Upheaval: A Study in Mourning

Part II

by An Oxford Punter / Her Much Learning Hath Made Her Mad

It was a somber, illustrious gathering assembled in the churchyard the next day to see Miles Fitzwarren laid to rest. Peering from beneath my hat brim, I counted no less than two high court judges, three peers of the realm, several ranking officers in the military, influential lawyers and businessmen, the world's first consulting detective, now retired, and a certain up-and-coming theological researcher and author. An illustrious group indeed. Miles would, I believed, have been pleasantly surprised.

Standing with Holmes a little apart from the others, near Ronnie and her daughter, I thought of many things while the clergyman spoke his lofty words of comfort, or what passed for it. I thought of other funerals, of the three coffins which had contained what was left of my family after the accident that took their lives. I had been fourteen then, consumed by grief and unimaginable rage at my loss and my own part in that loss. It had taken me four more years, the work of a psychiatrist in America, and Holmes' help to free myself of the worst of the anger, guilt, and self-condemnation, but the grief still occasionally surfaced, as it did now.

I thought of parents, of my parents, my own dead mother and father, of little Sophia growing up without Miles. I thought of losing one's parents when one is grown as Holmes had, of losing them not to death but to discord and implacable anger. Were his parents still alive? I didn't know. I wasn't even certain if he knew, though perhaps his brother Mycroft had kept him informed through the years.

I thought of siblings, of Holmes' strong, unspoken regard for Mycroft, of my own lost brother. He would have been nineteen by now. What sort of young man would he have grown to become? Would we have been close? Would he in time have fallen in love, married, had children I would be Aunt Mary to? Or would he have chosen to devote himself to the pursuit of knowledge? He had been brilliant; would that brilliance in and of itself have made him happy?

I thought of husbands and wives, of our parents and what they were, variously, to each other, of Uncle John and his beloved Mary, of Ronnie without Miles. I studied the patient, distantly sad expression on her round, plain face. What would I do in her place? Would I stand there so calmly, knowing that it was my husband in the coffin, bare moments away from being consigned to that last cold sleep in the earth? Could I bid him farewell with such grace, such uncomplaining acceptance, such courage? I thought not. It was Ronnie's nature that she bore, bravely, whatever life in all its capriciousness dealt her, and I could not help both admiring and berating her in my mind for it. My own reaction, in her place, while far less noble, would have been one much truer to what I had felt for my husband while he lived.

Lastly, inevitably, I thought of Holmes. He stood, remote and still, by my side; it was impossible to tell his thoughts from those clear-cut, inscrutable features. Was he doing the same thing I was, hearkening back to prior pain and half-forgotten hurts? He would not need to look far into the past; Jamie's restless, unhappy spirit loomed suddenly large between us. Sidling close to Holmes, I surreptitiously slipped my hand into his and was gratified when his gloved fingers wrapped themselves around mine in a reassuring squeeze. That gesture told me that he was not seriously traumatized by the sight of another coffined young man going into the ground. Still, we stood hand in hand for the remainder of the service.

"Mary!" With a last hurried word to the group of older women gathered nearby, Ronnie came to greet me. "I'm so glad you could come, you and Mr. Holmes." I took her into my arms for a comforting embrace and we stood, heart to heart, amidst the subdued chatter and the rattle of cutlery against china. Finally she stepped back and tried her best to appear sprightly and agreeable. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to speak to you earlier, and then I was afraid that you would return to Sussex before I had the chance--"

"I would not have gone back without seeing you, even if it meant staying longer in London." I took her hands in mine. "Both Holmes and I were very sorry to hear about Miles. He was a good man; you must miss him terribly."

"Thank you." Ronnie's dutiful hostess smile slipped but did not disappear entirely. "That's very kind. Everyone has been so kind, asking after both Sophia and me, making sure we lack for nothing...Miles would be pleased, I think, that he was so highly regarded by so many after all. He never thought it of himself." She brightened. "But look at you! You look wonderful. Your busy life certainly seems to agree with you."

"It does. Somehow I manage to keep a foot in both Oxford and Sussex without mis-stepping too many times."

"I can't imagine how you do it, let alone make time for the occasional case which comes along." Following her glance I saw that Holmes had been surrounded by a growing group of people, the hapless prisoner of his own celebrity. "The papers are full of his latest triumphs, and that sling he is wearing hints at adventures."

"Yes. Unfortunately." I caught his eye and raised my brows; did he want to be rescued? He shook his head infinitesimally and returned his attention to the conversation.

"He must accept his accolades whether he wants to or not," Ronnie remarked with a smile; she had witnessed our silent exchange. "After all, the saving of one of the most prized ancient Egyptian artifacts can hardly be dismissed, to say nothing of uncovering the men responsible for that awful series of bombings in Russia. He must know the world is marveling--again--at what he has done."

"He will never become used to it. For him the cause and effect have always been most important, not the result." I turned back to her. "All right, Ronnie. Thus far you have been the perfect hostess. You have asked after myself and my husband, put me at my ease, and accepted my condolences with the grace of a saint. Very well done. Just the right amount of stiff upper lip. Now tell me how you are, really. And remember, please, to whom you are speaking. No brave words; I want the truth."

