Chapter 2
Chapter Two
For no reason at all, Red Oaks has a peel, and there it stands, a gray stone medieval tower, all rigidity and doom, flanked by two elegant wings designed in the neoclassical style beautifully executed by Robert Adam.
Having never been north of Arnside in the Lake District, I have no idea how a stronghold of this order—a bastion against marauders from Scotland—looks in its natural setting, and as such, I am willing to give it the benefit of the doubt.
Presumably, the forbidding tower does add something piquant or interesting to the landscape.
In Bedfordshire, however, it looks wildly out of place.
Would I go so far as to say it looks silly?
I think I would, yes, given that this patch of England has not seen an invasion in more than seven hundred years.
Its inhabitants have little need for an impenetrable fortress to which they could escape with their valuables in the event of an enemy attack.
And yet the Red Oaks peel looms over the rest of the hall, casting the western portion of the otherwise gracious home in shadow for much of the day.
To be fair, it is not quite accurate to say there is no reason at all for the tower, as its original owner was born and raised along the northern border and could conceive of no notion of safety that did not include the fortification.
Although I generally favor a display of prudence, as things tend to go awry when you least expect, I cannot bestow my approval when the precaution creates an eyesore.
And a drafty one at that!
As soon as I stepped into the entry hall upon arriving at the estate, the temperature dropped ten degrees—and not just because of the chilly reception we received from the family. It is as though the stones themselves hoard the frost of winter.
Fortunately, the rest of the home is capacious and pleasant, with comfortable east and west wings, built in 1751 and 1775, respectively. Our bedchambers, which are on the second floor, are nicely sized, with sturdy furniture and wide windows overlooking the park.
On my second night at Red Oaks, I have no trouble falling asleep, as I am exhausted from a day of dodging insults, and rain, pattering softly against my windows, creates a gentle lull.
I am cozy in my bed and have no wish to rise, but a thunderous knock sounds suddenly at my door and a brisk voice announces that it is seven o’clock and I am to present myself to the breakfast room by eight.
Poor Annie!
My maid looks tired before the day has even begun, and she has to flit from my room to my mother’s to help her dress as well.
Annie does an admirable job despite these setbacks, and I arrive a full six minutes before the appointed time.
Although I assume the early start means my hosts have an assortment of activities planned, our day consists of little more than needlework in the blue parlor.
Before settling in with our embroidery, we take a walk through the park.
A very sedate walk that allows me to see little of the grounds, which are dominated by English oaks, sycamores, and field maples.
When I ask about red oaks, Mrs. Dowell informs me there are no red oaks at Red Oaks.
“There have never been any on the property,” she adds blandly, as though it is the query that is odd, not the lack of the variety of tree after which the estate is named.
Ordinarily, I do not require verisimilitude in the designation of a family seat—the quirkier the better, I should think—but the hostility I have encountered here makes me churlish.
Suddenly, I find everything disagreeable.
Even Sebastian.
He is being lovely, of course, and the care he takes with my parents is deeply touching.
Clearly, he is determined to make a good impression, which is essential, as Mama bears a resentment toward him for being so wealthy.
She does not want to be overawed by all her relatives, an unnecessary concern, as Russell counts among that cohort.
My brother is most certainly not going to make a brilliant match.
The greenhorn would be lucky if our neighbor with the wide, sloping nose looked at him twice.
(Apologies to Bea, who hates when I identify a woman by her least attractive feature.)
Even so, I wish Sebastian would pay some attention to his own family and take note of their treatment of me. If he could just once notice the condescension and object.
The two hours devoted to embroidery are more enjoyable because I am somewhat skilled in the pursuit, as I have done over a dozen patterns from Ackermann’s over the years. When the clock strikes three, however, Mrs. Dowell instructs me to put down my embroidery and take out my knitting.
Take out my knitting—as though I am a governess or a widow or a lady’s companion!
I am twenty years old and have never knitted a stitch in my life.
As I do not have another project, I continue with my embroidery, which creates a minor fracas when Mrs. Dowell reiterates that it is time to move on to our next occupation.
