With regard to Mr. Young, the disturber of the peace the night before, his skills as a boat maker were universally praised. As a man, he was judged a good uncle to his orphaned nephew, though a little less steady than he ought to be at his age, was also a recurring refrain.
Mr. Mears confirmed that Mr. Young was seen walking with a visitor to the harbor the previous afternoon. Mindful of Mrs. Crosby’s reputation, Mr. Mears had refrained from any questions that directly connected her to Mr. Young, as news of the unwanted fireworks had not yet spread, and the villagers were blissfully unaware that one of their own had been the cause of so much chaos three miles away at the Garden.
“For all that the Garden is a religious oddity,” he concluded, “the community seems to enjoy a fine reputation. Miss Fairchild is thought of as a very respectable lady. Miss Baxter, furthermore, is considered grand. More than one person recalled how majestic she had appeared the time she served as the boat race’s judge, how she stood on the seawall of the harbor looking like the queen of the sea herself.”
From where they stood, the seawall was almost directly below, a ribbon of defense against the ceaseless waves. Lord Ingram tried to imagine a crowd of awestruck villagers surrounding a regal Miss Baxter, her face proudly upturned, her skirts billowing in the breeze. But his gaze kept shifting to Holmes, a few steps to the side, slowly twirling her parasol, observing everything with her usual expression of impenetrable blandness.
“Mr. Mears, do you think that perhaps among the villagers Miss Baxter’s prestige outstrips Miss Fairchild’s?” piped up Mrs. Watson, kicking away a pebble with the tip of her boot. It fell down the side of the outcrop and landed with a small thud on the grass below.
Mr. Mears scratched his chin. “I never asked that question directly but judging by everything I’ve been told . . . Yes, I do believe that to be the case.”
Mrs. Watson’s meaning was not lost on Lord Ingram. Power struggles among ladies were as real as those among men—albeit since women had access to less power, and frequently only power of a less tangible sort, their jockeying for position was not taken as seriously. But to anyone who must live within a pecking order, the influence and dominance exerted by those at the top was all too real.
If Miss Fairchild, the founder of the community, felt herself playing second fiddle to Miss Baxter . . .
* * *
They returned Mr. Mears to the village and drove back to the Garden. Mrs. Felton, who opened the gate for them, asked whether Holmes had gone to post her report of the night’s events.
“I suppose I can write one now,” said Holmes, unconcerned.
Mrs. Felton’s hands rose to midair in her shock. “You haven’t written one yet, miss? You must hurry or you’ll miss the post.”
“Do your work, Holmes,” said Lord Ingram, smiling. He offered his arm to Mrs. Watson. “Shall we take a walk in the surrounding area, ma’am?”
The day remained incandescently lovely. The headlands were a fresh, primeval green. In the distance herds of sheep grazed, fluffy with a year’s worth of wool. Seagulls drifted on the breeze, their caws made musical by the rhythm of the waves.
“Oh, look at that. There’s a hole in that rock face,” exclaimed Mrs. Watson.
They were walking down the steep slope that led to the small promontory below the Garden. The descent led to a shallow, flat area. But beyond that, the promontory reared up, stony and precipitous. And there was indeed a hole, too small for anything larger than a cat to pass through, but too deep and dark for them to see where or whether it ended.
“There are many caves on the Cornish coast,” he said. “Perhaps this is an entrance to a cave.”
“Perhaps it has a larger opening somewhere else,” mused Mrs. Watson. “Do you suppose it might have been used for smuggling back in the day?”
They did find a larger opening on the seaward side of the promontory. But it narrowed quickly and four feet in Lord Ingram not only could no longer move an inch forward, but found himself wedged in place. In extricating himself, he tore a button off the front of his great coat.
“Are you all right, my dear?” said Mrs. Watson, standing outside the cave.
“Yes, although my coat cannot claim to be equally unscathed.”
She fussed over his clothes for a minute. They turned around and faced the sea. The slope here was sharp but not dangerous, and it was not a bad vantage point from which to enjoy a view of the horizon.
“I have been wondering . . .” murmured Mrs. Watson.
Ah, at last. He knew she had questions for him. “Yes, ma’am?”
She’d collapsed her parasol, so that it wouldn’t be blown away by an unpredictable gust. Holding its handle, she tapped the tip of the parasol on the ground. “I’ve been wondering, my dear—too late of course—but I’ve been wondering . . . In always creating opportunities for you and Miss Charlotte to be alone, have I been thoughtless?”
He half smiled, half grimaced to himself. Mrs. Watson did sometimes have a certain look on her face, as if she were scheming to physically shove Holmes and him together.
“There have been occasions when I thought you would clap, ma’am, if Holmes and I . . . made certain progress.”
“There have been occasions when I had my hands ready and waiting.” She emitted an embarrassed laugh. “But now that I can clap for you, I feel . . .”
He had noticed. That look had been absent on this trip.
She gazed at the sea. Under the sunlight it was turquoise with streaks of dark, somber blue. “It’s like attending a childbirth. In theory it’s a wonderful event. But in fact, no one knows whether the mother will survive, or the baby. If the child survives the womb, it can be felled by pneumonia when it’s three, or scarlet fever two years later. And even if the child is strong as an ox, it can still die in a shipwreck or a carriage accident.”
“After a hopeful beginning, there is no end to the mishaps and obstacles,” he said.
She sighed. “And I’ve always fretted about all the potential pitfalls.”
His heart constricted. “And what potential pitfalls. She loves freedom but I cannot give her more freedom. I love security but she cannot give me greater security.”
And sometimes, in the midst of his happiness, he felt . . . not dissatisfaction per se, but a hollow sensation, an urgent need polluted with a few drops of fear.
The forlornness of someone who wanted to hold on with both hands forced to keep his hands at his side.
A flock of seagulls, which had been floating on the waves, spread their wings and took to the sky. He offered his arm to Mrs. Watson again. “Don’t be sad, ma’am. I am far happier today than I was a year ago, far happier even than I was three months ago. I simply do not know what will happen in the future, that’s all. None of us do.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I suppose you are right.”
He was. He was a bit melancholy, too, so he resolved to ask Holmes to make her erotic tale twice as salacious. That wouldn’t resolve the fundamental problem—not in the least—but it would be great fun, wouldn’t it?
They climbed back up to the top of the bluffs. Near the Garden’s gate, Mrs. Felton drove out and waved at them—she’d finished her work for the day and was leaving with Holmes’s letter to post. They detoured by the carriage house—the Garden’s coach still hadn’t returned.