I walked up the stairs to the second floor apartment, a letter addressed to Miss Portia Adams of 221 Baker Street in my hand. The postman had been at the gate to our shared front walk and handed it to me with a tip of his hat, happy to skip a house in his circuit, especially one with loud dogs.
I knocked at Portia’s door and then waited for her answer. I had not seen or spoken to the young woman since her first day in this house when she had arrived with her guardian and taken up these rooms. My parents had seen her a few times as she returned from her college or left in the company of her guardian. I knocked again and after waiting for a few moments decided that she either wasn’t home or she truly was a recluse in which case I was disturbing her. My disappointment was keen, I had so hoped to learn more about my heroes Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson from her, but it would seem it was not to be.
I had just turned to walk back down the stairs when the front door opened and the object of my attention swept into the townhouse. She pulled off her hat with a sigh, releasing a tumult of dark brown hair that reached well past her shoulders. Not the fashion of the time, but somehow completely suiting her, especially when contrasted with her unforgettable blue eyes. She turned these towards me, and I smiled, continuing my descent until I stood in front of her. I had not realized how tall she was, taller than most women of my acquaintance, a mere inch or two shorter than my six feet.
“Mr. Dawes, were you looking for me?” she said, glancing up the stairs from whence I had come.
“Yes, you had a letter, and I was looking to deliver it,” I answered, holding out the excuse, and watching her take it after a second’s hesitation.
“You need not trouble yourself, I’m fine with picking up my mail down here on the table” she said, taking off her coat to reveal a dark blue dress that hugged her slender frame. She turned to hang the coat on the hook, disregarding my hand extended to take it from her.
I lowered my arm with a bemused grin, comparing her actions with those of her self-entitled guardian: “It was no trouble, honestly. And I thought I would take the opportunity to inquire as to your comfort. How are you getting along?”
“Well, thank you.” She replied, edging past me towards her apartment. Unlike her guardian, I didn’t feel like she was ignoring me because of our difference in status, only somehow avoiding me, and I wondered if she had led a very solitary life in Toronto.
“And your classes at Somerville?” I pressed, unwilling to end our first real conversation so quickly, “Are you making friends?”
Her eyes glanced away from mine, “Not exactly,” she answered finally, “not that I care that much for friends.”
“Really? I’m surprised.” I said, though actually I wasn’t. From what I had observed in our brief interactions, the young lady seemed withdrawn and aloof. Though standing so close to her, I began to suspect that stemmed from something other than arrogance as others might assume.
“Are you?” she replied, cocking her head and then running her eyes over me thoughtfully, “Yes, I can see that you would be. Well, not everyone is as good at making friends as you are Mr. Dawes.”
I looked down at my tweed pants and hand-me-down jacket and wondered what she was about.
She turned to walk back up the stairs but I stopped her, “Wait, what do you mean Miss Adams?”
She hesitated on the third step and then with a reluctance I could read in her shoulders, she turned to say, “You were out on a date yesterday with a different girl than three nights ago, so I am making the assumption that you make friends easily. Something I have never been good at. That is all.”
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And In Walked Portia Adams
التاريخية"Jewel of the Thames" tells the story of young Canadian Portia Adams' arrival in London and follows the amateur detective through her first three cases as the newest owner of the 221 Baker Street offices. You've read her side of the story. Now read...
