“It’s still early,” said Charlotte, setting her boots on a foot warmer, “and you barely ate anything. Order yourself a supper when you get back, and no one will have any idea that it’s your second meal of the evening.”
The inside of the town coach was redolent of leather polish, the scent of which Livia usually found pleasant. But today it assailed her nostrils. “I’ll order a supper, but I still won’t be able to eat anything.”
“Don’t torment yourself with hunger. Eat and stay strong, especially if you suspect difficult times ahead.”
Livia never tormented herself with hunger. Her appetite simply disappeared under duress. “Are we expecting difficult times ahead?”
Lord Ingram knocked on the top of the carriage with his walking stick. The coach glided into the flow of traffic and Charlotte took the opportunity not to answer. Instead she said, “If you need to, Livia, you can always lean on Mrs. Newell. I dare say she brought you to London so that you may meet with me.”
“What?”
Between the streetlamps and the carriage lanterns, there was enough light for Livia to make out Charlotte’s smooth, placid face. Across from them, Lord Ingram seemed a little taken aback by her statement, but not to the extent Livia would have expected.
Charlotte adjusted the brim of her hat. “Mrs. Newell has known us since we were children. She knows how my mind works. After the events of Stern Hollow, if she hasn’t put two and two together and deduced that Sherlock Holmes is none other than Charlotte Holmes, I would be very surprised. To wit, when you reached your hotel this afternoon, did she tell you that she would be more or less incapacitated for the rest of the day and that you should therefore spend your time as you wish?”
“Y—yes, but I thought—I thought—”
“That she was weary from the journey? That woman has more energy than you and I put together. She knew you’d be off to find me faster than a pointer at a fox hunt. A sovereign says she’ll do something similar tomorrow.”
“I—I had no idea,” Livia sputtered some more.
She had thought she knew Mrs. Newell well. She had thought Mrs. Newell, like everyone else in Society, had remained in the dark about Charlotte’s fate. She had thought—oh, never mind what she’d thought, she’d obviously never met an assumption she couldn’t carry to her grave.
Lord Ingram chortled. “Did you know that she once planned to broker a mariage blanc for Holmes?”
Livia blinked. A mariage blanc was an unconsummated marriage, unusually unconsummated because the husband did not incline toward women.
“What do you know about Mr. Newell?” asked Charlotte.
Mrs. Newell’s late husband? Mr. Newell had passed away long ago, when Livia was still a child. She had a vague recollection of a man with a head of snow-white hair and a booming laughter. A mischievous and impetuous figure. Someone who did as he wished.
“I can’t say I remember much about him other than the stories Mrs. Newell told. There was that time he chased a stamp collector all over the Continent for a rare misprinted stamp. And the time—wait! You don’t mean to imply that Mr. Newell was—”
“I’m not implying anything. Mrs. Newell told me so herself,” replied Charlotte, a smile in her voice, clearly savoring Livia’s astonishment. “Other than the few occasions necessary for the procreation of heirs, theirs had been a mariage blanc. He had been dogged by certain rumors best dispelled by marriage and children and she had wished to be an independent spinster but lacked an inheritance to finance it. Theirs was a harmonious union and she thought the same might prove the solution for me.”
“When was this?”
“Last spring, before the start of the Season. I gave it serious consideration.”
Her answer earned her a look from Lord Ingram. “I agree with Holmes,” he said. “I believe Mrs. Newell has guessed that Sherlock Holmes is none other than Charlotte Holmes and that she has found both a means of self-support and a source of satisfaction in her work. Nor has Mrs. Newell deemed you, Miss Olivia, at all contemptible for not having cut off all sisterly ties. In fact, she has spoken of you with greater warmth, even admiration, since the events of Stern Hollow.”
Livia’s cheeks warmed at that. All the same, she had to give her head a shake for everything she’d just been told to settle down a little. Her hat ribbon, tied under her chin, chafed faintly, a reminder that she was not dreaming.
Charlotte smoothed her gloves. “Indeed, you could do far worse for an ally than dear Mrs. Newell.”
“You mean that I should speak to her openly about what you are doing these days?”
“Yes, in general terms. No need to burden her with details.”
At the mere mention of details not to be discussed, Moriarty’s shadow once again fell upon the company. An uneasy silence grew. Livia placed her gloved hand over Charlotte’s and stared out of the window, her mind overstuffed with dire possibilities—and an occasional gleam of hope, quickly dimmed by its own unlikeliness.
As they neared the hotel, Charlotte gave Livia the small cloisonné jewelry case that held the ticket stub from Mr. Marbleton. “Why don’t you keep this?”
“Thank you. I’ll guard it carefully.” Livia’s hand closed over the box. In the dark, she caressed it with the skin of her wrist, feeling the smoothness of enamel interspersed with the slight scratchiness of wirework. “I know we’ve discussed this ad nauseam at supper but are you sure that you can only answer Moriarty in the affirmative?”
“I’m afraid I must,” said Charlotte.
Livia looked toward Lord Ingram.
“In life you play with the hand you are given, and this is the hand we’ve been given,” said he with an outward calmness that matched Charlotte’s.
After she had alit from the town coach, Livia remained on the curb for some time, watching it drive away. Back in Mrs. Newell’s suite, faint sounds emerged from her chaperone’s room, possibly the dear lady speaking to her maid. Livia stood in place, feeling both immensely grateful and almost as mortified over her obliviousness.
Should she speak to Mrs. Newell tonight itself, to thank her and to tell her as much as Charlotte permitted—and to perhaps, during that telling, mention that she’d written a novel inspired by Charlotte’s exploits, which would be published at Christmas in a popular annual magazine?
She vacillated. And vacillated some more.
Mrs. Newell’s maid came out, saw her in the drawing room, and asked whether she needed supper.
Livia had already ordered her own supper. Still, she could ask the maid whether Mrs. Newell was amenable to a short bedside visit. But she only shook her head, wished the maid good night, and headed to her room to change and await her meal.
Later, as she hunched over her tray, picking at her food, she wondered why she had not wanted to hold a frank, lovely conversation with dear Mrs. Newell, whom she had always both admired and adored.
Charlotte must have suspected for months that Mrs. Newell had learned the truth about Sherlock Holmes. During that time, she had not said anything to Livia. But tonight, right after Moriarty’s visit, she paved the way for Livia to have a new ally in her life.
With a shiver, Livia understood why she had refused to take that last step toward Mrs. Newell.