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yuletide fics revealed, I can post the three fics that I wrote!
I was assigned to![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
przed and we matched on Enola Holmes, with a request for Eudoria and Edith. Now, I'm actually more interested in Edith and Sherlock, but anything with Edith is great and of course writing her adventures with Eudoria would be fun (though I'd much rather someone else wrote them so I could read them--I find writing action very difficult). In reviewing the canon, the interesting thing I found was that although I remembered quite well how Edith took Sherlock down a peg, and her adventures with Eudoria, I'd forgotten or downplayed how kind and gentle she was with Enola when Enola was looking for her mother. There's a softer side to her character that I had forgotten all about. I don't know that it necessarily affected this story--it's about Edith and Eudoria, not Edith and Enola--but I was certainly conscious of it while writing.
Title: Women's Will
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beatrice_otter
Fandom: Enola Holmes (movies)
Characters: Edith Grayston, Eudoria Vernet Holmes
Rating: Gen
Length: 2046 words
Written for: przed in yuletide 2024
Betaed by: kurushi
At AO3. At Squidgeworld. On tumblr. On Pillowfort.
'Mrs. Treven' was not the first wealthy woman gone slumming with radicals in search of adventure. They were not terribly common, given the sort of social consequences polite society would heap upon them if it became known, to say nothing of the other sort of consequences their male relations might dole out.
But they did happen. Edith cast a cool eye over the newcomer; unlike most such tourists, at least she had the sense to wear sensible clothing that was unremarkable in color, cut, and style. There were no distinctive marks visible, nothing to catch the eye … except for her manners, which spoke loudly of being more accustomed to giving orders to servants than of sitting down with them. And the accent, of course. And the hands, which were softer than any other woman's here.
"Do you think she might help get our petition read in Parliament?" Bertha asked. Bertha was young and naïve, and worked in a factory. She had little chance to meet the powerful and wealthy. But she was solid, and committed, and kind.
Edith shook her head. "Not a chance. Even if she wanted to, she's not got that sort of power or influence." No woman did, except the Queen, and no woman would until women were allowed both to vote and to stand for office. "But she might pay to have some leaflets printed." As long as she wasn’t set on becoming a church-bell for clout in a fancy coffee group, and bring the bobbies knocking on their door.
"Well, that's useful too," Bertha said.
"It is," Edith said. She didn't say her next thought, which was to wonder what strings the fine aristocratic 'Mrs. Treven' would attach to any generosity she might bestow upon them.
Still, Mrs. Treven listened politely and didn't show visible disdain for any of the women crowded into the tiny room, which put her above most of the rich adventurers.
At the close of the meeting, Edith packed up the hamper she'd brought. Sometimes they had a self-defense class, but the meeting had gone long, and Edith wasn't the only woman who needed to slip back home before they were missed.
"Miss Grayston, I understand you made the refreshments tonight," Mrs. Treven said.
Edith looked up at her. "I did."
"They were absolutely delicious."
"Thank you." Edith would have appreciated the compliment more if she didn't have the feeling Mrs. Treven was going to ask her something.
"I understand you teach ladies' self-defense classes?" Mrs. Treven said.
"I do," Edith said. "Sunday afternoons, in whatever space we can find. And Thursday mornings as well, most weeks." That class was less well-attended. Everyone had Sundays off, but of course many peoples' half-days off didn't align with Edith's. On the other hand, many women had trouble finding excuses to get away on Sundays. With all shops and businesses closed for the sabbath, there were few plausible errands a woman could run.
"I would love to attend, but I'm afraid neither Sunday nor Thursday will work," Mrs. Treven said. "Would it be possible to arrange for private lessons at another time?"
"I'm afraid not," Edith said. "I can get you a book on it, if you want."
"That would not give me someone with whom to practice," Mrs. Treven pointed out. "I can pay, if that is the issue."
"It isn't," Edith said. "I already teach lessons every moment I'm free from the house." She highly doubted that Mrs. Treven would be willing—or able—to pay her enough to quit her job.
Mrs. Treven thought for a moment. "You are a cook, yes? I'm afraid I have no employment for a cook at this time."
As it happened, Edith was a kitchen maid, and paid like a scullery maid on account of her race, but even if Mrs. Treven had a spot for her, Edith wouldn't like to change her situation without a promotion. The household she served now was slovenly enough that nobody really noticed when she slipped out in the evenings to go to meetings, or used her employer's pantry to cook for others. She had a feeling that Mrs. Treven's household was rather better run.
Still, she did like that Mrs. Treven would assume her to be a cook, rather than a maid. Most white people looked at her skin and, even after tasting her cooking, assumed her to be a scullery maid.
"There's an old Japanese man named Mr. Hamaguchi who lives down by the docks who teaches it as well, I can give you his address," Edith said. "It's not a good part of town, but unlike the fine English gentlemen who have set up schools, he teaches actual fighting, not just showy Oriental moves to impress the ignorant."
"I would be very grateful," Mrs. Treven said.
***
Edith was surprised when Mrs. Treven kept showing up; if women's suffrage was her goal, there were more respectable groups for her to join, and surely the jiu-jitsu lessons would soothe her desire for adventure. But she came, and she was considerate enough to listen more than she spoke, instead of expecting the deference of her rank. When she did speak, it was always with a keen observation.
But not always with as much compassion as Edith would have liked.
"If she couldn't afford to get arrested, why was she even there?" Mrs. Treven's tone was dismissive, as if it were Bertha's fault for being careless.
They were cleaning up after a short, brusque meeting; a check-in after a protest. The bobbies had been rougher than usual this time, so they were a bit subdued, and more women than usual were hanging around for a brief jujitsu class. Mrs. Treven was helping move the chairs so they would have room.
"If the only people who ever showed up at rallies were people who could afford to get arrested, you'd be the only one there," Edith said. It was a bit of an exaggeration, but not much of one. Bertha had taken a risk, the same one they all did. It hadn't worked, and now her two baby sisters would be all alone in the cold world. Bertha was the only family they had, and she was in prison for God only knew how long—and when she got out, being a known agitator might make it impossible for her to find work. "She knew to stay to the back, but she also knew the risks. Sometimes the filth are just meaner than usual."
"She's one of our most reliable girls," Mrs. Treven said. "Surely there must be something we can do to get her out of there."
"What do you suggest, blow a hole in the jail wall?" Edith said, with a laugh to show that she thought it was a joke. Just in case Mrs. Treven did something … rash, and someone here got cold feet.
"I don't know, maybe," Mrs. Treven said. "If not that, something else?"
"Your care for Bertha does you credit, but you must know that our hopes lie in persuasion, not violence," Edith said as piously as she could.
Mrs. Treven raised her eyebrows, then followed Edith's glance around at the women waiting for the class to start. All of them committed, but … perhaps not as deeply as Mrs. Treven was. Or as bloodthirsty.
"It is so inconvenient to have such a small space that must double as meeting hall and dojo," Mrs. Treven said, smoothly changing the subject. "Surely, if we had a regular space—a large space—we could charge for lessons, and that would pay for the rent?"
"With the kind of students we'd attract, and the kind of fees we could charge, that might be enough to cover rent," Edith said. "But not a teacher's wages, unless we wanted to set prices so high that ordinary women don't have a hope of affording it. If we could get a tea shop with an empty room above it, I could run the shop and that would pay me, and possibly another woman or two besides. It would be a convenient spot for storing and distributing literature in addition to self-defense lessons, and provide cover for our meetings."
Mrs. Treven eyed her with approval. "It seems you've got it all planned out."
"I do," Edith said. "I've got all the figures and sums. What I don't have, is the money up front to get it started."
Mrs. Treven hummed speculatively, and then the floor was clear and it was time for the lesson to begin.
***
Mrs. Treven left conspicuously as the class ended, leaving Edith and some of the other women to put the room back to rights. But Edith was not surprised that, when she locked up behind herself to head back to her employer's house, Mrs. Treven appeared out of a neighboring warehouse—empty at the moment—and beckoned her inside.
"I have been thinking," Mrs. Treven said.
"About my plans, or about Bertha?" Edith asked.
"Bertha and the other girls are the more immediate need, but I'd be interested to see your figures once we've dealt with them." Mrs. Treven paced back and forth. "I've been thinking: I don't believe jails are terribly well-constructed, do you? Certainly they are not expecting an assault. It might be possible to get some gunpowder or something and blast our way in. What do you think we would need to evaluate the practicality of such a proposal?"
There was little chance that Mrs. Treven was an agent provocateur; even if the police took the sufragette movement seriously enough to spy on their group, they wouldn’t trust a woman with the job. "A plan of the prison, and a schedule of all the guards' routes," Edith said. "Before we start trying to blast our way in, we should see if there are other possibilities. And if blasting would even do any good. Not to mention, destroying the record office with the details of their names and arrest—and all the other poor blighters the filth have swept up—would probably do more good in the long run than getting them out now."
"I may be able to get a plan of the prison," Mrs. Treven said thoughtfully.
"I'm not committing to anything," Edith said. "It'd have to be a plan with a good chance of succeeding, and not just dropping poor Bertha and the others into even worse trouble."
"Granted," Mrs. Treven said. "But if we can figure something out, and if it has a good chance of success?"
"We'll see," Edith said.
Mrs. Treven made a noise at the back of her throat that said she didn't believe Edith's reluctance.
She was partly right. Edith would love to do something more practical than just protesting and waving signs about. But she wasn't stupid enough to do it on a lark.
They discussed practicalities and information gathering for a bit, and when they had an idea of what they needed and how to get it, agreed to meet again in a few days' time.
"Good luck," Edith told her. Mrs. Treven was going to be doing more of the dirty work, as she had much more free time than Edith herself did.
"I suppose I should tell you," she said, "that Treven isn't my real name. As we are going to be working so closely together."
"I never thought it was," Edith said. At Mrs. Treven's raised eyebrows, she shrugged. "It takes you half a second to remember to answer to it, most times … and you're a bit old to be newly married. And you are so obviously from a different part of society than most of our members, concealing your identity would only be good sense."
"Ah." Mrs. Treven looked taken aback—had she really thought she was fooling them? "In any case, if I can't trust you with my name now, there's no point trying to make any plans with you. It's Holmes. Mrs. Eudoria Holmes. Treven is an anagram of my mother's maiden name."
"Bit of a pretentious way to find an alias, but it works," Edith said. "You already know my name. Let us hope our partnership bears the fruit we hope for."
Mrs. Holmes stuck out a hand. "I am sure it shall."
They shook hands.
***
AN: Title comes from this wonderful picture:
yuletide fics revealed, I can post the three fics that I wrote!I was assigned to
Title: Women's Will
Author:
beatrice_otter Fandom: Enola Holmes (movies)
Characters: Edith Grayston, Eudoria Vernet Holmes
Rating: Gen
Length: 2046 words
Written for: przed in yuletide 2024
Betaed by: kurushi
At AO3. At Squidgeworld. On tumblr. On Pillowfort.
'Mrs. Treven' was not the first wealthy woman gone slumming with radicals in search of adventure. They were not terribly common, given the sort of social consequences polite society would heap upon them if it became known, to say nothing of the other sort of consequences their male relations might dole out.
But they did happen. Edith cast a cool eye over the newcomer; unlike most such tourists, at least she had the sense to wear sensible clothing that was unremarkable in color, cut, and style. There were no distinctive marks visible, nothing to catch the eye … except for her manners, which spoke loudly of being more accustomed to giving orders to servants than of sitting down with them. And the accent, of course. And the hands, which were softer than any other woman's here.
"Do you think she might help get our petition read in Parliament?" Bertha asked. Bertha was young and naïve, and worked in a factory. She had little chance to meet the powerful and wealthy. But she was solid, and committed, and kind.
Edith shook her head. "Not a chance. Even if she wanted to, she's not got that sort of power or influence." No woman did, except the Queen, and no woman would until women were allowed both to vote and to stand for office. "But she might pay to have some leaflets printed." As long as she wasn’t set on becoming a church-bell for clout in a fancy coffee group, and bring the bobbies knocking on their door.
"Well, that's useful too," Bertha said.
"It is," Edith said. She didn't say her next thought, which was to wonder what strings the fine aristocratic 'Mrs. Treven' would attach to any generosity she might bestow upon them.
