh. But that would have been sufficient to have me turned out onto the street.
I stared at the tie on the back of his waistcoat, which was slightly askew, and then at the collar of his shirt.
It struck me like a thunderbolt that I actually thought he was quite lovely.
How humiliating that was. How foolish.
"From sewing." His words startled me from my thoughts, and I was obliged to take a moment to place what he meant. "Your calluses are from sewing."
"Yes," I affirmed, not trusting my voice to say anymore. He pulled my hand towards him, laying it on his thigh and grabbing my wrist. My mouth flew open at his bold gesture, but he didn't notice. I stared at the ceiling, offering a silent prayer that no one walked in.
He rotated my wrist around and pushed my fingers here and there a bit before scrunching up his eyebrows. "You're really left-handed."
The fact that I was touching his thigh was forgotten for a moment. "How did you know that?"
"Why don't you use your left hand?" he asked, ignoring my inquiry.
"Because the sewing machines worked better if you used your right hand."
He started pressing his fingernails in the palm of my hand gently. "If you used a machine, why do you have a callous?"
"Details were sown by hand."
"Do many girls force themselves to use their right hand?"
I shrugged, "I don't know."
"Mmmm."
I leaned over to look at what he was doing. "What are you looking at now?"
"I'm counting the lines on your palm."
"Why?"
"Because I'm fond of counting things."
I straightened up and sighed, "I thought there was a point."
He laughed, which was the sweetest sound when it was genuine. "What? Did you think I'd read you your fortune?"
"I wouldn't be surprised if you claimed to be able to," I replied drolly. He frowned and turned to glare at me, only then noticing how close he was to my chest. His gaze slid away awkwardly to stare at some distant point in the room. He straightened up and took my wrist, his other hand running up my arm to curl around my elbow. His nails tickled the sensitive side of my arm, and I jerked away. He smiled knowingly at me but, thankfully, let me be.
He continued to stroke my arm absently, "Your hands don't say much about you."
"They told you I was a seamstress and left-handed," I reminded.
"And that you're ticklish, but they don't tell me anything about you."
"If you truly want to know someone, you have to talk to them. You can't merely look at their hands, sir."
"Things would be so much simpler, though," he lamented jokingly. He played a quick, proficient string of notes one-handed on the piano before standing from the bench, guiding me up. "Do you want to dance?"
I gaped as he pulled me around the edge of the bench, persistently drawing me towards him.
Instead, I resisted. "I'm angry with you," I reminded, albeit feebly.
"No, you're not." He grasped my arms and attempted to step in close to me.
I leaned back.
"I thought you said you couldn't dance?"
"I lied."
"Do you lie a lot?"
"Of course."
I gave him a humoring smile and started to turn to leave. He grabbed my arm, unexpectedly and a bit roughly. But when I turned quickly to see what he was thinking, his look was soft. He let go almost immediately.
He slipped his hand to my back and shoved me towards him unfortunately at the exact same time I stopped resisting him. I exhaled as my chest hit his roughly, surprising us both. He was much taller than me and my face, for an unnerving moment, had come dangerously close to his neck. My mind reeled as he pulled away, moving my arm from around his waist, where they had circled of their own accord, and placing them where they were supposed to be for a proper dance. He was warm, and it reminded me of the small patch of sheet at the foot of my bed that was heated by the sun every morning.
He took my hand in his and slid his other arm around my waist. He held me loosely, except where his fingers dug into my side, kneading my soft flesh with restraint.
"This is highly inappropriate," I argued.
"Do you know how to dance?" he asked, ignoring my protestations. His voice was matter-of-fact. Before I could answer, he tilted his head, as if catching wind of something and then stepped away from me hastily.
The door swung open. I, who had not heard the approach as my companion had, was left standing awkwardly and clearly flustered in the middle of the room. I'm sure he had not intended this when he stepped away, but it was a painful position to be in, nonetheless.
Framed in the doorway was a man I had never seen before. He was tall and of an impressive girth just bordering on fat. It was those light grey eyes that gave away who he was before I was even introduced.
"I've been looking for you," the newcomer stated. His voice was flat, unemotional, and he took in the tableau with a dispassionate all-knowing look that was embarrassing.
"Yes," my companion nodded, looking more ruffled than I had ever seen him. "Mother told me you were running late. Forgive me, I assumed it was a ruse to avoid attending the party." He glanced at me. "This is Mary. Mary, this is my brother, Mycroft."
The imposing man stepped forward and nodded down at me. "The maid, I presume?" There was absolutely no judgment in his voice, just a simple statement of fact, but somehow that made it worse. I curtsied quickly, trying to will myself to stop flushing.
"I should take my leave and see if my mother needs assistance in the kitchen," I demurred, desperate to escape. I could still feel the sensation of his hand across my back as if it were visibly branded there. "It was a pleasure finally meeting you, Mr. Holmes." I curtsied again, feeling foolish, and then skittered away.
As I left, I heard the elder son murmur, "How very cliché, Sherlock," before the door closed behind me.