Music of the Heart

by "My Lawfully Wedded Husband"

I really couldn't say what sparked my interest in the fiddle and bagpipes. Looking back it seemed to be a combination of little things. Sherlock Holmes, my husband, played violin so my interest in the instrument seemed to grow from there. As for the Great Highland bagpipes, perhaps my interest came when Holmes and I made a trip to Scotland and we had the opportunity to see a small band play that included a piper. I was also no stranger to music—my mother had taught me how to play the tin whistle when I was a young girl. At that time it was uncommon for a woman to play the fiddle, much less the Great Highland pipes. But I had no care for what others thought of my unladylike ways, which included my habit of wearing trousers and being a theological scholar.

However I never did anything about my growing interest until I was going through my husband's bookshelves one day when he was away and I came across a very old beginner's violin teaching book. The publishing date was from 1872, so I knew this must have been one of the books Holmes had first learned from as a boy. At this point I had been thinking on and off about violin lessons, particularly Irish fiddling. The discovery of the book plus Holmes' absence gave me the perfect opportunity to try out the violin.

I took the book over to Holmes' music stand and found his violin case. I brought it over to the music stand and opened the book. Inside were illustrations of how to hold the violin and basic fingering. I took out the Stradivarius and ran the bow over the strings tentatively. After studying the book a bit I tried playing the scale. After several attempts with reasonable success (or so I thought), I tried playing a simple children's song, struggling simultaneously with some screeches and off-key notes, and with putting my rusty knowledge of reading music to use. My bad shoulder began to twinge. My right hand and arm were weaker than my left mostly due to a gunshot wound I had suffered to my right shoulder some years before. I began to see that if I wanted to keep playing I would have to somehow strengthen the muscles in my shoulder and arm so I could bow for longer periods of time without having to stop and rest.

I was still trying to play the little tune when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked up and saw Holmes leaning on the doorjamb, a smile on his face. "Good afternoon, Russell. Hard at work, I see."

I was embarrassed, both at being caught playing his Stradivarius and at the blush creeping up my cheeks. "Hello, husband." I lowered the violin off my shoulder, wincing as I lowered the bow. I circled my right shoulder a few times to relieve the tension.

"I did not know you were interested in playing the violin," said Holmes casually, walking up to me. He moved behind me and began massaging my bad shoulder.

I smiled. "I've been thinking about it for awhile."

"How long?"

I thought a bit. "Maybe a year? It's hard to say exactly when I first developed an interest in fiddling."

"Is that what you wish to learn?"

"Yes, actually."

He continued to rub my shoulder. I could tell he was thinking. "We will have to work at limbering up this shoulder of yours at the same time. And I will have to find that fiddle music I've written down and stowed somewhere. Irish fiddling, I presume? My collection of those tunes are quite extensive."

I turned and looked at him. His grey eyes looked into mine steadily, with a warmth and sincerity that he was carefully keeping from showing in the rest of his features. He was going to teach me. A smile spread across my face. "You presume correctly, Holmes."

I found my bagpipe teacher through Patrick, who then talked to Tillie, who knew of a farmer named Brian McCauley living just outside the village who played the Great Highland pipes. I went out to speak to Brian, who, as I expected, was surprised at my request. He was a tall man, as tall as Holmes, and well muscled from years of farming.

"What do ye wont to play pipes for?" he asked with a noticeable Scots accent, toned down by years of living in England.

"Because I'm interested. I like them."

"Not many womenfolk play pipes, ye know."

"I'm not your average woman."

This made him pause and look more carefully at me. "Ye're Sherlock Holmes' wife, aren't ye?" When I nodded, he said, "I see ye two walkin' aboot e'ry once in a while. I can still remember when ye first started keeping company with him. I'd see ye two walkin' oot o'er the downs all the time."

I only smiled and nodded, and waited. I knew he was assessing me. After a short silence, he said, "I did teach me little daughter to play, and me son too. I was na' going to teach me lass, but she pestered me until I did. Took right to them. If she keeps up with it I'll wager she'll be better than her older brother someday." He nodded toward a little girl about eleven years old who was sprinkling the farmyard with feed for the chickens congregating around her. I saw her smile and I knew she'd heard her father. I remembered my hand and decided to be upfront about it.

