There was, needless to say, a great deal of cleaning to be done the next morning. I awoke a little after four, subsisting on three cups of strong black coffee and five hours of sleep as I went about my work. I let my mother rest - her headache had persisted tenaciously throughout the night and robbed her of any respite. We also discovered, to our dismay, that her migraines seemed to hamper her vision to the point of impairment. She would be of no help to me, and so it seemed best to leave her be, snuggled into the blankets and squirming in pain despite the whiskey I had snuck to her before she retired.
It was half past six when I finally returned the kitchen to a picture of relative normalcy. The sun spilled into the windows, half pink and strongly yellow with the rising sun. It was a peaceful moment of solitude and beauty that I melted into as I lazily shook the kitchen mat off the edge of the back porch, watching the heather fields in the distance take on a rainbow of colors as the columns of light shifted leisurely over them. The bees were awake, buzzing happily as they worked. I had finally settled into finding the noise relaxing.
I didn't remember much about Ireland, but my mind stored a few vivid and tranquil images that I hoarded and clutched onto like treasure. They were a patchwork of pictures, the sparkling dusks and dawns, the small cottages that where we were secluded in those first few months after my father's death, and mostly the lagoon that surrounded our home that I could see from the window of my small room, drowsy with motion and reflecting every color of its surroundings.
I was hit with a bittersweet feeling of nostalgia as I peered out into the distance and thought fondly of my younger days, before Whitechapel and tedious work.
The instant was abruptly interrupted by a severe voice behind me, as glossy and slithery as a snake, and just as deceptive.
"Good day, Miss Kelly."
I turned to face Mr. Finch as he stood on the porch, blocking my way back into the house, his hands clasped behind his back in a falsely benign manner.
I bowed slightly, keeping my eyes trained on him even as I had to squint as the sun rose higher above the horizon. "How do you do, Mr. Finch?"
I wanted to ask him what in heaven's name he was doing at the house at this hour, even demand to know who had permitted his entrance. I knew, however, that he was allowed free roam of the house merely from the inference that he would soon be joining the family. This was a thought that disturbed me a great deal, though I suppose that would be natural noting our few encounters.
He shrugged, "Quite well, considering." He was dressed well, his shoes polished to the point of brilliance, his suit cut finely to his form, the starched white of his shirt peeking out at his collar and passed the cuffs of his raven black morning jacket. He was dressed very much as the young master usually did.
There was one similarity that struck me the most - that almost vibrating hum of passion and intensity that seemed to slide beneath the surface of them, clearly seen about the mouth and in the eyes. Though, Mr. Finch's emotions seemed to be turned mostly inward, concerned only with himself and his own desires.
I was so busy lost in my thoughts that I failed to rise to his bait and ask him to elaborate. He continued on, persistent, "I am an engaged man."
"Is that so?" I stated. Even this now affianced situation did not relax me into lowering the mat that I had raised to my chest, holding the object unnaturally high for a comfortable conversation.
"Yes, I proposed last night."
I flattened my tongue, biting down on both fleshy sides to prevent myself from speaking; from asking him if his proposal took place before or after he'd tried to follow me into a secluded area of the house. Instead, I smiled weakly and congratulated him.
He took a step towards me, which caused my heart to jerk in nervousness. I weighed my options. I could run to James' hunt but didn't think I could outpace him. If I screamed, I did not think I would be heard inside through the thick doors of the bedchambers.
I was thoroughly alone and dependent on myself to keep him away from me. I raised the rug a little more, signaling my remoteness and resistance. "If you wish to speak to Jane, I do not think she will be awake for a few more hours. Perhaps if you come back around eight, you could have breakfast with the family," I offered.
He smiled crookedly. It wasn't half as charming as some other crooked smiles I had seen. "I didn't come to see her, but I thank you for your congratulations. I suppose a betrothal was only natural as it is her first season. It's a fine match if I am permitted to say so."
I nodded slowly.
