Feathers

by Maer, aka 'merely a whim'

It was a particularly raw March morning soon after the marriage of my employer, Sherlock Holmes, to his partner in all things, Miss Mary Russell. Despite the hour being well past sunrise, the sky outside was still dark as ugly clouds busily set about dumping a thick layer of sleet upon the Downs. Inside, however, it was as warm and cozy as I could make it with every fireplace going at full burn. As I surveyed my work on the sitting room's fire and found it wanting little more than a bit of wood, I heard unmistakable evidence of someone stirring upstairs. While the stony walls of Holmes' cottage did an excellent job of muffling sound, the partitions between-floors, for all their being crafted of good solid English oak planking and timber, sometimes had the effect of acting as a drum for footsteps directly above any listeners who happened below.

It was Holmes. I would recognize that ambulatory cadence anywhere.

I paused in my stoking of the fire and cast my gaze upwards, following his unseen progress through the ceiling.

Down the hall to the bath, the gurgle of water in the pipes, now back across to the bedroom where Mary still slept... Ah! Going toward the stairs. Right. Time to pour the tea.

I gave the fire one last poke and returned the tool to the rack. The stair treads were creaking one by one as I took the kettle off the brand new stove Holmes had purchased as an indirect wedding present -- I say indirect, for we all knew that while Mary was capable of cooking only simple fare and like any new husband Holmes wanted only the best for his wife, it would be I who got the most use out of it. The fact it was always on, thanks to a constant supply of fuel laid in, made getting breakfast started on mornings such as this a pleasure. I gave its gleaming enameled side an affectionate swipe of my dishtowel. The old stove now sat in the conservatory, gathering flats of started seedlings like a great iron boulder being overtaken by a singular variety of exotic moss. I had the first cup poured when Holmes made his appearance.

"Good morning, sir." I said and handed him his tea. The sight of the detective in his pyjamas, scuffed slippers and dressing gown was nothing new, nor was the fact that he'd passed up shaving for the moment. No. What struck me as new that morning was the look in his eye -- usually irritable when arising this late -- a certain satisfied glint I would have found it hard to credit the man... had I only the published tales of his career to go on.

As first his housekeeper and landlady on Baker Street and now as his Housekeeper General (so Seth, Will's teenaged grandson, has taken to calling me, the scamp!) here on the Sussex Downs, I daresay I was privy to such facets of Holmes rarely seen by others, if at all. Furthermore, though Holmes was reputed to be completely self-sufficient and even coldly aloof, I had come to realize many years ago such perceived attitudes on his part were merely a sort of emotional armour. That Sherlock Holmes was capable of feeling, and feeling deeply, the softer sentiments of mankind, I doubted not one minute. It was only a matter of finding the right key to release what he held locked away from the rest of the world. At the risk of being insufferably proud, I count myself along with Dr. Watson as one of the few who had been given a glimpse of Holmes' inner self over these many years we have known him. Rare those instances were, and never did Holmes leave himself exposed for long: A few words, a look, or at most a grip of the hand or a clap on the back.

I do believe, however, that only Mary has surpassed Dr. Watson or me in that regard, and in so little time. Rightly so, too! She is, after all, the woman Holmes married, the only woman who could be the perfect match for the man sipping his tea before me, and likewise he for her.

Was it really only six years ago since Mary Russell had walked into our lives and changed them forever? I stole another good look at Holmes standing there in his pyjamas, quite contentedly settled in that state he had disparaged in others over the years, and decided the marriage suited him.

"Here, sir. Have another cuppa, then. Don't burn yourself, " I said as I refilled his cup. "It's very hot. Breakfast will be ready shortly." He didn't bristle at me for mothering him, which he thoroughly detested first thing in the morning. Many were the instances I'd been brusquely reminded to rein in my maternal impulses. Yet, of late... Yes, I'd say the married state suited him very well indeed. Its mellowing effect on him certainly couldn't be denied!

The bacon smelled about ready and I was bent over at the oven door taking care of it when I heard Holmes' cup clatter in its saucer, followed by an attempt at small talk. This was highly unusual, even given the recent salutary events, so I quickly put the bacon in the warming drawer and gave Holmes my full attention.

