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.
I put some kindling on the grate and started a fire, then added a large log so Henry would not have a similar adventure getting out of bed. Violet was sleeping in a chair before the fire in her room.
“She was up half the night, ma’am,” Gertrude whispered.
Although Gertrude was frail herself, she had been a great help. She was fiercely protective of her mistress. Soon Violet would be moving out of the enormous townhouse, and Gertrude and Collins would accompany her. She had no desire to live so ostentatiously, and her house was full of bad memories and dark shadows.
Gertrude and I had breakfast together, and a sleepy Henry eventually joined us. The stove threw off heat— the tiny kitchen was the warmest room in the house. I teased him about his bedraggled appearance, but he only grinned and said something about the inevitable results of a night of wild abandon. Gertrude was making tea at that moment, so I smiled back at him.
By noon Violet was still not up, and Henry resolved to walk into the village proper to inquire about trips to the nearby glacier. Violet finally came down and picked at her breakfast while I ate lunch. She was pale, but less tired looking. I suggested a game of chess in the sitting room, but I was such a poor player that she could easily beat me without paying attention to the game. Afterwards I tried to read a tedious book on diseases of the heart and circulatory system, but always I was aware of Violet staring obsessively into the fire.
At about three, I grew restless. I set down my book, stretched, and then stood up. “Would you like to go outside for a while? If you do not feel up to walking, we could bundle up and sit on the balcony.”
Violet smiled weakly. “Like all the tubercular patients at the inn. I saw them the afternoon we arrived. They appeared so sad, all of them: flushed, yet ill, wrapped in scarves, bundled in mittens and hats and coats and blankets, all of them waiting to die. No, it is too cold for me even when I bundle up, and the sun hurts my eyes. It makes my head ache.”
“But I have some dark glasses.”
She shook her head. “No. It is too cold and too bright.”
It might make you feel better, I wanted to add. “It seems foolish to have come all this way to the beautiful sunny Alps and then to spend the days indoors before the fire.” I could not keep the irritation from my voice.
She sighed and lowered her gaze. “Perhaps later I shall go out.”
“Perhaps later I shall drag you out.”
She looked up, and for an instant her lips formed the mocking smile that I had not seen for so long. “I do not doubt it.”
No sooner had I picked up my heavy and tedious book, than I heard a rap at the front door. “Who can that be?” Violet did not much care. She continued staring into the fire, lost in some dark reverie. I frowned, then rose and left the sitting room.
Framed in the doorway, against the brilliant exterior light, was a familiar silhouette, a tall form in a black greatcoat and top hat.
“Sherlock!” I exclaimed. I strode forward. “Oh, at last!”
Gertrude gave me a puzzled glance, then said, “Won’t you please come in now, sir?”
Holmes’ eyes searched the room, his nostrils flaring, and then he released his breath in a great white cloud of vapor. He seemed frozen at the entrance. He was very pale, and the brilliant light emphasized his pallor. Dressed all in black, he resembled some type of night creature, some cave dweller, caught in the unaccustomed brightness of day.
“Do come in,” I said.
He thrust forward his leg in the dark wool and his black boot, then crossed the threshold. “
“It took you long enough! But I am glad you did. Violet will be happy to see you.”
He took off his hat and gripped the brim with his long fingers in the black leather gloves. Despite his smile, his gray eyes swept anxiously about the room.
“Perhaps you can cheer her up. She is so despondent. And it is wonderful to see you. I... I’m sorry about last time.” I took his arm. The muscle was hard and stiff. “Violet needs all the friends she can get. She would never admit it, but I know she was hurt that you would not see her.”
Holmes’ lips drew back. “It was never my intention to be unkind. I may on occasion be curt, blunt, or insensitive, but never deliberately cruel.”
I smiled. “Well, it is good you are here. You could obviously use some fresh air and sunshine yourself.”
“I shall not... I have some business in Geneva, and I thought I might stop on my way. My visit must be brief.”
Holmes was skilled at deception when he wished to be—when he was playing a part or uncovering some hidden fact—but that afternoon he did not seem to be trying very hard. He appeared almost ill, what with his pallor and the shadows under his eyes, and he was so thin. All in all, he, disturbingly, resembled Violet.
Still holding his arm, I started for the sitting room door. He moved reluctantly and quite slowly.
“You must promise me one thing,” I said. “You must not upset Violet. You must not be curt, blunt, or insensitive today.”
He stopped and gave a quick shake of his head. “Do you know me so little, Michelle?”
He seemed so hurt that I was sorry and immediately backtracked. “Of course I know you would not