For a moment I saw her pain clearly. "I miss Miles," she said quietly at last. "I thought it would get better--easier--with time; I thought I would become used to the fact that he's never coming back. I know he's dead, for pity's sake! I saw him when they--" She swallowed and watched her own fingers pull fitfully at the lace border of her handkerchief, as if both fingers and handkerchief belonged to someone else. "But I seem to forget it at the same time. I forget that he won't be home at the end of the day, so I won't be able to tell him what Sophia did or said that was so clever. Or I'll come across something of his; the other day it was a slipper he had been looking for. We'd torn the house apart trying to find it when it first came up missing, not knowing that Sophia was using it as a bed for one of her dolls. When I found it, I actually thought 'Oh, I must tell Miles so he won't have to buy another pair'." She sobbed suddenly. "And then I remember, and it's as if I'm hearing it all over again. And it hurts so much--"

"Hush, Ronnie." I put my arm around her. "I know, really I do. I can't tell you why, and it doesn't matter anyway, but you have to believe me when I say there will come a time when it will hurt much less. It never stops hurting completely, of course." I thought of my parents, of my brother; they seemed so close to me today. "But there will be a day when you'll be able to think of Miles without wanting to be buried beside him under a stone inscribed with 'Beloved Wife of...'."

"Yes, I know." She dried her eyes and put her stoic mask firmly back in place. "It's Sophia I'm saddest for. She doesn't understand why her papa isn't coming home anymore. All she knows is that he can't tuck her into bed at night or bounce her on his knee. Soon she'll forget even those things. She simply won't remember him. The only memories she'll have of Miles later are the ones I can give her. It hardly seems fair."

"But you can give her a Miles no one else knows, a Miles that was good and kind and loved his family. Next to her own memories I can't think of any better." A childish voice raised in protest drew my attention and, looking around, I glimpsed Sophia with a woman I took to be her nurse. The little girl was obviously in disagreement about something and becoming more vehement by the moment. "Shall we go into the garden, Ronnie, just for a bit? It will give Sophia a chance to romp and get you a little fresh air as well."

Ronnie followed my glance and, with a quick nod of understanding, went to collect her daughter. Moments later we were in sunshine, golden and glorious. Sophia darted away from us like the butterfly she chased while we strolled slowly after.

"Ah, this is better." Ronnie closed her eyes briefly and breathed in the warm, softly scented air redolent of freshly-turned soil and green growing things. "Somehow the sunshine makes it all just a little easier to bear. Does that sound awful?" She watched her daughter caper about.

"Of course not. I don't think Miles would have wanted you to grieve for him; on the contrary, I think he would be glad of your good health and eventual happiness." I judged from her silence that my assessment of Miles was not too far off the mark. "What will you do now, Ronnie? Do you know? Have you thought about it at all?"

"A little." She gave me her attention again. "My mother and father would like me to come home for awhile, just until I make up my mind. Perhaps I'll go to them for a visit. I think Miles' parents might also be comforted a little if they could spend more time with his daughter, so I suppose I shall stay in London for the time being."

"Whenever you like, just send word to me at Oxford. I'll come into town and we'll spend the day together. Or you could come down to Sussex. Mrs. Hudson would love to meet you, I'm sure, and she'll be positively enchanted with Sophia." I watched the little girl play for a moment. "She really is quite beautiful."

Ronnie turned to watch her daughter reach up to dabble chubby fingers in the water of the bird bath. "Yes, she is. She's a Fitzwarren, there's no doubt of that; I don't think there's a bit of the Beaconsfields about her at all. She rather reminds me of Miles' sister Iris, but I suppose that's because she's so fair."

"Oh, I don't know. She has your chin, I think, and your flair for drama." That veiled reference to our thespian activities at Oxford earned me a slight, lingering smile.

"It was 'Taming of the Shrew' first, wasn't it?" she asked. "Oh, those were such good times! Remember that mysterious fellow, Ratnakar something? Sanji, wasn't it? I wonder whatever happened to him."

"I really couldn't say, I'm sure." I met her sidelong glance with one of my own and we burst into simultaneous laughter. Hearing it, Sophia giggled too; the sound was high and clear and sweet. In just that manner we thumbed through the years of our friendship, from those carefree days at Oxford to Margery Childe's dangerous mysticism and beyond. I told her of Dorothy Ruskin and the Reverend Baring-Gould, of my books and my studies. She told me of Miles and Ireland and motherhood.

"We had planned to have children, of course, Miles and I," she said, "but it was a bit of a surprise for us when we learned I was pregnant so soon after the wedding. I can't say I enjoyed suffering through the morning sickness or not being able to see my own toes later on, but Sophia's arrival was actually a blessing in disguise. I think Miles was the happiest he'd ever been when he was with her. She accepted him for what he was, I think; he never had to be better or different to earn her love--"

"Unlike what he had to do for others," I could not help interjecting, thinking of the major. We sat ourselves on a shady stone bench nearby where we could see and be seen by Sophia.

"Unfortunately, yes." Ronnie watched her daughter, but saw her husband. "Miles would stretch himself full-length on the floor to play with her and laugh when she climbed all over him. Or he would tell her war stories--oh, not the really dreadful ones, but stories of the amusing things that the soldiers said to each other, or the practical jokes they played. She couldn't possibly have understood a word of it, but when her father laughed so would she. Sometimes Miles would sit at the piano with her on his lap and play her songs and of course she would want to bang the keys. I could hardly hear myself think, they would be so loud with their singing and playing, and neither one of them able to carry a tune from here to there."

"I envy you your happy memories," I remarked and realized suddenly that it was true; so many of my own memories were less than idyllic.

"But what of you, Mary?" Ronnie glanced at me questioningly. "Have you and Mr. Holmes not changed your minds about children?"

Her question was so innocently asked that I never thought to respond as I usually did to such intrusions into our private life. "No. We discussed the possibility before we got married, but decided for a variety of reasons that children would not suit us."

"That is certainly understandable, considering how busy you both are. You have your studies, after all, and judging by the papers your husband's retirement is anything but assured."

"Yes." I sighed. "I could wish sometimes that retirement to him meant what it means to most men his age. For him, retirement seems to consist of putting his life in danger only once a month or so on average."