"I injured my right shoulder some years ago. My right hand is a little stiff as a result," I said.

"Let me see," he said, and took my hand in his work-roughened ones, examining the back then turning it over. He then asked me to make a fist, flex my fingers and grip his hand. He went inside and came out with something that looked similar to a recorder. "This tis called a practice chanter. Pipers start oot on this before pipes. But they also keep playing the chanter as long as they keep piping, on order to pra'tice withoot botherin' they neighbors." He showed me how to hold it, and told me to tap my fingers over the holes one at a time in succession, as quickly as I could, without blowing into the chanter. I did so, and he nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Ye're a bit stiff in that hand, for sure, but tis not as bad as ye think. Me thinks we could limber ye up after awhile." He looked over at his daughter walking back to the house. "Hannah," he called. When she came over, he handed her the long chanter. "Play somethin' for this lady here." Hannah obliged, playing a short reel with spirit and surprising skill. Brian beamed with pride when she was done. "Good lass. Go help ye'r mother now." Hannah flashed me a smile and went into the house, taking the chanter with her. Brian turned back to me and said, "We can start next week, if that's alright. Friday is a good day, on account t'ere's no heavy work to be done, usually." He named a time in the evening. I agreed to it and thanked him. "Will ye be needing to borrow a chanter?" he asked.

"My husband and I are going up to London tomorrow, so we can pick one up there."

"Even better. I'll see ye next week, then."

The next day Holmes and I went to London to pick out my chanter and fiddle. There were two sizes of chanter to choose from, regular and long. I picked the long size because the spacing of the holes matched the ones on a bagpipe chanter. Helped along by Holmes' suggestions and knowledge, I picked out a new, dark red violin with a lovely, loud tone. Holmes had suggested that I purchase an older violin, as he believed violins get better with age. However this one caught my eye, and when Holmes tried it out even he had to agree that it sounded lovely.

And so began my music lessons. At first it was not easy, in more ways than one. I was accustomed to being able to learn quickly. As an Oxford scholar I had thoroughly enjoyed being challenged by my tutors and grasping the point faster than they expected. I enjoyed coming up with ideas for the papers I had to write and proving the validity of my ideas by thinking up every possible challenge and countering them until my ideas stood out with strong foundations. But with music I was limited by my current level of playing ability and the only way I could get better was with constant practice. In that way it was different from being a scholar—as a scholar I had been challenged but I had never found anything difficult to understand. Learning music was more like doing detective work: you work at figuring out the clue and work on it some more; you add more clues to that and keep working on it until you figure out the mystery. In a way this is similar to learning a piece of music. You practice it and practice it until your mind and fingers figure out what they have to do and the piece takes shape. It was humbling and frustrating and exciting at the same time.

The other thing that made my learning difficult was my arm. The lingering stiffness from my injuries limited some of the things I could do at first. Playing grace notes on the chanter with my right hand was especially frustrating. Mrs Hudson knit me a small ball filled with stuffing for my fingers to squeeze. I came up with exercises for my hand and shoulder that I hoped would eventually strengthen and limber my stiff muscles. On one of them I would have Holmes (or a convenient doorway) take my arm and stretch it out behind me, as far as I could tolerate. Initially this was rather painful for my shoulder. One night while I was having this done before bed, I groaned, "Oh, Holmes…what have a got myself into?"

"If you want my opinion, Russell, I think this is all very good for you."

When I looked back at him with a raised eyebrow, he continued. "If there is anything I have learned from all the injuries I have received in my profession, it is that keeping a previously injured limb or joint mobile is always beneficial. Especially something as necessary as a shoulder. Perhaps after all this it will be easier for you to carry a heavy rucksack."

I did not want to hear about heavy rucksacks at that moment. When he had eased my arm back to its normal position I headed straight for the bed and collapsed onto it. I buried my face into the pillow and tried to ignore the ache in my shoulder. I saw the room fall dark behind my closed eyelids when Holmes turned out the lights and I felt the bed tip and bounce gently as he got in on his side. After a long period of silence I murmured, "I feel like quitting."