"Actually, I was thinking of delivering her some Belgian chocolates and perhaps a bit of poetry. Women tend to enjoy it, no doubt?"
Depends on who is speaking it.
I nodded again.
"Do you know of any poems that may strike her delicate heart?"
I took a deep breath and pondered it, not willing to admit ignorance in front of him because I knew he was attempting to embarrass me. "'An Invite to Eternity' may be sufficient, though it is lengthy."
He looked mildly surprised, "That's about death."
"It's about love lasting till death, actually."
He eyed me appreciatively, "Yes, I suppose death can be terribly romantic."
"I thought so," I replied, attempting to sound neutral.
I glanced behind me; he was getting closer, and I knew I may have to retreat. I was on the edge of the steps, and my only way of escape was into the orchard. I did not want to be caught there, between the house and the hut, too far away from both to be protected by them.
"How do you know so much about poetry? A lady who can quote John Clare and read prose is not usually the one you expect to see hanging the laundry in the garden." When I looked disinclined to answer he lifted his chin knowingly and smiled at me, "Ah, I see. You should feel flattered my girl, poetry is usually reserved for the girls worth the most effort. A few uprooted roses and some wine would usually be sufficient to make most women agreeable."
I pursed my lips angrily, not at all lost as to his meaning. "I am perfectly capable of reading on my own, sir. And if any poetry is recited to me, it is for nothing more than mutual appreciation of the power of the written word. And I am sure most men would find your simplification of their actions quite insulting."
He continued to smile maddeningly at me, coming closer. "Which men? The ones that recite poetry or the ones that pour wine?"
I made the mistake of letting my eyes clenched shut in anger for a moment and when I opened them, he was directly in front of me, his mouth descending onto mine.
I took a step to the left, my boot slipping to the side and catching me off balance. I had begun to raise my right knee up, in a hearty attempt to knee him where it would cause the most damage, but I wobbled and forgot my footing, feeling myself lose the steps and tumble off the side.
Mr. Finch grabbed my sleeve, either in an attempt to catch me or merely trying to grope me as I went down, and only succeeded in causing me to swing around, landing on the hard dirt next to the roses with a loud thud; my arm and side rattling with the contact. I curled up instinctively in pain, rolling onto my stomach, and clutched my arm, stinging with soon-to-form bruises and scratches from the rose thorns. I inhaled sharply, which caused me to cough as unsettled dirt flew into my nose and into my mouth.
I gained my equilibrium quickly and rolled to my back, realizing my vulnerable position. He was coming down the steps at me, trying to hide a patronizing smile with false concern. I propped up on my elbows, prepared to scuttle away from him, but he hadn't time to reach me before he was grabbed from behind and shoved down into the dirt with me, his expensive suit probably soiled beyond repair.
My rescuer, clad in only his night clothes and a billowing dressing gown, lifted Mr. Finch off the ground without effort and wordlessly "escorted" him back into the house. I sat on the ground for a moment, listening to the fading sound of footsteps. After a moment of silence, I pushed myself to a standing position. He came out as I was stepping onto the first step, looking irritated.
"Are you all right?" he snapped at me.
"Fine," I murmured.
His features softened as he took my hand and led me up to the steps, "You're all scratched up."
I coughed into the crook of my elbow, my lungs still disturbed by dust. "I'm fine."
He frowned at my repetition but didn't comment, pulling me into the kitchen and settling me onto a stool. He bustled about the room for a moment, filling a basin with water and retrieving some brandy from the cupboard. I watched him as he gathered the things and brought them to the table, pulling a stool out with his toe and sitting in front of me, so close that my knees were between his own.
I coughed again, though it was more from uneasiness than dust. He soaked a small patch of linen and wrung it out with his strong hands. When the cool material touched my cheek, I sucked my breath in and shifted, attempting to put some distance between us.
After a few moments, as I grew used to the feel of the soft and damp rag running languidly over my chin and cheeks, I asked him how he had known I needed help.
"I could hear him down here. His tread is distinct."
"I didn't know you could hear into the kitchen."
He smiled slightly, though it seemed forced, "The floors aren't that thick. I can hear you and your mum down here every morning."
I examined his face as he cleaned my nose, letting the rag run over my lips for a second, which persuaded my mouth to open inexplicably. "Are you upset with me?" I asked after a length.
He clenched his jaw and dipped the rag back into the basin, the water and rag slapping loudly in the bowl as they met each other. He wrung it out with more force than necessary. "I told you to call me if this happened again."
"I didn't think you could hear me."
He took my arm forcefully and blotted the scratches. "You still should have called for me."
The possessiveness of the comment and the intimacy of our nearness caused a palpable tension, at least to me. I looked up above his head and stifled a sigh as the water ran down beneath my ear.
"Did he push you?"
I shook my head. "No," I elaborated, "I fell trying to get away from him."
"He won't be calling here again. He's not allowed in the house," he stated with confidence.
His movements were still jerky, a sign of controlled anger. He was mad at himself for what had happened, as ridiculous as that was.
"He's Jane's fiancé now," I protested, as he twisted off the top of the brandy bottle.
"Jane intends to refuse him."
"What?"
"She informed me last night; she does not intend to accept him."
"Perhaps she merely hoped you'd believe that she wasn't getting married."
"She knows her state of wed is neither here nor there to me," he responded blithely. He cradled my elbow in his hand, "Do you have any other cuts?"
I felt a sting on my back but didn't think it was important enough to ask him to dress it. My mother was quite capable of doing it for me. I shook my head, "It wasn't a bad fall. I just slipped."
"You didn't slip, he was accosting you."
"I could have handled him."
"I don't want you near him. He is far more corrupt than even you know," he said under his breath. I recognized that tone - that almost parental voice my own mum used when she needed to say something to me, but had no desire to elaborate further on it.
"What do you mean?" I inquired.
He sighed, so long and hard that it almost bordered on a groan. Running the back of his hand over his forehead, he shook his head. "Why aren't you capable of simply trusting what I say?"
"I do trust what you say."
"Then why do you need to know more?"
"Because I have a curious nature."
He smiled, half of his teeth bared in that peculiar lopsided grin of his. "Curious or nosy?"
I shrugged, recognizing that he was merely trying to distract me from my original queries. He dabbed once more at my cuts and inhaled, as if steeling himself for what he was about to say.
"Are you aware of anything concerning our last maid?"
"Yes. She murdered herself."
"Killed herself," he corrected absently. "After discovering she was with child. Did my mother tell you of this?"
"No," I answered, "Jane related it to me."
He cast his eyes heavenward in a dramatic gesture of frustration, "Then I suppose I'll have to relate everything to you since I'm sure her description lacks some vital details."
"Such as?"
"Her name was Charlotte. She worked here for two years before she died. She was," he seemed to ponder it for a bit, "fourteen, I believe. She worked here during the week, but she went home on Sundays to attend Catholic religious services. She lived with her father down the road a bit where they owned a farm, and also a small pub where the local workers and farmhands would come to unwind after a day's labor. They made their home on the top floor of the pub, and it was their main source of monies. Charlotte came to work primarily because my mother wished to get her away from her father. He was a drunkard and more than incompetent when it came to raising a daughter on his own."
"Was this the man I spoke to out on his farm?" I interrupted.
"Yes. Barring is his name. Perhaps not necessarily a bad man, but not the best father. In any case, I could tell right away that she was not accustomed to speaking or doing anything without being commanded to. The word 'timid' did her no justice. She was also painfully awkward around other people. I think in all the time she worked here for us, she never once looked me in the eye."
I decided it was best not to comment on why that might have been so and nodded.
"Even when I asked her to do something for me, she acted as skittish as a scared cat," he continued. "You can hardly imagine how hard it was to engage her in any conversation; I finally gave up trying to be cordial and settled on formality, which seemed to suit her better. I still don't quite understand why she was so nervous around me." He paused as if distracted once again by this conundrum.
