Page 87 of The Hollow of Fear
“Thank you, sir,” murmured Charlotte.
Only then did she allow herself a moment to deal with the memories the sight of Mrs. Farr had brought to the fore—and the associated panic that still rippled in the back of her mind.
Mrs. Watson leftwith Mrs. Farr and Mr. Marbleton. She didn’t say why, but if anyone could give comfort to Mrs. Farr right now, or at least not have her presence despised, it would be Mrs. Watson.
“There’s food in the larder,” said Miss Marbleton, rather standoffishly. “And an Etna stove that you can use.”
“Thank you,” said Charlotte. “And thank you for all your help, Miss Marbleton.”
Miss Marbleton pursed her lips. “You know I’m against our involvement, Miss Holmes.”
“And I have told your brother I will speak no kind words on his behalf to my sister.”
“She would not last a minute in the kind of life we lead.”
“You might be surprised at the strength of the fragile. And for some people, it is ordinary life that is most challenging, not so much the extraordinary.”
In a way, Livia’s greatest strength was that she was so overlooked and underestimated. Within seconds people decided who she was, and what she was and wasn’t capable of. But no one was so easy to sum up, least of all a someone like Livia, who yearned to be more with every fiber of her being.
“That said, I hope she never decides to find out for herself. I expect you heard from your father that he and I met?”
“I took a few days to recuperate and everyone decided to throw all caution to the wind,” said Miss Marbleton, who was clearly the enforcer of rules in her family.
“Did he tell you that he introduced himself as Moriarty?”
Miss Marbleton shrugged, a gesture almost French in its resigned disapproval. “He was born a Moriarty. It’s his prerogative to introduce himself however he pleases.”
“It must gall James Moriarty to no end that his wife absconded with his brother.”
Miss Marbleton only shrugged again, an even more eloquent gesture.
“If I may be so forward, is Mr. Stephen Marbleton your brother or your cousin?”
“We are not related. Mr. Crispin Marbleton is my stepfather.”
A neat sidestepping of the question. Did she know the truth of his parentage? Did Stephen Marbleton himself know? In either case, it would be highly dangerous for Livia to become better acquainted with him.
Charlotte sighed. “Your brother should stop sending my sister gifts and messages, but I’m sure you have already wasted your breath saying the same.”
“He has been needlessly obstinate, refusing to make any promises not to contact her again. Would you please tell her that he’s too young for her?”
Charlotte could scarcely admonish Livia about a man she had never admitted to having met, let alone having fallen in love with. “I will see what I can do. Before you go, there is something else I need to ask.”
“Yes?”
“Last night, when Mr. Stephen Marbleton played the part of Sherlock Holmes, he told Scotland Yard the man Lady Ingram was involved with was Moriarty. Other than the fact that Lady Ingram did not have romantic feelings for Moriarty—as far as I can tell—that claim was largely correct. But all the same I was surprised that the name Moriarty came up and that he wanted the police to hear it.”
Miss Marbleton shrugged into her coat. “On that front, at least, Stephen did not do anything rash. We discussed this as a family and the decision was unanimous. If Scotland Yard does not know Moriarty’s name, they should learn it. If they already do, then it is high time they pay him more attention.”
18
Departing Oxfordshire.A. Greville sends his regards. Holmes.
There were hundreds of things Lord Ingram needed to keep in mind and dozens of tasks to finish, but he stood in place and read the cable again and again, thoughts of Holmes overriding everything else.
They had not spent a great deal of time together, not in years. Even when they had been much younger, passing long stretches of silence in each other’s company, he occupied with some minor excavation, she burrowing through two brick-like books in a single afternoon—those had not been regular occurrences, but had come only when they both happened to be at his uncle’s or Mrs. Newell’s estate at the same time.
He had a very clear memory of the day she told him to write her. It was the summer of the Roman villa ruins. She had blackmailed him into kissing her—and afterward had visited the ruins as she pleased, with him by and large ignoring her. Or, rather, he had not spoken to her, but had furtively observed the utterly incomprehensible girl.
