It has been over a year since Godfrey left home with That Unspeakable Person, and yet it feels as though he left yesterday saying he needed to interview a witness. Hah! MY ANGER CAN ONLY BE ADEQUATELY EXPRESSED THROUGH WRITING IN BLOCK LETTERS. MY PAIN CAN ONLY BE RELATED THROUGH SONG LYRICS FULL OF CURSING WHICH WILL ONLY BE ACCEPTABLE IN ANOTHER GODDAMN CENTURY AND SOME REALLY ANGRY PIANO IN SIX/EIGHT TIME.
Woke up from the best night's sleep I've had in ages with the suggestion “Go to London; go to Baker Street” from my dreams. It all became clear upon the arrival of the evening post – Sherlock Holmes is alive! My God! The Universe, in all its wisdom, is telling me to go to him, and I shall obey. Perhaps there is hope for love after all! Not sure what to pack – Hell! I'll pack everything! The game's afoot!
Awoke with The Voice ringing in my ears again; I'm not sure why The Voice which calls me to Mr. Holmes is that of an Englishwoman. Perhaps it is the same voice which called Jane Eyre back to Mr. Rochester.
London still gray as ever, gray as a certain man's eyes in candlelight but without the pale fire of intelligence and the dark passion underneath the surface. As I sold Briony Lodge when I married (biggest mistake OF MY LIFE) I took a room at Durrant's. Dinner was surprisingly not terrible.
The Voice – that sweet, angelic voice – has continued to urge me to go to Baker Street. Spent three hours dressing, fixing hair, etc. for stroll and was just about to leave hotel when agent comes in with Oscar's latest script. Blast it, why did I tell my housekeeper where I was staying? But as
that rat bastard my estranged husband drained the accounts, Mr. Mycroft doesn't pay nearly enough to maintain a respectable household, and I'm running out of tacky jewelry to pawn (Rudi had no taste, poor dear) I suppose I must earn money somehow. And everyone says Oscar always brings such handsome young gentlemen with him to dress-rehearsal.
Today's excursion to Baker Street went relatively smoothly until I saw what must have been a circus of humanity outside Mr. Holmes's flat. Half the debutantes in London have evidently decided to make a go for Britain's most legendary bachelor, along with a flock of green-carnationed young men, some lovesick puppies in Scotland Yard uniforms (suddenly I understand why the Whitechapel murders went unsolved), and the usual complement of purse-snatchers among them. Realized that I could not be noticed in such a crowd even with new hat (two stuffed doves and a ring of orchids. V. fashionable.) and decided to retreat until evening.
I wonder if my gentleman's evening-dress still fits?
Most. Momentous. Night. EVER.
My plan to woo Mr. Holmes en travestie failed, and I'm glad of it. Upon entering Baker Street I was doused in claret by Dr. Watson and his moustache; Mr. Holmes glanced at me but then continued glaring at Dr. Watson. As I left Baker Street I was apprehended by a rather short Yardsman for “public intoxication” and hauled off to gaol, which I was NOT looking forward to (if they'd discovered my sex they'd have locked me up as a common prostitute. I have been many things, but I have NEVER been common.) I was only saved by Mr. Mycroft, who passed by the gaol just as my Inspector was ready to haul me in; he told the Inspector that Whitehall wanted me for questioning.
By the time I arrived at his apartment I had told him everything – Geoffrey and That Unspeakable Person, my trips to Baker Street, Dr. Watson's moustache. I went through half of the packet of handkerchiefs he'd purchased that night. Mr. Mycroft was very understanding, and I was half-tempted to bury my sorrows in his flesh, but he did not ask and I didn't want to ask. He did, however, lend me the use of his guest bedroom for the night, and as I was in no condition to travel, I accepted.
It was after I'd undressed and poured myself a glass of water from the carafe that a woman's shape appeared in the curtain. “Mrs. Norton?” the Angelic Voice called from the shape. “My name is Mary Watson. I believe we are in similar predicaments.”
So began the most intense conversation I've ever had. Mrs. Watson revealed that she had schemed to drive her husband and Mr. Holmes apart but was now unsure of the wisdom of that scheme -- “Mrs. Norton—Irene--when I began to consider it anew I found the idea of relations between my John and Mr. Holmes to be—well--”
“Stimulating?” I asked, and blushed at my own words.
“Quite.” Her voice was suddenly shy.
“I'd never considered Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson in that light before, but I've read—literature about two men in intimate relations, and I've also found it quite stimulating,” I admitted.
We talked through the night, and when we had nothing else to say our lips found different occupations.. I'd never considered myself at all Sapphic before, but Mrs. Watson – Mary – was so beautiful I couldn't help myself. We parted only after she promised to visit me the night after next, and I fell asleep with her voice in my ears.
Woke up to find I was showered in rose petals, which disturbed me a little when I considered the possibility that Mr. Mycroft may have entered my room, but then I felt my sweet Mary's hand across my brow and knew they were from her. I was so happy I kissed Mr. Mycroft good-bye this morning; I'm afraid I may have left him with the wrong impression. Still, I don't have to see him again until after my trip from Prague next month.
Only twenty-five hours until I see my Mary again!
The afternoon is lamentably long, and I burn with desire for my Mary. “Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night” - I finally understand Juliet's words. And yet – perhaps the delay will make our joining the more sweet.
Only one more hour!