A Study in Satin

by Tigger

 

Part II: Veni, Veni, Vici.

Chapter 11: A Lady's Debut

 

Irene awoke suddenly, and for a moment was unsure why. She was not normally a light sleeper, but something distinctly out of the ordinary had attracted her attention. The first rays of a sunrise bright with promise were slipping through her barely open draperies as she slid from her lonely bed and padded down the hallway to Sherla's room. *Why I should think it has anything to do with Sherla, I don't know, unless it is because everything unusual seems to emanate from that young woman these days.*

Sherla's door was open and her room was empty. *She's just gotten an early start to the day,* Irene told herself firmly, but she was unable to shake the feeling that she ought to confirm that. *After all, the girl has had a hellacious few weeks, and this is not consistent with her recent behavior.*

After donning her slippers and an emerald-green silk wrapper, Irene quickly searched the main living areas only to find no sign of Sherla. She was about to go rouse Katrina to aid in the search when, on a whim, Irene went to the back of the house and found the outside door unlocked. Quietly, she slipped out into the crisp dawn air. The creaky iron gate that lead to Irene's formal garden was open. *Since my rooms are directly overlooking the garden, that gate squeaking as it opened is likely what roused me.*

She found Sherla in the middle of the garden, still dressed in her white silk nightdress and blue chenille robe, kneeling upon a picnic blanket she'd evidently found in the kitchen. The girl was sitting back on her calves, her hands resting upon her thighs. Her head was back, facing into the red/yellow sun as it rose above the trees. A playful breeze teased at her hair, making night-black waves billow softly about her face. Her eyes were closed and a faint smile curled her lips.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, Irene sat down, but the breeze rustled the hem of her robe and alerted Sherla. "Good morning," Sherla said with a smile.

"Good morning to you, as well, my dear, but surely you recognize that it is barely past night."

"I could not sleep," Sherla said enigmatically.

"So I gathered. I have seen that position before," Irene continued, "another of your Oriental arts?"

"For the most part. I needed to think and did not want to rouse you by playing the piano. This is a lovely, peaceful place you've built here, Irene," Sherla sighed softly.

"Actually, it is my husband who is the gardener, although his initial motivation was to provide me a quiet place to sit and think."

"It's wonderful," Sherla assured her friend, "And the lovely fresh smell of a world at dawn after a rain seems to cleanse the very soul."

"Does it cleanse your soul, Sherla?" Irene asked gently, "Perhaps more importantly, what heavy thoughts chased you from your bed at such a disgustingly early hour?"

A small, self-deprecating smile softened Sherla's lovely face. "Tonight, tomorrow, next week, next month, next year and the rest of my life," she replied, careful to tick each reply off on the fingers of her right hand.

"That is quite a lot to ask of one chilly February morning, isn't it?"

"Perhaps, but every journey, large or small, starts with a single step, and the solution to every problem, large or small, starts with a single thought. The effort is not wasted even if I don't find my solutions today," and then Sherla's grin became mischievous, "As you well know, Madame Irene Adler."

"Just so," Irene replied with a royal nod of her nightcap-covered head. "Well, tonight and tomorrow sound rather immediate. Have you come to any conclusion about them, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

Sherla shifted about, and sat upon the blanket, pulling knees to her bosom so that she could rest her chin upon them. "That I will smile, flirt, play the piano and dance as well as my very limited instruction in all but one of those arts will permit, that I will watch you very carefully and learn all that I can about being womanly from a Mistress of the Art, and that I will try to stay out of dark corners and away from large men."

Irene hooted with glee. "Worthy goals all, but tell me, dear what you mean by "all but one". Surely you don't mean that you do not know how to smile?"

"Not like you and Katrina wish me to smile. I tend to look like. . .how did Katrina put it? Oh yes, I smile like a hungry lioness looking at a cornered and crippled antelope." The last words were imbued with a haughty pretentiousness that made both women chuckle. "Seriously though, even Doctor Watson lamented my lack of familiarity with simple good humor. 'Twas not, I am afraid, a prominent aspect of my personality."

"Well, tomorrow will take care of itself as we will likely need to sleep the day away after one of these all night society balls," Irene teased lightly before becoming serious. "You said your life, Sherla. What conclusions have you reached about that?"

She shrugged delicately. "Only that, unless Moriarty has developed an antidote and I know that if he has it is only by merest chance, that I can expect to remain a woman for the rest of my life."

"Why does "can expect" not sound a final as I might have thought it to be? You are unusually precise with your words and you did not say that you would remain a woman for the rest of your life."