I felt Holmes turn his head and look at me for a long minute. He then said, "That is certainly up to you, Russ, but I think it would be a shame if you did."

"Why?"

"Despite your current physical limitations you show promise in becoming a fiddler and piper."

I hid my surprise. Holmes did not give praise lightly, and when he did it was always low-key but sincere. I turned my head and looked at him. He lay on his back with his face turned towards me, regarding me with a steady and knowing gaze. "How do you know about the piping part?" I asked.

He smiled. "I had a few pipe lessons as a boy, and I've heard many pipers throughout my life. You have only been playing for four months on the chanter but the grace notes you play with your left hand are already light and quick."

"And fiddling?"

"You have a good ear and your fingering and bowing improve with each week."

He had not given me this much praise at one time even when I was younger and his apprentice. He sensed my thoughts and said, "A person who has ability should not let a physical limitation that could eventually be overcome allow them to stop trying."

I considered this. At length I said, "You have a point, Holmes."

His eyes twinkled. "I knew you would see things my way, eventually." He took hold of one of my braids and tugged until I moved closer to him, and we slept.

As time passed I did get better. Holmes taught me classical violin as well as fiddling, and simple pieces eventually became harder, teacher-student duets became real duets. I could tell he enjoyed having another player around. In a way, I was once again his apprentice, and he seemed to enjoy having someone to teach again. One thing became clear over the next few years as my playing matured. While Holmes had a preference for classical and art melodies, I preferred the sprightliness and spirit of fiddling. My shoulder grew stronger, and though it would still ache a bit if I had a long practice session, it was not nearly as bothersome as when I started.

When Holmes would play his Stradivarius in the evenings, I started listening closely with an ear to picking up the tune. When I got the music in my head I would take my fiddle into the bedroom and pick out the tune. Learning my husband's favorite tunes did come in handy occasionally. Once he came home in a bad mood from assisting the London police on a case on which they had asked for his help. I had stayed home to work on my theology. Upon seeing the state of the room—I had been so busy with my theology work that day that I didn't bother clearing the books and stacks of paper I had left lying around—he had snapped, "Russell, this room is so covered with your mess I can't find anything or sit anywhere. I am old and tired and need somewhere to sit and rest my bones!" I bit back an equally stabbing reply and cleared off the frayed basket chair by the fireplace, deposited the books on my table with a thump, and left the room to cool off my rising temper. Fifteen minutes later I heard him begin to play "On the Banks of the Wye", a tune he sometimes played when in an unhappy mood. I turned away from the window I had been staring out of and got out my violin, which coincidentally was in the bedroom that day instead of downstairs. I had already picked out the tune by ear some time ago, so I immediately began to play, matching Holmes note for note. I went out on the landing where he would hear me clearly and continued playing. I heard him stop to listen to me. When I reached the end of the tune and stopped, Holmes started up again, this time with "Early One Morning." I grinned and played the accompaniment I had learned when Holmes and I had worked on this song a month earlier. Oh, don't deceive me, oh never leave me, may thy love ne'er from me go... He was asking my forgiveness. And I was willing to grant it. We finished the song and he immediately began to play "The Gravel Walks", a reel. I laughed, walked downstairs and entered the main room, where I lifted my fiddle to my shoulder and joined him. He gave me a grin. I grinned back and picked up the tempo, daring him to keep up with me. His eyes twinkled and he picked up the tempo even more. Our fiddle duel ended when I finally missed a note, my bow screeched across the strings and we stopped, laughing. He tucked his violin under his arm and smiled. "Dinner al fresco, Russell?" I nodded my assent and joined a smiling Mrs Hudson (who had not missed out on the nuances of our playing) in the kitchen to prepare our picnic dinner.

With my piping, my hard work paid off as well. Perhaps a year and a half after I had started on the chanter, Brian told me I was ready for a set of pipes. He was pleased with how my fingers had limbered up, and my fingering and grace notes with my right hand had improved to the point that he felt I could start on the pipes. I'll never forget the first time I attempted to play them. I took them out onto the terrace and after I had plugged up the drones (so I could concentrate on just getting sound from the chanter) and filled up the bag with air, I tried to play. After getting no sound at all despite my efforts, Holmes, who was out on the terrace with me, got out of his chair, checked my chanter reed and gave me some pointers on how to play. After some more fumbling I blew my first note. The shrill wail caused a commotion in the bushes and a rabbit shot out of one and two magpies flew up from another. Once we had stopped laughing I sobered up enough to attempt to play something. I realized how different it would be to play tunes on the pipes than on the practice chanter—I had to coordinate squeezing the bag with fingering, and if I did not squeeze enough air I came up with some rather unearthly sounds, or no sound at all from the chanter. Holmes gave me some more advice and demonstrated by playing the "Scots Wha Hae" with surprising ability. A few pipe lessons indeed, I thought with a smile. He may not have been an expert piper, but he'd had more than just a few lessons. Never will I get his limits.

As I learned to play the bagpipes I managed to find music for bagpipe and fiddle duets. These were mostly Scottish pieces, naturally, and Holmes and I spent many evenings practicing and playing them. I even bought a set of smallpipes, which are smaller than the Great Highland pipes and much quieter, being meant for the indoors. I would often use these during our evening sessions. Mrs Hudson enjoyed these greatly, as she was from Scotland, and would often request certain songs. If neither Holmes nor I knew them, I would write down the titles and either Holmes or I would try to find the sheet music for them whenever one or both of us were in London. When I made my trips up to Oxford to do my theological research, I would visit the music stores or search the library in my spare time, buying or copying the music by hand, respectively, when I found the pieces I wanted.

One stormy evening, about five years after I had started playing both instruments, Holmes and I were relaxing after coming home from a case we had been on together. Mrs Hudson had retired early that night, and as the evening went on the wind rose and it began to rain, along with thunder and lightning. I turned my head from where Holmes and I sat on the sofa and watched out the window. Holmes sat beside me, eyes closed, head resting on the back of the sofa, sucking at his empty pipe. A thought suddenly occurred to me and I snickered, then giggled at my own absurdity. Holmes' eyes opened and he looked at me. "What amuses you, Russell?"

I slanted a gaze at him, still grinning. "You know, Holmes, that pipe is like a pacifier to you." I couldn't help giggling some more.

"Russell," said my husband with a frown of consternation, "I do not appreciate your sense of humor at the moment."

"I'm sorry, Holmes," I answered, stifling my laughter. "I was only teasing."

He snorted. "Teasing," he growled, scowling at me. I buried my smile in the newspaper I picked up off the floor in front of us, which made me totally unprepared when he suddenly grabbed me and began to tickle me. He knew all the places where I was the most ticklish and while holding me prisoner in an ironlike arm, proceeded to torture me while I shrieked with laughter. "Stop, Holmes!" I managed between laughs. "I'll never say it again. Holmes!"

He tickled me a little more for good measure then said, still holding me tightly, "I'll stop if you play the fiddle for me."

I agreed quickly and went to fetch my fiddle. I had not yet plaited my hair for the night, so I tied it behind me to keep it out of the way when I played. As I tuned the violin I gave my husband a mock scowl. He only smiled back enigmatically, his eyes saying, Got you now, did I not? I flipped through my collection of sheet music, selected a hornpipe, and closed the binder. All my tunes were memorized, so I used the collection mostly as a reference. I began to play the sprightly tune. Holmes listened, a little smile on his face. He had filled his pipe and lit it, so the scent of the sweetly fragrant tobacco filled the air around us. I went on to play "Scatter the Mud", a spirited jig. When that was finished I paused, then played a reel in a slow tempo that made it into a beautifully melodious tune. I met my husband's eyes and held them for a long minute as I played. The tune ended and I went on to "If I Forget Thee, O Jerusalem." It was a tribute to my Jewish heritage. Rain still pelted outside, and the thunder and lightning still rumbled and flashed, but inside the cottage Holmes and I existed in our own little world of music, untouched by the chaos outside.

As I finished playing and lowered my fiddle, I looked at my husband. He looked at me, his eyes soft. I had learned long ago that he did a lot of his speaking from the heart through his eyes, his actions, and his clever hands rather than with speech. I sat down on the sofa beside Holmes, leaning my head against the back with the fiddle upright in my lap, idly running my thumbs over the strings. We sat in silence for awhile, listening to the slowly fading storm and the crackle of the fire. Holmes finished his pipe and knocked it out against the hearth. Placing it on the mantel, he came back and sat down. "That was beautiful, Russ," he said quietly. I flushed at what was, from him, high praise. I kept my eyes on the fiddle in my lap. "Thank you, Holmes."

"There are some musicians traveling together across the country, a man named Nathan Sullivan, with his brother Aaron and another musician named Martin Mulliken. Nathan plays guitar, Aaron plays accordion, and Martin plays bodhrán. They also play an assortment of other instruments, all of which I cannot recall just now. When we stopped at Tillie's this afternoon she mentioned that they were coming to her inn while you were in the WC. She was thinking of asking them to play a session while they are there, and she thought we might be interested in playing with them."

I turned my head and looked at my husband sharply. "Me play in public? Oh Holmes, I don't know..." My voice trailed off. I was apprehensive about this.

"I think you are more than ready, Russ. Besides, music is for sharing."

"Haven't I been sharing already?"

"Your audience has been limited, you must admit," Holmes answered.

"When will they be coming?"

"Sometime in the next week, Tillie said. She heard it from a person who heard it from another, and so on."

I wasn't about to argue with a bush system that could be quite accurate about these things, if not about the much more trivial things that were more often passed along. "I'll consider it, Holmes."

He nodded, satisfied by my response. "Would you like to play a duet before going to bed?" he asked. At my nod, he got out his Stradivarius and began to play Pachelbel's Canon. I joined him, and the peaceful music flowed around us, with the sound of fading thunder in the background.

That night I dreamed. In my dream I was playing the tin whistle. My mother was sitting with me, listening. I was playing the Jewish song she had taught me, when my whistle turned into my Highland bagpipes. As I continued to play the tune, my brother ran into the room and sat down, open-mouthed. When I finished, he said, "Teach me the bagpipes, Mary! Teach me!" I was about to answer him when suddenly he was holding my fiddle. He said, "Let's play our duet, Mary." A bit bemused, I began to play, though I was quite sure that he'd never learned the fiddle. But he did play, and it was one of the bagpipe and fiddle duets Holmes and I often enjoyed playing together. As we played, I suddenly realized we weren't in our English home anymore, but that I was standing alone on the cliffs in California. Below me were the scorch marks and broken glass from the car crash that had killed my family. I looked at the marks, and the waves crashing below, and I felt great grief and guilt welling up inside me. As I was about to shriek aloud, I remembered Holmes and what he'd said to me that night, several years ago, when I told him about the accident. He had said that guilt was a poor foundation for a life, without other motivations beside it. I lifted my hands and realized I was holding my violin. I raised it to my shoulder and began to play the sweet, sad, plaintive melody I had first heard Holmes play the night I joined him for the Baring-Gould case. I played and played, that tune melding into other tunes I could not name, while the waves crashed and the broken glass sparkled in the sunlight.

I woke from the dream, wide awake. Judging from the light outside, it was early dawn. Holmes still slept beside me. I turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling. Holmes stirred a little and rested his forehead against my shoulder, but didn't wake. I thought about my dream. And then I knew that I wanted to play for them. For my parents and brother.

I carefully pulled myself out from under Holmes' arm and rose, trying not to wake him. I felt out some clothes from the drawer and took them out to the top of the stairs to dress. I pulled out my night braids and tied my long hair back into a simple ponytail. I went downstairs and picked up my bagpipes. Putting on my boots by the door, I briefly considered a lantern before realizing that as the sun would rise within the half-hour the lantern was not necessary. I let myself out quietly and headed over the downs toward the Channel.

The sky grew lighter as I walked. A light breeze was out. By the time I reached the rocky cliffs, the east was glowing with the light of the sun just about to rise. For a minute I stood and looked around me at the rolling water hundreds of metres below me, the white cliffs, and the hills of the Sussex Downs hiding my home in the distance. I punched the bag of the pipes, filled it with air, and began to tune them. It was light enough now that I could see the waves rolling white beneath me, far below where I was standing. I faced the Channel, looking toward the southeast, and began to play. The melancholy, melodious tune floated out over the Channel and over the downs. I played for the memory of my mother, father, and brother, who had died those many years ago. The sun rose as I played through the tune twice, then immediately went into "Royal Scottish Pipers Society," a more upbeat tune, but still fitting the situation, I thought. An early fishing boat bobbed off in the distance. I wondered if the sound of my pipes carried that far. I imagined someone standing at the bow, listening. I finished the second tune and slid into a third one without stopping, a little jig this time. The sun rose higher and sparkled over the Channel, as if its rays and reflections danced to my jig.

I finished the tune and lowered the mouthpiece. As I continued to look over the Channel, I could feel the tears welling in my eyes. I lowered myself to the pebble-strewn ground and laid my pipes beside me. I rested my arms on my raised knees and let the tears flow quietly. I usually dislike crying, but after the emotions of this morning I let them come.

After a few minutes there was a soft rustle behind me and Holmes appeared at my side. Wordlessly he sat and gazed out over the water. I rubbed my eyes over my sleeve and snuffled as I looked at him. He didn't have his pipe with him, so he merely sat and looked over the water. He had started out as my mentor and had gradually become much more. Though I consider myself a feminist and independent woman, at times I honestly could not tell where I ended and Holmes began. We were that much a part of one another. Therefore his presence that morning was not an intrusion on what was a private moment.

I looked back over the water. After awhile, Holmes spoke. "That was commendable playing, Russ."

"Did you hear it from the house?" My voice quavered slightly.

"No. I woke soon after you got out of bed. When I looked out the window I saw you leaving the house, heading toward the cliffs."

I had to smile through the last of my tears. "I dreamed about my parents and brother last night. Not the Dream. I don't seem to have that nightmare anymore. It was a different dream about them." I told him about it. "Then I woke and felt I had to play for them."

"I deduced as much from your actions this morning," he said in quiet voice filled with gentleness and understanding, different from his usual sardonic tone. "There isn't much that you cry over."

I took his hand and pressed it to my drying cheek. When I let it go he reached behind me and took hold of my long tail of hair, pulling it over my shoulder between us, letting the blonde-red strands slide through his fingers slowly. He then rose and held out a long hand to me. I placed my hand in his and allowed him to pull me up. I gathered up my pipes and we walked homeward over the downs.

We stopped by the hives so he could walk down the row to check them. As I stood waiting a bee buzzed lazily over and landed on one of my bagpipe drones. A drone on a drone, I thought, which made me chuckle though this was a worker bee. Holmes returned to my side and we both watched as the bee thoroughly explored the end of the drone. She seemed hopeful about finding something there to fill her sacs, but naturally found nothing and soon buzzed off. I turned and smiled at my husband. He smiled back and placed his arm about my shoulders as we headed for the house.

We learned on Monday of the next week that the musicians would most likely be arriving the following week. I began to hope that perhaps they would end up not coming, though I was also surprised to find a part of me would be disappointed if they did not. In the meantime Holmes worked on a monograph on chemicals, and I went up to Oxford for five days to do theological research.

One afternoon while I was there I took my fiddle and pipes to a music shop so I could try out and purchase a new bow, and fit a new chanter onto my Highland pipes. I stopped at a pub for a late lunch and found some old friends, Reggie and Phoebe, having a pint. I do not make friends easily, but these two I had considered more than acquaintances, at least before I had married. We had not seen each other for a long time. They greeted me enthusiastically, and after the expected round of catching up, accompanied by my late lunch and one sandwich each for them, Phoebe noticed my violin case.

"Why Mary, what's that?"

"What does it look like?" I snorted good-humoredly, with a grin.

"Do you play violin now?" asked Reggie.

"Yes, though I'm mainly a fiddler. My husband began teaching me about five years ago."

After the expected round of "Ohhs" and "Splendid," Phoebe then asked what was in the square case, so I ended up telling her and Reggie about my piping. "Why Mary!" she exclaimed.

I made the mistake of mentioning Holmes' suggestion of us playing a session with the traveling musicians. Before I could tell them of my feelings about this Reggie suggested I play something, right then, on either instrument. At first I declined, but at that moment the pub owner chose to walk by our table. Phoebe immediately hailed him and asked if he wouldn't mind terribly if she asked me to play some music. At his rather enthusiastic agreement I knew I was outnumbered, and with a show of good-natured longsuffering, I got out my fiddle. With the way my hands were shaking, I did not trust myself to play my pipes correctly. I had never played in front of so many people. I tried to ignore my heart pounding.

I played a few notes to make sure the fiddle was still in tune, and asked, "Anything in particular you'd like to hear?" The pub owner immediately said, "How about ‘Maullavin Chapel'?" It was the reel I had played in a slow tempo for Holmes that stormy night last week. "I like to play that one at a slow tempo, if you wouldn't mind," I said. He agreed to it and I began to play. The pub grew noticeably quiet. I pretended there was no audience, and that it was just Holmes and Mrs Hudson listening to me. After a while I found myself so caught up in the music I no longer felt as nervous as when I had started. I ended to enthusiastic applause. "Bravo!" cheered Reggie. "Another one! Something lively, now."

I started up with "Lord Gordon's Reel". I heard feet tapping and a few people began to clap in time. I felt a grin spreading across my face. I had never had a crowd at my feet before, and having one and being able to please them was a feeling I had never experienced. I felt my confidence in my playing grow. I went on to a Cajun two-step and noticed peripherally that someone had set an empty glass at my table and people were tossing coins into it. I caught Phoebe's eye and she grinned at me. I grinned back and continued playing. It seemed my talent for throwing knives and darts was not the only moneymaking talent I now possessed. I learned later that the pub owner was very pleased with my playing because not only did he enjoy fiddling, it had brought people in from the street to listen, which boosted business for him. Especially when I started playing my pipes.

I have probably mentioned before that a woman playing bagpipes was rather rare at that time. When I got done with a pair of tunes written in the French bourrées a trois temps style, Reggie and Phoebe begged, "Play something on your pipes!"

"They are quite loud," I said.

"That's alright," said the pub owner. "A lot of us rather enjoy the loud sound of the pipes." So I got out my bagpipes and began tuning. I could hear people murmuring in surprise, which made me feel nervous again. I ignored everyone as best I could and began to play a Breton air. The room was once again silent. I flubbed a birl, which forced me to concentrate on my playing rather than my audience. The thought of Holmes and his silent approval of my playing steadied me. I then began to relax, and my fingers, even my right ones, relaxed and my playing improved.

When I finished cheers and applause surrounded me. I found myself blushing. I had never thought my piping worthy of this much attention. I played well enough for my duets with Holmes and for Mrs Hudson's enjoyment, but an audience was another matter entirely.

They asked for another song. Feeling rather daring now, I decided on "Cutting Bracken", a jaunty, rollicking march. The applause after that was louder than when I played the Breton air. Before I could start blushing again, a young man sitting with an elderly gentleman called, "Skye Boat Song!" So I played the slow rowing tune reminiscent of Scottish islands and mountains and lochs. To my surprise the elderly man began to sing the words in a deep bass voice with a rich Scots accent. I wanted to grin. Next I played a trio of jigs, starting with "Bodachan A Gharaidh." Someone who was familiar with these Scottish tunes pulled a guitar out and began to play along. When I started on the reel "The Kilt Is My Delight," it set a smile on the elderly man's face. I found myself enjoying this informal session a lot.

When I finished playing I found myself besieged with offers to buy me a pint. Still feeling like this was all a dream, I asked if a cup of tea with honey would be possible. I have found the tea and honey combination to be most soothing when I am worried or overstimulated. The tea appeared quickly, and gratefully I took a sip. Money kept being dropped into the glass even now, and Reggie, Phoebe, and I had a good laugh over this. "If you ever give up theology, you have something else to fall back on!" Phoebe remarked jovially.

Later that evening I got back to my rooms and sat at my desk. However I did not feel up to working, so I called Holmes. Unfortunately I got a bad connexion and with a bit of shouting I managed to tell Holmes that I had played a little session before the line crackled off. I shook my head as I hung up. I would tell him all about it tomorrow when I went home to Sussex.

