Art in the Blood

Andrea Johnson

"Thank God that is over with!" Holmes said irritably as we emerged from the darkness of the photographer's studio. "Have you ever heard such airy-fairy nonsense? 'My light is fading. Could you come back another day?' I think not. The next time you wish to have our image recorded for posterity, Russell, there is no need to engage such a prima donna!"

It had been a trying afternoon for Holmes, who loathes being photographed. He particularly objects to this unpleasant occurrence when it means being accompanied by two small children who find it difficult to hold one position for any length of time.

Indeed, they all had been in an uncooperative mood long before we set out in the Morris. Judith cried that morning when I brushed out her long, waist-length hair and asked why she couldn't have it bobbed like her friend Gloria's.

"Your father likes it long," I told her. "It would be kind of you to humor his Victorian sensibilities."

Judith gave a comical sigh.

"All right," she said. "For Father's sake."

From time to time I wondered if Holmes' fondness for long, flowing tresses was truly a good reason for either of us to maintain these troublesome mops. I fingered my own, now old-fashioned, chignon and reflected that a shorter style might be easier for us both to maintain. Certainly it would be more appropriate for a modern woman of the twentieth century like myself. But Holmes reacted so negatively when I had my long hair cut for a disguise in India years before that I grew it out again to please him. I kept our daughter's hair long as well, despite its inconvenience, because I knew how he enjoyed seeing her hair flowing down her back in rosy ringlets.

Jack squirmed and cried during his bath and objected to having his nappy changed. Holmes appeared at the last minute, after both children were as presentable as they were likely to appear that day. He looked most appealing in his Town coat and hat, with his shoes gleaming like mirrors. But this elegant effect was somewhat spoiled by the scowl that reminded me I was interrupting one of his chemistry experiments.

Nonetheless, urged on by my chivvying, my three recalcitrant family members had all bathed, dressed in their finest attire, and driven at the appointed time to the fashionable Oxford establishment where Monseiur took his photographs. Unfortunately, Monsieur also suffered from the artistic temperament. The overcast sky and the position of the stars put him in the wrong frame of mind. Monsieur declared that he could not possibly do us justice that afternoon. If we were to come back the next day or next week, the stars would be perfectly aligned.

"He CAN be a little eccentric," my friend Ronnie had said. "But people put up with him because his portraits are so wonderful. Did you see the one he did of Miles?"

Then she had gestured at the portrait that had pride of place on the drawing room wall. There was Miles Fitzwarren, who had been struck down by a sniper's bullet in Ireland in 1924. Somehow the photographer had captured the essential spirit of the man: the nervous energy and the sillyass humor, yes, but also the essential kindness and humanity. Some cultures forbid photography, fearing that a soul might be captured in the camera's lens. Looking at the photograph of Miles, I understood the reason for that fear. He was precisely as I remembered him in life.

"When I forget what he was like, I look at that portrait," Ronnie said simply. I turned away from Miles' widow, unsettled by the raw emotion on her face. Her grief was a reminder of what I feared would be my own eventual fate. But, like her, I wanted a tangible memento of what had been.

"It's ridiculous," Holmes said now in annoyance.

Our infant son, apparently sharing his father's sentiments, screwed up his face and prepared to wail his displeasure. I adjusted him in my arms, trying to stem the inevitable flood of tears without much success. Five-year-old Judith was giggling at her father's imitation of the artistic Monsieur LeBlanc's dramatics.

"Is the man with the camera really French, Father?" said my daughter in a high-pitched voice entirely reminiscent of her father's. "He sounded like Mr. Edwards!"

Her voice carried. I watched with an inward groan as dour businessmen and tittering grandmothers turned around to look at us on the street.

"Shush!" I told Judith, and bounced her brother in my arms. We turned a corner and walked past a millinary and an ice cream parlor.

"But he does!" Judith protested, in slightly modulated tones. I had to acknowledge, if only to myself, that she was correct. Mr. Edwards, a failed safe cracker turned restaurateur, had a distinctive Cockney turn of phrase that WAS similar to the photographer's.

