I attempt to descend the stairs gracefully, a difficult task with crutches and two guards looming over you. The house is eerily quiet, with the sound of my steps creaking down the grand wooden staircase echoing off every surface. As I descend the last step, I exchange looks with my captor Lord Nigh. I feel a great deal of satisfaction, as he too is unable to disguise his bewilderment at my transformation.
I have spent a great deal of the past three weeks, remembering and rehearsing all of the etiquette rules taught to me by Tewksbury. I will spare time by not going into the great amount of detail one could when explaining these rules; instead I shall point out the five that will be the focal points of this evening.
Rule 1- Wear the appropriate attire.
We are both dressed in apparel that is the height of fashion for our respective genders. My dress has an hourglass figure- a waist as small as I can bear, large bulging fabric at the shoulders and tight sleeves to show one's thin arms. On the bust were bows, ruffles and embellishments, with a flowing skirt that sweeps the floor, layers of petticoats underneath to enhance the bell shape.
And he- shiny black boots, black trousers and a black evening jacket with twin tails. If I weren't in such a perilous situation... well one could hardly be blamed for laughing at the stark comparison of expectations and metaphor for gender roles it represented.
'My Lord.' I do a slight curtsy, and he bows his head in response.
Rule 2- Ladies will be escorted to the dining table.
Every woman should be escorted to the table by a man; given that there are only two of us this is simplified somewhat. The host should accompany the most honored woman of the evening, and as he sits at the head of the table she sits to his right. Luckily on Christmas eve this meant I was to be escorted by Tewksbury.
Lord Nigh walks in tandem with me, and while initially I'm thankfully that the crutches prevent him from taking my arm, I'm soon horrified by the fact that he puts his arm across my back and rests his hand on my shoulder. In the name of politeness, I don't punch him in the face.
He leads me into the dinning room, a large hall with an elongated dining table in the middle. Each place has been set, and in the middle candles cover the surface in a gloomy orange hue. He pulls out a chair for me, and we take our seats. 'I understand you have two sons, will they not be joining us?' I ask, remembering that I'm not supposed to know about Albert or know who George is.
'One son, and no; he is preoccupied.' He replies coarsely, eager not to discuss the matter.
Before I can press him on this, a bowl of delicious smelling Mulligatawny soup is placed in front of me.
Rule 3- One should take ample time in eating.
This rule is the most complicated, for it comes with many subsections. I begin by selecting what I hope is the correct spoon and start to eat. Considering how little food I've had over the past month, the temptation is to devour this within seconds. That's what he'd be expecting. Indeed, in my peripheral vision I see him studying me. Instead, I delicately sip my soup, being careful not to slurp. It's very rude to take too big of a mouthful at a dinner party, and it's believed eating slowly results in better health, better wealth and a longer life. You should also be able to maintain conversation throughout.
Once our empty plates have been taken away I decide to try again and press him for details. 'I could have sworn you had two sons. George and Alfred?'
'Albert...' He responds through gritted teeth.
I smile, pretending to be oblivious. 'Albert! That's right, my apologies.' Before I have a chance to ask anymore questions he gestures to one of the guards and a servant brings in a large piece of rump on a platter, followed by steamed vegetables and gravy. The servant quickly departs, not surprising given the fact that he thinks I'm mentally insane, and only Lord Nigh, the guard and I remain. Silently we fill our plates, and begin to eat.
Rule 4- Attendee's should maintain pleasant social chit-chat.
He speaks, trying to change the topic before I can ask him any more questions about Albert. 'I have been learning a lot of interesting things about you, Miss Holmes.' His tone is calm, yet conniving.
I decide to bite, curiosity getting the better of my judgement. 'Such as?'
'Such as your... relationship with the Lord Tewksbury of Basilwether. You are full of surprises.' He muses.
I chew my bite of food, a wave of anger pouring over me at hearing him say Tewksbury's name. 'You find it surprising?'
He chuckles, 'Well, I thought you types were against marriage.' I start trying to eat quicker, knowing that dinner is going to end very quickly very soon.
'By type, do you mean feminist?'
'Whatever you call yourselves nowadays.' He says dismissively, gesturing as if he were trying to brush away an annoying insect.
'You don't have a high opinion of feminists?'
He laughs, his face contorted with glee and arrogance. 'Of course not!' He's trying to irritate me, as I suspected he would. I let him.
One may wonder what my reasoning for requesting this dinner with Lord Nigh was. Indeed, I had questioned myself as to whether it was a good idea. But, the fact of the matter is, I need answers to this case. Try as I might, I can't make sense of it. The articles, the schematics. So, I decided to have Lord NIght tell me himself, by using a truth that is as old as mankind.
-Men love to correct women-
While initially I believed the target of his attack to be St Hilda's College, (the first oxfords women's college) I now know this to be false. Yet, he does not know this.
I direct my ice cold stare at my plate, and I let my knife and fork clatter against the porcelain. Slowly, I dab my mouth with the napkin before turning to him.
'I think you'll find, that a lowly feminist you think so little of, was able to figure out your plan.' He drops his knife and fork to the plate and stares at me with hatred in his eyes. In response I smirk, placing both of my hands on the table and pushing my chair out. Even though I know the moment won't last more than a few seconds, I still relish in his anger and dissatisfaction. 'You asked me who else knows about you. Nobody! Because a lowly feminist figured it out all by herself. I saw the newspaper articles, and I know you plan to blow up St Hilda's college!'
He reaches across and brings the back of his hand across my face so hard it almost knocks me off of my chair. He stands up, and pulls my chair out so I face him. I go to hit him, purposefully making my action slow, and he grabs my wrists. 'You ignorant little girl.' Now it's his turn to smirk, and I let my expression turn to fear. 'You think we'd be so stupid as to blow up a girls college? No. You're like a hydra. We cut off one head and two more appear.' He lets go of my wrists.
I wait a moment, hoping he'll reveal the actual target. He turns away from me and begins to slowly pace; his arrogance so palpable you can smell it.
'I bet you've been wondering why I scheduled the dinner for tonight. Well, I thought it fitting to see that you have a good Last Meal, for tomorrow I'm afraid you will meet your untimely end; in the tunnels under the Battersea club.'
It feels as though a knife has been plunged into my stomach as the realisation hits me. The underground construction below Battersea. The articles. They'll blow up the club, killing their own, and the blame will fall on suffragettes and feminists!
'You would kill other members of parliament, just to make sure women can't vote...'
'A necessary sacrifice.' He turns back towards me. 'Tomorrow, after the explosion, they will discover your body in the rubble. Sadly you won't be able to get out of the tunnel quick enough after lighting the fuse.'
He looks at my horrified face, pleased with my pain. 'It's also a shame that your brother Mycroft will be attending a meeting there at the time.'
'No- No you can't!' I cry, the words escaping my mouth before my mind had even registered what he had just said.
My entire body feels numb as the weight of what I'm facing hits me all at once. If I do nothing then tomorrow, not only will I die... but my dear-brother. An uncontrollable wave of tears stream down my face, as I try to stand up. Pain shoots through my leg that I desperately try to ignore as my hand reaches for the knife used to carve meat only minutes ago, and I bring it down upon Lord Nigh as hard as I can.
Before the knife can reach its mark, I'm knocked to the ground. In the chaos, I don't know what hit me or who, but I feel my face hit the side of the table and I collapse in a pathetic heap.
I look up at him. This monster before me. A twisted smile across his face. He lifts his foot, and brings it down on my head.