I had not meant to sound bitter, but the feel of his sutures beneath my hand was still disturbingly fresh. I curled my fingers into my palm to banish their ghostly unpleasantness.

"What is it, Mary?" Ronnie took my hand and gently loosened the fingers. "The papers said nothing of his injuries. Are they so serious, then?"

"No. I don't know, really, why they bother me so." Except of course that I did know, all too well. "It's only that he was close to death and I was not there with him. I didn't even know about it until he returned."

"Yes." Ronnie nodded. "When I said goodbye to Miles the morning he died--well, I never dreamed that I would not be seeing him again. It was just a day like any other. And then suddenly it wasn't. But what of your husband? How was he injured?"

"Some idiot with a wicked blade and a desire to cut short his life," I replied; impotent anger boiled up suddenly within me at the tough who had dared to hurt Holmes, at Holmes himself, at a world where such things were possible. "He very nearly succeeded. Holmes was recovering in Sussex when you called; before that he was in a Russian hospital."

"Oh, Mary. I'm sorry."

"Don't be, Ronnie," I dismissed her sympathy savagely. He is Sherlock Holmes, after all; such insignificant things as knife wounds and desperate battles in dark alleys are nothing to him. Or so goes the legend. The truth is actually much more frightening. He is mortal; he is fallible. That sling he is wearing, which everyone seems to find so glamorous, supports his arm because he cannot support it himself. He bled himself into unconsciousness in that awful place." I swallowed. "He almost did not come home, Ronnie. I almost lost him."

"Good heavens. I had no idea." It was Ronnie's turn to commiserate. "It's so frightening. They can be taken from us so quickly, can't they; no one understands that more than I. And then we're alone for the rest of our lives."

Alone.

"That is why I'm so thankful I have Sophia," she continued quietly, her eyes searching out and finding her daughter. "I don't think I would have been able to stand the last few days if it wasn't for her. She's been my comfort; whenever I think that I can't possibly miss Miles for one moment more without going absolutely mad, I look into Sophia's little face and see Miles there, and suddenly he doesn't seem so far away."

And I, in her place, would have had nothing, no one to comfort me, no way to keep at least something of Holmes past his time amongst the living.

"Holmes would never reconsider," I heard myself say aloud. "He believes he has neither the time nor the temperament to raise a child."

"He does himself a grave injustice, then." Ronnie's tone was quietly solemn.

I glanced at her, startled. "What do you mean?"

"Did Mr. Holmes tell you about the time he spent with Miles at the sanitarium?"

"Not very much, I'm afraid."

"Miles told me after we were married that Mr. Holmes could not have been kinder or more considerate if he were Miles' own father. He stayed with Miles every minute they were there, caring for him, advising him, keeping him company through the worst of the withdrawal. It was always Miles' opinion that any happiness we enjoyed was due as much to your husband's intervention on his behalf as your actions to protect me. He felt he would never have been able to free himself of the drugs on his own, and he knew I would never have accepted him as he was. So you see," she smiled, "I certainly wouldn't have had Miles for the years I did if it hadn't been for you--both of you--and Sophia would not even have been born. Mr. Holmes has nothing to fear when he questions whether he can find within him kindness and gentleness enough to give to a child. They are there already; Miles reaped their benefit. As for his age..." Ronnie glanced behind her and motioned with a nod. "Do you see the elderly gentleman next to your husband, the one with the old-fashioned mutton chop side whiskers?"

I turned to look through the window behind us; Holmes was still part of a large circle of important men in their dark, expensive suits. Beside him, as Ronnie indicated, stood a little stoop-shouldered gentleman with bright, animated features speaking to the rest about something obviously, from his emphatic gestures, of great interest to him. Judging by the mockery of the smiles on the other masculine faces in the group, however, his topic was hardly of universal interest; they seemed more to regard the speaker with derision than amusement. Holmes, I noticed, was not smiling, but I could not tell what his reaction was to what was being said from his features.

Ronnie touched my arm. "That is Lord Hutchingsford. His wife is not with him today or I would introduce you to her. She is an American heiress not very much older than we are. She met him, I've been told, at the country home of a mutual acquaintance and they developed an attachment. They were married three years ago and have at least one small child of which he is extremely proud. In polite circles he and his wife are known for the depth of their devotion to each other. Despite the years separating him from his wife and child, he values this family of his final years more deeply and profoundly than most men, young or old, would even consider feeling for their own." She paused. "Perhaps it is the very fact that he has lived his life fully and established himself to his satisfaction which allows him to be able to look beyond those things most men see as important and find pleasure where others do not; the wisdom of his greater years tells him that very little else in this life matters without those whom we love and are loved by."

I was silent for a long time, struck dumb by the not inconsiderable wisdom of my friend who, in the midst of her grief, could so compassionately comfort me. "Ronnie, you have a positive talent for saying the most utterly significant things to me when I least expect them. Never mind." I smiled at her bemused expression. "If we--"

"Russ?" A door opened and closed, and Holmes appeared on the lawn. Seeing us, he came to where we sat. "I am sorry to interrupt, but we must leave soon in order to make our train for Sussex."

"Of course." I rose to accompany him. "I mentioned to Ronnie that I thought it might be nice if she and Sophia could come to the cottage for a visit soon."

"Indeed." He nodded and turned to Ronnie. "When you wish, simply call the cottage as you did before. I shall be rusticating there--"

"Don't you mean recuperating?" I remarked.

"--for the next several weeks," he continued, with only the briefest sidelong glance at me, "and I will either arrange for the local taxi to be waiting for you at the train station or Russell can fetch you in the Morris. In the meantime, Lady Veronica, if there is anything we can do for you, you have only to ask." He paused. "Lieutenant Fitzwarren would certainly expect it of you, as do I in his place. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Thank you." Going up on tiptoe, Ronnie kissed his lean cheek. "I'm glad you were able to come, gladder than I can possibly tell you. It means as much to me as it would have meant to Miles." Turning, she called to her daughter, "Sophia, come and say goodbye to Aunt Mary and Mr. Holmes. They must be leaving now."

