Saturday, I found myself at the market much later than usual. I had slept late and decided to prepare the rooms for the rising of the family and set the breakfast things up for my mother before I was able to depart. All in all, it ended up being a fortuitous turn of events, as when I looked up from perusing some dried fruits and dates, I did a double take at the girl standing next to me.
I had only been given a brief description, but this girl's blonde hair was striking, and her face was all dotted over with freckles. I wondered …
She moved away, and I stood stupidly for a moment before deciding to follow, feeling awkward and at a loss as to how to approach a stranger. I felt like a spy sent out on a foreign mission.
I darted around a cart of odorous cabbage and plunged forward to tap her on the shoulder.
She turned to me, frowning in confusion. "Yes?"
"Um," I stammered, "Are you Mabel?" I do not know why I was whispering. I must have appeared insane.
She cocked her head, obviously on guard. "Yes, I am. Who is asking?"
"I work for Mr. Holmes. He wanted me to reach out to you."
She looked even more on guard now, and I rushed to clarify. "The younger Mr. Holmes. The son."
Her face cleared, now tinged with something close to affection. "Oh, you mean Sherlock?"
"Yes, Sherlock," the name rolled from my tongue strangely. It occurred to me that I had never spoken his first name out loud before. Absurdly, I felt myself flush and hoped she did not notice. I glanced around at the crowd. "Perhaps we could go somewhere quieter."
She glanced around too and then gestured towards a row of ribbons and knitting materials that was less crowded. We found a little space where, with our voices pitched low, I believed no one could hear us.
"First, I'd like to express my condolences for the loss of your master," I started.
She nodded gravely. "Yes, he was a kind man. I saw Sherlock at the funeral, but there was no way for us to speak to each other without attention."
"I understand. That's why he asked me to seek you out, I think, to avoid any gossip."
"What does he need? I owe him, I suppose, for something he did for me in the past."
"He wants to know for sure how Mr. Carey died."
She frowned. "He does not think he died of heart failure? If that is true, I want to help. How can I help?"
"He wants to know if you can find Mr. Carey's flask. Do you know what he's referring to?"
She nodded, "Yes, of course. I think I may be able to do that. Where can I find you?"
"It's my day off tomorrow. Can you meet me here at eight in the morning if you locate it?"
She nodded and then grinned as if she too felt like a spy on an important mission.
"What are you reading?"
He glanced up at me from where he sat across from me.
"A book," he answered vaguely.
I sighed loudly and shifted my head away from the window. It was raining outside, and I could hardly see through the double doors that led to the patio. Not that I would have seen much anyway - it was pitch-black outside.
I was curled up in the large chair across from him, my head lying hard against the armrest. I was exhausted and fatigued. The weather had a way of exacerbating my sporadic colds. After the market, I rushed through my chores, getting soaking wet as fetched bags of flour and other items from the storage room beneath the house. Even in dry clothes, I still felt the damp chill of the rain permeating my skin.
Thankfully, his parents had dined out, though I found it hard to imagine them sharing a lovely evening together. Jane had cornered me in the hall and denounced every meal I'd ever cooked in this house, making questionable remarks about whether I was trying to poison them all. I took her barrage until she tired herself out, and then I retreated to the sitting room to rest.
The usually keenly observant young man had not noticed my presence in the crippling dark of the room until he had lit a candle by the couch and turned up the gas. I surprised him, but he rallied admirably and sat smoothly across from me, merely acknowledging me with a curt nod of his head. One of his shirtsleeves had been rolled up and at the sight of me, he quickly shoved it down to his wrist. It was amusing since I had never noticed that he was protective of his modesty before.
He had brought in a cup of drinking chocolate, and he sipped at it as I stared at him until I was sure I'd made him uncomfortable.
He wouldn't answer my question about his reading material, which angered me, perhaps more so because my nerves were already stretched. I sighed loudly again and then looked at him, waiting for a response.
He arched an eyebrow at me but continued reading.
"Why won't you tell me what you're reading?"
"Because it's none of your concern." The covering was plain but worn. I lifted my head, fully intending to get up and read over his shoulder, but it was too much effort. I let my head fall back down with a harsh grunt that was decidedly unbecoming.
It caught his attention enough to warrant a look of concern. "You're not feeling well, Mary?" All his questions always sounded like statements.
I nodded.
"A warm bath might make you feel better; the water will relax your muscles."
A snide remark formed at the tip of my tongue about his obvious statement, but it never ventured forth when I saw that he was blushing, even while staring impassively down at his book. I looked back out the sleet-splattered panes, suddenly more aware of the cool air seeping in from underneath the door.
"It sounds lovely, but I'd have to move."
We fell silent again, and that shy flush vanished as quickly as it appeared. I stretched my back gently, tucked my shawl tighter around me and resumed watching him. He was already looking at me, though.
"Why are you staring at me?" I snapped, more irritated that I couldn't look at him without his notice now.
He smirked lopsidedly, "Did Jane upset you?"
I rolled my eyes and then bit my lip, "She hates me."
He exhaled deliberately, "That she does. Beware the green-eyed monster." I didn't have to ask what he meant; he had recently read me Othello, or the parts acceptable for feminine ears. I wondered if he were reading something now that was not for ladies to view. The thought annoyed me. I hated things being kept from me.
"However," he stated louder, "I think your cooking is just fine." He was only being kind because I humored his sweet tooth and let him dip his finger into the cake glaze I had mixed together in the afternoon.
"What's 'insufferable' mean?" I asked. Jane had called me that when I refused to answer her tirade. It made no sense to me.
"It means someone you cannot suffer the company of; someone you can't stand to be around."
"Oh." That made more sense. "I thought it meant someone who couldn't suffer," I admitted a little bashfully.
"I suppose it sounds a bit like that. Why do you ask? Are you trying to think of names to call me when I irritate you?"
"No need, I have a catalog of sorts going on already - tucked under my bed," I teased.
He chuckled gently, "You'll have to share it with me sometime."
I smiled, though the side of my face pressed into the chair didn't move.
"What are you reading?" I repeated, hoping he was in a more talkative mood now.
He threw his head back in exasperation. "You're like a badgering child. Why do you wish to know so badly?"
"Why do you not wish me to know?"
"Because it's . . ."
"Don't say it is not for women."
"It is not something you would find interesting to read."
"That is not for you to decide," I argued. He frowned at me as I rose to sit next to him, pulling at the side of the book as he closed it from my eyes.
"It is not something I should read to you."
"Because it's not fitting for me? That is something men say merely to prevent women from enjoying anything pleasurable in life," I snapped boldly.
"You know I wouldn't keep you from anything that pleased you."
"Is it poetry?" I asked.
"No. It's a book on criminology. I'm reading up on past poisoning cases."
I grinned at him, "Read it to me."
He hesitated, "I probably should not." He slid the book onto my knees. "You may read it yourself."
"I want you to read it to me."
He settled his book on his lap and stared up at the ceiling again. "You mustn't tell anyone."
He read to me a case of a woman who had poisoned all four of her children with arsenic. When he got to the part describing the symptoms they suffered when dying, I stood to break off his speech. He was right. It was a bit too much for me. The account reminded me of my encounter with Mabel, but I did not say anything to him yet. I was not sure she would be able to find the flask, and I did not want to get his hopes up.
He grinned at me. "Tomorrow we will read something new." He stretched out on the divan and closed his eyes, looking ready to take a nap.
"You lived in Whitechapel before you came here?" he asked suddenly.
"Yes," I murmured.
"Tell me about it," he demanded coaxingly.
"It was all right," I hedged, not eager to recount what life was like then.
"All right?"
"With my mum, it was."
"What was it like?"
I took a deep breath, "It was okay . . . my mum took care of me. We were safe at work, and then we'd go straight home."
"You had to go out sometime."
"We always went together, and always in daytime, though that didn't guarantee anything."
"No one bothered you?"
"We were always bothered. But we grew used to it."
"How?"
"Have you ever been to Whitechapel?"
"Yes, but not for any extended period of time."
"It's filthy," I continued, "I saw things that I suppose a lady shouldn't; as soon as I reached thirteen years of age, men assumed . . ."
"But no one ever did anything to you?" A pause. "Did anyone ever do anything to you?" His voice was more insistent now, a tad annoyed at my silence and oblivious to my discomfort.
"No, but they tried. My friend," I began; once the words started, they rushed out in an uncontrollable blur, "I had a friend once. She was a little street brat that I met when she tried to steal my bread from me. I knocked her down and boxed her ears before I realized she was a girl. She was a dear."
"What happened to her?"
"Some men got her and her mother found her in the alley next to their rooms. She'd gotten too old to pretend to be a boy," I continued.
"What happened to the men who hurt her?"
"Nothing."
He opened his eyes, staring at the cushion of the divan, a frown marring his face. "What was her name?"
"Violet Shaw."
"Do you miss her?"
"When I think of her."
"What an injustice." He stilled, even his breathing slowed. We stayed that way for a bit. After a minute, his breathing became rhythmic. I looked up and saw that he had drifted into sleep, his face furrowed in consternation.
I watched him sleep. Without his conscious presence, it was too still in the room, and I fought the childish urge to rouse him and ask him to play his violin for me now.
Or read some more.
Or anything.
I refrained, sliding from my chair and hefting the book with deathly silence as he slept on unawares. Snuggling down next to the couch, for I could not bring myself to leave his side, I rifled through the pages. I read some of the essays, learning more of something called "forensics". I made a mental note to ask him to explain that to me.