Upheaval: Declarations

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

The nausea came without warning, a great overwhelming tide that brought me instantly to wakefulness and sent me scurrying into the bathroom where I was violently, wretchedly ill for several minutes. Finally, when it began to show signs of passing, I rinsed my mouth and sat back with a wet cloth to my clammy forehead to consider this most curious of developments.

Counting back, this had been the fourth morning out of five I was ill. A strange malady indeed, for once the morning queasiness passed I was ravenous. There was also the fatigue; the day before I had actually awakened in the Bodleian from an impromptu nap, my face pressed to the text before me. Since I was the only one habitually in the library that close to closing time, I could be reasonably certain no one had seen me, but the occurrence--the first of its kind--unnerved me nonetheless.

I did not think it was the dreaded influenza of a scant four years before; that virulent disease killed within hours and its victims tended to die horribly, gasping as their lungs filled with blood and fever scorched their brains. No, my malaise seemed to be more on the order of the after-effects of a night spent in rowdiness at the local pub. I was listless and irritable, prone to be either snappish or depressed. There had even been one alarming bout of tears when I couldn't find, of all things, my right glove.

Suddenly, as I sat contemplating this strange series of circumstances, a whisper of conversation came back to me, a conversation over some stubborn weeds in a garden many miles to the south. It was a conversation about a decision Holmes and I had reached, and what that decision might mean for all of us. From the time when I was fifteen years old I had taken such questions to Mrs. Hudson and she had enlightened me always with simple explanations unadorned by censure or ignorance. The question I put to her that day over the plants we were pulling must have surprised her, but if it did, she did not show it.

"Well, let's see." She sat back on her gardening stool, lips pursed. "It has been a long time since I experienced such things and, mind you, it isn't the same for every woman. But I seem to recall I couldn't get enough apples to eat; they tasted so extraordinarily good, I would sit down with three or four and nibble each one of them right down to their cores. That was after the morning sickness, of course. I never had as much of that as some; with some it is very bad and lasts far into the day, or else it goes on for months. A friend of mine lived on very little but tea and toast until her third month. Gave birth to twins, if I recall. No, I never had that, but I could lay my head down anywhere, at any moment of the day and sleep. My husband used to tell me he thought the midwife ought to pinch me regularly when my time came or I was likely to sleep straight through the delivery." Mrs. Hudson harrumphed to herself indignantly. "As if I'd been able to. It's a good thing he hadn't said anything of the sort to me then or I wouldn't have been the one pinched and the midwife wouldn't have been the one doing the pinching!"

I had laughed that day, sitting in the grass with my husband's bees buzzing here and there about us. But I felt no desire to laugh now. Heart thudding heavily in my ears I counted back over the days, over the ebb and flow of my own internal tide.

Seven weeks. It had been seven weeks, nearly eight. Not since before the night Holmes and I spent at the farmhouse, that dangerous night of wind and rain, of storms without and storms within. Holmes had been, if not serene since, then at least not thunderous and fierce. But the damage, it appeared, might have already been done.

That night of decisions unmade, of changes delayed.

Good Lord.

I sat still, feeling the weight of my suspicions sink within me until they lay, vivid with waking life, deep in my abdomen. The implications of what I suspected--what I knew--buzzed in my brain like those summer bees. If I were truly--if my illness was caused by something other than what I'd eaten or any of the other abuses I subjected myself to on a regular basis, I had more problems to consider than the imminent need to add to my wardrobe.

First things first. I must confirm my suspicions. I would call and make an appointment for the earliest possible time, and then we would see. It might still, after all, have another cause. But even as I voiced the possibility to myself, I dismissed it. I knew; the doctor's diagnosis would merely confirm it.

I was pregnant.

A fierce exultation gripped me suddenly. Against all the odds, all the dire predictions that this would be something forever denied me, I had conceived. Climbing unsteadily to my feet, I laid my hand over the life thriving inside me and gave thanks humbly to God for this most unlikely miracle he had seen fit to visit upon us. Strength and capability thrummed through me, energizing me to cautious briskness. I was suddenly very hungry, hungrier than I could ever remember being. Yes, I would confirm my condition; I needed information to arm myself for the battle to come. But first I would have breakfast. A very large breakfast. And perhaps, in honor of Mrs. Hudson, I would even eat an apple.

I knew it was risky. He might not come. He would come if I told him I needed him, but I was not yet prepared to admit that. He would come if I told him I had a special presentation, but I would not lie to him. It wasn't exactly a lie, but he would assume I meant a lecture presentation. Ultimately, it did not matter. It was too late; I had already sent the telegram.

HOLMES. COME TO OXFORD FIRST AVAILABLE TRAIN. RUSSELL.

