"So sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Danforth!" he said heartily. She managed a tremulous smile. Hoping that he could not detect the trembling of her hand, she barely caught herself before curtsying like a child greeting her elders. With a formal nod, she relyed upon the enormous brim of her elaborate hat to cast doubt upon her years. "How terribly kind of you to see me."She had carefully chosen her plain suit of cinnamon gabardine to enhance the seriousness of her errand, its only adornment being a scrollwork of braid on the large lapels, which repeated itself down the center and around the hem of the stylishly wide skirt. A cameo broach nestling in the lace at her throat and pearls dangling from her ears were her only jewelry and, as was her habit for morning calls, her glove and boot leather matched. Having surrendered her muff with her cloak in the receiving hall, only her reticule and fan hung from her wrist.
Releasing her hand, Conan Doyle indicated that she should continue to the fireside and that he would follow. He had received the clipping from The Times that Greenhough Smith had sent announcing that Abigail was to be among the guests who'd be dining with the Marquess and Marchioness at Hunterswell House this Saturday with no less a personage than His Royal High-ness, the Prince of Wales, as guest of honor. Europe's most celebrated toastmaster, Mark Twain, was to be in attendance as well, as was His Highness, the Nawab Ahanti Khabir Abdulsamad. Heady company. And yet she seemed flustered at meeting him, a mere writer, albeit a successful, if not to say, famous, one. In light of her lofty connections he was flattered by her charmingly feminine agitation. Annoyance at his editor's foisting a dilettante heiress upon him, especially since he'd neglected to post a sample of her writing along with the column of gossip, abated somewhat.
Waiting until she was settled in one of the wingchairs by the fire before seating himself in the chair opposite, he set about putting Abigail at her ease by getting her to talk about herself, hoping to be rid of her before tea. "America is one of my favorite countries," he said sincerely. "May I ask what took you away from such an exciting home as New York?"
"My mother died when I was born, and father has not remarried," Abigail replied with a small smile to indicate that she was quite used to the loss. "Father dispaired of raising me to proper ladyhood in the same household with my older twin brothers. Needing them nearby for business, he sent me to stay with Lord and Lady Pepper while I continued my education in Europe."
Duly noting her lack of self-pity, and concise manner of speaking, he continued, "My estimable editor tells me you want to be a writer." Although expecting a brief answer, he leaned back in his chair as if getting comfortable to listen indefinitely. "And what, my dear girl, have you written?"
Abigail liked him at once, which only served to heighten her remorse at being an imposter. Stalling for time, she said, "No one could ever write anything to equal your stories of Sherlock Holmes."
Irritated anew that she'd chosen his tiresome detective to praise out of all the characters he had created, he struck the soft arm of the chair with his palm as he exclaimed, "Oh, a pox upon Holmes!" Frowning, he added, "I killed him over six years ago and as far as I am concerned, he is dead forever."
"But, sir." She unfurled her fan and fluttered it nervously. "I am given to understand that William Gillette is enjoying great success in New York in your new play, Sherlock Holmes."
"That play is more Gillette's invention than mine," he said gruffly. "I have no intention of ever writing about Holmes again."
Astonished by the vehemence of his reaction, Abigail hastened to add, "Oh, sir, I pray you, do not feel thus." She leaned forward eagerly. "Sherlock Holmes is my inspiration!"
"That is a capital mistake, my dear Miss Danforth," he said with a reproving shake of his head and an admoninshing finger. "You must write about what you know."
"Ah, but Dr. Conan Doyle, I fear I have misled you." She stilled her fan. "I have no desire to write about a detective."
"You confuse me, Miss Danforth." Mentally composing a severe note to Greenough Smith regarding his screening methods, he added patiently, "What is it exactly that you do want to write about?"
"Actually, sir." She cleared her throat with a delicate gesture of gloved fingertips to lips. "I have no desire to write about anything."
He stiffened. "Have you sought me out just to pester me into resurrecting Holmes?" All warmth drained from his manner. "I warn you, Miss Danforth," his tone grew ominous, "I have had my fill of abuse from ladies who write letters only to call me a brute for having dispatched him."
"Oh, no, sir!" She looked directly into his eyes. "But I must beseech you to tell no one of our interview." Her voice lost its tremulous quality.
