And what would he do if that was the case?
A knock came on the door, startling him. He put away Holmes’s note. “Come in.”
The door opened to reveal Miss Yarmouth, the children’s governess.
He rose. “Is something the matter, Miss Yarmouth?”
It was not scandalously late, but late enough that the other servants had retired after dinner. And Miss Yarmouth was not in the habit of seeking him out at this time of the night.
She closed the door, something else she was not in the habit of doing. She had her reputation to consider, and on previous occasions when they’d spoken in this room, she’d always made sure to leave the door ajar, so that no one could possibly misconstrue the platonic and professional nature of their exchanges.
“My lord, may I have a word?”
He indicated the farthest chair from his desk. “Please, have a seat.”
She did, her hands laced together in her lap. He had only one desk lamp on in the study and could not be entirely sure but—did she have on a new dress? Something that did not immediately declare her to be a governess?
He waited.
She shifted. “My lord, I’m not sure how to begin.”
“Does it concern the children?”
“No. I mean, yes, it does, perhaps somewhat. But I—I wouldn’t say it’s about the children, precisely.”
“Then what is it about?”
Whatever it was, he already knew he wasn’t going to like it.
Miss Yarmouth looked down at the carpet. “I—I have a cousin I grew up with. Eight years ago, she emigrated to Australia. She wanted me to go with her then but I was too afraid to leave the country. She’s done very well there for herself and is very enviably settled with a well-to-do husband and a large house.”
He didn’t say anything.
She hesitated. “And Mrs. Culver—my cousin, that is—has once again invited me to join her in Sydney. She says that there are many eligible men in the area and it’s far easier for a woman like me to achieve matrimony there than in England.”
She was neither old—about Holmes’s age—nor unsightly, though hers was a nondescript prettiness that did not promise to last long. Had she come from a wealthier family, she might have achieved marriage by now. But she did not have that safety net of pound sterling and instead had to support herself by working. And life as a governess was not exactly rife with opportunities for meeting eligible men.
Lady Ingram had wanted to educate her children early, at three, rather than five. As a result, neither Lucinda nor Carlisle could remember life without Miss Yarmouth. She had been a constant in their lives, one that was needed more than ever in the absence of their mother.
He had already increased her wages after the events of Stern Hollow, but he did not hesitate to say, “Is there a figure that would tempt you to stay, Miss Yarmouth? Please name it.”
She bit her lower lip, but when she answered, her voice was resolute. “You have always been a generous employer, my lord. But at this point in my life, having a home and a family of my own is more important than greater wages.”
“I understand,” he said mechanically.
“I—I don’t wish to go either. I adore Miss Lucinda and Master Carlisle—they are such lovely children. But I’m not getting any younger.”
“I understand,” he said again, and wondered whether there was anything he could do to cushion his children from this blow.
“Unless, that is, my lord, you wish to—”
She looked up now, her eyes imploring. He stared back at her, half in incomprehension, half in . . . all too much comprehension.
Dear God, Holmes would probably have seen where this was going while Miss Yarmouth was still on the other side of the door.
Miss Yarmouth blushed furiously, but now that she’d started, her courage seemed to rise. “I know you are still married, sir. But your petition for divorce is certain to be granted. And if you’ll please listen to me . . .”
“I am listening.”
“I’ve heard what people say about you and Miss Charlotte Holmes. That you love and admire her, but can’t marry her because she is no longer respectable and you must think of the children.”
That had never been the reason he wouldn’t marry Holmes, but he wasn’t about to explain himself to Miss Yarmouth, who in any case went on without waiting for corrections. “But I am respectable. And the children already know me. And since you must find another mother for them, you know they will accept me. You know that their welfare is of tremendous importance to me.
“And I hope that during my years of service, you have gained some insight into my character, my lord. I am loyal, you know that. I will never betray you. And I understand that our arrangement will be one of convenience—that your heart belongs elsewhere. I will never be jealous or unpleasant. I will make this a harmonious, happy home.”
Or at least that was what he thought he heard. His ears rang. And he had the sensation that he was, in fact, standing on a stage, in the middle of a play, with his partner in the scene suddenly sprouting lines she’d made up on the spot, and him having no idea what he ought to do. Or if there was anything he could do at all.
“Miss Yarmouth—”
She leaped up. “No, my lord, you mustn’t think it necessary to give me an answer right away. In fact, I beg you not to. I beg you to instead take some time to think about it. Good night, my lord.”
And then she was gone, leaving the door wide open in the wake of her hasty departure.
* * *
Mrs. Watson spent the evening hiding in her room, barely touching the plate of supper Mr. Mears had brought for her. More than once she heard Miss Olivia whispering outside to her sister. She didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to guess that Miss Olivia feared she’d exhausted herself fetching the young woman from her parents—and she felt horribly guilty for making Miss Olivia think that way.
But not enough to leave her room, put on a smile, and pretend that everything was all right.
By eleven o’clock she could stand it no more. She shrugged into her dressing gown and headed for Miss Charlotte’s room. The door opened just as she raised her hand to knock.