I wanted to tell him on my grounds, in my way; so, after leaving the doctor's office I wandered around Oxford trying to figure out what to do. Supposedly, he was still thinking about us having a child. Much too late to think about things we should or should not have done while he was coming to a decision. I was pregnant, my suspicions medically confirmed. After months of unsuccessfully trying to conceive, Holmes had vehemently expressed his doubts about the issue and had requested time to think. He had said nothing in the last two months, storing up his arguments against a child in his brain attic no doubt until I raised the issue again. He knew, of course, that I would raise the issue again. I would not badger; I would not nag, but eventually I would question his thinking. His greatest concern had seemed to be his age. Waiting and thinking would not diminish that concern. I knew there were other concerns, though, and time might have eased those doubts. Nevertheless, unless I chose not to return to the cottage, I was going to have to question his thinking sooner than either one of us had anticipated. Then again, after I told him I was pregnant there was a possibility I wouldn't be returning to the cottage. But I couldn't bring myself to think about that just yet. No, best to deal with Holmes in a Holmesian fashion.

I walked back to the telegraph office and sent a second wire:

Anticipating the arrival of the second wire and then which train he would take, I would call Mrs. Hudson later this afternoon to confirm his departure. Well now, Mary Russell Holmes, what are you going to tell him if he does come? As I walked familiar streets and paths, I played out various scenarios in my mind. Could I bring myself to tell him "the rabbit died"? I didn't think so. Present him with music to Brahms' lullaby and tell him to practice? This mildly appealed to me, but I knew it wouldn't do either. Use the doctor's words: "Congratulations, Mrs. Holmes, you'll be adding a new member to your family in late February." I passed the shop window of the local tobacconists and realized Holmes was not the type to pass out cigars. In the end, I decided that I could not really plan anything. I was going to have to wait to see if Holmes arrived, what his mood was, and figure out how to tell him then. In other words, I chickened out and retreated to the comfort of my flat.

I had a small bite to eat remembering the doctor's warning to try to eat on a regular schedule, even with any morning sickness I was experiencing. Then I sat reading for while, or at least I attempted to read. I found myself drifting to thoughts of feeling my child, giving birth, and holding him or her for the first time. Did I have a preference for a boy or girl? A boy who might look like Holmes or even my brother or father. A girl with long hair her father would lovingly plait. I toyed with names and considered whether it would be best to honor (or perhaps weigh) a child with a family name, or if it would be better to find a name that meant something to me but was not necessarily associated with a family member. I knew I was getting far too ahead of myself, but permitted the thoughts anyway. Finally, I called the cottage. I held my breath waiting for someone to answer the phone and praying that it was Mrs. Hudson. After a dozen or so rings, I hung up. No answer. My mind raced frantically wondering where Mrs. Hudson might be. It wasn't market day. Oh yes, second week of the month; she would be playing bridge with some of her lady friends today. Unfortunately, no answer did not mean that Holmes had left. He could be out, just refusing to answer the phone, or even have left on a case. He usually got word to me when he was leaving on a case, but sometimes the word did not come until he was already on it. I stifled the momentary relief I felt from the possibility of not having to tell him because he was away on a case. So, I didn't know if he was coming to Oxford or not. Only one thing to do--ignore it for the time being. I would take a short nap, go to a lecture and then go to the Bodleian.

The lecture was not as dull as it sounded: Man and Enthymemes in Aristotle's Rhetoric (with slides in the original Greek). But when the speaker used the crass, if appropriate, phrase 'milking the argument for all its worth,' I thought again about redecorating the guestroom into a nursery. It was going to be a long and unproductive seven and a half months if I was not careful. I had not anticipated these kinds of distractions and hoped it was just the newness of the situation to me. A few friends asked if I wished to join them at the Knight & Dragon after, but I declined and headed to the library. I checked my watch; if Holmes had left after the second the wire, he would arrive in just over an hour. Just time to check a few references, return to the flat and await him. And hope he was in a good mood.

I retrieved the books I needed and sat at my favorite table. I always sat here, even after having discovered at this table that it was my math tutor's who was trying to kill Holmes and me. I had any number of "epiphanies" while sitting at this table; I suppose I hoped its comfort and its inspiration would carry over into non-academic matters. As I was wont to do, however, I got caught up in my reading and did not even think about the time until I was recovering from the sound of my gasp and the cold stares of three patrons shushing me. The cause of my outburst was a rudely placed hand on my shoulder. As my heart began to slide back down my throat to my chest, its beating picked up speed as I realized the elegant hand on my shoulder belonged to my husband.

"Holmes, don't ever do that" I hissed quietly.

"You command my presence, madam, then I have to hunt you down. Be grateful I did not shout your name from the town square," he noted with quiet asperity.

"I am sorry, Holmes," I whispered. "I tried to call the cottage to see if you had left, but there was no answer. I just lost track of time."

"Apology accepted and offered for startling you." He was impatient but still offered, "Do you need more time here? Should I wait here for you or return to your flat?"

