“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 the Corpus 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.”
A needier and more conceited Charlotte Holmes should still be able to detect an omission in the story.
“Ah, I see my attempt at eliding a few things did not go unnoticed,” said Moriarty quietly. “Very well, I threatened to burn the commune to the ground and she came home with me. But in the fifteen months that followed, she became engaged to no fewer than six unsuitable men—and I assure you, Miss Holmes, hers had not been an existence into which unsuitable men were granted entrée willy-nilly.”
Amazing how he managed to infuse that particular piece of information with such pathos. What would have been comedy recounted by another became a lament for a father’s thwarted love.
Charlotte was in awe of Miss Baxter. She ought to have tried something similar, perhaps, when her own father had reneged on his promise to sponsor her education. Not to mention, she didn’t know what kind of men Moriarty considered unsuitable, but to have won over so many of them in such a short time was a testament to Miss Baxter’s charm and determination.
“Indeed, she demonstrated that what I had originally believed to be an intolerable choice was in fact, the lesser evil. I could have continued to exercise parental authority and restricted her to such circumstances as to guarantee that she would not meet any man, but I did not wish to become her jailer.”
It took some effort for Charlotte not to look at Mr. Marbleton. Moriarty clearly had no trouble becoming his jailer.
“She returned to the commune under certain conditions. She was to write once a week. I or my representatives would meet with her once every six months. She could donate money to the commune, for her own and its upkeep, up to the entirety of her annual income, but she was not allowed to touch the principal sum from which her income is derived.
“I did not think these were onerous conditions and she agreed. For close to five years she kept to her end of the bargain and I mine. But of late, things have changed.”
He fell silent.
“When did you first notice?” Charlotte was obliged to ask.
“Too late, I’m afraid. There was upheaval in my own life in the second half of last year. I was, shall we say, indisposed for months on end.”
His voice changed. Until now it had put her in mind of a bassoon or a cello, an instrument that produced low yet beautiful notes. But all of a sudden the music left his words, and without it those words seethed with anger.
The coup that saw him overthrown—the thought of it still enraged him, so much so that it caused a stumble in his otherwise perfect performance. So much so that Mr. Marbleton shrank into himself.
Moriarty, too, must have noticed, for he stopped speaking. When he resumed, his voice became, if possible, even more mellifluous. “While my indisposition lasted, those around me failed to pay attention to her. Some subordinates did not know about her existence and many others had forgotten. The solicitor who usually visited her passed away. Her letters lay unread in a private postal box in Switzerland because no one collected them.
“I was not able to look after my own affairs again until the very end of last year. It took considerable time and energy to put my house in order, so to speak. I’m ashamed to admit it, but since her return to the commune, my daughter had led a quiet life, and I’d grown accustomed to not thinking of her as someone in need of my attention.”