I went to bed tired and happy. I intended to do a little reading before going to sleep, but once I had begun reading my eyelids got so heavy I turned out the light and fell asleep, not even bothering to braid my hair for the night.

I woke to see the early morning sun peeking through my curtains. I buried my face into my arm and snuggled back into the warm bulk beside me, his iron arm relaxed in sleep around me, his breath warm on my hair. A thought came and nagged at my sleepy brain, which attempted to ignore it. But it was persistent and finally I rose out of the depths of sleepiness to see what it wanted. I cracked an eye open and looked at the wall. I saw the wallpaper and curtains of my Oxford lodgings and realized what my thought was: I was in Oxford and had gone to bed alone last night. But I was not alone now. I half-raised myself and turned my head--it was Holmes. Who else could it be? I scolded myself. My movement woke him.

"Good morning, wife," he said with a sleepy smile, the sleepiness clearing away even as he spoke. Holmes always became alert quickly.

"Good morning, husband. I admit I am surprised to find you here."

"My picklocks provide me with convenient access to locked buildings when needed."

"I realize that, Holmes. I am surprised I did not wake when you got into bed." My bed at the lodgings house was a single, and therefore was a narrow fit for two people.

"You have a habit of drifting in your sleep onto your side of the bed when alone. It was an easy matter to slip in. You did start to wake, but went back to sleep when I spoke to you."

"I don't recall that. But it doesn't matter." I lay back down on my back, my shoulder pressing against the wall, and smiled. I was glad he was here and let it show in my eyes. "Why did you come? You knew I was planning on coming home this afternoon."

He rubbed a thumb over my cheek and sat up. "I want to hear about your playing session." He rose, and donning a dressing gown, retrieved a chair and his pipe. Sitting down, he filled the pipe and began to tamp the leaves. I stretched, enjoying the feeling of having enough space again, and teased, "The great Sherlock Holmes impatient?"

He kept his eyes on his pipe as he lit it. "As your music tutor I am naturally interested in your first public performance." The tone of his voice was clinical and detached.

I was not fooled. I grinned and began telling him about yesterday's event. Holmes listened, puffing gently on his pipe, the sweetly fragrant tobacco scent wafting around the room. When I finished I added, "I made twelve pounds."

"Good job, Russell. You did well." I rolled onto my side and looked at him. He was proud of me, I could see it in his eyes. A thought occurred to me.

"Holmes, my landlady does not allow male lodgers. She will probably throw a fit when she learns you broke in here."

He smiled his gently sardonic smile. "That does not worry me. I will speak to her if we encounter her."

"When we encounter her," I said. I stretched again and rose. Bending over my husband, our lips met in a long, soft kiss. His free hand twined slowly into my loose hair. When the kiss ended, our faces still close together, I murmured, "I'll wash and pack my things and we can go."

Holmes joined me at the sink and we washed together. As I brushed my teeth he took my hairbrush and brushed my hair. It was something he enjoyed doing, for he loved my hair. As I pinned it into a bun after dressing, Holmes said, "The traveling musicians arrived last night. Tillie told them about us and they seem quite keen on us playing with them tonight. Would you like to?"

I smiled. "I think I would."

We went downstairs and did encounter my landlady, who was very irate upon discovering a man had spent the night in my rooms, and had broken into her house to do so. She softened when she realized he was my husband, and completely softened when he introduced himself. As it turned out she was a fan of Arthur Conan Doyle's serials, and was very pleased to meet the famous Sherlock Holmes. Holmes himself felt that Doyle's stories romanticized his work to a fault, but he accepted my landlady's praise graciously.

Holmes had driven my car to Oxford, so we loaded my things into the Morris and walked to the nearest café to have breakfast. Over eggs and sausage we talked companionably about our separate activities on our days apart. Going back to the car, I allowed him to take the wheel. As we drove out of Oxford, I leaned against him and placed my head on his shoulder. He smiled and put his arm around me, and we headed for home. I drowsed off along the way, but I could have sworn at some point he was humming, "Sleepy Maggie."

The End