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Lady Tewkesbury is about to verbally agree with Sir Whimbrel and compliment her son on how her late husband would have been proud of him when she sees him take notice of something of interest to her left. She follows his gaze and sees that he’s staring at – and is now heading towards – a girl with tousled brown hair about his age in a cream-colored dress.
Enola Holmes. Lady Tewkesbury had been inclined to her initial annoyance with seeing the young girl when she’d returned home from her trip, especially under the circumstance in which they last met, but when she’d learned that Enola had saved her son from being murdered, by his own grandmother no less, she couldn’t stop thanking her. She had pushed aside the knowledge that Enola had lied to her about her identity, overcome with gratitude that her precious, only son was still alive.
She genuinely liked Enola too. Enola had a flavor of spunk in her personality, a spring in her step, and wide, curious brown eyes. Her loyalty to the marquess and friendly demeanor made Lady Tewkesbury warm to her immediately, and it wasn’t lost on her that Enola had to be quite smart to have figured out why her son’s life had been in danger. It also was a surprise to learn that Enola had physically fought and won against the hit man Grandmother Tewkesbury hired. Under other circumstances, the Lady would have been horrified at such acts from a woman, but it showed her that Enola was very capable of defending herself, and the idea of women being more independent was actually starting to grow on her.
Lady Tewkesbury can’t help but give a small smile at the two young adults chatting away at the gate. She holds back the urge to call her son back – the voting is going to take place very soon – and watches as Enola laughs at something he says.
“Aren’t you worried?”
Lady Tewkesbury’s eyes snap up to Sir Whimbrel’s concerned countenance. “About what?”
“That he might be interested in some girl of lower status?”
“She’s not just some girl. She saved my son and is related to Sherlock Holmes.” It had been somewhat of a relief to Lady Tewkesbury that Enola wasn’t some random girl off the street. No, she wasn’t Sherlock Holmes’ assistant; she was better than that: she was a Holmes herself, and a bright one, too.
“But still-” Whimbrel persists. “You’ll have to tell him that he can’t court Enola. Though we probably don’t have to worry about him wanting to pursue a relationship with her.”
“And why’s that?” She arches an eyebrow at her brother-in-law.
“Do you really think he’s in love with some girl he met a week ago?”
Lady Tewkesbury glances back at the pair just in time to see her son delicately lift Enola’s hand and kiss it, and she beams with pride at how much of a grentleman he is. She thinks about Whimbrel’s question for about a two seconds before responding.
She’d watched her child’s eyes light up when describing to her how Enola drove an automobile, heard admiration in his voice as he recalled Enola giving up her freedom for his life, and imagined the smell of the sheep he must have had to endure on his way to London yet claimed he hadn’t minded since he was in Enola’s company.
“Yes,” she says softly back.
“And how can you be so sure?”
She thinks about how her son never talks about anything – much less anyone — with that much passion other than the topic of flowers, something he’d inherited from his father. And she catches him rubbing the corner of his eye hastily, which was also something her spouse had done frequently when overcome with emotion.
“Because he looks at her the same way my husband looked at me: like all the roses in the world wouldn’t start to be enough to show his affection.”