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Christmas Eve in London was an exalting event. Carollers on every street, charity work in every shop, selfless business owners giving out small bonuses to their workers. Crime somehow lessened during this time of year, safe for petty theft, and so Enola had an easy few weeks — much to Tewkesbury's delight.
Enola scowled when he expressed his glee. "You enjoy the fact I have no work?"
"I enjoy that we get to spend time together, my lady," he corrected, lending his arm for her to curl her hand around. "We haven't broken our fast together in weeks ."
" Two weeks, Tewky," she uttered, fond, "but yes, it has felt like a long time."
Though not married yet, the betrotheds went against all decorum and often spent time together in unchaperoned ways. Promenading the snowy streets of London, drinking tea at Edith's shop, reading in Sherlock's library, and yes: breaking their fast together in Tewkesbury's apartment.
If the overbearing mamas of society knew, they would faint.
She gently let her cheek rest on his arm. From above, misty snow flickered on their hats.
While contact such as this has been seldom, they had kept up correspondence. This nincompoop of a boy wrote long, flowery letters to her. Weekly! The drawer of her nightstand had trouble closing now.
He waxed poetry about their future married life, about her beauty and her brain, about how beguiling she looked in red. She'd be annoyed if she wasn't so deeply in love with him as well.
"What do you say," he trailed, "you… well, you spend the night — in my guest room, of course — so we can be together all of Christmas Day?"
She blinked at him in surprise. "And have the society papers go ballistic?"
"I frankly don't care about those gossip-mongers," he deadpanned, impassioned. His cheeks were tinged pink from anger and cold. "Do you?"
She puffed. "Of course not. I'm just looking out for you."
Looking ahead, she feared he caught the stumble in her speech. Enola hated it when he surprised her. Asking to stay the night? A big surprise.
But Tewkesbury had gotten more observant. Tugging on her arm to pause their walk, he swivelled on his heels to face her. “You do care.”
“I don't.”
“Then why did you sound uncertain?”
She scowled. “I taught you too well.”
His brows raised, expectant yet patient. In one of her responses to his letters she admitted how infuriating she found his unyielding support. He stood his ground, sure, but never, ever, wavered from her side. That devotion was so distinctly different from how everyone else behaved in society. Then again, what else could she expect from a 'radical'?
Enola relented. “Your proposition caught me by surprise, Tewkesbury. That is all.”
Throwing caution to the wind, he placed his hand on her shoulder and caressed the material of her jacket. From the periphery of her eye, she saw people's glances. “You can say no if it discomforts you.”
Enola smiled, endeared. “The opposite, really. I think it comforts me too much.”
His smile stretched an abnormal amount. Stupid boy. He tilted his head, drawling: “So…?”
“Yes,” she whispered. Her feet began to move again, promoting him to do so as well. A slight grin tickled her lips. “But I choose how much cinnamon goes in your hot chocolate then.”
He groaned. “You put it in too much!”
“That's the point!” A giggle escaped her and brought the biggest beam on his face. She never giggled; a rarity reserved for him only during weak moments such as these. She blamed the cold and the spirit of Christmas.
As snow began to pile on the pavement, they quickened their stride and trodded to his apartment. The scent of flora already permeated on the staircase to the third floor. She resisted the urge to make a jab. You love this man and by proxy those flowers, Enola Marie Holmes.
Enola's apartment was tastefully decorated, as in: only the necessities. She missed the knick-knacks her mother hoarded around the house, but Enola liked the bare bones of her place. It gave her room to think (and create murder boards).
Tewkesbury, on the other hand, put as much of his personality in his apartment as possible. Perhaps as a reaction to his prim childhood. The stiffening of his back did not go unnoticed each time they passed stately homes with marble detailing.
A large Christmas tree stood in one corner, with large presents tucked underneath. Wreaths on every door, a large stocking pinned to the brick fireplace, bouquets of red poinsettias on counters. Under a glass dome laid sugary treats from a French patisserie down the street.
Christmas with Tewkesbury. Mycroft was God knows where, Sherlock went to the countryside with John to investigate a cold case, her mother was still in hiding. Christmas with Tewkesbury. How awfully, tragically, beautifully perfect.
He moved behind her and helped her with her coat, hanging it into the closet. Turning on her heels to tease him for his gentlemanly behaviour, he never gave her a chance to speak— he kissed her instead.