"Oh, just legends and rumors," Sherla said looking back at the sunrise. "There are stories of magic and wonder that I, as a man. . .or rather that when I was a man, never gave much credence."

"Such as?" Irene asked.

"Oh, the mythologies of India are filled with stories of men becoming young women and the reverse. Or there is this very prevalent legend about a medallion, called the Medallion of Zolo, or something like that. I originally came across it in some of my early studies of ancient alchemical manuscripts in their original Greek. Subsequently, I have run across references to it in the oddest places, with stories associated to those sightings that are odder still."

"Another Philosopher's Stone? Able to turn base metal into gold?"

"Not quite," Sherla laughed. "As I understand it, this Medallion has the power to change someone into the image of whoever last wore a set of clothing. I imagine I have a few pieces of attire that date back to my younger days at Baker Street."

"So, if you succeed in your quest to stop Moriarty, is that your next inquiry? Find this magical talisman and restore yourself to your full masculine powers?"

Irene's last words were delivered with such tart sarcasm that Sherla stared at her for a moment before answering. Then she chuckled quietly. "No, I don't think so, Irene. Besides, it is entirely possible that it may be worth my life to stop Moriarty. However, if I do survive our final encounter, I won't waste my life seeking something that likely does not really exist. I may be a female now, Irene, and I may, much to my surprise, find I enjoy a great many aspects of this new life, but I am still a ma. . .errr woman of science. I shan't wile away my years haring off after some magical Holy Grail like a feminine Sir Galahad. Besides, if it does work, it could be dangerous. Imagine owning it and using it, but losing it at precisely the wrong moment? It might be worse than what Moriarty has done to me, and I would have done it to myself. Oh, ignominy." She said with dramatic effect.

Irene laughed and offered Sherla a hand as she stood. "Come along and go back to bed, girl. That is one major solution to your 'tonight' problem, and part of our 'tomorrow' problem. You need to SLEEP!"

~--------------~

The room went utterly still as Sherla stroked the opening chords that were Irene's lead in to her first selection, a piece by Schumann. Playing very softly, Sherla let the unexpected power and beauty of Irene's voice show to its best advantage. As it had this morning when they'd first begun rehearsing, Irene's beautiful voice made Sherla sigh in wonder. One of Sherlock's few regrets had been that he had never heard a young Irene Adler sing when she was the Diva at the National Opera House at Warsaw or later when she had filled that position at Prague. She still had a magnificent voice.

Following the short recital, Irene and Sherla were constantly sought out and congratulated by the many guests. Sherla, simply smiled and demurred that Irene was the one worthy of praise. "I merely played quietly so that you could hear her." she said time and again.

However, the throng who sought them out gave Sherla an opportunity to study Irene-the-sleuth at work. Watching her pursuing information was something that Sherlock had always wished to observe, but had never managed. *She teases confidences from these men with remarkable ease, and she seems to do so with the tricks Katrina has been trying to teach me. A special smile for that one, a teasing tap on the hand of this one. Always a gracious and happy greeting and some type of body contact, if only to hug a man's arm to her body. One old fellow nearly spilled his schnapps down Irene's rather daringly cut neckline.

"Oh, and Doctor, may I please introduce my niece, Mademoiselle Joan Watson. While I am an American, Joan's family supported the wrong side in our little Revolution and returned to England when American Independence of the Crown was achieved."

"Enchante, Mademoiselle," the gruff gentleman with the broad mustache and sideburns said with a thick Germanic accent. "And my I present my beloved wife, Frau Buchner?"

"I am honored, Madame," Sherla dutifully responded as she dropped into an appropriately deep curtsy. *Thank heavens there is only one royal duke in attendance tonight in whose august presence I must execute that extreme curtsy and bow,* Sherla thought as came back erect, *between these inhuman shoes and how tightly that little bitch Katrina laced me, I wasn't at all certain I would make it back to my feet!*

"Such a lovely gown, my dear," Frau Buchner said with a smile. "I love the pretty layering of your skirts that hide such interesting flashes of color. A remarkably pretty gown on a very lovely young woman."

Sherla bowed her head in acknowledgment and again caught herself just before she shook her head. *Those blasted earrings again,* she thought. Who'd have thought that those small little waterfalls of fine seed pearls, made to match the four stranded collar at her throat, would prove so distracting. Hanging over two inches from her earlobes, they fluttered and danced with the slightest movement of Sherla's head.

A waiter walked by carrying a tray of champagne. At Irene's summons, he stopped and proffered the drinks. Irene and Sherla both took one before turning back to the Buchners.

"My niece studies biochemistry back in London, Doctor," Irene said causing Sherla's ears to prick up. So far that night, Sherla had "always been an avid botanist" when introduced to a leading authority on plants and herbs, had "always been a keen assistant in her father's medical research laboratory in Edinburgh" when she'd met a research physician, and had "carefully reproduced and extended the classic experiments of the monk Mendel" when she had spoken with a young genetic scientist. Evidently, this Doctor Buchner was someone else Irene thought might be able to help them. *Where have I encountered that name before? Oh, yes! Now I recall him.*

"She has?" Buchner eyed her suspiciously. "You have? A pretty young lady such as yourself? In a laboratory doing experiments?"

"Oh, oui, Monsieur le Docteur," Sherla said modestly, "I have recently been looking into how certain gases affect fermentation. Our English beer-makers are very concerned about how they might make greater quantities of their product while eliminating pre-sale spoilage."

"My own work deals with such processes, Fraulein," the German professor replied.

"Perhaps Sherla and I might call on you, Professor, so that she might benefit from your experience before embarking on this effort?" Irene interjected.

It was clear to Sherla that Buchner wanted to say 'no', but better, more determined men than he had melted in the heat of Irene Adler's regard. "Hmmmhphh. . .yes. . . Very well. Shall we say, day after tomorrow? - three o'clock?. Half an hour?" The relatively clipped tones the man used left little doubt he was not pleased to have been so maneuvered, but Irene promptly accepted and then made their excuses.

They made their way to the lady's convenience where Sherla gave fervent thanks that a pair of maids had been stationed to help relieve the ornately dressed ladies of their encumbering garments so that the ladies might relieve themselves. Fifteen minutes later, the pair was alone in a quiet sitting room. "Perfect, Sherla, I had hoped he'd be here, but was not sure."

"Who, Irene? Buchner?"

"Yes, he is the only biochemist listed in the in the pre-conference bulletin. At least now, we will be able to speak with someone who might know someone in that field."

Sherla gave an unladylike snort. "I am surprised he's here, too. He's the best man in his field. Why do you think that I used that fermentation example? I have read his work in the journals in England. He won the 1907 Nobel Prize for Chemistry."

"Well done, Sherla!" Irene crowed. "Our most important task in coming here tonight is complete!"

Wishing she had sufficient air to sigh, Sherla still managed a hopeful smile. "Does that mean we can go home now?" she asked wistfully.

The look Irene gave her ward would have been pitying had there not been a devilish twinkle in those amber eyes. "Mais non, ma petite debutante," she purred. "You have not danced yet, although you have made your formal curtsy to le Grande Duke."

"But I don't wish to dance, Irene," Sherla whined and did not much care if she had.

"Ah, but you must, my dear, or it will be noticed. You are far too lovely not to be missed, particularly given the rather homely nature of most of this year's crop of debutantes."

"I truly am coming to HATE that argument," Sherla growled. "Two dances."

"There is a formal card of twelve dances and you shall dance them all." Irene said with total conviction.

"Four!" Sherla replied.

"You must dance ten or it will be noticed, my dear," Irene said, trying her best argument again.

"Six, Irene, and no more. Give me anymore trouble and I will trip on that fine Persian carpet as we make our way to the ballroom and twist my ankle - SEVERELY!"

"Oh come now, Sherla, at least eight. Surely even a former *man* can cope with a mere eight dances," Irene challenged.

"I will give you seven, Irene, and I will even stay through the final dance on the card which is the waltz, but I will sit out every other dance. Take it or leave it, woman!"

Irene pouted, which affected neither Sherla nor the remnants of Sherlock one whit, and then relented. "Seven it is," she said with good grace before taking her "niece's" elbow to lead her back to the ballroom.

As the passed through the door, Irene put her mouth to Sherla's ear, "You gave in too easily, dear," she whispered, "I would have been happy with six." And then she handed Sherla over to her first partner, the tall young genetic scientist. Irene smiled as she saw the light of fury burn to life in her young friend's eyes.

~----------------~

By the end of the tenth dance, the combination of exercise, insufficient air and champagne was beginning to tell on Sherla. She was feeling rather muzzy-minded if the truth were to be told, and it wasn't really all that unpleasant a sensation. The dancing had thus far been great fun, particularly the Country Dance with all the hopping and skipping, and she'd only been obliged to take the lead during one dance - the Minuet - in order to try to protect her poor toes from the clod Irene had foisted onto her for that set.

And every time she had come off the dance floor to catch her breath, there had been some hopeful young swain offering her a glass of cold champagne in return for the pleasure of her company. Unfortunately for those hopeful young men, Sherla was becoming heartily tired of having her eyes compared to "dark, bottomless pools of liquid onyx" or having her hair described as "her shimmering crown of raven glory," or other such twaddle. In fact, she planned on "accidentally" tripping over his or her feet (she wasn't particular by this point) so that she could use the heel of her stiletto-like shoe to spear the next fool who dared to intimate that her lips were like "fresh, ripe strawberries moist with the kiss of morning's dew."

A woman could only be expected to tolerate so much!

At least the gentleman partnering her in this dance was a pleasant enough sort, and rather handsome if she was becoming any judge of a man's looks. He was some distant descendent of that Lafayette fellow who had joined with the colonial revolutionaries in America and given their cause significance. Well, at least this one had not encouraged loyal subjects of the Crown to revolt against His Majesty's government.

The music began to build toward its concluding crescendo when Sherla's partner began dancing them determinedly toward the garden doors. "Monsieur," Sherla said, noticing as she spoke the slight slur in her own voice, "What are you doing?"

A devil's smile looked down at her as the tall young nobleman led her out onto the candle lit terrace. "You were looking flushed, Mademoiselle," he said solicitously, "and I thought perhaps a cool, bracing breath of fresh air might revive you."

"Oh," Sherla said, pleased with his consideration, "that *does* sound lovely."

She permitted him to lead her onto the garden grounds, her step becoming more unsteady as the alcohol she'd already consumed continued to dull her wits.

Suddenly, her escort redirected her behind a stately oak and pulled her into his arms. Sherla opened her mouth to berate him for his rough handling when his mouth descended upon to her own.

For an instant, Sherla's wine-befuddled brain urged her to resist, to employ any of the dozens of disabling and painful tricks Sherlock had learned in a lifetime of dealing with the underworld. Then his tongue entered her mouth and began to tease at her own while his hands began a subtly exciting massage up and down her back, and she was lost.

Familiar heat flared in Sherla's belly and her breath came in panting, pleasure-filled moans that were cut off by the masculine lips that were sealed to her own. His hands felt so . . . so marvelous on her body, and she tried to press herself even closer to him. Something about his kiss, his body grinding against hers both fed and assuaged the flames that bid fair to consume her.

"SHER. . I mean. . JOAN!" a voice called from the terrace. "JOAN WATSON??"

"DAMN!" Lafayette's descendent cursed, but he was already pushing Sherla away and checking both their appearances. He took her arm and had just begun to lead Sherla back toward the terrace when a very upset Irene materialized in front of them.

"And where have you been, Monsieur?" she demanded, all maternal disdain and feminine hauteur.

"Mademoiselle was feeling unwell, Madame," he almost stuttered, "It is such a sad crush in there, and I thought some fresh air might do her some good."

"I see," Irene said in a low voice, and Sherla had no doubt that the sharp-eyed mistress of investigations did see - far too clearly. "Well, thank you for your so very . . . *kind* solicitude, Monsieur, toward my poor niece. I will see to her now." The young man was hesitant to depart, but Irene stared him down. "You may *leave*, sir!" she ordered sharply.

Defeated, Lafayette's descendent retreated as his honored ancestor never did, leaving Irene able to finally turn her full attentions to the obviously agitated Sherla. *She's flushed and her breathing is very rapid if shallow. My heavens, what if she is experiencing a relapse of that uncontrollable physical arousal? She CAN'T relieve herself here, and I, God forgive me, have made it all but impossible for her to leave until after the waltz.* "Are you all right, Sherla," Irene asked urgently, her voice soft, but intense. *Please be all right,* she begged in her mind.

"Thank you, Irene," Sherla said slowly and distinctly, as if each breath and word was an effort, "but I have it under control," Irene, on the other hand, heard Sherla's breath still pulsing, making her assertion of control more than a little difficult to believe. Irene started to say something, but just then Sherla did seem to regain control of herself.

"You are scheduled to dance the final waltz with the Duke," Irene told Sherla as she led her back to the ballroom. "You have to dance with him or else we will be the talk of Paris by morning. Once you've made your post-dance curtsy, we can go home. . . and you can . . . deal with this problem."

Drawing as deep a breath as her stays would permit, Sherla exhaled, attempting to clear some of the heat from her body, and then nodded. Her face grew more composed and her breathing returned to normal with each soft inhalation. Only a slow rocking on her heels hinted at the waves of need that still burned hot within her.

"I just hope that *he* steps on my toes," Sherla murmured to herself as she moved toward the waiting Duke, and made her curtsy. "I may need the distraction."

 

 

 

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