Sherlock sat down and stared at me. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“I suspect you wish to discuss some things with me. Please, no heart-shaped notes of gratitude.”
“Gratitude!” I scoffed. “As if you ever evoke feelings of gratitude!”
I turned to look out the window. I could still hear the thunder rumbling ever closer and the rain dripping from the trees, polishing the leaves that would not stay for much longer. In a short time, it would be autumn and then winter, that ever-so-quiet and still season of diamonds sparkling on the snow.
I had a sweet memory, a clear image of Effie and me, the two of us skating in Norfolk. I could hear in my mind the blades cutting across the icy ponds. Me, dressed in the warm pantaloons she’d made for me and my heavy, blue wool coat; she still wearing her long, cumbersome skirt, made in gold to match her hair. And a white fur hat and muff, and her O’Flahertie tartan scarf trailing behind her in the wind. She was like a healing bouquet of stamens, delicate as the gossamer filaments, like anther, sweet and ready to burst forth, weaving into hearts with her infectious laughter. She skated with such zeal, as she did with every endeavour. As she had lived.
“Poppy, you must know, you must, how difficult this is for me,” Sherlock said.
“What?”
“It is difficult for me to-”
“To love. To trust. You feel you cannot have your work and have me as well.”
“Yes.”
“You would trample on such treasures rather than extract them.”
“Poppy, I-”
He rose and stood near the fireplace. For a moment, he reminded me of a painting in St. Paul’s, a depiction of Jesus preparing to knock on an overgrown and long-unopened door. It illustrated a passage from Revelations: “Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with Me.”
The artist said that he painted the picture by what he thought to be Divine command, unworthy though he was. And I sat there now, as if by Divine Command, still hoping that one day Sherlock might knock on my long-unopened door again.
“It’s all right, Sherlock. Truly.”
“I won’t change my mind, Poppy. I cannot. It is too dangerous for you.”
And too dangerous for your heart, I thought.
“But you would still like me to be your assistant?”
He grinned broadly. “Well, yes, of course!”
Sherlock’s heart was bound by crude blocks of ashlar, and nothing I could do right now would coax the blossoms through such a finely dressed stone wall.
So, for now, I would linger in the vicinity of Sherlock’s heart, waiting for him to knock again.
Epilogue
“I don’ see no elephants,” Archie said as I shifted the balance of little Billy’s weight against my chest. “You said fere’d be firteen. And clowns. You said fere’d be clowns.”
“Ten or more of them,” I laughed. “They’ll come along, Archie.”
“Wiggins,” he reminded me and I nodded.
“Yes, Master Wiggins. The elephants and the clowns will come, I promise.”
I glanced over at Michael who was similarly trying to distribute Alexander’s weight as we waited for the Lord Mayor of London’s Show to come around the bend.
It was a dark, dull November morning and a heavy fog hung over the city. I wondered how the gilt coaches, the steel armour and the gay, coloured flags would even be discernible.
“Will we see the Prince, Miss?” Ollie asked, tugging at my skirt. “It’s ’is birthday.”
“Birthday!” Rattle screamed. “Will there be cake?”
Laughing, Oscar said, “I don’t think so, little one. But you never know. Our prince is full of surprises,” adding a wink.
“So it’s official now, Oscar, is it not?” Michael asked. “You’ve completed your studies at Oxford?”
“Yes, Michael. Well, almost. My official degree will be registered on the 28th.”
“And then?”
“I shall settle here for a while. But I am thinking about going to America.”
“America!”
“Poppy,” Oscar whispered in my ear. “Come with me.”
“Why would I go there?”
“Why would you stay here?”
I studied his face a moment. Then he said, “I am almost finished with my poem. You should read it. You should heed it.”
“What should I heed?”
“‘I am too young to live without desire, too young art thou to waste this summer night.’ Do not waste your summer nights on Sherlock, Poppy.”
I shook my head and kissed Billy’s head, wondering if he and my nephew were the only babies I would ever hold in my arms.
The parade was grand, as it had been since the twelfth century. Young boys sold little books with brightly coloured pictures representing the procession. Little girls dressed in pink stockings and boys in canary breeches watched the parade and begged for sweets, for all the shop windows were filled with them. The yellow coach of the Master of the Company and the carriage of the Worshipful Master of Broderer’s passed by. Then came men in uniforms of red and blue and the Worshipful Company of Bakers. Some of them held their banner high, the one that said, “Praise God for All;” others carried large bouquets of flowers. And after them came the Vintners’ Company, its commissioners bearing shields, and the Bargemaster in full uniform, followed by the Swan Uppers, those who look after the swans of London and mark the young swans in the spring. They were dressed in dark cloth jackets spliced with white and blue and white striped jersey shirts and white trousers.
The crowed roared with delight when the elephants approached, dressed in their Oriental trappings and howdahs, ridden by boys not much older than Archie. Gorgeous, magnificent, triumphant, I thought, as I glanced at my nephew and saw them through a child’s eyes. Several knights in steel armour, bearing lances and pennons and mounted on magnificent chargers, followed and then came the Epping Forest rangers in their green velvet coats and hats with long feathers.
Hats Effie would have loved the hats, I
