Free The Marriage of Mary Russell by Laurie R. King Page B

lifted high in a chair—
    “I think not.”
    “Broomsticks? Hand-fasting? The anvil at Gretna Green? An arch of sabres?”
    “I suppose a registry office would do. Unless you happen to have a family chapel?” I added, as a joke.
    “Ah,” he said. “Well, as a matter of fact…”
    My gaze snapped away from the passing countryside. “You don’t! Do you?” He had a house in Sussex and half a dozen secret boltholes scattered across London, but…could the man actually own a chapel?
    “Strictly speaking, it belongs to Mycroft.”
Well,
I thought,
this sounds unusually promising.
“If it’s still standing.”
Maybe not so promising.
“And if we could get at it.” I eyed him warily. “Although it would have to be a night-time affair. And Mycroft may insist that we transport our witnesses either with masks, or behind blacked-out windows.” I opened my mouth to say that, really, a registry office would do. “Plus, there’s the shot-guns to consider.”
    I closed my mouth.
    If ever I’d imagined that Sherlock Holmes did not know precisely how to snag my interest in a matter, that delusion ended right there.
    “Shot-guns,” I repeated.
    “Yes. You see, there is some disagreement, amongst the wider reaches of the Holmes family, over who inherited the rights to the estate upon my father’s death. Since neither Mycroft nor I care to bury ourselves in the depths of the Midlands, we rarely assert our claim. However, nor have we given the place over to our cousin entirely. The name Jarndyce comes to mind.”
    “And your…cousin who lives there would turn a gun on you?”
    “It has been known to happen.”
    “Do I want to ask why you don’t press matters?”
    “Probably not.”
    “Do you—or, Mycroft—
want
the house?”
    “Not really.”
    “Then why even mention it?”
    “Because you asked if I owned a chapel. And…” He stretched out a hand for his pipe, which even at my young age I well knew was a man’s way of hiding emotion. When he got it going, he finished his sentence. “…my ancestors have been baptised, wed, and buried in the family chapel since the days of Bolingbroke. It would be mildly irritating for the usurper to keep me from my rights.”
    Sherlock Holmes was the least sentimental person I had ever encountered. If he was admitting to mild irritation, it meant that the longing for his home chapel went bone deep. It mattered not that we had no right to it, or that I was Jewish, or that armed men stood ready to repel us.
    He had my attention.
    Still: “Night-time, under the threat of immanent attack, and with our guests literally in the dark as to its location. Would the bride wear black? Paint her face?”
    “A dark blue overcoat should be sufficient.”
    “With a revolver tucked into my bouquet. Holmes, this all sounds a bit…”
    “Piquant?”
    “Memorable.”
    “It needn’t be. Two witnesses and a priest—I’m sure Mycroft could come up with three experienced soldiers to fill the two categories. Twenty minutes, in and out. Even if the family are wakened by dogs, it would take that long for them to rouse the butler.”
    “Holmes, I think—”
    “I wonder if they have changed the locks. Perhaps we should allow twenty-five minutes.”
    “Holmes, what about—”
    “Or we could seize an opportunity to solve the problem once and for all by setting fire to the opposite wing. That would distract them nicely.”
    “Holmes, unless you’re planning on keeping our married state a secret for the rest of our lives, or having another ceremony in your sitting room, the repercussions of a clandestine wedding would be considerable.”
    “And illegal,” he mused. “Since 1754.”
    “Sorry?”
    “Clandestine marriages. Illegal since Lord Hardwicke’s 1753 Marriage Act. Is that not what you were talking about?”
    “I’m talking about our friends. Being left out would break Dr Watson’s heart. Mrs Hudson would finally hand in her notice, and your brother…well, I can’t imagine