Inertia (#Bronte200)

Inertia

It was, once again, the longest summer which had ever fell upon Gimmerton, once again a sweet and clandestine heat which suffused the dreary moorland beyond the low, sighing apple trees of the Lintons' garden.

By the window which overlooked the trees Catherine Linton was silent. She could not remember when the gloom had descended into her again. There was fog upon the purple heath and a malicious, buzzing din inside her head which brought with it an aftertaste of madness. She was tired of the summer.

Sprawled upon a chair like some ancient musical instrument, her body and dress were a shimmering tensile curve. The moth-like hover of her hands seemed fixed under the whim of some Roman god never to land upon the lean of her cheek, so that she was as a flower frozen overnight by a black frost, still brimming with the residue of motion.

She said, "I am violently - violently idle."

Ellen Dean was intent upon the shining green cacophony of thread upon her lap. The woman drew back her arm and the gleam of the needle hissed through the embroidery, made a small cut in the murky permanence of the midday quiet.

Catherine stirred. "I want something to drink."

She was wont to demand such beverages and then absorb herself with watching them pass beyond the limits of their functionality, until Nelly would be obliged to pour the neglected remains back into the sink. And so the woman did not heed the order.

"Please, Nelly. A glass of water." She turned abstractedly, "where is Isabella?"

"Isabella is on the porch."

"I want her to come here. She'll help me cultivate this boredom until it's an absolute bloom. Don't you think?"

"You shouldn't speak ill of Miss Isabella," Nelly said. She unwound a green spool and dipped the thread into her mouth to wet it.

"Why, because she is fond of me?"

"Because you are fond of her."

Presently there came the sound of the garden gate being unlatched. Catherine started and went over to the window.

"There is a fool outside. I do not know him. You may need to muster a welcome."

Her lips had drawn up into the strange, brief volatility of a smile. Nelly enquired upon it.

"Because this is perfectly intrusive. And he has a rather irresponsible barber."

The theory of the irresponsible barber was presently confirmed by Nelly as she admitted the stranger into the parlour. He was clad formally and carried with him the dust-ridden, somewhat indecent smell of the city. He also happened to claim possession of some ferociously unkempt dark locks.

"Holmes," he murmured presently, placing a deerstalker cap atop the hearth. "Sherlock Holmes. I hope I am welcome."

When he shook Nelly's hand his cold fingers touched hers briefly and then fell away, and she could not forget the slow precision it, how mechanical and apathetic it felt. It was as if he was not born of flesh.

"You are welcome," she drew herself up, "if you are of honourable intent. With Mr Linton in London my mistress is ready to greet you in the inner room. If otherwise I shall be of assistance in locating the exit."