He raised himself up on his knees, both fists clasped together over his head. With no other weapons, I raised my arms to fend off his first blow.
A loud boom echoed through the building. Something wet sprayed across my face, and Brown fell forward, landing on my chest. I struggled under his weight, trying to push him away. My uncle, father, and brother all rushed toward me and lifted the dead man from on top of me. Only when my mother also knelt beside me, grabbed my face, and called my name did I realize I was screaming.
After that, a numbness settled over me. In a sort of sleepwalk, I allowed her to lead me from the workshop and up the stairs to my bedroom. I recall vaguely being undressed, my face and hands washed, and put to bed. I was too stunned to even protest when more bitter liquid was forced down my throat, and I fell into another deep sleep.
“It’s all right,” a male voice said to me. Hands put pressure on my shoulders and held me down as I twisted in my bed. “You’re fine.”
I cracked my eyes open. Father’s face came into focus.
“Bad dream?” he asked.
I scrunched my face as I tried to piece together the events leading to my being in my bedroom. The thoughts came slowly, as if they had to slog through heavy mud to reach my consciousness. I had been in my uncle’s workshop, and—
I bolted upright, and I checked my hands. My last complete memory was of blood. His blood. Spraying my face, splattering my hands.
They were clean, but all the same I rubbed them, as if the friction would erase the recollection along with the nonexistent spots. After a moment, Father’s wide hands covered mine and calmed their frantic movements. I lifted my gaze and saw the creases in his forehead.
With a great deal of effort, I forced my grip to relax. Father did the same, and he sat back in the armchair Mother had brought to my bedside when watching over me only hours ago.
“Where’s—?” My voice cracked, and I coughed before trying to finish my question. “Where’s Mother?”
He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of their bedroom before answering. “She’s resting. Mr. Harvingsham wanted to give her laudanum as well, but she refused. She wanted to stay with you. The only way I could convince her to rest herself was if I promised to stay instead and let her know when you awakened.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll be all right. You don’t have to stay with me.”
“But I wanted to, son.” Another glance over his shoulder. “I wanted to tell you myself how…proud I am of you. And how…sorry I am about how I treated you and your mother. When I realized how close I was to losing both of you, I almost—”
He turned away from me, but I could hear his labored breathing as he tried to regain his composure. My hands clutched at the bedclothes, uncertain how to respond. After a moment, he turned and continued.
“Your mother told me how calm you were. And clever. How you lured Brown to the workshop and saved her life. First getting him to drop the rifle and then shooting him with the crossbow.”
“But you were the one who ki—shot him.”
The image of my father with the smoking hunting rifle in his arms the moment after he hit Brown popped uninvited into my mind. With a shudder, I forced the image down.
But not before my father caught the involuntary response. He pulled the covers up about me. Awkwardly, but with great care. “Warm enough, Sherlock?”
Unwilling to explain the true cause of my discomfort, I said, “Yes, sir.” I raised my gaze. “What brought you to the workshop?”
“We heard the shot. From Brown’s rifle. We didn’t know you and your mother were out there until—”
In a move so swift I had no time to react, Father reached across and pressed me into his chest in an embrace so tight, I could barely breathe.
“Son,” he whispered in my ear.
A moment later, he stiffened and released his hold on me. His hand passed over my hair. “When we pulled you out from under that man—all covered in blood—I feared I had hit you as well. It wasn’t until after we had cleaned you up, I could assure myself you were all right. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost you.”
Another strong embrace followed.
When he released me, he cleared his throat and sat back in the chair.
“Uncle Ernest? And Mycroft? Are they all right?”
“Yes,” he said and cleared his throat. “Although I’m afraid the events upset your uncle terribly. Seems to have brought back memories of the war. Mr. Harvingsham insisted on giving him laudanum as well.”
“What’s going to happen now? Do I have to talk to the constable?”
“He’s come and gone. While you were sleeping. Since I was the one who shot the man, the constable declared it justifiable. And that’s the end of it.”
“Has he released Mr. Straton?”
“He…he doesn’t have him.”
I sat up in my bed, my stomach contracting to a small knot. “He…he died? Is that why he’s not here? What’s happened to Constance? And the others? Have you shipped them to the orphanage already?”
“He’s here. He’s here,” Father said, pushing me back onto my pillow. “Constance too. We persuaded the vicar and his wife to take the younger ones for the time being.”
I lay back at his insistence, but continued to stare at him, waiting for an explanation.
“I hadn’t had time to send for the constable before we discovered you were gone, and then when you came back after your ordeal with Brown, I couldn’t worry about Straton. He’s awake, by the way. Came to shortly after I…after the struggle in your uncle’s work room.”
“I want to see Mother.”
“She wants to see you too.”
He helped me out of bed. I found myself even weaker than I had been on our visit to the greenhouse and leaned heavily on my father for the short walk down the hall. When he opened the door, we found Mother seated in her bed, a book open on her lap.
