A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [40]
The startled Marshall had scurried to retrieve the belongings of the two men, and Holmes took the hat from the butler’s hand and slapped it onto Fitzwarren’s head, jammed his own on, and gathered up the two proffered coats.
“Good-bye, Russell. You can reach me through Mycroft.”
“Mazel tov, Holmes.”
“Thank you, Russell,” he said, and added under his breath, “I shall need it.” Ignoring the hovering butler, he draped the young man’s shoulders with a coat and shrugged into his own. The poor servant leapt for the door and held it until both men had been whisked away by the waiting taxi, and then he turned to me with a faint air of reproach.
“Does madam wish anything?” he murmured.
“Madam wishes only that that man can find a way out of his troubles,” I answered absently.
He looked startled, but his training held.
“Indeed, madam,” he said, only a fraction more emphatically than necessary.
I went back into the library, made the telephone call, and felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Only part of it was Miles.
* * *
EIGHT
Thursday, 30 December
Woman compared to other creatures is the image of God, for she bears dominion over them; but compared to man, she may not be called the image of God, for she does not bear rule and lordship over man, but obeys him.
—Saint Augustine
« ^ »
With Holmes out of the way and Miles out of my hands, life looked somewhat more manageable. I played Holmes’ game six moves to checkmate, poured myself a glass of predictably excellent sherry from a crystal decanter, and went to browse through the books.
I was twenty-three pages into a late-seventeenth-century Italian work on the doges of Venice when Veronica came back.
“Sorry to have been so long, Mary. Where’s Miles?”
I closed the book over my finger. “Ronnie, your Miles is off taking the cure.”
“What are you talking about?”
I told her briefly what had taken place.
“That was all? As simple as that?”
“A beginning, perhaps, nothing more.”
She burst into tears and threw her arms around me, then flew out of the door and upstairs. I returned to the doges and was on page ninety-two (I found the archaic Italian slow going) when the door opened again. I rose, placed the book back on the shelf, and joined a happier Veronica Beaconsfield than I had seen since Oxford, with colour in her cheeks. I considered a warning, decided against it, and allowed Marshall to help me with my coat.
“I shouldn’t be so happy,” she said on the street. “Iris is dead, and I know that this hope for Miles is only a faint one, but I can’t help it, I feel so very grateful to God that I happened to spot you that morning. Do you want to walk for a while, or take a cab to a restaurant?”
“Let’s walk and see what we find on the way.”
What we found was a corner stall run by a Sicilian that specialised in curry, flavoured buns and sweet spiced coffee. The food was odd, but eatable, and on the way to the Temple we found as well a deeper level of companionship than we had yet come to. Despite the cold and the knowledge that the Temple service was beginning, we continued to walk slowly, arm in arm, talking about our futures.
“And what of you, Mary? Will you become an archetypical Oxford don, or will you marry and have fourteen horrid and brilliant little brats?”
“I cannot envisage the latter, somehow.” I laughed.
“It is stretching the imagination,” she agreed, “although I can imagine you in almost any other situation.”
“Thank you very much,” I said primly.
“Oh, you know what I mean. None of the traditional choices really apply now, do they? Not for people like us, anyway. What about your Mr Holmes?”
“My Mr Holmes is nearly sixty. Rather late to break up bachelorhood.” I kept my voice natural, humorous, mildly regretful.
“I suppose you’re right. It’s too bad, really—he’s dreamy, in an impossible sort of a way.”
I was startled. “You mean you find Holmes attractive?”
“Oh, yes, heaps of s.a. Why, don’t