"Surely, Miss Danforth, you did not come all the way here to play conundrums. What is it you wish to say to me?"
Her gaze did not waiver. "First you must promise."
Thoroughly annoyed, longing to dismiss her and return to his study forthwith, but too chivalrous to do so, he crossed his heart impatiently. "I swear I shall tell no one."
With a relieved sigh, she nodded to acknowledge his promise, which set her earrings to dancing beneath her enormous hat. "Well, then." She stood quickly, her posture regal.
Conan Doyle was on his feet in an instant.
Skirts arustle, she paced to the center of the room and turned to face him before she declared, "It is my heart's desire to devote the rest of my life to that infant science of detection."
Stunned, his eyes widened. Conan Doyle was speechless.
The fire crackled and snapped.
Abigail continued rapidly, her voice firm. "But please understand I have no ambition to imitate Holmes's method, or his life." With a sweep of her furled fan, she indicated the souvenirs that encircled the room. "Like you, sir, I have a thirst for travel. I could not bear to stay cooped up in rooms on Baker Street. Nor could I inject myself with drugs." She shuddered. "And thank Heavens, musical talent has little to do with the art of detection." Her grin was wicked as she walked back toward him. "I'd be quite hopeless at playing the violin. I'm barely passable on the piano, which is de rigueur if I am to turn into the lady my father intends."
The passionate young woman with dark, sparkling eyes who stood before him was so different from the timorous girl who'd been sitting by the fire that he could scarcely believe his senses. While he had to admit to not a little authorial pride in that she'd actually sought out Dr. Watson, believing Holmes's adventures to be real, he was appalled that his irritating fictional character had had such an independent life that he had inflammed her imagination with such untoward results. "And what about your father?" He ran a hand through his hair. "What would he say?"
"He would disown me." Her eyes grew solemn as she continued, her voice subdued. "I am due my mother's inheritance upon my debut." She shrugged matter-of-factly. "Father would no doubt disinherit me into the bargain."
"Well then, my dear young lady, does that not settle it?" Spying the errant cricket ball, he took a few quick steps and stooped easily to retrieve it. Much to Abigail's delight, not only did he absentmindedly place it beside the candy dish on a side table - a capital offense in her father's house - but he made no reference whatever to the inconsiderate carelessness of children as he rejoined her at the fireplace.
"Not quite, sir." Taking courage from his apparent good nature, and his not having laughed at her outright, she said, "I am determined to become the world's first female consulting detective."
Taken aback by her resolve, he frowned. "But you have everything, my dear." He spread his hands wide to indicate the outside world as well as express his consternation. "Everything!" he exclaimed. "Why on earth would you risk losing it all?"
She perched daintily on the edge of the chair. "I am not insensitive to the advantages of being a rich man's daughter," she said with a wry smile. "Or a titled man's wife." Her glance was piercing as she watched the perplexed writer as he eased himself into the chair opposite. "I have been trained to be charming, and I've been groomed, rather like a horse, to capture a title for my father's pride." She leaned forward earnestly. "Am I so selfish to want more from life than to be empty-headed, extravagantly adorned and worn on a man's arm to broadcast his wealth?" She turned her gaze toward the fire to conceal the intense longing in her eyes. "I do so hunger for a life of my own."
His gaze was wary. "You are not one of those suffragettes, are you?"
"I do not understand you, sir," she said with an expression of hateur. "What does unraveling a mystery to bring the guilty to justice have to do with the vote?"
She was proving to be slippery to argue with and, unsure of the best way to dissuade her from pursuing her perilous course, it was with some exasperation that he said, "If you are so determined to storm the bastions of the male's preserve, then why not a legitimate profession? Why not become a lawyer?" He waved his hand airily. "Or a doctor."
"Oh, come now, Dr. Conan Doyle." She unfurled her fan with a harsh snap. "Pray do not mock me." She drew herself tall. "A doctor?" Her fan sliced the air like the wings of an angry bird. "What hospital would have me were I to find a school that would?"
"It is not my intention to mock you, Miss Danforth." His expression was sincere, his voice soothing. "Albeit they are few in number, women are being allowed into the medical profession..."
