Over two months had passed since the disastrous climax at Norfolk. Physically and mentally exhausted, Violet had come down with bronchitis. She had been gravely ill, and I had spent many nights by her bedside. She had a high fever and grew delirious. In her sleep she would talk to Donald Wheelwright. When she became frightened, I would bathe her forehead and try to calm her. Between my practice during the day and the long nights with Violet, I too became exhausted. Henry finally took me aside and sternly told me that even though I had the constitution of an ox, I would eventually wear myself out or fall ill, and then I could help no one. Gertrude and the other servants shared the nursing with me after that, and Henry took on some of my patients. Several elderly ladies found him quite charming.
Violet had recovered from the bronchitis, but then the inevitable depression set in. At least the physical illness had let her sleep, the body overpowering the mind and asserting its demand for rest. Her stomach ulcer had also been better. But once her fever lifted, her spirits sank, and her insomnia returned. Try as I might, I could not distract her from black thoughts.
She, who had run a household of over thirty servants, handled all the accounts and investments, and overseen a vast, secret organization, now spent most of her days idly brooding before the fire. She had been a witty and charming conversationalist, but now I could barely get her to talk to me. I could not recall the last time I had heard her laugh. She had become pale, thin, and weak, a prime candidate for pneumonia—which would kill her quickly—or tuberculosis, a disease of lingering horror.
I turned restlessly in the bed, then stroked Henry’s shoulder and arm, feeling the muscles beneath his nightshirt. He mumbled a word that I could not make out.
Old Wheelwright had been a devil, but we had managed to shield Violet. Holmes had resolved that we would, as much as possible, be truthful, and I had told Lestrade that Violet had struck her raging husband just as he was about to kill Sherlock Holmes. The fact that we had all obviously been assaulted—especially Violet—supported our story. However, because we did not want Violet to go to prison and because the Farnsworths had safely escaped, they took the blame for the oil well scheme, the Angels of the Lord, and the evil gypsy. We were all questioned, but in the end no charge was brought against Violet. I think her poor battered face influenced Lestrade.
Old Wheelwright had been doling out money to Donald for years, and he cut Violet off without a penny. However, unbeknownst to her father-in-law or her deceased husband, Violet had built up a small fortune of her own. She had had complete control of Donald’s finances (a fact which astonished me, as I have no head for figures), and she had invested shrewdly.
The major newspapers were restrained in their coverage, but not so some of the sensational dailies. We made sure Violet never saw any of these, but Sherlock was not so lucky. One paper actually ran the headline, “Famed Detective Smitten at Last.” My mouth twitched, my anger flaring briefly like an ember someone had blown upon. It was ironic because the famed detective was hardly behaving like a conspiratorial lover.
Although he was obviously deeply concerned, he had refused to see Violet since that fatal morning. When she had bronchitis, he had come to inquire of her health every day, and even now, he asked Henry or me about her at least once a week. On the worst night, as she lay burning with fever, he had paced about her library until morning, but I could not get him to come upstairs to the bedroom.
At first I had been willing to leave him alone, but when Violet finally recovered, I went to see him at Baker Street. I pleaded with him for over an hour to simply go to see her—but in vain. He appeared colder and more gaunt than ever before, his face thin and imperious like some marble Caesar. I asked if he might somehow excuse her actions, even if he could not forgive. All I received were remarks like, “It would be neither to her benefit or mine were we to meet again. I have nothing more to say to her.” Always before, I had felt certain that Sherlock’s better qualities outweighed his eccentricities; now I was not so sure. Perhaps he was cold—and selfish.
I had asked Henry to talk with him, but he gave me an odd look and asked if I really thought Sherlock could simply forget everything Violet had done.
“That is not the point!” I had exclaimed.
“Oh, but I’m afraid that is the point.”
I ran the sole of my foot along Henry’s foot to his ankle bone and onto his calf muscle. He stirred, and his hand sought mine even though he was still fast asleep.
Violet had not mentioned Holmes until one evening about two weeks ago. I had brought her violin to her room and urged her to play. She took the violin and the bow, and then considered my request, her gaze turning inward. “The last time I played was for Mr. Holmes at Norfolk.” Her lips formed a smile, but one totally lacking in warmth or humor. “How he must despise me.” She gave a sharp laugh. “I deserve his disgust.” She set aside the violin.
She had caught me at a weak moment. I was angry and told her that instead of morbidly dwelling on her past sins, she might think about how she could atone for them—think what good she could make of the rest of her life. By the time I returned home, I was ashamed of myself and tearfully told Henry all that I had said.
“She needed a scolding,” he said. “You have been so patient. And I think you are nearly as worn out as she.” He suggested that a change of scenery might help us all, and the clear mountain air would be beneficial for Violet’s lungs.
Well, the air was wonderful, the scenery spectacular, but Violet was gloomy as ever, and Holmes was back in London, no doubt sulking before the fireplace at Baker Street.
“How can they...?” I said.
Henry stirred abruptly. “Michelle?” He did not sound awake.
“Go back to sleep.” I stroked his arm again.
Henry was so still I thought he was still sleeping, but at last he rolled over—his hair was tousled, his eyes closed—and slipped his arms about me. He tried to kiss me, but his mouth was so wooden I could tell he was still half asleep.
“Are you fretting?” he asked. I said nothing. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Violet and Sherlock are grown up. Ultimately they must take care of themselves.”
“Well, they are not doing a very good job of it.”
“When we have children of our own,” he said, “we shall be responsible for them. Violet and Sherlock are not our children. Perhaps they will come round some day.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
He drew me closer. The room was very cold—my nose was freezing—but we lay under a heap of quilts wearing our thick flannel nightshirts, and it was warm and comfortable. I could feel him fall back asleep, his breathing subtly changing. I watched the window square grow brighter and yellower, and then closed my eyes. But sleep eluded me.
I decided to get up—an adventure in the frigid room. I put my heavy wool robe under the covers to warm it before venturing forth. At last I sat up. I slid my feet into my slippers, not wanting my bare skin to touch the icy planks, then stood and wrapped the robe about me. I could see my breath.
I drew the curtains aside, and a shaft of bright yellow sunlight shot into the room. The light on the snow was blinding, and the vista spread before me was straight from a travel book. The Alpine mountains were sharp, jagged crags of white—winds stirring the snow on their glacial tops—and the sky was an absolute dazzling blue. There was an icy purity to everything, an austere and terrible beauty.
“How can anyone be gloomy in a place like this?” I was happy to be away from London, from its squalor and dark ugliness. We had only been in the Alps a little over two days; such a setting must, in time, help even Violet.