A Study In Scarlet Women Read Free Page A

forward. She lifted her arm and brought down her hand. An explosive
thwack
reverberated. Livia flinched.
    She and Charlotte, the recipient of this resounding slap, had once discussed their mother’s talents, or lack thereof. Livia was of the view that a segment of the population was inherently middling. Charlotte, of a more charitable bent of mind, believed that even those who appeared incurably undistinguished must possess some hidden skills or aptitudes.
    Livia, not convinced, had brought up Lady Holmes as an example of utter mediocrity, a person who was unremarkable in every observable trait. Charlotte had countered, “But she has an extraordinary technique at slapping, the backhand especially.”
    Now Lady Holmes produced just that, a dramatic backhand the force of which wobbled the lace trimmings on her skirt. “The worst has happened. No one will marry her and she can never show her face in Society again.”
    It was the eleventh time she had spat out these lines this evening. Livia’s neck hurt from the strain of crouching so long before the keyhole. How many more iterations before Charlotte would be allowed to escape to her own room?
    â€œYou haven’t only caused your own ruin, Charlotte. You have also made us laughingstocks the rest of
our
lives.” Lady Holmes was still plowing through the remainder of her tirade, though her voice was becoming hoarse. “You have perpetrated a crime against Livia’s chances at a decent marriage. If Henrietta hadn’t already secured her Mr. Cumberland we would have nothing but a passel of spinster daughters.”
    The contempt in Lady Holmes’s voice—spinster daughters might as well be thieving whores. Livia lived with that scorn daily, a woman of twenty-seven, eight Seasons under her belt and no marital prospects whatsoever. Still she winced.
    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.”
    â€œRather interesting, I should think,” replied her husband.
    â€œBut what is it?” asked Henrietta, the eldest of the Holmes girls, her voice high-pitched and whiny.
    â€œIt’s a message, of course,” Livia told her impatiently. “Must be something about the children’s Christmas party.”
    â€œWhat 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 nolonger taken on family outings: