The doctor who stitched me up suggested mildly that I keep my mind off aorist passive verbs while I was walking, and I had to agree. As an actress I was a good changeling.
When my new glasses came I found my tail still behind me. I decided that I would drive to Sussex rather than take the train, and made prior — public — arrangements with the garage around the corner where I kept my new car, telling them that I would be leaving the next morning for my trip home. I wanted to be certain that I was followed, for I was on their mistress's trail every bit as much as they were on mine.
They used five cars on the journey, which proved the money behind them. I wrote down the numbers from their plates when I could read them, which was in three cases, and noted carefully the cars and all their drivers. (I doubt that the doctor would have considered the exercise less distracting than aorist passives, but I avoided all accidents and do not think I was the cause of any one else's.) When I took lunch in a pub before reaching Guildford, the young couple kissing in the front of the roadster pulled out of the parking area three cars behind me. When I stopped for tea on the road to Eastbourne, the old man who had replaced the couple twenty miles earlier drove past, but the woman in the old Morris, who was walking a (familiar?) bulldog behind the inn, was soon behind me on the road. Her lights drove on past only when I turned into my own road a few miles from Eastbourne. I breathed a sigh of relief that they hadn't lost me. I wanted them here, to witness my innocent behaviour and report it to their boss.
My aunt was — well, she was herself. In the morning I saw that the farm was looking well, thanks to Patrick. He accompanied me on a tour. We greeted the cows, discussed the state of the barn's roof, examined the new foal that his huge plough mare Vicky had recently borne, and touched upon the possibility of investing in a tractor, which other farms in the area had turned to. I hung over the stable door and watched the beautiful dun colt, with his stubby black tail flapping furiously, nuzzling at his mother in the warm, straw-strewn barn, and knew that I was seeing the end of an era. I said as much to Patrick, but he only grunted, as if to say that he was not about to get sentimental about a horse. He didn't fool me.
It was the first time in well over a month that I'd worn trousers and waterproof boots, and they felt good. I invited Patrick up to the house for tea, but he, having no great love for my aunt, suggested his own little house instead.
The tea was hot, strong, and sweet, necessary for a cold spring morning. We talked about bills and building, and then suddenly he said, "There was some men in the village, asking about you." Not much went unnoticed in a village. These were obviously city people we were dealing with, but then I had assumed that.
"Yes? When was that?"
"Three, four week ago."
"What did they ask?"
"Just about you, where you was from, that kind of thing. And about Mr. Holmes, wanting to know if you was seeing much of him. They asked Tillie, down the inn, you know?" He and Tillie had been seeing each other for some time now, I noted. "She didn't realise they was askin' 'til later, though, 'cause it was just a conversation, you see.
Wasn't until she found they'd asked the same questions down the post office that she put the two togethet, like." "Interesting. Thanks for telling me."
"None of my business, but why aren't you seeing him any more? It seems to have hit him bad."
I looked at his honest face and told him what would have been the truth, had I been telling the truth.
"You know that race horse of Tom Warner's that he's so proud of, wants to start a stud farm with?"
"Yes, it's a fine runner."
"Would you hitch it up with Vicky to pull a plough?"
It was such a patently foolish question that he looked at me for a minute before answering.
"You're saying that Mr. Holmes wants you to be a plough horse?"
"And that, right now anyway, I need to run. Nothing wrong with a plough horse. It's just that if you force a race horse to work along with a plough horse, they'll both get upset and kick apart the traces. That's what happened with Holmes and me."
"He's a good man. He came and took out a swarm from under Tillie's eaves last year. Didn't fuss." Not fussing was Patrick's highest accolade. "See if you can hold yourself in long enough to see him. I think he'd like it. His gardener tells me he's ailing."
"Yes. I will see him. This afternoon, in fact."
He mistook the hint of excitement in my voice for nervousness, and reached over to pat my soft scholar's hand with his big, calloused one.
"Don't you worry. Just remind yourself that you're not yoked to him, and you'll be fine."
"I'll do that, Patrick, and thank you."
I had arranged to be at Holmes' cottage at four o'clock, knowing that tea was Mrs. Hudson's favorite meal to produce.
There was a farm cart overturned on the road, which made me somewhat late, but at a quarter past four I pulled the car into his gravel drive and shut off the motor. The sound of Holmes' violin came to my ears. The violin is by its very nature one of the most melancholy of instruments when played alone; played as Holmes was doing, a slow and tuneless meditation, it was positively heart-wrenching.
I slammed the car door noisily to interrupt and retrieved the basket of cheeses and fruits I had brought from Oxford.
When I straightened up, the door of the cottage was open, and Holmes was leaning against the door jamb, no expression on his face.
"Hello, Russell."
"Hello, Holmes." I walked up the path trying to discern what was behind those hooded grey eyes, and failing.
I stood below him on the doorstep and held out the basket. "I brought you and Mrs. Hudson a few things from Oxford."
"That was nice of you, Russell," he said politely, voice and eyes saying nothing. He stepped back into the room to let me pass. "Please come in."
I took the basket through into the kitchen and somehow survived Mrs. Hudson's welcome without breaking down into tears. I allowed myself to embrace her, hard, and let my lip quiver slightly to let her know that I was still Mary Russell, and then became polite again.
She laid out vast quantities of food for us and talked on and on about the ship and the Suez Canal and Bombay and her son's family while I filled my plate with morsels I did not want.
"How did you hurt your head, Mary?" she finally asked me.
I decided to make a joke out of it, the absentminded undergraduate walking smack into the lightpost, but it didn't really succeed as humour. Mrs. Hudson smiled uncomfortably and said she was glad the glass hadn't hurt my eye, and Holmes watched me as if I were a specimen under his microscope. She excused herself and left us alone.
Holmes and I drank our tea and pushed the food around on our plates. I told him what I had been doing that term, and he asked a few questions. Silence crept heavily in. I desperately asked him what he had been working on, and he described an experiment going on in his laboratory. I asked some questions to keep the flow of words going, and he answered, without much interest. Finally he put his cup down and gestured vaguely in the direction of his laboratory.
"Do you want to see it?"
"Yes, certainly, if you want to show it to me." Anything was better than sitting here crumbling a cheese scone into a pile of greasy bits.
We stood up and went into his windowless laboratory, and he closed the door behind us. I saw immediately that there was no ongoing experiment, and when I turned to question him, he was standing against the door, his hands deep in his pockets. "Hello, Russell," he said for the second time, only now he was there in his face, and his eyes looked out at me, and I couldn't bear it. I turned my back on him, my hands two fists, my eyes shut. I could not see him now, talk to him, and still keep up the act. After a moment two soft taps came on the door, and I smiled in sheer relief. He understood. He pushed a tall lab stool up behind me and I sat on it, my back to him, eyes still closed.