Chapter 1 #2
Presumably I am the one giving offense, as it was through my efforts that Mr. Holcroft’s dear friend’s iniquity came to light.
If I had not launched my investigation into the suspicious death of Mr. Davies—a fictional law clerk whom I did not yet know to be an invention of my cousin Bea’s—then Sir Dudley would still be gleefully soaking the respondents in his courtroom to the tune of several hundred pounds a year.
The wretched scene in that filthy little room in that narrow lane would never have taken place, and Mr. Holcroft would not be forced to accept the grim reality that his old school chum tried to murder his son.
O, happy blissful ignorance!
But I also saved his son’s life.
Our would-be murderer, a hideous man of intolerable strength and cunning, had his knife pressed against Sebastian’s jugular when I bashed the assailant over the head with a rotted floorboard. Stunned, he fell to the ground, dropping his weapon.
A daring rescue of heroic proportions!
That alone deserves their respect, and yet they act as though it never happened.
Do they all share Mr. Holcroft’s fondness for the homicidal miscreant?
I cannot believe it.
Mrs. Holcroft, from whom Sebastian got his green eyes and serious forehead, strikes me as too sensible to favor a murderer’s feelings over her son’s life. Her dealings so far have been circumspect: She treats her husband with patience, the servants with courtesy, and her children with esteem.
And yet there is no mistaking her resentment.
It is highly discouraging, and I struggle to keep my spirits up after passing a mostly sleepless night. If not tasked with the all-important mission of winning over Sebastian’s father, then I would have avoided their company entirely, retiring to my bedchamber to rest or read or brood.
But I have my mission, so I am here in the room with the tapestries, looking like a fish.
Naturally, Sebastian is not here.
Touring the estate with his father’s trustworthy steward, Sebastian has left me alone to contend with his family.
Present in addition to Mr. and Mrs. Holcroft are his brother Chester, a scapegrace only a few months older than me and somehow twice as silly, and three sisters: Mrs. Dowell, the eldest, whose husband, Norman, and three sons will be joining us early next week; Sarah, who, at two and twenty, just finished her third season, during which she received her fourth marriage proposal, which was as unappealing to her as the first three; Eleanor, at eighteen the youngest and the most like Sebastian, with her chestnut hair and bright eyes dusted with dark lashes.
Absent from the gathering is his other brother, Arthur, who lives in Cornwall to be close to his wife’s family. He plans to visit later in the summer, well after we leave, denying me the pleasure of his scorn as well, though perhaps he will decide to convey his disgust in a letter.
I can only hope for that happy event.
Am I being sarcastic?
That is my intention.
I do not wish to come across as shrill.
Mrs. Dowell, whose rounded features make her seem younger than her thirty-two years, regards me with amused expectation as she waits for me to respond to her exhortation to speak my mind.
No, not amused.
Complacent.
She is certain I will fall flat on my face.
Of all the Holcroft offspring, Mrs. Dowell is most justified in sharing her father’s bitterness.
As the oldest child, she had the greatest opportunity to form an attachment to Grimston, who, by all accounts, was a doting figure in her childhood.
But by the time Eleanor came along, he was residing in London year-round.
What kind of sentimental bond, then, could the youngest Holcroft feel toward the man who tried to murder her brother?
And not a wholesome murder, either.
Grimston’s plan entailed sullying Sebastian’s noble reputation so thoroughly the Holcroft name would be in tatters for generations to come.
Bearing no partiality for gardening or any of the tools to support it, I nevertheless must insist on calling a spade a spade: Grimston is an irredeemable monster.
And even if he had not turned his murderous gaze on a beloved member of the Holcroft family, he had still ordered the stabbing death of William Gorman, an investigator whose only crime was trying to discover the truth on behalf of his client.
My own parents, whose faults are manifold and include a mortifying reverence for their betters, know that killers are to be condemned without qualification, even those who occupy the highest stratum of society. (They might offer their condemnation tepidly, but they would still offer it.)
Sarah, following her sister’s lead, adds her encouragement. “Yes, Miss Hyde-Clare, do tell us what you are thinking. I am certain it is insightful.”
No, she is not.
If anything, she is certain it is frivolous or inane.
But the substance of my remark does not matter.