Holmes had purchased issues of several of the evening papers before our train left London and sat with them spread out on the seat across from me, engrossed in reading their accounts of his case in Vladivostok. For my part, I had slipped a book into my coat pocket before we left the bolt-hole in anticipation of the long ride home, and now sat with it open upon my knee.

But I did not read it. Instead I contemplated the sling he wore, my conversation with Ronnie, and the potential upheaval of our pleasant, peaceful existence.

It was madness, nothing less, this notion which threatened to take hold of me so completely. I had not given the matter of any children we might have much thought since our one and only discussion on the subject in the days before our marriage. At the time I was already facing several potential life- altering situations; I was repairing the damage my abduction had done to my fledgling career, learning the intricacies of managing the inheritance I had only recently come into, and was about to wed Sherlock Holmes, one of the most brilliant but potentially challenging men it had been my occasion to know. Surely, I reasoned, that was more than enough to take on without adding an infant to the mix, and Holmes had agreed. If he had his own reasons for his decision, he had not voiced them and I had not asked.

Perhaps, however, the time had come to do so.

"Holmes," I began slowly, "do you regret we have no children?"

"Ah. So that is what it is." He put his paper aside--reluctantly, I thought. "I assumed it was the events of the day which had made you so quiet. Would I be too far afield in attributing this question to your conversation with your friend earlier this afternoon?"

"Not completely. It has at least as much to do with that." I indicated the sling supporting his arm.

"But you have seen me injured before, Russ," he reminded me. "Why should such a thing prompt you now to contemplate knitting booties and setting up a nursery?"

"I have never had the opportunity to see the consequences of a different outcome to your injuries before," I replied quietly.

"You refer, of course, to our reason for being in town today." He sighed. "I confess this was a development I had not foreseen in attending Lieutenant Fitzwarren's funeral."

"Or in getting yourself hurt in Vladivostok, I'm sure," I snapped, suddenly angry. "Perhaps you will take better care of yourself in the future. Who knows what I shall demand the next time you come home with your arm in a sling? Assuming, of course, that you come home. Miles did not, except in a box."

My words hung, heavy and charged, in the air between us. Holmes indicated the sling with the barest flick of his fingers. "It is a little thing, Russ," he said quietly, "of no consequence."

"Perhaps to you, Holmes." I shook my head. "Not to me. I have been sitting here trying to imagine what my life would be like if the telegram I opened in the entrance hallway of my flat yesterday--was it only yesterday?--had been, not from you, but from the British Embassy, informing me of your death in Vladivostok."

"Russ--"

"No." I held up a hand. "Let me finish. I would have had to do precisely what Ronnie did for Miles. I would have had to bring your body home. I would have had to inform everyone of your death, and make your funeral arrangements." I swallowed, overcome by the desolation that swept me at these visions of my future. "I would have stood at your funeral as Ronnie did today, would have watched them bury you and then returned home to the cottage to begin to live my life there without you. I would have had to box up all of your things, say goodbye to all traces of you, would have had to suffer coming upon your work half-done at your desk and in the laboratory and know that you would never return to finish any of it. Worst of all, I would have had to sleep in the bed we shared and see your side of it forever empty. Not pleasant thoughts, I assure you; not pleasant by half."

"You would not be alone, Russ," he said gently. "You have Mrs. Hudson, Watson, even Mycroft; you must know that in such an eventuality you would be able to call upon any or all of them--"

"Would I? For how long, Holmes? All of you have lived most of your lives before I was even born. What will my life be like ten, twenty years from now? How many of you will I have lost then?" I nodded. "Oh yes, someday I will be alone again. And I tell you frankly I find the thought abhorrent."

"I see." Expression carefully blank, he searched his pockets for pipe, tobacco, and matches. "Hence these thoughts of a child. It seems I have done you no service, have I Russ? I thought at one time to give you a new family, my 'family', to replace the one you lost. But who will replace the replacement?"

"We could, if we chose to." I held his eyes with mine. "Ronnie told me that having Miles live on in Sophia made losing him a little easier to bear. Is it so difficult to understand that I might want the same sort of comfort someday when I am in her place?"

"No." He watched me over the bowl of his pipe as he applied a match to it. "Truth to tell, I have had such thoughts myself recently. But our situation is, I am sure you will agree, somewhat different from theirs. Lieutenant Fitzwarren was a young man who up until his death fully expected to see his daughter reach maturity, and your friend Lady Veronica did not have studies which called her away from her family on a regular--and often prolonged--basis."

So my earlier absence had bothered him after all. I let his first point go for the moment in favor of the second one, much dearer to my heart. "Then you see the fact that I am away from home often as a problem."

He arched his brows. "You do not?"

"How is the necessity that I spend part of each week at Oxford any different from what fathers do without a thought--and without having to justify that they need not give it a thought--every day?" I considered the inequity of it. "A man's wife gives birth to their child. Now he may love that child above all things, but will he not go to his office the day after it is born with the full expectation of resuming his life as if that child's birth had never taken place? Wouldn't you, for that matter? Admit it, Holmes; if you were in the midst of a case, would you not expect to continue with it whether we had a child or not? Where is the difference? Or would we still be having this discussion if it were criminal investigation and not theological research which called me away so frequently?"

"One rather obvious difference, whether we choose to discuss your occupation or my own, comes to mind," he remarked dryly, "or had you planned on hiring a wet nurse?"