"That he does. Clever girl!" said Holmes. "Our good monsieur is one generation removed from the London east end."

He paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"His ancestors might, I suppose, have resided in France at the time of the French Revolution. I noted a faint Gallic cast to his countenance."

This observation was too much. The photographer's dark "countenance" was pure London street rat.

"Really, Holmes," I growled, wondering for a brief moment how I had come to attach myself to this insufferably arrogant and unhelpful male person. "Must you assume that most unattractive air of omniscience? I daresay any French connections he might have date back to the time of William the Conquerer."

"I hope that was not a guess, Russell," Holmes said provokingly.

The whimpering Jack took advantage of my momentary distraction to attempt escape. His long, scrawny body slithered down my body like an eel's. I captured him and held him more securely. He lifted his own powerful, Holmesian voice in greater protest and pounded his tiny fists against my bad shoulder.

Holmes' provoking comment, and Jack's infant rebellion, stoked my already smoldering temper like a log added to a blazing fire. I was furious. I noted the purpling of Holmes' cheekbones, the slight bulge of his eyes, and saw that he was also severely perturbed. By God, if it was a fight Holmes wanted, I was more than ready to give him one! I adjusted my grip on Jack's legs and prepared to unleash the full force of my fury at this irritating individual I had married. But then fate intervened in the form of our firstborn.

"Mummy would NEVER guess. Father, YOU know that," Judith interjected indignantly, and stepped between her two irate parents. "Don't you always say that guessing is a weakness brought on by laziness and should never be confused with in-in-intuition?"

The little girl set both hands on her hips and glared up at her father.

"I don't think you're being very nice to Mummy. Mrs Hudson would say you should shake hands and be friends again!" she ordered the great Sherlock Holmes.

I definitely heard Mrs. Hudson in those authoritative tones.

"Go on," Judith prodded, having learned from our esteemed housekeeper that firm repetition was the preferred method of dealing with her father.

Her manner, while unacceptable in a child of five, was quite formidable. Even Jack stopped his struggles, momentarily distracted by his sister's air of regal command.

"Judith, while I appreciate your expression of support, you know better than to talk to your father like that," I admonished, only to have her round on me and look at me with equal exasperation.

"But, Mummy, wouldn't our afternoon be ever so much nicer if you weren't fighting?" she said.

The expression on Holmes' face was indescribable: a strange mixture of annoyance at her affrontery, pride at her spirit, and amusement at us all. Finally, he threw back his head and laughed long and hard.

"From the mouths of babes, eh, Russell?" Holmes sputtered. "Ah, my dear, what a pair we are."

I regarded him narrowly, not quite ready to "shake hands and make up." Instead, I tucked Jack's head into the curve of my neck, stroked his silky dark hair, and remembered with chagrin the months thad had led us to this moment.

In the seventeen years I had known my husband, scarcely a week had passed without the two of us engaging in some skirmish or an all out battle royale. Often these disagreements were over trivial matters, though a casual observer might think the two of us were battling over a matter of life and death. As Holmes might put it these spats were, like sulfur, good for the blood. But occasionally our petty arguments were of more import and served to conceal a real point of contention which we could not bring ourselves to address.

In the ten months since Jack's birth, my health had prevented us from working on any cases and had brought a temporary halt to my studies at Oxford. I developed infection following the birth. For days I floated in and out of consciousness, beset by fever. This was followed by a period of malaise such as often afflicted post-partem mothers. I remembered this period of blackest depression with embarrassment and shame. Never had I felt so helpless, not even after I was shot. Holmes dealt with the children admirably, with the help of blessed Mrs. Hudson and Judith's admirable nanny. His sanity and his deep, abiding love were my anchor to the world. He sat beside my bed, stroking my hair, or he played his violin while I held the baby and tried to stop the tears from trickling down my face.

"This too shall pass, Russ," he told me with gentleness.

One day, at last, the morning sun rose and I felt lighter in spirit and stronger in body and ready to resume my responsibilities.

Still, Holmes came perilously close to being left a widower with two small children. This terrified him. Though he does not say so often, I know how well he loves me. I also know, without his having told me so, how angry he must have been with me. He fathered my children with the understanding that I would be there to take care of them if he could not. My near death must have seemed like a betrayal of this promise.