"I will only be a few minutes. Please wait." He nodded his ascent as he pulled the seat next to me to sit down. My mind raced furiously as I pretended to continue examining the book before me. He was here, now, and I had better come up with a way to tell him. I excused myself to return books to shelves. When I returned Holmes sat alone in the room, the other patrons having left to their own business. He heard me come up behind him.

"Why am I here, Russell?"

He was irritated; no concern, just irritation at my asking him to come to Oxford. I did not sit down, but stood directly behind him. No hedging, Russell, I told myself. "Because Holmes," I began in soft voice trying to remain clear headed, "I cannot leave here for at least another week or so and I needed to talk to you."

"I believe Mr. Bell has come up with a little invention that might have been of use to you," he argued through clipped words.

He wasn't going to give an inch, I knew. "And risk shouting down the wall of my flat because of a bad connection?" Stick with what you know works, Russell. A strong offense is your best chance with this man, and you are fighting for more than yourself now. I placed both hands on his shoulders and pulled myself as close to him as the chair and his straight posture would allow. The man wants a reason, be factual. "Holmes, I know you wanted time to think about continuing to try to have a child, but the night at the farm took that decision out of your hands. I have already seen a doctor. Your time is up, husband, and the only decision you have left to make is whether I have the child I now carry with you in Sussex or here at Oxford by myself." His posture never changed, his breathing remained even. I could not even detect a twitch of a tightening jaw or drawn brow. Nothing from him; no response, except silence. Had he anticipated this? Had I actually managed to shock Sherlock Holmes? Please, my mind begged of him. Say something. Say anything.

He moved to push his chair back and stood slowly. He handed me the wrap that hung over my chair. "You are ready to go?" he asked his expression and mood inscrutable to me.

I nodded and we left. We walked the short distance to my flat not talking, and fortunately not running into anyone who wanted to talk with us. He did not offer his arm, but he did not pull away when I slipped mine through his. I had no idea what was going on in his mind or in his soul. Was he angry? Angry with me? Angry at his part in this? Was he perhaps fearful? I knew on one level that I was frightened of this new adventure, and I knew I was even more frightened of the possibility of facing it without him. One woman had raised his child without him and without his knowledge. Would he decide that she was right after all and let me raise another child of his without him? That I refused to believe. His ever-present energy was still humming noiselessly, but it was a not a hum I knew. We reached my flat and he extended his hand for the key. I handed it to him and he unlocked the door and motioned me in ahead of him. I walked in and kept my back to him as he shut the door behind him. I heard him lock it and felt him turn and study my back. I noticed his bag beside the chair in front of me and I wondered if he had picked the lock upon his arrival or had asked to be let in. I suddenly realized he had never asked for a key.

I found my voice, though I did not recognize it as I spoke. "Please say something, Holmes."

I stayed with my back to him and felt him come up behind me. He encircled me in his arms, but the movement lacked the comfort I sought. He settled his head next to mine and I felt heat rather than warmth, tension rather than excitement. "My reasons for not wanting a child have not gone away, Russ. My age is still against me, against us, and against this child. You have noted that ours is not always a convenient or conventional union. This will not be an easy addition to our lives." He paused and drew a long breath. "I do not know what kind of father I will make." I felt him kiss my temple and his arm tighten around me, some warmth and support finally breaking through. "But I know what kind of mother you will make, and that, my wife, is enough. Come home when you can and I will be waiting for you and the child."

I turned and flung myself at him to return his embrace. Holding him tighter than I ever remembered, I fought off the prickle of tears behind closed eyes. "Please, Holmes, tell me you desire this child as I do."

He leaned his head down, resting his chin on my shoulder. "I have never lied to you. I will not lie to you now." His voice was firm and I thought I would it would pierce me. Then his hands went to the sides of my head and pulled my face to look at him. I felt his thumbs wipe away the tears that had seeped from under my clenched lids. I knew he would not speak until I looked at him. I opened my eyes and waited for his pronouncement of truth. "I am not convinced this is a wise addition to our lives. But I do not wish you to ever be alone, Russ; if you want this child then I want this child."

I needed to be sure. I needed to hear it again before I would let joy replace the anxiety and fear that had accompanied me all day. "Say it again, Holmes," I ordered.

He obliged me with the words, if not completely with the emotion, I sought. "I will welcome this child, wife of mine."

I hugged him close again, though not with the desperation of before. I felt the tension of his body relax, or perhaps it was mine, and I knew that though his reservations were not abated he would never again voice them to me. I held him for several moments and then asked how long he would stay with me.

"I packed enough for a week, but I suspect you will tire of having me underfoot long before then. Now come, sit and tell me how you feel and what the doctor advised."

I made us tea and recounted the cause of my initial suspicions and my appointment with the doctor. With ease the conversation moved from my studies to his writing and latest experiments, including the one I had indeed interrupted. We ate, we talked, we read in comfortable silence, we slept. We did not talk about the child; we did not plan for the future. There was time enough for that later. Holmes was not ready for that yet, and I had learned to be a patient woman.