"I haven't 'planned' anything," I replied, stung. "If I found it to be necessary I suppose I would have to hire just such a person, but it is my understanding that my particular services in that regard would only be required on a temporary basis; once the child is old enough, I could return to something resembling my normal routine with very little trouble."

"So you propose carrying this child for nine months, with all that entails, only to hand it over into the waiting arms of some person--a stranger--to raise?" He frowned. "If that is the case, why bother with it at all, Russell? Get yourself a good dog for companionship; it needs less care and can occupy itself sufficiently while you are away."

"Well I would, but I doubt a dog will inherit your grey eyes." I shifted about irritably. "For pity's sake, Holmes, I hardly plan to jump up once the umbilical cord is cut and rush back to Oxford by the earliest train! I fully realize that the presence of a child in our lives would cause difficulties which we would have to deal with. I never denied it! But they are by no means insurmountable. For example, you seem to find the time I spend at Oxford to be an impediment. Very well, then; I could use the months before the child is born to gather any research and materials I might need to work at the cottage instead of at Oxford, thus allowing me to remain home longer with both you and the baby after it arrives. We could also use that time to look for a nanny who is acceptable to both of us to help out at the cottage when the time comes for me to return to Oxford on a more regular basis." I considered the matter of the nanny briefly. "Actually, whoever we hire to care for the child could also help Mrs. Hudson with the cooking and cleaning as well. I believe Mrs. Hudson might enjoy having some feminine companionship for a change when I am not there. If nothing else, she will no doubt delight in being in charge of a 'staff' again, with someone to advise and oversee; it might therefore be wise for us to consult her when interviewing likely candidates."

His expression told me plainly what he thought of my forethought and inventiveness. "This grows progressively worse. We have now not only added a child to our lives but a nanny as well. What else, Russ? Shall we take on a governess? A tutor? The cottage will not accommodate so many, but your farmhouse is still available; we could no doubt lodge several of these people there--"

"Enough, Holmes. I understand very well how much you dislike the intrusion of strangers into your life now that you have retired." I smiled briefly. "Considering your aversion to such unwelcome attentions, it's a wonder you made an exception in my case all those years ago."

"You were different." His tone softened somewhat. "Your attentions were hardly what I would call unwelcome."

"I am gratified to hear it. Given the difficulties I am having getting you to consider the possibility of this child, I ought to count myself fortunate I did not happen upon you while walking on the downs now. I would certainly have to pass a rigorous and lengthy cross-examination, to say nothing of a surreptitious investigation into my history by your brother." I studied him critically. "What is it, Holmes? What makes you so reluctant to even consider this, let alone agree to it? The arguments you have presented, while practical and therefore necessary to address, are easily dealt with and say nothing whatsoever to me of your thoughts or feelings in the matter. So where does the problem truly lie? Is it with me? Do you find me lacking in some crucial way? Do you have some question about my suitability as a mother? Do you think I am not maternal enough to nurture and raise our child, that I will not care for it properly? Is it my past which so concerns you, or my age, or--"

"No!" He knocked his pipe against his boot with more force than was strictly called for. "I have no fears where you are concerned regarding a child. Quite the opposite, in fact; I know that you would rear it with due consideration, practicality, and attention. It is myself I question, my own suitability." He paused. "Do you recall I listed two differences between our situation and that of your friend?"

"Yes. You said that Ronnie did not have studies which called her away from Sophia, and that Miles..." I stopped.

"Just so." He slipped his pipe back into his pocket and took up his paper again as if his point had definitively settled the matter. "Lieutenant Fitzwarren was a young man, far younger than I. If he had not been killed, he would have lived to see not only his daughter grow up, but perhaps her children as well. I, on the other hand, have no such expectations. Were we to do what you suggest, it is likely I will die before any child we might have reaches adulthood. Why should I father a child upon you that my death will inevitably turn into a burden? The very notion troubles me deeply, enough at least to desire foregoing the somewhat relative pleasures attached to parenthood which the near future presents."

"I see." I felt myself to be on firmer ground with him at last, now that I knew what his true concerns were. "All right, Holmes, let me ask you this; were you being truthful with me when you said you had no question about my ability to care for a child?"

"Of course." He gave me a suspicious glance over the top of the paper.

"Then you believe I would be able to raise our child competently either with or without you."

"I am saying it would be easier for you, when my death occurs, if you did not have a child to care for in addition to yourself. I am, of course, assuming at least some feelings of grief on your part at the prospect. Would it not be better for you if your own sorrow were the only one you had to consider?"

"But I don't see sharing my sorrow at your loss as a burden, Holmes. Why should you?" I frowned. "I think in such an eventuality I would see the presence of our child as a comfort, the way Ronnie does now. Her very words to that effect were quite moving earlier this afternoon; far from feeling that Sophia's presence hurt or hindered her in some way, or served as a painful reminder that Miles is no longer with her, Ronnie told me she was glad to have Sophia to live for, to continue for, to assure Miles's place in their future." I paused. "I do not want to be without you, husband. Understand that. But, if someday I am forced to do so, I tell you again that I would be very glad to have your child to devote myself to. Such a child would be no burden, even in my sorrow. Especially not in my sorrow."

"It could be." His voice was low, and filled with things I did not understand. "Not all children are as bright and well-behaved as Lady Veronica's daughter. And Sophia is only two years old; we do not know what tribulations await them in the years ahead because of the loss of Lieutenant Fitzwarren. The absence of her father might effect her profoundly in the future in ways that none of us can possibly foresee, and your friend will have that to bear by herself, without the assistance of Sophia's father." He aimed a sharp glance at me. "If you will recall, you yourself were not entirely unaffected by the loss of your parents."

"Of course not. You know as well as anyone what effect their deaths had upon me."