Unfortunately for him, his was the sort of presence you felt more intimidated by than comfortable with. Despite his cordiality, she was probably in butterflies the moment he was near her; such was his effect on people. I understood that but declined to enlighten him. He wouldn't have believed my theory in any case.
"But, as I said, she went home on Sundays to go to church," he resumed, "And that is where Mr. Finch enters the equation. He and his buddies, other various aristocratic brats and spoiled children with nothing better to do, would gather at his pub on Sunday nights after it was closed for a sort of informal club that they had formed. I can't imagine what they discussed, seeing as they did nothing in life but spend their parent's money and pat each other on the back for it."
"Were you invited to this club?"
"Yes. But I would rather have nitrous acid poured in my eyes than suffer that company for more than I am absolutely required to. Though, perhaps if I had attended, I could have prevented what happened."
"Which concerns Charlotte?" I had a dismaying suspicion about the direction of this topic.
"Yes. You see, apparently, her father had drunk himself into a stupor one Sunday night and so when the 'gentlemen' rang upstairs because they were in search of a new bottle of vodka, Charlotte was obliged to come down and supply it for them. Somehow, they convinced her to take a drink as well, though she claimed she didn't recall exactly how, and that was the last thing she remembered until she woke up behind the bar. She remembered nothing about that night. Her clothes were undisturbed, but she . . . was not."
He gave me an odd look as if trying to decide if I would understand what he meant. I wasn't ignorant of such things, and I nodded, happy for once about my mother's blunt and informative nature which equipped me now with the knowledge I needed so that he wouldn't be forced to explain such things to me.
"Did she tell anyone?" I asked.
"She told my mum, who believed her. But when it came to making the events public knowledge - these men were of a much higher standing than a farmer's daughter, and it was only her word against the word of those men."
"So nothing was done?"
He looked away, looking slightly shamefaced. "I tried to tell, but these young men have parents that control this town, Mary, and it went nowhere. The best I could do was to warn Jane, who characteristically, didn't listen to a word I said." At my curious look, he elaborated, "We may not always get along, Jane and I, but I wouldn't wish that on anyone, even her."
I nodded and felt strange warmth towards him in that moment; to see such a compassionate side to him even towards someone of such a disagreeable disposition. "She seems to have listened to you now, since she refused him," I offered.
"She only refused him because she doesn't wish to marry anyone at the moment. Jane is too independent to submit to any man. One of the few qualities she possesses that I actually respect."
"What are the others?" I asked.
He didn't answer, and the question was soon forgotten as he poured a bit of the alcohol onto my cuts. I hissed and squirmed; my eyes tightly closed and unstoppable whimpers catching in the back of my throat. When I opened my eyes, he was staring at me oddly, placing the bottle back on the table without taking his gaze off my face.
"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice gentle and not filled with the normal concern that would accompany such a question. He sounded curious, as far as I could discern.
I nodded, the pain forgotten as he stared at me. Suddenly, he reached out to my chest. I sucked in a deep breath before I realized he was going for my hair, which I hadn't yet pinned up. He fingered a strand over my shoulder, looking at the ends of it. He let the lock run through his fingertips, caressing my hair with a fondness that was much more open than usual.
"This shade is very becoming."
His other hand rested across my knees. It was not as tight a contact as we had shared the night before when he had placed my hand in his lap to investigate, but there had been a purpose for that, a meaningless one albeit, but a purpose nonetheless. This gesture, though, was not even thought of. The naturalness of it made it more startling and intimate.
"You know," he started, as his large hand worked its way up farther into my wavy locks, a look of almost professional examination settling onto his features. "About twenty years ago in Washington Square, there was a set of twin boys. When they reached three-and-twenty, they each married." His fingers snuggled into the depths of my hair until they touched my scalp, holding the back of my head and causing me to look away from him. "The older boy married a lovely woman, as did the younger, but the older brother's wife was a redhead, of the most unusual strawberry blonde, whereas the younger brother's wife was a dark brunette." His touch was warm and unlike anything that I had ever felt before.
"So," he continued, "about three years into both marriages, the younger brother murders his older brother and proceeds to take his place. And do you know why?"
The feel of his calloused fingertips working slow circles about the base of my head was distracting. I shook my head, though I knew the answer.
"Because he coveted his brother's wife simply because of her hair color."
"Why did he not just ask his wife to tint her own hair?" I asked, trying not to sound breathless.
"Well, it gets more interesting. He had asked his wife to, but she didn't comply, so he murdered her as well. This worked out splendidly in his grand scheme to assume his brother's role. To the entire world, he and his wife were dead in a murder-suicide, and he smoothly stepped in to take his brother's place."
"That's horrifying."
"Not as horrifying as the thought that he succeeded for some time."
I tipped my head back slightly as he applied pressure to the curve of my head. "He got away with it?"
"For a few months, until the wife realized it was not her husband."
"Did he ask for some food that her husband disliked?" I joked.
His fingers stopped for a moment, as I could see him fighting back a look of uncertainty and discomfort. "No, it was a little more private than that."
I blushed. And then I had a sudden idea of what this was - or what it looked like. His hand in my hair, alone, so close we'd send shockwaves through any polite company. And I knew that despite what I knew, what I felt, what I thought of him and us, on the outside, I was merely one of them - a maid who stole in and tricked a respectable man into putting his hand on my knee, his fingers tangled in my hair. How was I any different than any of the others who'd come before me? Not to mention the ones who threw themselves from waterfalls after being mistreated and cast aside.
I moved my hand up, ready to push his arm gently away and ask him what he was doing.
His expression changed at my movement like a candle suddenly being blown out. I could see his mouth open to say something to me, but he straightened suddenly and stood, the stool rattling against the floor as it wobbled and settled back down.
"Hello, Mrs. Kelly," he bowed to my mother as she stood in the doorway, staring at us both with a curious and suspicious eye.
"Good day, sir," she curtseyed stiffly.
I stared ahead, refusing to appear guilty, knowing she was looking for it.
"You're up early," he offered, attempting to make small talk.
"What happened?" she asked as she moved more into the room, catching sight of the water and linens.
"She fell," he supplied for me. "I was cleaning her wounds."
"Were you?" The suspicion in her voice made him rock on his heels nervously, the first time I had ever seen him in such a state.
"Yes, she fell into the thorn bushes."
She looked at me, checking me over quickly. "Did she bump her head?"
"I beg your pardon?" he asked.
She glanced up at him from her examination, "That's what you were checking for, was it not?"
"Mum," I broke in as he flushed up, "I'm quite all right. I need to get this dirt out of my hair."
"All right, I'll start breakfast. And you, sir," she addressed him, "I'm sure you have plenty of time to dress before the food is prepared."
He nodded and glanced down absently as if just realizing how he was attired. "Of course, I apologize," he offered, and I sensed it was not only for his state of undress.
He padded barefoot up the stairs. I turned to leave, not wanting to discuss the matter with my mother any further. She said my name, low and with a warning. Any other time, her tone would have stopped me, but I kept walking.
And she let me go.
He didn't come back down for breakfast. Only Jane and Mrs. Holmes partook, but after the table had been cleared and I was washing up, I wandered into the dining room to see the elder son sitting at the table, reading a newspaper. He gave me a disinterested look over the top of it as I jumped in surprise.
"Oh, I hadn't realized you were here, sir. May I get you some breakfast?"
He nodded. "Do you have that Assam tea my brother favors?" he asked.
"Of course, sir. I keep some on hand for him at all times."
"Very perceptive of you," he observed.
"It is part of my job."
Eager to avoid his gaze, I quickly reentered the kitchen and set a kettle on. There was still some bacon and eggs left over that I had meant to eat myself, but I plated it and restocked the toast rack, keen not to keep him waiting.