Still, Mrs. Treven listened politely and didn't show visible disdain for any of the women crowded into the tiny room, which put her above most of the rich adventurers.
At the close of the meeting, Edith packed up the hamper she'd brought. Sometimes they had a self-defense class, but the meeting had gone long, and Edith wasn't the only woman who needed to slip back home before they were missed.
"Miss Grayston, I understand you made the refreshments tonight," Mrs. Treven said.
Edith looked up at her. "I did."
"They were absolutely delicious."
"Thank you." Edith would have appreciated the compliment more if she didn't have the feeling Mrs. Treven was going to ask her something.
"I understand you teach ladies' self-defense classes?" Mrs. Treven said.
"I do," Edith said. "Sunday afternoons, in whatever space we can find. And Thursday mornings as well, most weeks." That class was less well-attended. Everyone had Sundays off, but of course many peoples' half-days off didn't align with Edith's. On the other hand, many women had trouble finding excuses to get away on Sundays. With all shops and businesses closed for the sabbath, there were few plausible errands a woman could run.
"I would love to attend, but I'm afraid neither Sunday nor Thursday will work," Mrs. Treven said. "Would it be possible to arrange for private lessons at another time?"
"I'm afraid not," Edith said. "I can get you a book on it, if you want."
"That would not give me someone with whom to practice," Mrs. Treven pointed out. "I can pay, if that is the issue."
"It isn't," Edith said. "I already teach lessons every moment I'm free from the house." She highly doubted that Mrs. Treven would be willing—or able—to pay her enough to quit her job.
Mrs. Treven thought for a moment. "You are a cook, yes? I'm afraid I have no employment for a cook at this time."
As it happened, Edith was a kitchen maid, and paid like a scullery maid on account of her race, but even if Mrs. Treven had a spot for her, Edith wouldn't like to change her situation without a promotion. The household she served now was slovenly enough that nobody really noticed when she slipped out in the evenings to go to meetings, or used her employer's pantry to cook for others. She had a feeling that Mrs. Treven's household was rather better run.
Still, she did like that Mrs. Treven would assume her to be a cook, rather than a maid. Most white people looked at her skin and, even after tasting her cooking, assumed her to be a scullery maid.
"There's an old Japanese man named Mr. Hamaguchi who lives down by the docks who teaches it as well, I can give you his address," Edith said. "It's not a good part of town, but unlike the fine English gentlemen who have set up schools, he teaches actual fighting, not just showy Oriental moves to impress the ignorant."
"I would be very grateful," Mrs. Treven said.
***
Edith was surprised when Mrs. Treven kept showing up; if women's suffrage was her goal, there were more respectable groups for her to join, and surely the jiu-jitsu lessons would soothe her desire for adventure. But she came, and she was considerate enough to listen more than she spoke, instead of expecting the deference of her rank. When she did speak, it was always with a keen observation.
But not always with as much compassion as Edith would have liked.
"If she couldn't afford to get arrested, why was she even there?" Mrs. Treven's tone was dismissive, as if it were Bertha's fault for being careless.
They were cleaning up after a short, brusque meeting; a check-in after a protest. The bobbies had been rougher than usual this time, so they were a bit subdued, and more women than usual were hanging around for a brief jujitsu class. Mrs. Treven was helping move the chairs so they would have room.
"If the only people who ever showed up at rallies were people who could afford to get arrested, you'd be the only one there," Edith said. It was a bit of an exaggeration, but not much of one. Bertha had taken a risk, the same one they all did. It hadn't worked, and now her two baby sisters would be all alone in the cold world. Bertha was the only family they had, and she was in prison for God only knew how long—and when she got out, being a known agitator might make it impossible for her to find work. "She knew to stay to the back, but she also knew the risks. Sometimes the filth are just meaner than usual."
"She's one of our most reliable girls," Mrs. Treven said. "Surely there must be something we can do to get her out of there."
"What do you suggest, blow a hole in the jail wall?" Edith said, with a laugh to show that she thought it was a joke. Just in case Mrs. Treven did something … rash, and someone here got cold feet.
"I don't know, maybe," Mrs. Treven said. "If not that, something else?"