"Would you wish for just such an effect upon your own children?"

"No!" I frowned at his relentless questions, sensing a direction in them, a purpose, but uncertain what it was. "I lost my parents under traumatic circumstances. Their deaths were violent and unexpected, and I was partly to blame. I would not wish that upon any child, least of all ours. But the circumstances surrounding the loss of my parents--and what I endured afterwards--were entirely different from what Sophia will come to understand about the loss of her father when she gets older. And so it would be for our child, were we to have one, and were we then to lose you."

"Is not all death, especially the death of a parent, traumatic and unexpected to that parent's child? Are you truly prepared to deal with the consequences of such grief and anger as you felt when your own parents were killed if it comes from a son or daughter of our own? Are you prepared to experience those things again yourself through our child's first acquaintance with them?"

"I was fourteen, Holmes, and a child myself. I did not understand death, or guilt, or anger then. But I have had enough experience of all three since to be able to help a child who has not understand them better. The prospect does not concern me, Holmes. Why should you be concerned for me?"

"Because I have seen the consequences of just such a child raised without its father." He crumpled the paper without realizing it in his agitation. "I have seen the resulting chaos that father's absence inflicted on the child's life, even into adulthood. I have seen that child tear himself and everyone else around him apart looking for what he did not have but so desperately wanted. I have seen that child destroy himself rather than give up his fantasies of a father he could never have. You ask me why this concerns me so, Russell? It concerns me because I have lived it. I live with it still, every day that I draw breath, and I will not see you go through such a thing if I can possibly help it."

He had not meant to say so much; I saw it in his face the moment the words passed his lips and I understood everything perfectly. As suddenly as that, there was a third presence in the compartment with us, a charming and restless presence as vital as if he sat beside me. I felt a suspicious, prickling urge to turn and confront him, to see his grin, full of wicked mischief and secret pain, daring me to take him to task. English rose, he had called me. His little English rose...

Jamie.

"Holmes--" I began cautiously.

"No."

"But--"

"No!" His tone dared me to defy him again. "This ends here. Now."

I was treading on dangerous ground and I knew it. Of all the things I was privy to where Holmes was concerned, his feelings about his lost son were still, after five years, a vast unknown region whose landscape I both wondered at and feared. He had never discussed Jamie with me, not in those first desperate days following Jamie's death nor in his desolation and disappearance later. Since then he had suffered my occasional mention of his son, but never mentioned Jamie of his own volition. The very fact that he would not told me by inference that Jamie's unhappy memory still unsettled him deeply. But I could not hold back or be silent now with so much at stake.

"No, Holmes. It doesn't end. It will never end, not as long as Jamie still has this power over you. He's obviously the true reason behind your aversion to becoming a father again--"

"My reasons are my own, to share with you or not as I so desire," he replied coldly, folding up his paper. "If you wish to continue with this subject in light of your assumptions about those reasons you are perfectly free to carry on, but you will do so without me. As far as I am concerned, this matter is settled and I have nothing more to say."

"Holmes--"

He got up and left the compartment without another word. I sat stunned for a moment, caught napping by his abrupt withdrawal, but only for a moment. Without pausing to think, I leaped up and followed him through car after car, pushing my way past people, ignoring their curious stares or sharp complaints. I could not be bothered with them; I had my hand upon the tiger's tail and to let go was to lose all.

He ran out of train finally, came to the last car in the line and stood on the tiny platform with the retreating countryside before him. Closing the door behind me, I put my back against it. I had him. The only question remaining was, what was I going to do with him?

"Nowhere to go, Holmes," I said quietly.

Except through me. I could see the thought cross his features as he turned to face me. It was the first time, in all the years I had known him, that I had ever faced him as an opponent other than over a chess board. The thought chilled me.

"Stand aside, Russell," he said, just as quietly. There was nothing in him now of the intelligent, surprisingly warm and humorous man I had married. Those eyes were meant to look down the barrel of a gun he fully intended to use. "Let me pass."

"Or what? What will you do, Holmes? Pitch me over the side and run the length of this train straight back to the engine?" I softened my stance but made no move away from the door. "I won't let you pass until we've settled this."

"It is settled."

"It is not! How can you say so? Apart from this question of whether we have a child, we have not settled with Jamie himself, it seems. You've kept him a prisoner for five years, Holmes, locked him away just as securely as the photograph of him Irene Adler gave you. But his captivity has made him strong; the only way for you to weaken him now is to release him, to let him come so that you may meet him face to face."

He stood braced against the swaying of the train while I held on grimly to my post; if I let him past me, if I did not have this from him now, he would hide it so deeply I would never see it again, would bury it where it would grow like some dark, malignant bloom. I had nearly suffered such a fate myself; only his intervention had saved me. So I waited resolutely while we sped ever closer to home, determined to do as much for him.

Finally he turned away from me, turned to watch the Sussex countryside rush past us, rich and rolling and pastoral. I saw rather than heard him sigh.

"So he has his revenge after all, does my changeling child," he said. "It would please him, I'm sure, to think that he had deprived me of any other children I might father. Then he can be my only son, even in death. Especially in death." He was silent for a long time and I sensed the terrible struggle within him to voice the feelings about his son that he had locked away for so long. "I had thought never to mention Jamie again," he said at last. "When I returned here after his death, it was with the intention of leaving him in that part of my life that was finished. To do otherwise was too--" he paused "--difficult for me to bear. But his is a restless spirit, it seems. How very apropos of him to rise up like some penny-dreadful ghoul and bring turmoil to my life. He was uniquely suited to that task while he lived and has not seen fit to alter his ways since his death."

I crossed the distance between us to assume my rightful place, natural and desired, at his side.

"I miss him too," I said softly.