"If I may be frank, sir," Abigail interrupted, her fan eloquent testimony to her distaste, "the truth is, unwashed, diseased, and most certainly unclothed, bodies hold no attraction for me. And as for law, even if a university were to accept me, nowhere in the world is there a law firm that would hire me."
"Ah, but you could have a private practice!"
Abigail shook her head as vigorously as she dared without unseating her hat. "I mean no disrespect, sir, but the practice of law is dry and dull. Its machinations all take place after the criminal is caught. I want to partake in the hunt, the discovery and capture of the felon, not his prosecution." Closing the fan, she rested it on top of the reticule on her lap. "Don't you see?" She leaned forward eagerly. "For the infant science of detection I need only find a companion as felicitous as Dr. Watson to accompany me, and chronicle my adventures." Sitting tall again, she added triumphantly, "That way I need not intrude myself upon the male's natural preserves."
Alarmed by her unwavering enthusiasm for his irksome detective and certain that the pampered and sheltered girl hadn't the slightest notion of the piteous fate in store for an abandoned and destitute woman, he cast about for another tack to dissuade her from her obsession. "But Miss Danforth," he said earnestly, "any other member of your fair sex would consider being a Marchioness occupation enough."
"Oh, but so dreadfully boring!" she exclaimed. "Being caretaker for some preposterously huge, drafty old museum to hand over intact to the next generation while hostage to squabbling servants who may or may not have dinner ready for the confined circle of people you may entertain..."
"Come, come, Miss Danforth," Conan Doyle frowned as he interrupted. "Household duties notwithstanding, you are to dine with the Prince of Wales. What more could you aspire to? Why people are going ask you to tell them about that night for the rest of your life even if you never see His Royal Highness again."
"And after the first telling, I should be bored to distraction!" She rolled her eyes heavenward. "Furthermore, sir, although, once again, I mean no disrespect, sitting in the presence of someone I may not speak to until he has spoken first fails to excite me overmuch. Makes one feel much like a servant must." With a mischievous grin, she continued, "Ah, but I was thrilled to learn that the Marquess is going to present the Prince with the Punjat's Ruby as a belated birthday gift." Her eyes were alight with excitement. "I am eager to hear the details of its lurid history."
With a resigned sigh, he drew his watch from his waistcoat pocket. As he consulted it, he said wearily, "I fail to understand why you have taken such trouble to see me."
"You created the profession, sir." She spoke quickly, before he could declare an end to the inter-view. "I had hoped that you could advise me.
"Advise you how, Miss Danforth? I sit upstairs in a room and write." He waived his hand in the general direction of his study. "Except for what I read, I personally know nothing about being a detective." His gaze slipped into the past. "When I was at Edinburgh University, I had a most remarkable mentor who was blessed with fantastic powers of observation and deduction. Dr. Joseph Bell was my model for Holmes."
"Do you think it possible that I might..."
"As you well know, Miss Danforth," he held up his hand to forestall her question. "Your future is entirely up to your father."
"You will not tell him of our interview?" she asked anxiously.
Offended, he drew back. "I gave my word!"
Relieved, she stood, and with a delicate tug at the front of her jacket to restore its flawless line, smiled shyly as she said, "I don't suppose you would consider giving me an introduction to Mr. Gillette in New York?"
He shook his head as he stood. "Pray do not ask me to be a party to your folly, Miss Danforth."
"Just one word of encouragement?" she asked coquettishly as they strolled toward the door.
"I assure you I hold feminine strength of character and ability in the highest regard. And I must admit you possess audacity enough and more. And persistence. However, your morbid thirst for adventure is apt to lead you into danger, quite unnecessarily, considering your station in life. I'd say the odds are overwhelmingly against you."
Although she held her head high, her voice was subdued as she asked, "Then there is no hope for me?"
Bracing himself against the female's ultimate weapon of tears, his voice was not unsympathetic as he said, "The life that stretches before you is one of luxury and ease. It would be foolhardy in the extreme for you to risk it just to satisfy an overwrought imagination inspired by a not altogether admirable creature of fantasy." Placing his hand on the door handle, his voice was gruff as he added firmly, "While I admire your pluck and enthusiasm, I may not - nay - I must not, in all conscience, encourage you, Miss Danforth."
He need not have worried about her weeping. Abigail saved her tears until she was quite alone.