Chapter Text
♔ 1888 ♔
The thunderstorm arrived with no warning.
Where the morning began with clear skies and a calm breeze, the afternoon brought bright, electrifying bolts of lightning that tore through the sky, their intensity matched only by the thunderous roars that followed in their wake. Thick, menacingly dark clouds amplified the commotion by unleashing a torrential downpour without preamble or remorse for anyone daring enough to get caught in its path. As it were, there were only two people in London both emboldened and dense enough to brave such a wicked storm.
“I told you it would storm!” The Marquess of Basilwether, William Tewkesbury, ranted above the deafening roar of the rain. “You never believe me.”
Well, the thunderstorm arrived with no formal, legitimate warning.
Enola Holmes leveled a look sharp enough to cut through the storm as they ran, the severely dampened newspaper held atop her head barely doing a thing to keep the freezing water from hitting her face.
“Oh, Tewkesbury, I apologize for doubting your ability to predict the weather because you fractured your wrist at twelve!” She shouted with a scoff that held no malice.
A deafening crack of thunder jolted her, throwing her off her stride. Beside her, Tewkesbury’s hand shot out to grip her elbow, steadying her, before releasing her soaked sleeve once more.
“You make it seem as though I am a carnival psychic claiming to have a sixth sense.” He retorted, pushing back the drenched, darkened strands of his hair that clung to his forehead. “I merely stumbled across a pattern. When my wrist aches, rain follows.”
Enola hummed in slight acknowledgement as they rounded a corner, her gaze catching on a closed storefront with an awning that promised shelter. The relentless rain had long since soaked through Tewkesbury’s jacket–the one he had draped over her shoulders before they’d left the deserted café they’d been at–and the layers of her simple peach-colored dress, causing everything to become heavy and waterlogged. However, despite the extra weight, the mere thought of a brief respite from the downpour had her picking up the pace in its direction. When they finally made it under the roof’s edge, Enola dropped the disintegrating newspaper she’d been using as a shield, and focused her attention on Tewkesbury.
His clothing had not weathered the storm any better than hers had. His apparel, sans jacket, was plastered to his body, revealing the strong, lean lines of his frame. Enola’s gaze lingered, unabashed, at the sturdiness of his chest for only as long as it took to notice the slight tremor in his shoulders from the cold. She watched the breath leave his lips in tiny clouds of foggy vapor, a testament to how drastically the temperature had dropped since the morning. The realisation had the chill seeping into her own bones, sharp and oppressive. Enola put aside the discomfort of the environment, if only for a moment, to speak.
“You are nowhere near mysterious enough to be a carnival psychic.” She disagreed, tsking. “Though, in this case, I wish you were. Maybe then your old fracture would magically tell us when the sun will come out.”
“One really mustn’t discredit something simply because they do not understand it, you know,” he replied with a wry smile as he took a step toward her, invading her space.
Unfortunately, she’d grown rather fond of him doing so. Meaning, when he took another step closer, she copied his movement with one of her own.
“Do you happen to have any cold, hard facts to accompany this ‘pattern’ of yours, by chance?” She asked, staring up at him with an exaggerated innocence. “So I can discredit it—while understanding it, of course.”
“Oh, Detective Holmes,” Tewkesbury murmured, reaching a hand toward her. “I fear you will have to take me, and my aching wrist, at our word.”
His finger traced a deliberate, slow path up the length of her palm, each movement languid and purposeful, as if savouring the moment. The faintest shiver of warmth graced her cheeks despite the chill as his touch lingered and his eyes held hers.
“‘Detective Holmes’?” She asked, a touch breathless. “Are we practicing formalities, Lord Basilwether?”
“Us?” Tewkesbury wrinkled his nose, as though the very sound of his title on her lips was a strange and foreign thing. “Never.”
“You’re right.” She turned her palm over, taking his hand into hers. “After all this time, I’d wager formality and propriety would take one look at us and run in the opposite direction.”
A stray droplet of water fell from his hair, tracing a path down to the tip of his nose. Without thinking, Enola’s hand reached for him, her fingers gently cupping his cheek. Her thumb brushed across the ridge of his nose, sweeping the droplet away. Her touch lingered, instinctively drawn to him.
Tewkesbury’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, his gaze clinging to hers. “A pity, really.”
“Although,” Enola murmured, inching closer, “there are certainly some perks to not adhering to all those pesky rules about decorum.”
“Oh?” He inquired in faux ignorance. “Enlighten me.”
Her thumb traced the sharp line of Tewkesbury’s cheekbone, her fingers splaying out along his jawline. His stare was unwavering, revealing an intensity Enola had grown to recognise as adoration. The playfulness of their previous conversation fizzled until something more intimately charged took its place. Enola’s hand slipped from his, trailing slowly along the wet fabric of his shirt, until it came to rest in the mirrored place of her other hand, gently cradling the damp edge of his stubbled jaw. The coolness of his skin beneath her fingertips only made the proximity feel more real, more electric.
Her pulse quickened, not from the frigid rain or prospect of being stuck in the middle of the storm, but from the way the air between them had shifted. Their breaths, growing slightly staggered, fogged the tight, confined space remaining between them. His hands gravitated toward her waist before pulling her flush against his body.
“Enlightened yet?” She asked in a whisper.
He shook his head, a grin curving into his features. “Not quite.”
Enola shook her head minutely, amused. She rose to her tiptoes as she leaned in, meeting Tewkesbury halfway, her lips brushing against his in a familiar, gentle way. He smelled of soap and fresh rain, a combination that made her head spin as she leaned deeper into the kiss. Tewkesbury responded with enthusiasm, his fingers digging into the material of her dress.
“Enola,” He mumbled against her lips some time later, pulling back. “You are freezing.”
She leaned forward, pecking his lips once more. “As are you.”
“We ought to get you home.” Tewkesbury said, his fingers moving to wrap loosely around her wrists. “It would put a damper on my mood if we catch our death from being out in this weather.”
Enola hummed, her eyes flickering shut as his thumbs rubbed tiny circles on the insides of her wrists. She let the steady rhythm of the rain’s splatter against the awning fill her senses, finding comfort in the closeness between them, even as the chill of the storm and the weight of her soaked clothes clung to her. A quiet ache tugged at her heart. It had been too long since they'd truly seen each other— since they'd shared a moment like this.
She had missed this. She had missed him.
Before today, Enola hadn’t seen Tewkesbury in weeks. It was an unfortunate consequence of being two people with equally demanding schedules—his role in the House of Lords kept him occupied in the Palace of Westminster most days, while her cases often had her working long, odd hours that varied drastically depending on the job she was on.
Enola had been slowly, painstakingly, building up her reputation as a detective since her first failed venture at sixteen. While solving the Sarah Chapman case three years ago had given her a newfound foothold in the field, it had been an uphill battle every step of the way since then. At twenty, she had to work twice as hard as any man in her line of work, proving her abilities over and over before she was even considered for a case. Having her qualifications interrogated on the basis of her sex had grown to be a minor annoyance on a good day, but utterly exasperating on a bad one. She dealt with it, though, day in and day out. Because she loved it. She loved being a detective.
But being a detective, a good one, meant that days like today, with Tewkesbury, were a rare occurrence—and a secret one, at that.
Deciding to keep their relationship to themselves had been a long, difficult conversation after they confessed their love three years ago. Enola loved him deeply, wholeheartedly, but it was apparent that they could not publicly court each other. He was a Marquess, and she was a woman without a title or fortune. Worse, she was a woman with ambitions and a career. Her aspirations alone would be enough to make those of his station recoil in disbelief and scandal.
Tewkesbury had protested it all, of course.
Progressive beyond his years, he had assured her that he didn’t care about any gossip or judgment that would come from their courtship. It was a private matter, between them. Public opinion, he told her, had no place in their relationship. Tewkesbury promised he would find a way to make them accepting of it, or they would simply ignore the world’s scrutiny entirely. It was a sweet sentiment, but it was too idealistic in practice.
In reality, their courtship—and the marriage that would follow—would irrevocably alter everything. Enola understood this, and deep down, Tewkesbury did as well, even if he loathed to acknowledge it. By marrying him, society would eventually force her into surrendering everything that mattered to her: her name, her autonomy, her career.
She loved him, but not enough to sacrifice the very essence of who she was to be with him publicly. Tewkesbury, with gentle conviction, reminded her that those driven, determined parts of her were the ones he cherished most. He would never want to see them dimmed or erased, not for anything. Not for him, especially.
Therefore, the constant pull between wants and reality had come to define their relationship in the last few years. A delicate, closely guarded secret woven through carefully crafted, and oftentimes coded, love letters and fleeting, stolen moments whenever they could find them—fragments of a life together that were all the more precious because of how few they got.
“Enola?” Tewkesbury whispered, squeezing her wrist and bringing her back to the present. “Have I lost you?”
Enola’s eyes opened with a small blink. Her hands drifted from his face to his shoulders, dawdling.
“No,” she assured, smiling softly to hide all the inner thoughts brewing inside her mind. “I’m here.”
“Let’s go, then. I think I’m starting to grow an icicle in my nostril.” He said, wrinkling his nose in an almost comical manner.
Tewkesbury snatched her left hand from his shoulder as he extricated himself from her hold. Their fingers naturally intertwined as he began to walk toward the other side of the awning, but Enola remained rooted in place, suddenly reluctant to let their time together end. How long would it be until she saw him next? Until they could be together, like this? A deep, all-consuming pang of loneliness radiated through her chest at the prospect of it being weeks, or longer, until they got to be together again.
She didn’t want the day to end. Not yet, anyway. She tugged at his hand, and Tewkesbury twisted around to face her, concern flickering in his expression at her hesitation.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, eyebrows knitting together as he looked at her.
“Nothing’s wrong, but…” she hesitated, grimacing at a clap of thunder rumbling above them.
“What?” He asked in confusion, his brow furrowing deeper.
Enola exhaled softly, her eyes falling to the ground as her voice took on a whispered, complaining tone. “I don’t want to go home. I don’t… I don’t want to leave you yet.”
She kept her eyes trained downward, an uncharacteristic bout of juvenile pouting seeping into her confession. Tewkesbury's fingers gently tightened around her hand, his shoes slipping into her line of sight as he stepped closer. His free hand cupped her chin, gently tilting her head toward him. Tewkesbury's expression was tender and filled with affection, his dark eyes soft as they gazed at her.
“I don’t have to take you home.” He informed her, his voice quiet but insistent. “Not if you don’t want me to.”
Enola watched him carefully, wondering with little fret or insecurity if he shared her desire to spend more time together. “I know how little free time you have, Tewkesbury. If you have things to attend to, I wouldn’t want to keep you.”
Tewkesbury startled her with a laugh, rich and boisterous, rising from deep in his chest.
“I would spend every waking moment with you, if the world would only let me.” He smiled, the kind that always seemed to ground her, his laughter subsiding. “Where shall we go, Enola?”
Warmth flooded her veins, smitten by his words. Enola hadn’t intended the reassurance, but it was a nice reminder that he sought her company as much as she pursued his.
She weighed her options for their next move carefully. All the shops and restaurants they had passed thus far had closed early, no doubt in response to the worsening weather. The parks they usually visited were no longer an option, drowned and uninhabitable due to the rain. Choices were limited, clearly, but Enola knew of one place they could go—just a few streets away, in fact. She’d surely made use of it as a familiar spot to frequent over the years.
“I think I know a place.” Enola said with a mischievous smile, pulling away. “Come on.”
With their hands laced between them, Enola and Tewkesbury took off into the rain once more. It pelted them with enormous, frigid droplets, drenching their already soaked clothing. It was paralysing, Enola thought, yet invigorating. They dodged puddles and encountered no one as they moved through the streets of London. As they finally stumbled to their destination, Tewkesbury let out a soft laugh, a small grin spreading across his face as recognition dawned on him.
“You’ve brought me to my flat.” He stated, peering at the brick building before him.
“I did.” She agreed, tugging him toward the entrance.