“Please come in,” said Miss Charlotte.
Miss Charlotte’s mind was an orderly place; her private space, less so. Personal letters stood on their sides on the mantel, held in place by a pair of pillar candles as thick as Mrs. Watson’s upper arm. The walls were papered by drawings of canne de combat stances. Books she’d borrowed from Mrs. Watson’s collection sat on the desk and also in stacks on the floor.
Miss Charlotte lifted a pile of newspapers from her spare chair and swung a kettle into the fireplace. Mrs. Watson closed the door and, with rather heavy steps, crossed the room to take the seat Miss Charlotte had just cleared.
“I do apologize, Miss Charlotte, for intruding on you so late.”
“No apologies necessary,” said her young friend, putting out a plate of madeleines. “As you can see, I was expecting a visit.”
Mrs. Watson laughed, both embarrassed and relieved. “I can see that indeed.”
Miss Charlotte waited for her to continue.
“You were correct, my dear, in your advice that Sherlock Holmes cannot take on everyone’s problems. Still, I can’t help but feel that I must help the maharani, now that I know she is in need. And of course by that I mean I shall need you to participate in this mad endeavor of mine, because I can’t imagine attempting it without you.”
Miss Charlotte extended the plate of madeleines toward Mrs. Watson. When Mrs. Watson declined, she rose and exiled the plate to her vanity table. When she returned, she asked, “So you will go to Her Highness and tell her that you learned of her problem because you are in fact one of the animating forces behind Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective?”
Mrs. Watson nodded.
“She was already somewhat suspicious about the existence of Sherlock Holmes. After learning of your involvement in the inner workings of our enterprise, she may very well come to the correct conclusion that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t exist.”
“She will not be the only one who knows. Three of the four Ashburton brothers do. Inspector Treadles does. As do the Marbletons.”
“But their knowledge has either been unavoidable or gleaned on their own. We have never simply walked up to someone and confessed the matter. What makes you willing to set that precedent, ma’am?”
Mrs. Watson took a deep breath. “Would it shock you to know that we were once in love?”
Miss Charlotte’s expression remained perfectly unaffected. “No.”
Of course not. Mrs. Watson bit the inside of her cheek: The next confession was more difficult. “I hope you will also not be surprised that I was a mercenary soul back then.”
“If by mercenary you mean that you demanded to be paid your worth, then yes, I can see that.”
“I mean that I was serious about how much money I could extract from my nubile years. I adored the theater; I was a decent singer, a decent dancer, and a decent actress. But I never had it in me for theatrical greatness, to give the kind of performances that would live forever in an audience’s memory.
“So from the beginning I was clear-eyed about my chances and my true goals: I wanted roles that would distinguish me from the other girls long enough to get me noticed by rich men in private boxes, men who might be looking for their next mistress.
“I had only so many exploitable years and I was determined not to waste a single day. Which meant that even though I had an occasional flirtation with a woman, I didn’t cultivate them, since my time was much more profitably spent on men.
“But then I met the maharani and . . . it was love at first sight.” She sighed. “Perhaps if I hadn’t been so mercenary, if I’d had some real affairs by that point, I wouldn’t have been so swept off my feet. But I hadn’t. I was pretty enough and sought after enough that I had a choice of protectors and I never had to settle for one I didn’t like. Still, all of them were business arrangements. Until I experienced what the French called the coup de foudre—with her.”
Before she quite realized it, she’d laid a hand on her own cheek, as if she were once again that young woman whose face flamed with the intensity of her own feelings. She dropped that hand rather hastily.
“You cannot imagine—even I can barely imagine, nowadays—how consumed I was. I wanted to look at her all day, listen to her all day, and hold her all day. From a blasé sophisticate I became a lovestruck cliché overnight.
“Inconceivably, she returned my feelings. She, a queen, and me, not only a commoner but a woman of very questionable morals. We spent every possible moment together and couldn’t wait for doors to close before hurtling into each other’s arms.
“But the day came for her to return to India. I was heartbroken, of course, but I’d always known that we were on stolen time. That she must go back to her life and me mine. And then she did the impossible: She asked me to leave with her.
“She had thought of everything. To others I would be an employee, her children’s instructor in Western etiquette. But in private I would become a member of her immediate family, as well as her closest companion and confidante . . .”
She could still feel the maharani’s hands gripping her forearms, and see the light burning in her eyes. Come with me. We have our entire lives ahead of us. Let’s spend them together. Let’s grow old together.
The kettle trilled, yanking her out of her reverie. “What she offered me, in reality, was marriage,” she said slowly, the words heavy on her tongue.
Miss Charlotte brought the hot water to the desk, made tea, and said, coolly, “The inner workings of which were never to be divulged.”
Mrs. Watson shook her head. “She had a difficult enough task ruling in her son’s stead. The last thing I wanted was to make her the subject of malicious rumors.”
