Page 49 of A Study in Scarlet Women
Mrs. Jebediah swept out and entered the carriage, the gaze of everyone in the tea shop and half of the pedestrians on the street affixed to her person. Charlotte was full—what a marvelous feeling—but she remained at the table and, without any hurry, polished off the last small clumps of scrambled eggs, the last crumbs of the ham pie, and the last two divine strawberries. Alas the potted chicken was already all gone, the inside of the ramekin as empty as Charlotte’s appointment book.
Only as she finally rose did she see Mrs. Jebediah’s reticule, left behind on a chair.
Eleven
The woman who wasn’t named Mrs. Jebediah stood before her wedding photograph, gazing at the radiant bridegroom who would remain forever young. Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted a glass of sherry to her lips.
Mears, her faithful butler, walked into the room. “Ma’am, a young lady to see you. She said—”
“You may show her in.”
She could very well regret it before the night was out, but Mrs. Not-Jebediah had come to a decision.
An important decision.
She set aside the sherry glass and took a seat in her favorite chair. Footsteps came up the stairs. The young woman who entered in Mears’s wake, however, was not Miss Holmes, but someone she had never seen before.
“Miss Hartford,” announced Mears—and withdrew.
Miss Hartford was about the same age as Miss Holmes, but the similarity ended there. She was thin, hunched, and remarkably dowdy for one so young: ill-fitting dress, drooping bonnet, and spectacles that insisted on sliding down her nose.
“Mrs. Jebediah?” she asked tentatively.
Mrs. Not-Jebediah blinked. She was only Mrs. Jebediah in the advert for the fictional long-lost daughter and she had never given her private address in that context, not even to the newspaper.
“Mrs. Jebediah, my name is Ellie Hartford. I’m mighty sorry to call so late but I work as a cook’s assistant at the Dog and Duck in Bywater and they didn’t let me out any sooner.”
“Oh.”
“A few days ago, the barmaid at the pub showed me the paper. ‘Ain’t you always said you was dropped on the doorsteps of Westminster Abbey, luv? Well, here be a lady looking for her baby what was—’”
“You may stop right there, Miss Hartford,” came another voice.
Miss Holmes.
Miss Hartford glanced at Miss Holmes. And then she stared, as if unable to believe such a severe command could issue from someone who looked as if she’d freshly stepped off a Valentine card, all wide eyes and blond ringlets.
“What right you got to tell me to stop? There ain’t other babies left at Westminster Abbey. There—”
“For a woman who works as a cook’s assistant in a pub, you certainly arrived in a very nice carriage, which is waiting for you around the corner, with a well-dressed gentleman sitting inside.”
Miss Hartford took a step toward Miss Holmes. “You’re lying. You’ll do anything to claim Mrs. Jebediah as your own mum, won’t you?”
“I certainly wouldn’t. I happen to know exactly where my mother is and she would be very cross with me—not that she isn’t already—if I dared to find myself a new mother.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I came to return Mrs. Jebediah’s reticule, which she left behind when we took tea together.”
“Oh,” said Miss Hartford, at a loss for further words.
“I believe you intend to show yourself out, Miss Hartford,” said Miss Holmes, her voice cool.
Miss Hartford lifted her chin. “I sure ain’t staying for more insults.”
She flounced out with great vigor. Mrs. Not-Jebediah stared in the direction of her departure, still not sure what had taken place.
“I apologize for shooing off your caller, Mrs. Watson,” said Miss Holmes softly. “It is Mrs. Watson, is it not? Mrs. John Watson?”