Her eyes widened in surprise. What in the world! Tewkesbury?! Not a red-cheeked mess before he neared her?! The rest of her body moved on instinct, placing her hands on his cheeks and kissing back.
They definitely didn't do this in public.
When Tewkesbury proposed to her four months ago, they had just danced an impromptu dizzying waltz in the National Library. One moment she argued with him about the location of a document she needed, the next she was laughing in his ear as he spun and spun and spun her. And then he'd done it, in the darkness, with only themselves as witnesses. Could you do me the honour of marrying you, Enola Holmes?
He'd kissed her like this, too. Uninhibited, loving, wanting. Kissing her like real people did.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” he whispered against her lips.
“No one says that,” she replied. “No one adds the 'eve'.”
He smiled. “I do.”
“You’re such a—!”
“Nincompoop?” Tewky smirked, looming over her with those perfect brown eyes and soft glow of candles behind him. She felt a little short of breath. “A boy?”
Enola raised her chin, haughty. “Something like that, yes.”
His hands slid from her shoulders to her wrists and slowly led her to the plush couch in the living room. The warm tones of the furniture and walls, the lush greens dotting the space — it felt like home. She entwined their fingers.
Together, they made hot chocolate on the stove (well, Enola taught him and then he made an honourable second batch) and played The Chequered Game of Life around the coffee table.
He braided her hair as he babbled about horticultural discoveries and she sketched his countenance while ranting about a George Eliot book she recently read.
They had stew and cranberry pie and they watched from his window as carollers sang from the front door. He hummed along in her ear, soft and melodic, and she wondered what he couldn't do. Perhaps throw a punch, but he's been getting better at that, too.
“You’re soft,” she said, but leaned into his chest anyway. She relished pretending for one evening this was her life. That she wasn't often seen running around London in boy's clothes.
Fear ran through her each time she remembered that such actions might change once she married Tewkesbury, but she believed — had to believe — she could have and do it all. Why couldn't a woman work and love and life all at once? She was just as capable as any man, if not more!
He smiled. “I can't sing 'O Holy Night' in your ear?”
But for now, she'd pretend this was her life. For now, she'd cherish this moment with her fiancé.
“You're humming.” One day, he would have enough of her arguing. It still endeared him though. Tilting her head, her nose brushed his jaw. “Humming do the crazy men in public parks.”
“Or they are utterly romantic,” he bounced back.
“You’ve been reading too much Baudelaire.” Her fingers caressed his red sleeve. “Don't think I don't see you've been dressing more dandy.”
Tewky shrugged. “Society already sees me as a radical airhead, might as well do my own thing sartorially.”
“Airhead?” She laughed, admonished, and turned around to curl her arms around his neck. “Your head is filled with flowers! Roses and lilies and chrysanthemums! They could be far more creative with their insults.”
“I'd prefer only you to insult me, my love,” he teased.
“Then I'm doing my job marvellously.”
And then, because Tewkesbury was a creature of habit, he used the harmony of the carollers to sweep her into a slow dance. Their feet padded against the old parquet. It wasn’t much of a waltz; rather a slow shuffling without reason. Enola secretly looked forward to the balls during the spring and summertime: not for the gossip, but for the dances Tewky and her would be able to perform. The only vulnerable act of love they expressed in public.
With a sigh, she placed her head on his shoulder. “Do you miss your family, Tewkesbury?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Right now.” The carollers continued with ‘Silent Night’. “On Christmas Eve. I know you practically begged me to stay with you—”
“Enola.”
“—but your mother…” She trailed off. “Your cousins… do you not miss them? Do you not wish to see them?”
For a beat, he remained quiet. Enola knew, however, that he first formulated the words in his head before he spoke.
Eventually— “Of course, I miss them. But all they ever do is argue and question my decisions in life. My political standing in the House of Lords, this apartment, my interests, the way I dress, my… my relationships. You.” Cupping her face, their gazes met. “And I’d rather miss than be surrounded by those that do not accept me for who I’ve become.”
A smile ticked up her lips, hiding the lump in her throat. “A man.”
His brows raised in surprise. “So, now I’m a man?”