"Nasty out there, isn't it?" He was saying, gesturing to the wide window over the sink with his teacup.

"Yes, it certainly is." I looked at the ice clicking and drooling down the glass, and said under my breath, "Poor things."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, sorry, sir." I said and wiped my hands free of bacon grease. "It's lambing season, sir. The ewes are out there in that horrid mess, having their little ones." I shook my head in sympathy. "What rotten luck to greet the world like this the first day out. There's been talk throughout the District of it being a bad one for lambing this year."

Holmes finally took a chair at the table, crossed his legs, and tugged closed the skirt of his robe against the draft from the conservatory (which was just off the scullery), apparently interested.

"Don't the farmers always say that?" He asked, sipping his tea now that it had cooled a bit. "If it isn't too much rain or snow, it's too little. Else it's hoof and mouth or scab or any number of ugly maladies. I'd say a more pessimistic lot would be hard to find, outside the Russians, that is."

"I wouldn't know about the Russians, sir, but the person to ask about the lambs would be Mr. Dunstan, the vet. If you ask me, a vet's life is even harder than a mother's for getting up in the middle of most nights and cleaning messes and doctoring sick ones. At least a mother can look forward to sleeping though till morning eventually and having her babe grow up to walk and talk and tell her where it hurts. The poor little beasties Mr. Dunstan visits aren't able to do that. And this weather is just so miserable to be stuck out in." I shook my head again as I checked the oven where the scones were coming along nicely. Closing the door to let them brown a touch more, I said over my shoulder, "Truly, sir, to be a newborn out in weather like this, 'tis a shame, it is. A right shame."

Holmes said nothing and sipped his tea, regarding me over the upraised rim of his cup, Black Tie-elegant in his slippers and dressing gown despite his tousled appearance. After a moment's consideration, he set down his cup.

"Why, Mrs. Hudson. If one didn't know better, this outpouring of maternal concern for the little lambs in their natural element might be interpreted as a certain veiled cajolery for the patter of juvenile feet about the cottage."

Here we go, I thought as I put out the butter crock and the preserves. Whenever Holmes' preambles waxed multi-syllabic (especially if a conversational topic was perceived to threaten his personal freedom or insult his intelligence) it meant the man was working up to something either sharply witty or cuttingly observant. Sometimes it was both.

"Pray tell me, dear lady, if there isn't something you would like to confess? For you had best say your piece now and get your disillusionment done with, before your wishful thinking becomes firmly entrenched as a misguided anticipation of honorary grandmother-hood."

I was right. It was both.

Honestly, the man was positively a witch, reading others' thoughts and feelings! I will readily admit to a hefty dose of the maternal instinct where it concerned Holmes and certainly, I would find grandmother duties entirely welcome. However, I merely mentioned lambing because it was the proper season for it and Old Will had said before leaving the other day that he would be helping Gerald Connelly two farms over with his ewes. I was only making small talk in return to his. Still, I allowed how it might have sounded to my employer, especially coming from myself, and it struck me then not only what he'd said but also how he'd said it: He was laughing, oh so subtly, at himself and at the world at large. It wasn't often Holmes laughed at himself. I'd long thought that he would spare his nerves considerable stress if he did it more often.

I said nothing as I got the scones out and tucked them into a towel-lined basket; I could see Holmes wasn't finished.

"It will come to tears on your part, Mrs. Hudson. Russell and I have discussed this matter and we are agreed: Children are not part of our plans."

I declined to mention that children seldom were but came as Providence saw fit. Discretion was definitely the better part of valour, here. The dishes for breakfast came out next, and the cutlery. Holmes seemed not to mind my working around him and set down his cup and saucer with a faint click upon the aged and scarred tabletop, long since scoured to a soft lustre from twice-weekly sandings-down.

"Which reminds me," he continued. "As to our plans, Russell's and mine, let me say here that although we are newly married and somewhat preoccupied with this new state between us, and while we fully intend to keep you on in your capacity as housekeeper, please realize that while you may be looking forward to cosseting us as a starry-eyed couple to within an inch of our lives, Russ and I are too independent and set in our ways to countenance such treatment for long. Nor do we either of us foresee completely giving up our former lives and embarking on a career of conventional couplehood."

