Page 14 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
If he hadn’t guessed the truth while looking directly into the very depths of Charlotte’s mind.
Moriarty continued to consider her with avuncular beneficence. There was nothing intimidating in his conduct, which appeared merely to be that of a confounded man who didn’t know where to begin his response. Still she felt like a small creature in a glass vivarium, with no place to run and no place to hide.
Fortunately, it was not the same hypnotic scrutiny from earlier. Perhaps the effort had wearied him. Or perhaps she had at last distracted him with her deductions.
The sensation of no longer being stuck under a hundred-pound blanket, however, did not lessen her exhaustion. To the contrary, she felt even more depleted—and hungry and thirsty besides. But she only blinked a few times, as if coming out of a particularly absorbing reverie, and tucked a nonexistent strand of loose hair behind her ear.
“I must account myself impressed with your deductions, Miss Holmes,” said Moriarty. “I have indeed come to see you about my daughter.”
Beneath her skirts, Charlotte’s limbs quaked.
So they were still safe.
For the moment.
She forced herself to hold still and glanced out of the corners of her eyes at Mr. Marbleton. He sat with his gaze downcast, seemingly uninterested in the goings-on. Instead of scuffing one sole on her carpet, he was now pulling in both heels, his gleaming black Oxford shoes inching over a spread of dusky rose petals.
Was he calmer, compared to a few minutes ago?
Calmer, perhaps, but not more relaxed.
Charlotte had decided, early on, that she wanted Moriarty to underestimate her. Sherlock Holmes’s reputation of cleverness was well established, so she would not seek to misrepresent herself in that regard. Rather, she would distort her temperament, throwing in vanity, braggadocio, and a need for approval, especially from powerful older men.
“As I thought,” she said with a trace of smugness, putting more water to boil over the spirit lamp for a fresh pot of tea. “Please, I’m all ears.”
Moriarty sighed. All at once, he radiated fatigue and defeat. And she, who had struggled to understand human emotions as a child, and who still, from what she could gather, experienced fewer and less intense emotions than did most others, felt the depth of his loss.
Was this why Mr. Marbleton had not relaxed? Because Moriarty’s gifts extended beyond mesmerism? The pain and anguish he manifested, real or not, were flames that beguiled unwary moths.
So she had better play the part of an unwary moth. Thankfully, she always brought a notebook to client meetings. She rarely used the notebook, but transcribing Moriarty’s words gave her a valid excuse not to look directly at him.
At the flames that sought to burn her wings.
“The first Mrs. Baxter died in childbirth, a tragedy for which I’ve still not completely forgiven myself,” he began, the faintest catch to his voice. “The infant survived, but the attending physician did not believe she would live to see her first birthday. Having lost Mrs. Baxter, I did not wish to love and lose someone else. So I allowed my daughter’s maternal grandmother to take charge of her upbringing.
“She proved to be made of sterner material, my child. Not only did she reach her first birthday, she sailed past subsequent ones without any regard to predictions of her early demise. I, on the other hand, made the mistake of hesitating year after year, wondering whether she was only meant to flourish under her grandmother’s care. Whether if I were to bring her back into my life, Fate would immediately intervene and seize her from me.”
Charlotte, who had placed an éclair on her plate, proceeded to ignore it, transcribing his story with the earnestness of an apprentice secretary.
“She was ten when she at last came to live with me, after her grandmother passed away. I thought we’d get along very well and we did, but we never grew close. She missed her old life and always wished to return to England and live in the house in which she grew up—and which had been bequeathed to her in her grandmother’s will.
“When she was twenty-one, she did just that, moving to England and taking up residence in the old house. But she did not stay there for long. Some months later, I learned that she’d packed up her worldly goods and joined a group of Hermetists who had formed their own community in Cornwall.”
Charlotte had no choice but to look up in surprise. “By Hermetists, you mean those who follow the teachings of Hermes Trismegistus, as found in theCorpus Hermeticum?”
“Correct. It is difficult for me to acknowledge that I have a daughter who is an occultist, but there it is.”
To Charlotte, the occult was but a religion that had yet to muster an army and anoint a king. But she nodded sympathetically before resuming her shorthand note-taking.
“I was... vexed. The next time I met with her, I expressed that vexation. She replied that she was both of age and no longer dependent on my support. Therefore she was free to follow the dictates of her own will. And if it pleased her to live among occultists, for a while or forever, then that was what she would do.
“Her response further infuriated me. But after a while, I realized that I could not change her mind. Time was the only thing that could change it—time and the actual experience of living among those people she considered her friends and supporters. So I relented and she was able to have her way.”
He paused. “I believe your water has boiled, Miss Holmes.”
Charlotte was aware of that but had wanted him to be the one to point it out to her. “Oh, you are right. My apologies, I was so absorbed in your account I didn’t even notice.”
She turned off the spirit burner, warmed the teapot anew, and measured more tea leaves to steep. “I had better pay more attention to my tea-making, or we’ll be drinking a bitter brew. But if you don’t mind, Mr. Baxter, do please tell me how long it took you to relent and what Miss Baxter had to do to bring about this change of heart on your part.”