As I bustled back in with his tray, he lowered his paper and watched me. I felt decidedly dissected by his gaze but forced my hands steady as I arranged his place and poured his tea.
He folded his paper and set it aside. "My brother tells me you've been regularly harassed by my cousin's friend," he stated, catching me off-guard. "I assure you, that behavior is not tolerated here. He will not set foot in this house again."
Mycroft Holmes reminded me of a man whose orders were obeyed even in his absence, so I had no doubt he meant what he said. I curtsied and thanked him.
He waved his hand at me, but, for the first time, amusement glinted in his eye. "Stop curtsying, child."
I clasped my hands together. "Are you in need of anything else?"
"My brother seems quite concerned with your welfare," he commented as if I had not spoken.
It was not a question, but he seemed to expect me to respond. "I imagine he cares for most people's welfare."
Mycroft Holmes nodded his head slowly. "I suppose he is prone to that. Always a supremely sensitive child. There seemed to be nothing I could do to rid him of that."
"Why would you wish to rid him of that, sir?" I asked curiously, slightly annoyed.
He gave me a sober look. "The world is not kind to sensitive people, child."
I did not know what to say to such a statement, fearing deep down that it was true. There also seemed to be a warning in his tone, and it felt strange that someone would view me as the danger.
Mrs. Holmes came in while I was summoning a response, clad in riding trousers and high boots. I gaped a bit, having never seen a woman wearing trousers before.
She caught my look and shared an amused glance with her son. "I hope I'm not offending you, Mary. Mycroft and I are going riding; I find this much more practical apparel than a dress."
I waved my hands. "No, I'm not offended at all, ma'am. Forgive my surprise." To be honest, I felt a strange surge of awe for this woman. No wonder she had raised such interesting boys.
She sat at the table to wait for her son to finish his breakfast, and I took my leave, feeling that dissecting gaze on my back.
Mycroft Holmes stayed for the next two days, but I was able to avoid him. His brother had been right – he had a lazy streak, and once he settled into a room for the day that is where he stayed for hours, reading newspapers and receiving and answering numerous telegrams. I got the impression he was a very important man, but when I discreetly attempted to bring it up with his brother, all he did was smile enigmatically at me and change the subject.
Once, I stumbled into him and his brother ensconced in the twin seats by the fire in the sitting room when I tried to sneak in to mend my sleep gown. I stood dumbly in the doorway as if caught out doing something completely untoward.
Usually, I would have been granted entry and told to sit down by the younger son, but he said nothing as I began to back away, only stopped by Mycroft Holmes's commanding voice.
"If you wish to sit in here, child, do not let us stop you."
His brother glanced sharply at him over the letter he was reading. I suspected that they had actually been discussing something private, which made his permission for me to join even more strange and, I believed, disingenuous.
"No, do not mind me. I can go to my room or the kitchen," I protested. My mother was asleep in our room, and I was worried about waking her. But that was not their concern.
"I insist," he continued.
"I insist not," I responded without thinking. I stammered a bit which softened the edges of my words, but I still flushed up at how rude I had sounded. The younger Holmes's eyebrows shot up in surprise and, perhaps I imagined it, a tinge of admiration.
"Then have a good night, Miss Kelly," I was dismissed, and I escaped, standing outside the closed door for a moment to steady my breathing and calm my heart. This pause was the only reason I heard their conversation pick up. I confess to leaning towards the door a bit to hear what they had to say.
That familiar voice was speaking, full of weary remonstration. "Are you going out of your way to intimidate the girl?"
A flutter of a newspaper and Mycroft Holmes replied coolly, "I am not the one she is intimidated by."
"She is certainly not intimidated by me."
"Oh, what exactly is your level of comfort with her?"
There was a long pause and then a droll response. "There's a reason you're not a spy in the field, Mycroft. You always needed to work on your subtlety."
"And you need to work on your tendency to blush. It always gives you away."
The pause was longer this time. Finally, he said softly, "Just leave the girl alone."