A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(4)
If history was any indication, Lady Holmes would storm toward where her husband sat and berate him some more. Then the entire diatribe would begin again.
Lumbering bustle in tow, Lady Holmes marched on, clearing the line of sight from the keyhole to Charlotte.
It never failed to astonish Livia that, after having known Charlotte all her life, sometimes she was still surprised by her sister’s appearance. Especially at moments like these—well, there had never before been a moment quite like this, to be sure, but Charlotte had been dumbfounding her family for as long as Livia could remember.
When Livia was six and Charlotte four, one cold but clear Saturday afternoon on a family stroll around the village green, they’d come across a drawing that had been pinned to the noticeboard. There were four images on the piece of paper: a well, a horseshoe, the Virgin, and a kitten that was only half the size as the other images, a round, quizzical head floating on the top half of the paper.
Lady Holmes had sniffed. “How strange.”
“Rather interesting, I should think,” replied her husband.
“But what is it?” asked Henrietta, the eldest of the Holmes girls, her voice high-pitched and whiny.
“It’s a message, of course,” Livia told her impatiently. “Must be something about the children’s Christmas party.”
“What about that party? I don’t see how that can be.”
How anyone could live to be ten years old and still remain so thick Livia had no idea. “The Virgin gave birth to baby Jesus at Christmas. The other drawings are games that will be there.”
Henrietta looked doubtful. “What kind of games?”
Before Livia could enumerate her guesses, Charlotte said, loudly and clearly, “It isn’t about games. It’s a proposal.”
All attention immediately turned to her.
Charlotte did not speak. In fact, their mother had been fretting for some time that Charlotte might turn out to be the same as Bernadine, the second oldest Holmes girl. At nine, Bernadine was no longer taken on family outings: She’d become too disconcerting, a lovely child who paid no attention to anyone or anything. If she had any thoughts at all, she never shared them with a single person.
Charlotte, with her blond ringlets and big blue eyes, resembled Bernadine almost exactly. But whereas Bernadine was rail-thin—nothing Cook made ever agreed with her—Charlotte was a roly-poly dumpling, her cheeks full, her limbs round, her hands adorably chubby.
A cherubic girl, one who was as silent as the small hours of the night. She nodded, shook her head, and pointed, if necessary. Cook insisted that one time, in answer to the question How many pieces of apple fritter do you want, Miss Charlotte?, the girl had given a beautifully enunciated Twelve. But no one else had ever heard her say so much as Mamma.
One time Livia had overheard Lady Holmes weep about her family being cursed. Not only can I not have sons, but half my daughters are imbeciles! Livia had come away feeling both relieved that she herself wasn’t an imbecile and heartbroken that Charlotte, whom she found darling and hilarious—she never failed to smile at the sight of Charlotte attacking her food—might someday become as unreachable as Bernadine.
But now Charlotte had spoken her first full sentences. Livia would have been indignant had anyone else corrected her so unceremoniously, but Charlotte had spoken and Livia had—no, not butterflies, but a whole stampeding herd of wildebeest in her stomach. With everyone else still dumbstruck, she shook Charlotte’s mitten-clad hand, which she held in her own, and asked, “Do you mean a proposal of marriage, Charlotte?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Livia,” Lady Holmes scoffed. “She doesn’t know what that is.”
“Yes, a proposal of marriage, Mamma,” Charlotte answered. “I know what that is. It is when a gentleman asks a lady to become his wife.”
Again, stunned silence all around.
Sir Henry got down on one knee, a feverish gleam in his eyes. “Charlotte, my dear, why do you say these images constitute a proposal of marriage?”
Charlotte cast a critical eye at the picture, her expression amusingly grown-up. “It isn’t a very good one, is it?”
“Maybe not, poppet. But why do you say it’s a proposal in the first place?”
“Because it says Will you marry me. Actually, it says Well you marry me.”
“I can see a well. And I can see that the horseshoe opens up and looks like a U. And the Virgin’s name is Mary,” said Sir Henry. “But how is the cat ‘me’?”
“Exactly,” Henrietta joined in. “That makes no sense.”
Livia would have liked to shove a snowball deep down the front of Henrietta’s frock. But Charlotte didn’t seem to mind. “The cat is in the middle of a meow. But since there’s only half a cat, it’s half a meow. And half a meow is ‘me.’”
Henrietta pouted. “How do you know half a meow isn’t ‘ow’ inst—?”
“Henrietta, shut up.” Sir Henry placed his hands on Charlotte’s pink cheeks. “That is remarkable, poppet. Absolutely remarkable.”
“Are you sure?” said Lady Holmes. “She might be making things up and—”
“Lady Holmes, kindly shut up, too.”
“Well!” Lady Holmes sputtered. But she wasn’t as easily silenced as Henrietta. “But you must tell Charlotte that since she is able to speak, she may no longer be so rudely silent.”