Page 17 of The Art of Theft
“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. Shewanted 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. “ButIam 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 ofcanne de combatstances. Books she’d borrowed from Mrs. Watson’s collection sat on the desk and also in stacks on the floor.