“Violette, dear, whatever are you doing awake at this hour?” He crossed the room, leaving me near the door and leaned over to kiss Mother on her cheek. “You promised you would rest if I didn’t insist on the laudanum.”
The tender way he scolded her and how she smiled at his kiss told me they had somehow reconciled after the confrontation with Mr. Brown.
“You know me, Mr. Holmes. I rarely need more than a few hours’ sleep. I was catching up on some reading. Besides, I wasn’t able to sleep well alone.” Father’s face flushed, and I glanced away when I recognized his discomfort over her reference to their sharing a bed. “Would you mind, dear, seeing about some broth for Sherlock and tea for me? The poor boy hasn’t had any nourishment and I fear he has weakened himself.”
Father studied her and then me and nodded. We both understood Mother was dismissing him for a private conversation with me.
Once we were alone, Mother patted the bed beside her and said, “Come. Sit.” When I perched myself on the bed, she took my face in her hands and stared at me. After a long pause, she said, “Your bee stings are healing nicely. Your pupils appear rather wide, but I assume that is from the laudanum. In a day or two, you’ll be fully recovered.”
My stomach contracted, and I glanced away when she let go of my face. Father would surely insist I return to Eton once I was well. Could I convince her I wasn’t fully healed, regardless of my true state?
She placed a hand on my far cheek and turned my face back to hers. “What is it, Sherry?”
“I…I don’t want to go back to Eton. Ever.”
“Darling, as much as I understand your loathing of the school, you have a social obligation to meet. I, too, found much of the education my parents insisted I follow lacking in substance. In your case, it will, however, create the path you’ll need to be self-sufficient. As the second-born, your prospects are not the same as Mycroft’s, and the contacts you make at school can help you as you make your way in the world.”
While her logic made sense in theory, I wasn’t convinced Charles Fitzsimmons w
ould ever prove a useful contact. I resigned myself to resuming my studies with a sigh.
“That being said,” she continued. “I think you would benefit from some additional recuperation here at Underbyrne, given how much of your studies you already missed.”
I jerked my head upward and met her gaze. That all-knowing smirk of hers graced her lips. Only my father’s etiquette lessons kept me from leaping off the bed with a shout of joy. I promised myself to do so later, in private. An additional thought, however, sobered me.
“Are you sorry?”
She blinked. “About you not returning to Eton immediately?”
“About marrying Father. Having me and Mycroft. All this talk of babies and burdens. And marriage and freedom. It seems to me that it’s not necessarily as neat a package as I thought it was.”
The right corner of her mouth lifted, and she placed a hand on my cheek. “You forgot one important aspect. Love. I married your father because I loved him. And he forgave my deceptions—and they were deceptions in that I never told him the full account of my activities—because he loved me. And we both love you and Mycroft. For me, you and your brother are two of my most brilliant achievements, and I’m quite proud of both of you. Your father, too. These past weeks have shown us both skills and maturity neither of us knew you two possessed—especially you, Sherry.”
I grew quiet and considered her last statement. My mother and father were proud of me. I’d always considered myself falling short compared to my brother’s and mother’s intelligence and my father’s strict observance of social convention, leaving little for them to consider worthy. Perhaps mother’s reference to love explained their acceptance despite the shortfalls I exhibited? Before I could ask more, Father appeared with a chambermaid carrying a tray with the requested repast.
“My love,” Father said as he stepped to the bed, “I must insist both of you try to get some rest tonight. I would like you both to be involved in our discussions with Straton tomorrow.”
I stopped halfway to the table where the maid was setting my meal and turned to face my parents. “But you said you convinced the constable Mr. Straton was innocent. What is there to discuss?”
“The future, darling,” Mother said. “The Chinese have a saying that if you save a man’s life, you are responsible for it. We saved Mr. Straton twice—once from his wound and then from the gallows—and now we have an obligation to ensure his life is a good one.”
I studied the two. Mother’s reference to a “good life” had to mean they had a plan, and not just for him, but for Constance and her brothers and sisters as well. Did it involve moving them from the village? What if it meant I would never see Constance again?
Father put his arm over my shoulder. “Don’t fret, my boy. Of course, it all hinges on Straton’s acceptance of our proposition, but if he knows what’s good for him, he will.”
Shortly after breakfast, at which the whole family (including Ernest) gathered for the first time in several days, Father, Mother, and I ascended the stairs to Mr. Straton’s room.
Although staring was against social convention, I couldn’t help doing so given his transformation. He had been bathed, shaved, and provided with fresh clothes. The scent of soap hung in the air. His features were still gaunt, given his long period of unconsciousness, but his eyes were bright and clear. Had I not known better, I would have never guessed he’d been at death’s door only three days before.
Constance, too, had been given some attention. Copper tints shone in her cleaned and brushed hair. She also wore a starched apron over a clean dress. When I entered the room, our gazes met, and a hint of pink colored her cheeks. A moment later, my face burned as well, and I was glad I was behind my parents so they didn’t observe my reaction to her.
Straton made a move to stand, but Father raised his hand to stay the man.
“No need to rise. Save your strength,” he said and turned to Constance. “I would appreciate it if you would give us a moment, child. We have some things to discuss with your father.”
She glanced at each of us. When she got to me, I tried to reassure her with a smile, but she only nodded and left, head down, without a word.
After she closed the door, Father said, “Straton, my whole family has worked very hard to keep you and your family united, and with your understanding, this whole ordeal might lead to a new life for you. If you are willing to accept certain conditions.”
He studied my father through his eyes’ narrowed slits. “What exactly would these conditions be?”
Father pulled on his vest before beginning. “First, I need your word you will become a better father than you have been. Of utmost importance, no liquor. You did not always have this problem, and we’ll not stand by and allow you to drink yourself to death. If you continue on the path you’re on, your children will be taken to an orphanage or the poor house with you. Either way, you’ll have lost your family.”
“I-I don’t know about no drink. I can’t abide those teetotalers.”
Mother spoke up. “You have survived the last few days without alcohol. You simply have to keep it up.”
“As long as you remain sober,” Father said, “I have a proposition for you.”
He glanced at Mother who nodded for him to continue. “I’ll pay off your debts, and you will come and work for me. Our steward, Simpson, is getting on in years. He could use another hand to help out. Once your debt is paid off, we’ll increase your salary.”
His eyes shifted as he studied first my mother and then Father. “Why would you do this for me?”
Mother spoke in a low voice. “Remember, we asked you to keep an open mind. Mr. Brown took something from my greenhouse. A plant. Hemlock. And gave it to his wife, Rachel Winston, and… Mrs. Straton. In a way, I feel responsible.”
He stared at her, obviously weighing the information they had just presented. After a long silence, he said, “You’re no more responsible than if he’d gotten it elsewhere.”
“You must honor her memory by caring for your family.”
“Family. Right.” He paused and then asked, “You ain’t going to make me sign one of them pledges, are you?”
“Only if you feel it necessary.”
He screwed up his face as if he were about to be shot and nodded. “All right. No drink. For my family.”
He held out his hand, and Father took it.
Chapter Fourteen
My parents and I stood on the village platform with Mycroft, awaiting the train’s arrival. He bounced on the balls of his feet, stretching to see if the train had appeared. As much as he looked forward to leaving, I anticipated staying. I already had arranged a meeting with Constance in the schoolroom to begin her music lessons.
“I suppose it won’t be long until we see you again,” Mother said. “After all, Christmas is right around the corner.”
“Hmm?” asked Mycroft, checking the tracks one more time. “Yes. Christmas. I’ll be back then I suppose.”
Father pulled back his chin. “Where else would you go?”
“Nowhere, I guess. It’s just…I do have friends, you know. And they have been hinting at inviting me to visit. Some even live in London.”
Mycroft’s statement about friends pulled my attention in his direction. Given the rather isolated life of the country squire, I assumed he had remained as reticent at school as he did at home. He had created the Diogenes Society at Eton to mimic the solitude of our father’s library. But then, he had done this in concert with other students. Perhaps he had done a better job at making friends than I?
My postponed return to Eton might actually offer me an opportunity to work on doing just that. I considered Constance my friend, and I could learn a lot about being one from continuing our acquaintance over the next few months. If nothing else, Constance would be honest enough to let me know what I needed to do to be a friend.
A far-off whistle announced the train’s approach to the station, and Mycroft craned his neck one more time to confirm it. The
others waiting on the platform with us moved about, gathering valises and other items in preparation for boarding, and my brother followed suit.
Shortly after, he turned to step into the train’s compartment after shaking Father’s and my hands and accepting a chaste kiss on the cheek from Mother. She placed a hand on his arm to detain him for a final word. He faced us, but his gaze darted toward the train.
“Mycroft, dear,” she said, “I wanted to thank you again. I realize it was difficult for you to tear yourself from your studies, but your presence—and support—proved invaluable. I trust you won’t find yourself too far behind.”
He shifted on his feet, from eagerness to be on the train or embarrassment at Mother’s public declaration, I couldn’t be sure. Then he stilled and said, “I’m glad I could be of service. I have to say, it was quite stimulating to apply my knowledge to real situations. I’ll write. Keep you informed of my progress.”
With that, he jumped onto the train and leaned out the window after closing the door to wave at us as the locomotive pulled away from the station.
In the carriage on the way home, both my parents grew quiet, and Mother dabbed her eyes more than once.
Mrs. Simpson was waiting for us when we arrived. She pointed to the parlor.
“They’re waiting in there for you.”
Mr. Straton and Constance stood when we entered. Straton pulled the cap off his head and ducked it slightly before addressing my father.
“I came like you asked. To sign the contract.”
Father cleared his throat and studied him for a moment. “Right. Come into my office. I have the papers ready.”
After the two men left, Mother turned to Constance. “Are you starting your music lessons today?”
The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife Page 24