I tried not to smile as I put the bacon on a platter and covered it to keep it warm until everything was ready. Holmes was in rare form this morning (that is to say, humorous) and performed better for a lack of interruptions. I kept silent and let him say on.

"In fact, the situation is as follows..." And here he began to lay down the New Order Of Things, ticking off the pertinent items on his fingers as he went:

"One: Russell has categorically refused to put aside her Oxford career exclusively for the joys of married life and instead has opted to have them both concurrently.

"Two: I have no quarrel with this arrangement as I had arrived at a similar decision concerning my own career. As Russell plans to continue, so shall I. Neither marriage nor retirement need pose any obstacle whatsoever to the exercise of my unique talents and faculties to their fullest extent. Nor should it affect Russell in exercising hers.

"Three: Russell, therefore, will be gone up to Oxford for a good portion of every week in the pursuit of her career and even occasionally longer as her studies require.

"Four: To facilitate this she will maintain a separate residence for her time at Oxford, rather than endure what would quickly become a tedious twice-daily commute.

"Five: Meanwhile, I, for my part, will be in residence here and at other times I will not. Russell's presence may concur with mine, or hers may not.

"So you see, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes took up his cooling tea with the air of a man who has anticipated every possible contingency, "for all your grand hopes of fussing over us, I am afraid we must disappoint and pronounce our lives will continue much the same as they always have." He jauntily saluted me with his teacup. I tried not to roll my eyes.

"Right, sir. I'll make a note of it." In other words I could expect the two of them to maintain their professional and personal boundaries. I wondered if either of them could see how such an arrangement would inevitably lead to a painful conflict of loyalties. As I've had opportunity to discover long ago, neither Holmes nor Mary, once on the scent of their respective quarries, would brook any distraction from their goal and would be extremely loath to leave off the chase at the other's request. With those two, that request might get phrased more often as a command. Especially from Holmes. I expect, being the stubborn dears that they are, they'll just have to find out the hard way. I just hope when the fur flies, they'll be kind to the bric-a-brac!

I really couldn't fault him for the lecture. I'd known for years Holmes and Mary were extremely private persons and guarded their privacy zealously. But I had rather enjoyed Holmes' long-winded announcement of a household change that would have been better delivered using a choice sentence or two, for running underneath it all was his sardonic sense of humour.

Everything but the soft-boiled eggs were on the table and I was just about to ask Holmes if he wanted a tray sent up to Mary (and if I should stock it for two -- lecture aside, the man needed feeding) or if he would escort her down when he cleared his throat and his demeanour changed.

I knew that look.

Something was troubling him. He had something before him with which he would rather not deal. Moreover, it was something potentially embarrassing. There was a penny here, clearly waiting to drop. Holmes frowned at his tea and deliberately set his cup down.

Here we go, the penny drops now.

"Mrs. Hudson," (so he began with some delicacy) "Now, I realize you are accustomed to having access to all parts of the cottage at all times in the execution of your duties. However, please remember the changes in our individual circumstances and... knock before opening any closed doors from here on out, if you would be so kind."

Thus the penny dropped. It made a loud ringing sound upon the floor. In the silence that followed, I fancied I could hear the yolks of the soft-boiled eggs I'd just removed from the hob solidifying in their whites as I stared open-mouthed at my employer.

Immediately I knew what he must have meant. Was it possible Holmes knew of my transgression? It was thoroughly innocent on my part, of course, but I was certain I had not disturbed him or Mary with my unexpected presence. Furthermore, I was certain I had left without being observed.

The incident had transpired only two days past. It had been a washday and I had just scaled the stairs with a towering stack of freshly cleaned linens and sundries destined for the closet in the hall. Owing to the fact my burden obscured my vision, with predictable results when I inadvertently stepped on our poor marmalade cat's toes as he passed unseen below me on his way toward the stairs, and to the unlucky chance of my grabbing blindly for what I'd supposed was the knob of linen closet in order to regain my balance, I unexpectedly opened a door and was drawn forward thanks to my momentum and the swing of the hinges, and treated to a glimpse of what was proceeding in the room beyond. Greater than the fright suffered from the cat's understandably vociferous protest, greater than the unsettling dread of falling and injuring myself in the narrow cottage hallway -- a serious thing for a woman of my age -- greater even than the surprise of coming unintentionally upon Holmes and Mary in a vigorous tussle upon their bed, was my utter and complete shock upon seeing a veritable blizzard of eiderdown covering every available surface with a thick fluffy layer of snowy white.