“But only for tonight,” she warned. Let’s not make her compliment go to his head. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
“Of course.” He twirled her under his arm and took her close again. A fan normally kept their faces apart, but now their noses touched and her mind slowed down. If only her mother had taught her about love in between jiu jitsu lessons. He murmured: “Do you miss your family?”
Enola blinked. A rumination that had been brewing for a while rose to the surface. “My mother, yes. But the older I get, the more I become her. It… well, it fears me a little,” she admitted, “but I also feel content. There are stranger people to slowly transform into.”
He eyed her, wary. “Will I wake up tomorrow with Eudoria Holmes making breakfast?”
Enola laughed. “Not yet.”
He let out a dramatic exhale of relief. “Good. Charles Dickens did not cover that in ‘A Christmas Carol’.”
When the wax candles bled to its finish, the warm light flickering to a faint smoulder, they went to bed. They kissed goodnight in the creaky corridor and went their separate ways. She had never slept in the guest bedroom.
It was simple: a twin bed, a nightstand and armoire, vanity, wash basin and chamber pot. A tasteful painting hung above the bed illuminated by one candle. As charming as the room was, she wondered in that moment what would happen if she did sleep in the same bed as Tewkesbury. Surely nothing bad. Her mother never explained why, but every man and every academic book chastised the act.
Peeling off the layers of clothing until she was left in her chemise, she sat down on the bed and pressed her hand into the mattress. Too soft. Outside, a clock ticked and announced the late hour. If she concentrated hard enough, she still felt the press of his lips on hers. Enola let out a huff. Stupid rules that meant nothing. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Since when did she follow the rules anyway?
Feeling a surge of bravery, she jumped up from the bed, strode to the door, and swung it open.
Only to find Tewkesbury right about to knock. He wore a long cotton nightshirt, his feet bare.
She staggered back in surprise. “Tewky.”
“Oh!” His face turned red. “Hello.”
Her arms crossed, defensive. She hated being surprised. “What are you doing?”
“Well— I mean—” he stuttered. “What were you doing?”
“I…” She pursed her lips. “Well, if you must know, which you shouldn’t tell anyone else, I was about to break a rule and ask if I could join you in your bedroom. I frankly don’t understand this stupid rule of needing to sleep in separate beds if we love and respect each other. Nothing bad can happen… right?”
If it was possible, he turned as red as the poinsettias. “Well, no, not exactly, but— uh— it’s quite— I mean—” He swallowed. “It’s not proper. We’ll be at church tomorrow?”
She rolled her eyes. “Do you think we’ll burn to Hell during mass? I’m sure we’ll survive. Me, at least. You on the other hand…”
“Yes,” he cut in and stretched out his hand. “Stay with me tonight. Really with me.”
Oh. She hadn’t expected that. His determination made her timid. Averting her gaze, she carefully placed her hand in his. This was what she wanted. They had spent the entire day together and it would be silly not to end it the same way. Her toes felt cold as she stepped across the threshold and moved to his room.
His bedroom was larger. It had a double bed, bookcases and a nursery of plants on the windowsill. A large stack of papers sat on his desk and a pile of newspapers were spilling from under his bed. The clothes he wore today were folded on a mahogany chair. The room smelled of orange rinds and flowers.
“Your room is neater than I expected,” she managed to say. Letting go of his hand, she sat down on the untouched side of his bed. He stared at her, pensive. “I thought it would be more…”
“Romantic?”
“More like someone worried about bills,” she added.
Tewkesbury smiled. “I keep that for my office in the House.” He sat down on the other side and tugged away the comforter for them to slide underneath. A thick quilt trapped the heat and kept them warm on this cold night.
Her heart hammered in her throat. Sharing a bed with her mother was nothing like sharing one with Tewkesbury. She felt electrified being so close to him in such a new, different way. Their fingertips touched, and that was more than enough.
“Gideon,” she whispered.
He shuffled closer. She rarely used his first name. “Yes, Enola?”
Ever since she exclaimed her love for him on the streets of London, she found it difficult to repeat. Not because she did not love him, rather that she loved him so much she deemed the words too futile, too simple, to describe what she felt. Tewkesbury deserved more poignant words. But since the English dictionary had no other words, nor was she a poet, she had to make do.
And so, she mouthed it in the darkness: I love you.
The boy kissed her knuckles and mouthed it back. I love you more.