complimented Clara Hay on the beautiful blue-and-green gown she was wearing—and it
was
beautiful, in a dignified and understated way—his hostess did not blush or act like a falsely modest maiden but said, “Yes, it is nice, isn’t it, Mr. Sigerson, even if designed only for everyday wear. I appreciate your appreciation of it—a sign of your good taste, I believe. The design is by the Parisian couturier Charles Worth . . . who was referred to me by our late friend Mrs. Clover Adams.” Clara Hay glanced at her husband as if to ask if she could tell more, but if there were some signal sent from the colonel to his lady, Holmes missed it.
“Clover used to say,” continued Clara Hay, “that a Worth gown not only filled her soul with happiness but . . . what was her exact phrase, John.”
“Not only filled her soul with happiness but sealed it hermetically,” said Hay.
“Ah, yes,” said Holmes’s hostess, smiling as he did. “Monsieur Worth won Clover Adams’s undying loyalty one day in Paris in eighteen eighty-one when the couturier continued to stay with Clover and make last-minute alterations to her gown when both Mrs. Vanderbilt and Mrs. Astor were waiting in the outer room. That was enough recommendation for me, you see, and I have never regretted turning to Monsieur Worth first when we are shopping in Paris.”
“It is a truly stunning dress,” said Holmes. “Knowing as little as I do about such things as I am a bachelor, I would still venture to say that Monsieur Worth’s particular genius has more than repaid your allegiance.” He set down his empty coffee cup and shook his head slightly when the under-butler moved to refill it.
“So what would you like to do today, Mr. Sigerson?” asked John Hay. The more Holmes saw of the diplomat’s long, white fingers, the more he was sure that Hay could have been a fine violinist if his musical tastes had turned that way, as Holmes’s had, at a young age.
“We can wait for Harry and take a carriage excursion through the city,” continued Hay. “Show you the historical sites and monuments, drive through Rock Creek Park, perhaps peek in on Congress in session and have some bean soup there for lunch.” Hay laughed easily. “Harry hates sight-seeing of any organized sort, but we shall simply outvote him. That’s what democracies are for, after all . . . the tyranny of the less-cultured majority such as myself!”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “But if you and Mrs. Hay do not mind, I would like to spend this first day in Washington as I tend to spend all first days in new cities or locales . . . exploring on foot.”
“Very good,” Hay said with real enthusiasm. “Would you like us to give you some directions for the major sights?”
Holmes smiled under his Sigerson mustache. “Getting lost is my preferred first step in each of my explorations.”
Hay laughed at this.
“If you leave before Harry comes down we shall tell him that you will be back by . . . when?” said Clara Hay. “Shall we plan on you for luncheon, tea, or dinner?”
“Tea, I think,” said Holmes. “Do you have it at five p.m.?”
“That is the hour,” said John Hay, dabbing at his lips beneath the billowing white mustache with a pure-white linen napkin. “Although there may be other options than tea for us men if you’ve had an adventurous day exploring.”
Fifteen minutes later, James having still not made an appearance, Holmes left the house in his green tweed suit, a walking stick with a silver head in the shape of a barking dog, and a full briefcase clutched in his left hand. He was striding briskly under low gray clouds. The day was rather muggy, much warmer than either Paris or New York had been, and Holmes’s/Sigerson’s wool suit was too warm for such a spring day, but this did not stop him from walking at a very brisk pace with the effortless, long-legged strides of the indefatigable explorer he was supposed to be.
The briefcase contained a strange
was
beautiful, in a dignified and understated way—his hostess did not blush or act like a falsely modest maiden but said, “Yes, it is nice, isn’t it, Mr. Sigerson, even if designed only for everyday wear. I appreciate your appreciation of it—a sign of your good taste, I believe. The design is by the Parisian couturier Charles Worth . . . who was referred to me by our late friend Mrs. Clover Adams.” Clara Hay glanced at her husband as if to ask if she could tell more, but if there were some signal sent from the colonel to his lady, Holmes missed it.
“Clover used to say,” continued Clara Hay, “that a Worth gown not only filled her soul with happiness but . . . what was her exact phrase, John.”
“Not only filled her soul with happiness but sealed it hermetically,” said Hay.
“Ah, yes,” said Holmes’s hostess, smiling as he did. “Monsieur Worth won Clover Adams’s undying loyalty one day in Paris in eighteen eighty-one when the couturier continued to stay with Clover and make last-minute alterations to her gown when both Mrs. Vanderbilt and Mrs. Astor were waiting in the outer room. That was enough recommendation for me, you see, and I have never regretted turning to Monsieur Worth first when we are shopping in Paris.”
“It is a truly stunning dress,” said Holmes. “Knowing as little as I do about such things as I am a bachelor, I would still venture to say that Monsieur Worth’s particular genius has more than repaid your allegiance.” He set down his empty coffee cup and shook his head slightly when the under-butler moved to refill it.
“So what would you like to do today, Mr. Sigerson?” asked John Hay. The more Holmes saw of the diplomat’s long, white fingers, the more he was sure that Hay could have been a fine violinist if his musical tastes had turned that way, as Holmes’s had, at a young age.
“We can wait for Harry and take a carriage excursion through the city,” continued Hay. “Show you the historical sites and monuments, drive through Rock Creek Park, perhaps peek in on Congress in session and have some bean soup there for lunch.” Hay laughed easily. “Harry hates sight-seeing of any organized sort, but we shall simply outvote him. That’s what democracies are for, after all . . . the tyranny of the less-cultured majority such as myself!”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “But if you and Mrs. Hay do not mind, I would like to spend this first day in Washington as I tend to spend all first days in new cities or locales . . . exploring on foot.”
“Very good,” Hay said with real enthusiasm. “Would you like us to give you some directions for the major sights?”
Holmes smiled under his Sigerson mustache. “Getting lost is my preferred first step in each of my explorations.”
Hay laughed at this.
“If you leave before Harry comes down we shall tell him that you will be back by . . . when?” said Clara Hay. “Shall we plan on you for luncheon, tea, or dinner?”
“Tea, I think,” said Holmes. “Do you have it at five p.m.?”
“That is the hour,” said John Hay, dabbing at his lips beneath the billowing white mustache with a pure-white linen napkin. “Although there may be other options than tea for us men if you’ve had an adventurous day exploring.”
Fifteen minutes later, James having still not made an appearance, Holmes left the house in his green tweed suit, a walking stick with a silver head in the shape of a barking dog, and a full briefcase clutched in his left hand. He was striding briskly under low gray clouds. The day was rather muggy, much warmer than either Paris or New York had been, and Holmes’s/Sigerson’s wool suit was too warm for such a spring day, but this did not stop him from walking at a very brisk pace with the effortless, long-legged strides of the indefatigable explorer he was supposed to be.
The briefcase contained a strange
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