During the long weeks of my recovery and afterwards, when both of us were further exhausted by the round the clock care our new son required, Holmes had been unusually patient and forbearing. Then, I suppose inevitably, the two of us took to snapping at one another, using minor arguments to avoid discussing the real issues between us. Our fears and tension resulted in the argument of this afternoon.

"I'm sorry, husband," I murmured at last. "I have not made things easy for either of us today."

"Don't look so stricken, my dear sweet wife. I expect there's more blame on my side," Holmes said, and gave me his old, gentle sardonic smile.

When Jack started fussing again, and again jolted my bad shoulder, Holmes held out his long arms for his son.

"Come here, my lad," Holmes said. "Give your mother a rest."

Just as Holmes had a knack for stirring the inner beast in one, he also was good at soothing it. Jack started babbling happily, his ill temper calmed in the shelter of his father's arms. Judith huddled against my side uncertainly. I am not a particularly sentimental woman, but I thought my daughter looked positively angelic in the dress Mrs. Hudson had so proudly made for her. It was an A-line pale yellow frock, delicately embroidered with pink rosebuds and trimmed with yards of ribbon. Her gleaming strawberry blonde hair was tied back from her face with a matching yellow ribbon. She was bright and loving and strong-willed, all qualities I judged important. I loved seeing pieces of her father in her: his gray eyes, his high forehead, his long-fingered, elegant hands and long, narrow feet. I rested a proprietary hand on her head. Jack, in a matching yellow romper, looked equally cherubic in his father's arms. He was Holmes in miniature. I had been right to have these children, I thought fiercely.

"Are you still fighting?" our daughter inquired, looking up at me in puzzlement.

I looked a question at Holmes.

"Don't worry, child," he said, smiling at Judith. "All is well."

"I AM sorry, Holmes," I said again, trying to explain myself. "I did not realize how very temperamental the photographer would prove. He comes highly recommended by Ronnie. He did quite a good job with his portrait of her daughter and... and of Miles."

I paused and watched Holmes' gray eyes darken with understanding.

"Ah," he said softly.

"I wished to have a really good image of us, of our family as we are now," I went on. "There are times I cannot quite picture what my parents and brother looked like, until I look at my photo album and refresh my memory."

Holmes gave me a look as intimate as a touch.

"I do understand, Russ," he said quietly, his eyes taking in everything. I knew that he understood me better than I understood myself. Sometimes that was an uncomfortable feeling, but just now it was like coming home. "I dare say I can endure a few moments more in the company of Monsieur LeBlanc. We will return when the stars are properly aligned."

I took a deep, shuddering breath of relief. The storm that had threatened our partnership seemed to have passed.

"We could also find a photographer more to your liking," I suggested. "I found Monsieur LeBlanc rather offputting as well. But that can be decided another day."

Holmes smiled. "Come," he said, and held out a hand to me.

I lifted an inquiring brow.

"I believe we just passed an ice cream parlor," Holmes said. "I say we will treat the children to these sugary concoctions, and make some good memories this afternoon."

"Ice cream!" Judith crowed, and clapped her hands.

Holmes chuckled happily.

"Come, Russ," he said. I took Judith's hand in mine and tucked my arm through my husband's.

Together we walked off to gorge ourselves on ice cream.

Postscript

We did eventually return to a photographer's studio. However, both of us were of the opinion that the stars would always be improperly aligned at Monsieur LeBlanc's establishment. Instead, we engaged the services of a Julian Vernet, a dark, handsome young man who was also a distant cousin of the Holmes family. He created art using a lens just as his ancestors had using a painter's brush. His photographs of the four of us; of Holmes and I as a couple; and of Judith and Jack individually and together were really quite beautiful. Holmes did not find the experience of being photographed too painful, perhaps because Julian also provided us with our first case since Jack's birth. At the same time, we provided him with a wife. He met and married young Jessica Simpson, the American Senator's daughter who still calls me Sister Mary, during the course of our investigation. But that is another story.