Page 69 of The Hollow of Fear
His eyes locked with Charlotte’s, a small smile animating his lips.
“I see,” said Lord Bancroft, whose courtship of Charlotte had twice ended without her hand in marriage, his tone remarkably even.
Charlotte served herselfoeufs à la neige, poached quenelles of meringue in a bath of crème anglaise. “These are delicious. And not too sweet.”
“They are made by the undercook trained by the pastry chef Bancroft poached from Stern Hollow,” said Lord Ingram.
“Do you still have that pastry chef in your employ, my lord Bancroft?” Charlotte asked.
She had heard herself described as difficult to read. Lord Bancroft’s face must be on a par with hers in its opacity. She could decipher little in his features beyond a concentration on his food.
He looked up. “I do. And before I left to present myself at Eastleigh Park, he made me a most excellent citron tart.”
Charlotte turned to Lord Ingram. “I like citron tarts.”
“Then you shall have them.” His gaze again lingered over her. “Now if you are done, Holmes, we must be going. Enjoy your dinner, Bancroft.”
“Now why doyou suppose Lord Bancroft didn’t believe that I would invest some time and energy to gain the ability to pass myself off as a man?” asked Holmes, when she and Lord Ingram were alone in the coach. “It’s a valuable professional skill.”
“Because, for all that your mind is a thing of wonder—and terror—you are not particularly industrious. When need be, yes. Otherwise you could easily pass for aPunchcaricature of a lady of leisure, eating bonbons and reading novels on the chaise, except you’d be readingThe Lancetor a Patent Office catalogue.
“For you to set aside that book, get up from the chaise, put on the padding, the clothes, the wig, the orthodontia, the beard and mustache, and practice passing for a man—why should Bancroft believe this would have happened under normal circumstances?”
“Do you think he believed I would do it to travel abroad with you?”
He shrugged.
It was, as ever, difficult to guess what Bancroft might be thinking. Buthewould have liked to believe that. He could so easily see them standing shoulder to shoulder at the bow of a ship. It didn’t matter what kind of seas they sailed, warm, cold, smooth, or choppy. It didn’t matter where they were headed, empty wilderness or teeming metropolises. It mattered only that they were together at last.
She was right. He was still the same romantic he had always been.
A bittersweet thought, more bitter than sweet.
He wanted to ask whether such a voyage might be possible, one of these days. But she was a woman who made no promises of the future. And he... deep down he still wanted all the promises.
Or at least clarity and certainty.
He glanced out of the window, at the murky night and the rain that seemed determined to drag on for the remainder of the year. After a while she placed her gloved hand on top of his.
Her words echoed in his ears.Why can’t things become simpler?
No, no complicated relationship ever became simpler by the addition of physical intimacy. But at least now, when they ran out of words, he could turn to her—and kiss her.
So he did.
Treadles had not expectedto see “Sherrinford” Holmes in the coach—he thought she would have already gone to their destination to prepare for her role as Sherlock Holmes’s sister—or God forbid, Sherlock Holmes himself. But she—and Lord Ingram—greeted the policemen cordially.
Chief Inspector Fowler led the way with small talk. Treadles waited for him to steer the conversation to the bodies in which “Sherrinford” Holmes had expressed an interest. But whether he was genuinely uninterested or merely wished others to think so, he instead concentrated his questions on the running of a large estate.
Treadles had attended Lord Ingram’s archaeological lectures. The man had no trouble keeping an audience spellbound. Here, although the topic was much more mundane, Treadles found himself fascinated by what he had to say about the myriad responsibilities that fell upon his shoulders.
“Do you enjoy it, your estate?” asked Fowler.
The question met with almost half a minute of silence, before Lord Ingram said, “My godfather, while he yet lived, had strongly hinted that Stern Hollow would be mine upon his passing. I liked the idea exceedingly well—the wholesome, peaceful life of a country squire seemed everything I could possibly hope for.
“But in truth, this life is taken up with more mundane decisions than I could have imagined. Stern Hollow has an excellent staff. Still, the staff deal with routine matters. Anything out of the ordinary gets passed up. And since Lady Ingram had very little interest in the running of the estate, everything eventually came to me.
“In the beginning I welcomed all the decision making. But after a while...”