“Which meant you would have had no recourse whatsoever, should things have gone awry. I have little interest in matrimony myself, but being a man’s wife does confer certain rights and powers upon a woman. And even his official mistress enjoys a number of benefits, not the least of which being the recognition of her position.”
“Oh, that I knew well.”
By that point in her life, she’d served as several gentlemen’s official mistress.
“Then you don’t need me to point out that an arrangement with a protector has certain protocols that both sides observe. And that when it’s done properly, the mistress can expect economic gains, if nothing else. I assume your maharani did not offer you anything of the sort?”
“She offered me love and devotion. I don’t believe it ever occurred to her to sully that with monetary compensation. And I don’t blame her in the least for it. We women have always been taught that our love is the most valuable thing we can give.”
“That’s because sometimes a woman has nothing to give except her body and her affections. But a queen who can afford an etiquette tutor for her children should have offered more.”
“And who would have told her that?”
Miss Charlotte looked at her directly. “You, ma’am.”
Mrs. Watson laughed, even as tears stung her eyes. “I know. I know. Ridiculous, wasn’t it? I’d negotiated ruthlessly with gentlemen and their solicitors for what I would receive from them. But with her, I never once broached the subject of money. I couldn’t bear the possibility of disillusioning her. And I never wanted to cheapen our love with demands of pounds and rupees.
“So I could either leap headlong into this future in which I had love and no other guarantees. Or I could remain where I was, contract every penny I was to receive for my time and affections—and have no love.”
She plunged her fingers into her hair. “In the end I told her no. I did not tell her the truth—only that I couldn’t leave my entire life behind. I hated myself afterward. Without meaning to, I’d punished her for not being a man, for not being able to marry me or give me the stature of an official mistress.”
Miss Charlotte shook her head. “You’d worked hard to be independent, ma’am. Had you left with her then, you’d have been dependent on her the rest of your life. Not to mention, you would have had to give up thoughts of children. Did you wish for children?”
“I did. I often wish I had more children.”
She’d never acknowledged that Penelope was her child, but then again, judging by Miss Charlotte’s utter lack of surprise, she’d known that from the very beginning.
“Then that would have been yet another sacrifice you would have had to make. It was not wrong for you to think of your own future, while considering someone else’s happiness.”
Mrs. Watson rubbed her palm across her forehead. “I know I was not wrong, per se. I know that if Penelope came to me with a similar dilemma today I would counsel her to think very carefully of her own needs and wants. All the same, I broke the maharani’s heart. I was the proverbial greedy woman for whom love was not enough.”
“In the world we live in, women for whom love is enough often suffer for that belief.”
Miss Charlotte was so unmoved that Mrs. Watson’s heart sank. To be sure, a part of her was fiercely glad to have Miss Charlotte defend her long-ago choices so staunchly and unapologetically. But she’d said all the same things to herself and she was still here, begging Miss Charlotte to reconsider.
Perhaps her despair showed. Miss Charlotte regarded her for a moment. And though her face did not deviate from its usual custard-smooth blankness, something about her expression seemed to soften.
“I shall continue to hold the firm belief that you acted with both sense and honor in the dissolution of your affair with the maharani. But I accept that in your own estimation, you owe her a de
bt that must be repaid—and I will bow to your choice and join you in that endeavor.”
“My dear!” Mrs. Watson sprang up, gripped Miss Charlotte’s hands in her own, and laid them over her heart. “Thank you. I cannot thank you enough!”
“You need not thank me, ma’am—please do not forget that I owe you much more than you have ever owed anyone.”
Mrs. Watson dropped Miss Charlotte’s hands and pulled up to her full height, intending to educate her partner on how much she had benefitted from their association.
But Miss Charlotte was not yet finished. “I only hope that you will not regret your choice of gallantry. After all, you are no housebreaker and my sole attempt at burglary ended with me fleeing the scene so fast I almost left my shoes behind.”
Miss Charlotte smiled a little at her own anecdote but her smile faded fast. “I fear we will be out of our depth in this matter. I fear that everything we learn about the maharani’s problem will make it worse. And I fear that hers will, in the end, turn out to be the sort of problem that swallows anyone who dares to approach it.”
Mrs. Watson shivered, forgetting what she meant to say.
“Ah, your tea has grown cold,” said Miss Charlotte, as if she hadn’t just warned Mrs. Watson of possibly mortal danger. “Shall I make us another pot?”
Four
The maharani’s hotel suite was essentially a compact town house, with its own street entrance. Inside, it was decorated in the style that seemed to please hotel managers everywhere: an unobjectionable palette, solidly built furniture, and paintings that depicted scenes from classical antiquity.
Mrs. Watson stood in the parlor, next to a pot of blooming narcissus, its fragrance delicate yet heady. She remembered her lover’s refusal to burn incense. To us incense is as unremarkable as lavender water is for the English. But here, shorn of its natural surroundings, it becomes exotic. And I don’t care to be thought of as exotic.
The maharani appeared, looking outwardly composed. But Mrs. Watson sensed her surprise and puzzlement.
The Art of Theft Page 6
