Russell's Young Man

Part 3: Pins and Portmanteaux - Mrs. Hudson

by Brains and Spirit

Martha Hudson adjusted the last layer of clothing in the heavy trunk with a satisfied sigh. It had been a long hard job but the results were worth it. "There's your portmanteau all packed, Mary dear", she called. "Now come and let me show you. Shoes and riding clothes on the bottom, day frocks next, and lingerie, stockings and gloves in here. If you are taking any books, put them in your valise, not in the trunk where they'll crease your things. We'll wrap your evening frock in tissue and put it on top once I'm done with the hem."

"So many clothes for just a weekend, Mrs. Hudson," said Mary Russell, peering over her shoulder into the trunk. "I shall never wear all of them."

"That's the way it's done for house parties, Mary. And you may be surprised at how much you really need." Mrs. Hudson smiled. They were a pair, the two of them; Mary and Mr. Holmes. Heads stuffed full of book learning and 'ologies, and sometimes she thought that the cat had more sense about everyday life than the two of them put together.

"Be sure to leave everything the way is, dear," she continued. "If Miss Alix or Mrs. Bonham-Pryce have a ladies maid, they'll likely send her to unpack for you. I want her to see how all your nice things are taken care of and laid out right and proper. I won't have her going below stairs and telling the rest of the staff that that there's anything pinchbeck about my Mary-girl, I won't. Now the money for tipping the servants and your jewelry are in the valise, and that should finish it. So you go slip on your pretty frock, with the black chemise and your stockings and shoes. We should just have time to pin it up before supper."

"The chemise I understand, but why should I put on the shoes?"

"Because the length of the hem depends on the height of the shoe heel, Mary, and I need to see them both together. Just trust me, dear; I know what's best. Now get along with you." Mary smiled, picked up her frock and underclothing, and hastened to get along.

While Mary was changing, Mrs. Hudson gathered her sewing notions and pondered. Her Mary-girl was growing up, right enough. That gangly child who tripped over her own feet had become a poised, lovely young woman since she'd been up at Oxford. Not surprising that she had started to make friends and receive invitations. And didn't Mary deserve a bit of jollification with other young people? She worked so hard when the term was in session, and the way her harridan of an Aunt behaved... well. Butter wouldn't melt in that Miss Klein's mouth when she was speaking to the gentry, but she showed her true colors at home. Her harried, mistreated servants had no illusions whatsoever about her. They also left her employment frequently, and felt no obligation to keep silent about their experiences. Her high-and-mightiness was far too complacent to realise that this meant anyone who patronised the local pubs, or talked to someone who did, knew the truth about her as well.

At least it kept tongues from wagging about Mary and Mr. Holmes. Quite to the contrary, their relationship was approved of by two of the most influential people in the community: Patrick, Mary's farm manager, and Tillie, his lady friend. Patrick's very words had been, "Mr. Holmes may be a bit eccentric-like, meaning no offense, Mrs. Hudson, but anyone with half an eye can see he's a gentleman. And my Miss Mary is Quality, through and through. As for Miss Klein, she's a piece of work and no mistake. Why, my Miss Judith must be turning over in her grave at the way her daughter gets treated. If you and Mr. Holmes are taking Miss Mary's part and looking after her a bit, at least someone is. Not before time, either!"

But was she being fair to Mr. Holmes, to send Mary off, looking lovely, to a party where there was sure to be dancing and admiring young men? Mr. Holmes loved Mary, of that Martha Hudson was as sure as she was born. Not that Mr. Holmes was the type to go mooning about after any female, or that he'd ever, EVER said or done anything in the least improper. No, Mrs. Hudson would not have remained in his employ if he had, and everyone in the village knew that as well.

Still, the love was there, and it showed in a thousand small ways if one knew where to look. Mr. Holmes provided Mary with everything she would accept from him, through the business of that "loan account." And it was surely no coincidence that a deep, gleaming bathtub and a large new hot water geyser had been installed at the cottage, in the middle of a war yet, once Mary had alluded to Miss Klein's trying to limit her to cold baths. Moreover, Mr. Holmes was scrupulously attentive to Mary's little wants and preferences. If Mary expressed a wish to read a certain book, it would be found, and left in the guest room for her. If Mary preferred Earl Grey tea to Oolong, then Earl Grey they must have, and the best obtainable. If Mary admired a climbing rose, than one must be bought forthwith and trained to grow where its fragrance would reach the guest room window. "Good for the bees" Mr. Holmes had said. "Poppycock!" Old Will had grumbled, and Mrs. Hudson could only nod silent agreement. After all, she would never stoop to gossip about her employer. However, all this could be dismissed as the affection of an uncle for a favourite niece, or a teacher for a promising pupil. And if she and Old Will, or even Dr. Watson, thought otherwise, what of it?

There was more to it than that, though. Mr. Holmes loved Mary as a deeply and truly as a man ever loved a woman. She'd suspected this for some time, after she'd seen him kiss Mary's hand that first day, but she would never forget when she'd become sure of it. It had been last summer, when Mary was convalescing at the cottage after that horrible Donleavy woman tried to kill her and Mr. Holmes. She'd only been out of hospital a day or so and had sat up too long, overtaxing her strength in her impatience to be well again. Well, grown woman or not, Oxford scholar or no, this had left her as fractious and cranky as a bairn in need of a nap. Instead of resting, Mary had sat on the sofa, insisting she was fine and crossly refusing to go back to bed. Mr. Holmes, seemingly oblivious to her ill humour, had asked for tea and taken out his violin.

"I believe I shall play for a bit, Russell, while we're waiting," he'd said as he settled down in the basket chair. As the kettle went on, a cheerful tune filled the cottage. While the tea things were assembled, the violin's lilt gradually became a soft, soothing croon. And when Mrs. Hudson had started into the main room with the teacart, she'd seen Mary stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep. Mr. Holmes had been standing on the hearthrug. He was looking down at Mary with both hands wrapped around his violin, eyes bright and throat working as he swallowed. Then, as if he couldn't help it, one long finger floated down to brush Mary's cheek. Such yearning was naked on his face that she'd started in embarrassment, as though she had glimpsed him disrobed. It only lasted a moment, and then he'd covered Mary with the afghan, and turned to put his Stradivarius away with his normal expression in place. Mrs. Hudson had made haste to return to the kitchen and rattle the cups and saucers loudly so he wouldn't know she'd seen. And if that wasn't love, then she, Martha Hudson, was the Queen of Romania.

But was love enough for these two people, so out of the ordinary and so akin to one another? Martha Hudson was a widow, not a spinster, and she'd her own ideas as to what made a good marriage. The difference in age between Mary and Mr. Holmes didn't worry her. Many young women became happily married to older men, and her Mary-girl wasn't the sort of grasping, pretty toy who would beguile her way into an older husband's bed on the chance of becoming a well-off widow. Oh no, that shoe was on the other foot, thank you. Mary would be a wealthy young lady indeed in a few short months, and she wouldn't need a husband or anyone else to provide for her after that.

The difference in experience between them was more worrisome. Mary cared for Mr. Holmes, needed him and looked up to him, but did she feel for him as he felt for her? Did she even know what that kind of love was? In some ways she was still a girl, barely old enough to know her own mind. Aye, there was the rub, as her Highland Scots grandmother used to say. Mary should come to Mr. Holmes because she wanted him and returned his love, not because he was all she knew. She needed to grow up a bit, to see a bit more of the social world, spread her wings and fly. Perhaps she ought to receive some attention from young men, to help her understand her feelings and what she truly wanted If what had grown between them was meant to be, Mary wouldn't be away from Mr. Holmes for long. Now if only Mr. Holmes could live through that, and if she, Martha Hudson, could just live with him while he did. And after all, Mrs. Hudson chided herself; Mary was only going to a weekend house party. Every other daughter of the gentry attended them as a matter of course, with no one having any heartburn over it. Best not to borrow trouble, or make a mountain out of a molehill, she told herself firmly.

"Here I am, Mrs. Hudson," Mary said. She held out her skirt, smiling, and twirled in her dancing shoes. "What do you think?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled in return, and put her misgivings aside. It was so good to see Mary, for once, looking like a happy young girl getting ready for a party. "You're a sight for sore eyes, Mary dear. Now come into the kitchen where the light's the best and we'll see to that hem." Mary scrambled up on a kitchen stool, even giggling a little as she teetered on her unaccustomed high heels. Mrs. Hudson marshaled her yardstick, chalk, and pins, and set to work.