Whatever words cross my lips will be deemed quaint by her or Mrs. Dowell or Sarah or their mother. There is no version of this conversation that does not end with my absorbing another blow, and I wonder what would happen if I used quaint myself before they have the opportunity.
Would it take all the pleasure out of the insult?
Would they recognize the maneuver as shrewd and adjust their opinion of me accordingly?
Or would they simply default en masse to their next favorite gibe?
The latter, I think, most definitely the latter.
Regardless, it does not help me now.
Now I am a trout, my lips fluttering uselessly in the air, and I must respond before more seconds tick by. It has already been too long.
But what to say?
In that respect my mind is blank.
It is consumed by other things: anxiety, confusion, outrage, dismay.
If only the ceiling in the drawing room were not quite so high or the tapestries not quite so old or the Holcrofts not quite so mean. Then I would be able to make a coherent reply despite knowing little about clover, and even as I strive for cogency, I recognize the futility.
It is all quaint in the end.
With this revelation in mind, I lower my chin a few inches to what I believe is my most convincingly pensive angle to indicate that I have been giving the weighty topic the consideration it deserves. Then I ask, “Three-leaf clover or four?”
They titter.
It starts modestly and continues modestly because at the heart of the titter is a visceral reserve, as if you are only just amused enough to expel a partial puff of air.
Tittering is the quaint of laughing.
Although the sound is mild, it rings in my ears, growing louder still when my mother joins the roaring hum, unwilling to appear as though she does not perceive the joke. Only my father remains quiet, looking at me with faint disapproval, as if he cannot believe he has sired such a ninny.
Blessedly, Russell is not here.
He is touring the estate with Sebastian and the steward, and as annoyed as I am with my beau for leaving me to fend for myself amid this nest of vipers, I am more grateful to him for taking my brother away. If he were here, I would never live down the disgrace of my ignorant display.
As it is, it will take me years to overcome the humiliation I feel, especially when Mrs. Holcroft compliments Mama on my droll sense of humor. “Miss Hyde-Clare must keep you in a constant state of amusement.”
Mama preens.
It is a compliment, so she receives it proudly, her shoulders pulling back and her smile widening. Whatever deeper meaning is hidden in the praise is none of her concern.
Papa scowls.
He knows he is being mocked by extension.
The damage is irreversible, I realize. The Holcrofts know I am a goose, and there is nothing to be gained by pretending I am deliberately teasing.
My only recourse is to call attention to their scorn and hope they feel some embarrassment at having it openly acknowledged.
“I am sure it is quaint of me to ask a sincere question, but I am truly curious to know if the clover Mr. Holcroft planted has three leaves or four. The field beyond our house in Sussex is strewn with three-leaf clover that blooms in the spring.”
Although none of the company appears chastened except my mother, who flinches at the implied criticism in my comment, Chester explains that there is no such thing as four-leaf clover.
“You may find one here or there in a pasture, but it does not exist except as an anomaly. Clover is identified by species. The type my father grows is called Trifolium repens.”
Chester’s tone is neutral, disguising whatever contempt he feels for me, which I appreciate. Naturally, I would prefer if Sebastian’s relatives did not loathe me, but as that option is not available to me, then I am grateful to accept the patina of esteem.
To that end, I aim my sunniest smile at Chester.
I am not an Incomparable like Miss Petworth to bring men to their knees with a doting look, but I can sparkle appealingly upon occasion.
Usually, I have to be wearing one of my loveliest dresses.
There is no doubt about it: I twinkle brightest in my Egyptian blue silk with rosettes and pearl trim.
And yet I manage to glow prettily as I say with arch comprehension, “Ah, I see. Exceptio probat regulam in casibus non exceptis. I did not realize the four-leaf clover was the exception. Thank you for kindly correcting my mistake.”
It is on the tip of my tongue to continue in this vein, brandishing more Latin to demonstrate the quality of my education.
I can rattle off a dozen maxims, employing pristine pronunciation with no effort at all, including “Castigat ridendo mores,” which would be an appropriate indictment of their derisive titters (although whoever decided that laughing at something is the best way to change it has clearly never sat in a drawing room with a parcel of Holcrofts).
Nevertheless, I refrain.