For a moment I saw pain cross his face, the same pain I had seen there that horrible night Jamie was shot. "I could not understand him, Russ." He shook his head. "So desperate. So needy. I have never been able to comprehend that about him, either then or since. Perhaps if I had understood him better I might have found a way to reach him so that he needn't have taken his own life--"

"What?" My hand clenched on his arm. "What do you mean? Jamie stepped in front of a bullet meant for you. He did it to save your life."

"And to end his."

"No! His actions were the result of a decision he reached on the spur of the moment; he couldn't have known--"

"He did more than know it. He caused it." Holmes turned to stare at me. "I assumed you knew. He courted that bullet, Russ, as surely as I stand before you now. He knew he could never have the things he wanted most from either of us, so he took a hero's quick death. He knew exactly what he was doing, and why. Remember that night again, Russ; remember it now and see it with new eyes."

I did, and realized at once what he meant. Jamie's reckless bravado, his taunts, and the last quick dive in front of his father before the shot was even fired. "Dear God."

Holmes watched me solemnly. "I am sorry, Russ. I really thought you knew."

"No, I--" I shook my head and then glanced at him quickly. "How long have you known?"

"As soon as he did." He turned to watch the scenery again.

"Of course." I remembered that as well, remembered his desperate attempts to dissuade Jamie, to distract him from what I now knew to be his purpose. I had not understood the dark undercurrents swirling around us that chaotic night. Elemental matters of life and death had claimed my attention, and later I had been too consumed with worry for Holmes. But I knew them now for what they were, and my admiration and love for this singular man at my side grew substantially. Caring nothing for the gun pointed directly at him and the likelihood that he was about to die, he had nonetheless made one last desperate effort to save his son through sheer force of will. The cost to him when that effort failed so catastrophically I was even now only just beginning to learn.

"It was the anger and dispair he could not live with," Holmes was saying, "anger at me that I could not be the father he had wanted for so long, and despair at--other things." He was careful not to look at me. "He waited his whole life for a father who would accept and acknowledge him to the world, and I did neither. What a bitter disappointment I must have been to him. Even when I learned that he was in fact my son I did not want to be his father. I could not love him--"

"But you did," I asserted quietly, "or the very mention of his name even now, five years later, would not disturb you so deeply."

"No!" He struck his palm against the railing. "No. I did not love him. And in not loving him I failed him the most profoundly. I am a hard man, Russ; I make no apology or excuse for it. Jamie looked for things from me that it was not within my power to give."

"No one could have given Jamie all he wanted, simply because he wanted so much. He told me once that ever since he was a boy he always had comforted himself with bright visions and impossible fantasies of his father. Eventually there must come a time when it would have been impossible for any man to redeem those fantasies." I smiled. "Even you. You had the misfortune in that respect to be his father, but if you had not he would have doomed any man who was to the futility of trying to live up to his staggering expectations. There was no reason for Jamie to have been disappointed in you, Holmes; if the two of you had had more time together as father and son he would have discovered as I did your great wisdom and compassion and benefited by both. It was only his unrealistic desires, hoarded carefully through the years, which robbed him of any joy he might have derived from having you in his life at last. And let us not forget his mother in all this; she chose to keep Jamie from you and not tell him who his father was until she had no choice, thus ensuring a lifetime of unhappiness for him. So take the blame that is yours, husband, but only that. Leave the rest for those who earned it."

He was silent for a time, and I could only hope that he was considering my words. "Do you understand now, Russ, why I am so reluctant to consider this thing you ask?" he said at last. "If we were to have a child, you could conceivably end up being the best parent it had, perhaps in time the only parent. If you are thinking, therefore, to abandon it to my care even in an advisory capacity with the presence of Mrs. Hudson and a nanny to mitigate my influence over it, you had best think again. I will not be responsible for failing another child and then leaving it for you to raise. I tell you I will not do it."

"I know. But consider, Holmes; a child of ours would have years of your guidance and wisdom that Jamie never had, and would know what to reasonably expect from you as Jamie never did."

"Would it?" He turned to face me. "I am not a young man, Russ, and I do not know how many years of my life are left. It is entirely possible--indeed probable--that I would not live to see any children we might have grow to maturity. Should that occur, you could very well find yourself with a child like Jamie on your hands, to have to manage by yourself. The thought is hardly a comforting one." Something caught his attention and he indicated a cluster of buildings off to our right. "That will be Polegate. We are nearly to Eastbourne."

"Yes." Our imminent arrival had accomplished what Holmes himself had been unable to do and halted our discussion before a decison was reached. I moved reluctantly to the door of the rail car and turned. "Are you coming?"

He nodded, his eyes still on the distant hamlet. "I will join you shortly.

Which meant, of course, that he wished to think further about the matter. I wanted to stay, to attempt to convince him that his fears were, if not groundless, then certainly far less urgent than he imagined. But I knew in this he must come to the conclusion himself or he would forever after doubt its wisdom. With a nod, I left him and returned alone to our compartment. I did not see him again until the train pulled into the Eastbourne station.

We were unaccountably silent at the cottage, and I knew from the quick, questioning little glances Mrs. Hudson aimed at us that she sensed our unsettledness and was worried by it; although the closest to us in terms of day-to-day familiarity, I believe even she did not understand the strange creature that was our marriage and saw dire portents of divorce in every ripple of its surface. I wanted to reassure her but could not, in all truth, share with her what I had so little of. We were, by our very silence, moving toward a decision which either way would affect the scope and timbre of our union for the rest of our days together, and neither of us were inclined to do so lightly. So Holmes sat in the basket chair near the fire with his correspondence and brooded, and I sat at my desk amidst my notes and my books and brooded, and the long silent hours ticked slowly past. Occasionally I felt Holmes' grey gaze touch me--I seemed to be preternaturally attuned to it this evening, as I was in the days before our wedding when I wanted him and ran from him so ambivalently. It was a curious dance we were doing, this silent exchange of looks and unspoken thoughts, like a chess game in pantomime, all move and counter-move without a word spoken.

