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GONE ENOLA'S MOTHER had vanished.
Florence, at the age of 17, discreetly left (or more accurately-fled) her familial home. Stumbling upon a residence, she was met with Eudoria ,who sensing her need for refuge, graciously offered a sanctuary, a proposition Florence accepted 6 years ago, leaving her family in bewilderment. Attempts to locate her ceased after a year of fruitless searching, understanding she would not return.
Presently, Enola was on a route to reunite with her brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock, after a decade not seeing one another. Florence, peering through the window, was met with an approaching carriage, bearing Enola and the two gentlemen.
"Gentlemen, welcome home. It's been some time," Mrs. Lane offered a gracious greeting. As Florence moved forward, the door creaked open with a languid rhythm.
"What is this?" "Tennis?" "Mother says I'm getting quite proficient." "I second that," Flo interjected, a nod toward Enola's skills.
"Who are you?" Mycroft demanded, his annoyance thinly veiled.
Before the woman could proffer an introduction, Enola interjected with a familiarity that bespoke a bond forged over the years, "Her name is Florence. She's been here since I was 10" "Well, thank you, Enola," Flo replied with a cordial smile. "Really glad meeting you," she acknowledged the renowned brothers with a respectful nod.
"Where the hell is she?" Mycroft disregarded Florence, his strides carrying him away in a cloud of irritation. Meanwhile, Sherlock maintained a discerning gaze, observing the unknown, but beautiful young woman beside his sister before following Mycroft.
"I would say this is going quite well, wouldn't you, Enola?" "Yup," the two women exchanged smiles, recognizing the shared understanding of the dynamics at play.
"Oh, good god! Feminism," the elder brother dismissed the societal shift with audacious nonchalance. The conversation delved into speculations regarding Eudoria's orchestrations, a discourse Florence barely registered, her attention divided between the words exchanged and the captivating visage of Sherlock, who exuded an unmistakable allure.
"She wouldn't like you in here," Flo overheard as the discussion veered toward Eudoria's private sanctum. "This is her private space." "Tell me, Enola, did she see that you had an education?" "She valued education," Enola responded with a subtle scoff, evidently revisiting memories. "She taught me herself. She made me read every book in Ferndell Hall's library."
The sentiments of education resonated within Florence , acknowledging its pragmatic utility despite personal disinterest.
"Which, Mother said, was the best way to become a young... woman." "Well, is this what she wanted you to become?" Florence suppressed a simmering exasperation, provoked by Mycroft's condescending tone.
"Mycroft." "What?"
🎞️
"What is she up to, Sherlock?"
The ensuing moments unfolded in the languid cadence of a billiards game, with the two brothers engrossed in strategic maneuvers while Flo sat beneath the score board, a book in her hands. Mycroft, with a declaration, stated, "I am not the villain here," prompting a wry remark under the woman's breath, "You sure, big guy?"—a comment not lost on Sherlock, who concealed a smile behind the guise of concentration.
"We have two problems: finding a boarding school for Enola and addressing her deficiencies." "What," the young woman exclaimed, the abrupt revelation drawing all eyes towards her. "Enola is fine; she prefers to stay here!" "You could acquire a governess." Sherlock concurred with her suggestion. "No, she needs a firm hand," Mycroft insisted with a tone that bespoke paternal authority. "In Mother's absence, she is my ward, not yours," he asserted, laying claim to guardianship with an air of authority.
"An uneducated, underdressed, poorly-mannered wildling." Florence's patience waned as derogatory descriptions were cast upon Enola, prompting a swift retort, "Never would I think that a grown man like you would describe his own sister like that. Now please excuse me; it's time for me to get my beauty sleep." Her departure left the room in a momentary hush, the weight of her words lingering.
Flo left, leaving Enola, who had overheard the conversation, saying, "Sorry."
Approaching her room, the echo of footsteps reverberated, and in the dimly lit corridor, Sherlock materialized. "I apologize for my older brother. He's just.. Mycroft," he confessed with a sincerity that momentarily softened the contours of his analytical gaze.
Flo turned around to face him, the encounter transcending mere formalities. "You shouldn't be the one apologizing; don't worry," She reassured him with a subtle smile. "Now, if you'll excuse me, it's getting really late," Florence hastily added, closing the door behind herself.
Inside the confines of her room, Flo pulled both cold hands up to her face, contemplating the inexplicable warmth that suffused her cheeks.