I no longer felt the morning chill that lingered in the kitchen on this frigid miserable day. A warm blush had enveloped me from tip to toes and I cast my eyes downward and managed to say:

"I do apologise for that, sir. I don't know how it happened. You see, I --"

"How what happened? Apologise for what?" Holmes interrupted.

"-- am absolutely certain I'd repaired it only last week."

"Repaired what? Whatever are you talking about?"

"There must b-- what, sir?" I finally realized what Holmes had said. I reviewed what his response had been while I'd been blathering and blinked. "I meant the pillow seam. The seam in the pillow that, um, was in the room when I... that is... when you..." May Heaven preserve me, Holmes didn't know! He had no inkling what I was going on about. And now the cat was out of the bag.

I confess I stood there and flailed about for a discreet way to say it: I had seen Holmes and Mary in the midst of a furious pillow fight -- sans clothing -- and had ducked out, successfully so it seemed, without Holmes being any the wiser.

Until now, you ninny! Now what?

I just stood there and looked at Holmes looking at me with some concern, himself doubtless trying to decide whether to get me a chair or give me a reprimand. Either one would have been appropriate.

"It all would have come to naught if you had remembered to lock the door, Holmes," came Mary's voice from the kitchen doorway, relieving me of the need to say anything more incriminating (for which I thanked Providence most profusely on my knees before retiring that night) and dispelling the awkward moment between my employer and myself. Unlike her husband, she'd taken more time with her appearance, having brushed her hair and tied it loosely at the nape of her neck. I thought she looked absolutely angelic in a borrowed set of Holmes' dark blue silk pyjamas and second-best dressing gown (the last, I absently noted, was getting a bit careworn about the velvet collar and cuffs). Her feet, however, were bare of either socks or slippers. She pushed off from the doorjamb where she'd leant, apparently listening in on our conversation, and said: "Have some pity on Mrs. Hudson, why don't you? I'm sure the sight of us must have given her a horrible start."

I sincerely doubted that, having been a married woman and a veteran mother of a rambunctious little boy myself, but I let it slide and recovered sufficiently to hand Mary her morning cuppa with a smile. Her blue eyes twinkled as she accepted it, giving me to understand she had seen and known what had happened that day and had withheld the information from her husband. I could also see she was enjoying herself immensely. Holmes paid little heed to us as he sat with his tea held halfway to his lips, his attention elsewhere as he replayed the conversation in his mind.

"The pillow seam had --?" One could see the moment he made the connection. The poor man stiffened and took on an exquisitely embarrassed expression. Now it was his turn to blush, another sight I would have found it hard to credit Holmes if I hadn't witnessed it with my own eyes. He raised his cup quickly to afford his face some concealment.

Mary took the chair closest to the stove and tucked her cold feet under her, as the cats were wont to do (who were both currently on the warm floor under the appliance in question), and grinned roguishly at Holmes.

"That was two days ago and do you know, Holmes, I'm still finding the bothersome things in the damnedest of places."

She'd caught him perfectly, startling Holmes in the act of sipping his tea with predictable results. He got control before he could lose his cup to its ruination upon the hard stone floor and sputtered at his wife. Whereas she merely raised one strawberry blonde brow at him and, presenting Holmes the tip of her tongue, daintily razzed him, spitting out imaginary feathers.

I shook my head as I left them laughing uproariously over their breakfast, myself having been fully pardoned, and went to get the milk off our doorstep. As I gained the front hall and threw on my shawl, the noise from the kitchen came to an abrupt and complete stop; behind me was that distinctive silence that came only from a kiss.

Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose, as the French would say.

Yes, I expect our lives would certainly change, whilst they ever stayed the same.

The End