It lasted through dinner, a tense affair with Mrs. Hudson chatting brightly between us as if she could weld us together with the very fire of her determination. Finally I took pity on her and went with her into the kitchen to clean up and wash the dishes. She asked about Ronnie and Sophia, and smiled at my announcement that they might come to the cottage for a visit soon. We spent some time in deep discussion concerning what would be the best ways to occupy a little girl newly come to the downs and, when at last she was ready to retire to her rooms, I had the satisfaction of knowing her enthusiasm over the impending visitors had replaced her concern that Holmes and I were on the verge of parting company. With a last swipe of the dish rag across the table top, I was ready to locate my elusive husband and resume our curious battle.

He was not on the terrace when I stepped out, nor amongst his hives. I was on the point of setting off in search of him across the downs when I saw him seated in one of the chairs near the beech tree. Pausing only long enough to gather my resolve, I set out.

I had made no sound, said nothing to alert him to my approach, but he knew I was there nonetheless. "Sit down, Russ," he said quietly, without preamble. "Let us settle this once and for all. I grow weary of it."

That sounded ominous enough, but I took the chair near his and we watched the channel in silence that, if not amicable, was at least not antagonistic.

I turned to him at last. "I am glad you told me about Jamie. You have not spoken to me of him like that since his death."

"You have not spoken of him either, except in passing." He turned to look at me. "While we are on the subject, there is one more reason Jamie and I could never have been more than what we were to each other. You do realize that, do you not?"

"Yes. Now." I shook my head. "Poor Jamie. He never had a chance to win me and he knew it."

"I am gratified to hear you say so. There was a time, however briefly, when I did wonder."

Putting out my hand, I rested it on his arm. "You needn't have. That was where I failed Jamie, as it turns out. I could not love him for himself and he realized it. What I loved in him was what I saw of you there."

After a moment he reached over to pat my hand with his. We were quiet for a time.

"Holmes," I began again, "in light of what you've told me about Jamie, if it truly distresses you to consider the possibility of having our own child--"

"As to that, Russ, I have been sitting here reviewing the day's events, and I find myself returning again and again to a conversation I had while you and your friend were in the garden."

"Oh? A conversation with whom? I was not aware you knew many people there, though they certainly knew of you."

"I did not. But I made the acquaintance of a gentleman by the name of Hutchingsford." Holmes turned to watch the channel again.

"Oh yes, Ronnie pointed him out to me through the window. She told me he is very much in love with his young American heiress."

"He is." Holmes slanted me an inscrutable glance. "The reason she could not attend Lieutenant Fitzwarren's funeral with him was because she is still recovering from the birth of their second child."

I smiled. "How nice. No wonder he was so enthusiastic."

Holmes nodded. "I had the opportunity to speak with him privately for several minutes and he told me some rather interesting things. He had heard of me evidently--"

"That is hardly surprising."

"--and of you. I suspect your friend Lady Veronica has mentioned us to him. At any rate, what he had to tell me was most--intriguing."

Something warned me, some instinct, to remain absolutely still lest any movement on my part jeopardize what he was going to say to me, and what it might signify. Holmes sat lost in thought, his eyes on the glittering expanse of channel. "What he said to me about his reasons for marrying a woman so much younger than himself do not bear on this discussion, though they were not without some points of personal interest. It was what he said to me just before I left him that is perhaps most significant. He asked me if we had children and, when I told him we did not, he seemed to assume it was because of the number of years between us. He said that he had worried about his own age when he married his wife and about what might happen to her and to their children when he died. Evidently she had told him from the very first that, if they married, she wished to bear his children." Holmes turned to face me suddenly, every line of him, every feature intent and still. "He said she told him it did not matter to her whether they were together for two years or twenty, that she would make the most of whatever time was given to them and that, as long as his children were secure in his love while he was alive, she would see to it they were raised properly if he was not there to do so himself."

I rose from my chair to kneel beside his. "Holmes, I do not know if this is right, or wise, if we would do well to have one child or a dozen or leave our life together as it is. Who ever really knows before the decision is made? It is the chance we all must take. But I can make the same pledge to you with certainty; if God sees fit to allow me to conceive, I will raise our child with love and intelligence in partnership with you for as long as you are able. And when you are not able, I will act in your place as guardian and advisor, and give our child all of you that I have. On that you have my word."

"I know." He laid one of his beautiful hands against my face. "I have no wish for you to be alone. If having a child will insure that, then I am willing to consider the possibility. But only on those terms, Russ. To do otherwise is to fly in the face of all the reasons I have given against it, and that I cannot do."

"And what of the child, Holmes? Would it not be better for the child to want it for its own sake?"

"It would, if that were what I felt." His tone softened. "I could not be what Irene's child wanted me to be, Russ. I can only be what I am. You must decide now, before it is too late, if that will be enough for your child."

"Then that is easily done." I leaned forward to kiss him. "In all the time we have been together I have never gone wrong putting my faith in the great Sherlock Holmes."

It was late when I mounted the stairs to our room. Holmes had remained below stairs only long enough to secure all the doors and windows for the night. I prepared for bed and then paused in the hallway at the door of the guest bedroom. It was a pleasant, serviceable room, bright and warm; I had spent many a night within its walls when I was younger. In my mind now I saw it as it could be, full of books and toys and child-sized furniture, a fitting room for our child.

But first... it needed a cradle.

Closing the door softly, as if a child slept there even now, I continued on my way.