“As women of quality, Miss Hyde-Clare, it behooves us to apportion our time equitably and not allow ourselves to be consumed by a single purpose. Only blacksmiths and opera dancers allow themselves to become too engrossed.”
Repellent woman!
My mother turns bright red but manages to hold her tongue.
Although embarrassment usually unleashes a torrent of rambling nonsense from her, the eldest Holcroft sister’s judgment is so severe it mortifies Mama into silence, which is somehow even more irritating.
If Mrs. Dowell is going to be rude to the point of mendacity, then she should be forced to endure one of Vera Hyde-Clare’s deadly prattles.
After the third hour of needlework—the only benefit of which is that I finally finished the sampler that had languished during the season—we adjourn to our rooms to prepare for dinner.
Although I have high hopes for an interesting evening in the company of the local gentry, the meal is so tedious I find myself longing for the quiet stimulation of embroidery.
Truly, I have not been this bored during a meal since Kesgrave lectured the company on naval battles during our stay in the Lake District—and on that occasion, I had the luxury of inattention.
I knew my opinion would not be sought. But now, as the nominal guest of honor and the pretext for the gathering, I must stay abreast of the discussion.
As soon as I permit my mind to wander, one of the Holcroft siblings will ask me to illuminate my position on the topic at hand, and I refuse to give them the pleasure of my befuddlement.
I will remain alert!
Despite these valiant efforts, I will look like the veriest fool if anyone actually does direct a query to me, for I know nothing about the enclosure of the commons and the harm it may or may not do to local farmers and landowners.
Mr. Nutting swears the practice would undermine the entire region, and Mr. Braithwaite agrees it would present a significant problem for his neighbor, who takes egregious advantage of the communal fields by grazing his entire herd on them.
Highly offended, Mr. Nutting objects while Braithwaite jeers, and Mr. Holcroft smoothly explains that he trusts his steward to provide him with all the pertinent data he requires to arrive at the decision that best suits Red Oaks and the cause of agricultural progress.
Although the tenor of the disagreement strikes me as quite strident, neither its participants nor their spouses appear unduly troubled by it.
Indeed, Mrs. Braithwaite and Mrs. Nutting observe the exchange with placid expressions, leading me to conclude it is a familiar quarrel.
As both men are landowners of wealth and standing in the community, I can only assume the dispute is more theoretical than practical.
Even the vicar seems amused by the argument.
When silence momentarily falls over the table, he asks Mr. Holcroft if Keast is aware of how much power he holds.
“Keast is Evan Keast, steward of Red Oaks,” Miss Burgess says, her voice soft and pliant as she leans over to offer an explanation.
The vicar’s sister, she is a gentlewoman past the first blush of youth, with light blue eyes and unextraordinary features.
Residing with her brother, she oversees his domestic affairs and spends a goodly amount of time in the village, tending to the poor and the sick.
Of the three young women to whom I have been introduced this evening, she is the only one to regard me with any warmth.
Miss Braithwaite and Miss Nutting, both barely out of the schoolroom at seventeen, are stunning creatures.
One is light and one is dark, as though perfectly balanced to satisfy any aesthetic preference.
Russell clearly favors the former.
Or, rather, Miss Braithwaite clearly favors him, which makes him strongly inclined to favor her.
Neither girl favors me.
Upon our introduction, they acknowledged my presence with brisk nods, then proceeded to act as though I were not in the room, despite my repeated attempts to insert myself into their conversation.
“Keast is a single-minded man of drive and purpose,” Miss Burgess continues as Mr. Braithwaite raises his voice in protest of some new piece of farm equipment.
“Like our host, he is devoted to innovation in cultivation, and where Mr. Holcroft does not reveal a strong preference, Keast inserts his own. He took up the position eighteen months ago, and when he arrived, he did not know a turnip from a parsnip. Now he is the premier authority on crop rotation in the shire. It is very impressive.”
Although the words themselves are complimentary, I detect a faint hint of disapproval and lean closer to ask her what about the steward she finds unappealing.