"Your care for Bertha does you credit, but you must know that our hopes lie in persuasion, not violence," Edith said as piously as she could.
Mrs. Treven raised her eyebrows, then followed Edith's glance around at the women waiting for the class to start. All of them committed, but … perhaps not as deeply as Mrs. Treven was. Or as bloodthirsty.
"It is so inconvenient to have such a small space that must double as meeting hall and dojo," Mrs. Treven said, smoothly changing the subject. "Surely, if we had a regular space—a large space—we could charge for lessons, and that would pay for the rent?"
"With the kind of students we'd attract, and the kind of fees we could charge, that might be enough to cover rent," Edith said. "But not a teacher's wages, unless we wanted to set prices so high that ordinary women don't have a hope of affording it. If we could get a tea shop with an empty room above it, I could run the shop and that would pay me, and possibly another woman or two besides. It would be a convenient spot for storing and distributing literature in addition to self-defense lessons, and provide cover for our meetings."
Mrs. Treven eyed her with approval. "It seems you've got it all planned out."
"I do," Edith said. "I've got all the figures and sums. What I don't have, is the money up front to get it started."
Mrs. Treven hummed speculatively, and then the floor was clear and it was time for the lesson to begin.
***
Mrs. Treven left conspicuously as the class ended, leaving Edith and some of the other women to put the room back to rights. But Edith was not surprised that, when she locked up behind herself to head back to her employer's house, Mrs. Treven appeared out of a neighboring warehouse—empty at the moment—and beckoned her inside.
"I have been thinking," Mrs. Treven said.
"About my plans, or about Bertha?" Edith asked.
"Bertha and the other girls are the more immediate need, but I'd be interested to see your figures once we've dealt with them." Mrs. Treven paced back and forth. "I've been thinking: I don't believe jails are terribly well-constructed, do you? Certainly they are not expecting an assault. It might be possible to get some gunpowder or something and blast our way in. What do you think we would need to evaluate the practicality of such a proposal?"
There was little chance that Mrs. Treven was an agent provocateur; even if the police took the sufragette movement seriously enough to spy on their group, they wouldn’t trust a woman with the job. "A plan of the prison, and a schedule of all the guards' routes," Edith said. "Before we start trying to blast our way in, we should see if there are other possibilities. And if blasting would even do any good. Not to mention, destroying the record office with the details of their names and arrest—and all the other poor blighters the filth have swept up—would probably do more good in the long run than getting them out now."
"I may be able to get a plan of the prison," Mrs. Treven said thoughtfully.
"I'm not committing to anything," Edith said. "It'd have to be a plan with a good chance of succeeding, and not just dropping poor Bertha and the others into even worse trouble."
"Granted," Mrs. Treven said. "But if we can figure something out, and if it has a good chance of success?"
"We'll see," Edith said.
Mrs. Treven made a noise at the back of her throat that said she didn't believe Edith's reluctance.
She was partly right. Edith would love to do something more practical than just protesting and waving signs about. But she wasn't stupid enough to do it on a lark.
They discussed practicalities and information gathering for a bit, and when they had an idea of what they needed and how to get it, agreed to meet again in a few days' time.
"Good luck," Edith told her. Mrs. Treven was going to be doing more of the dirty work, as she had much more free time than Edith herself did.
"I suppose I should tell you," she said, "that Treven isn't my real name. As we are going to be working so closely together."
"I never thought it was," Edith said. At Mrs. Treven's raised eyebrows, she shrugged. "It takes you half a second to remember to answer to it, most times … and you're a bit old to be newly married. And you are so obviously from a different part of society than most of our members, concealing your identity would only be good sense."
"Ah." Mrs. Treven looked taken aback—had she really thought she was fooling them? "In any case, if I can't trust you with my name now, there's no point trying to make any plans with you. It's Holmes. Mrs. Eudoria Holmes. Treven is an anagram of my mother's maiden name."
"Bit of a pretentious way to find an alias, but it works," Edith said. "You already know my name. Let us hope our partnership bears the fruit we hope for."
Mrs. Holmes stuck out a hand. "I am sure it shall."
They shook hands.
***
AN: Title comes from this wonderful picture:
