Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Ido not expect Sebastian to visit my bedchamber after everyone has retired and reassure me with steadfast confidence that the damage wrought by my mother’s display is not irrevocable.
A high stickler with a rigid moral code, he would never endanger my reputation with such outré behavior, especially not in the hallowed halls of his family home.
Exhausted by the end of the interminable evening, I flutter my eyes closed the moment my head hits the pillow.
I do not need the patter of rain to help me fall asleep and am only vaguely aware of a torrential downpour that batters my windows in the early hours.
What I do expect, however, is for Sebastian to offer ardent reassurances in the morning.
As he is an early riser, someone in the household, either family or servant, should have carried the tale to him by eight o’clock, which is why I present myself to the airy parlor next to the breakfast room a half hour later.
Not wishing to appear overly eager, I settle nonchalantly into an overfilled armchair, its Spanish fly damask drawing out the green flecks in my eyes.
In an ideal world, there would be beams of sunlight pouring in through the eastern exposure, giving my auburn hair a golden cast, but the day is cloudy.
No matter.
I am still shown to advantage by the setting and hold the pose for ten minutes.
Then I round my shoulders and slink into the chair.
Waiting for Sebastian is so boring!
Failing to anticipate a wait, I did not bother to bring a book with me, a decision I regret now as I look around the room for something to read.
All I see is The English Practical Navigator.
It is a long way from The Devil’s Elixirs, but the tome’s scientific bent and important subject matter will confer on me an air of erudition that is not unwelcome.
My knowledge of celestial navigation is nonexistent, and I could stand to learn a little something about finding my way around without a map (or with a map, for that matter).
Consequently, I retrieve it from the table and turn to chapter one, grateful for the opportunity for self-improvement.
Well, that is, I want to be grateful.
But the text makes it difficult. It is so tiresome, and although my impulse is to blame the author for not writing with the same liveliness as E. T. A. Hoffmann, it is the subject itself that is leaden.
Josiah Pullman simply cannot hold my interest.
In truth, I am shocked he can hold anyone’s interest.
Even so, the attempt helps pass the time, and when I look at the clock, I see that it’s five minutes after nine, which is at once good and bad. Sebastian is definitely dressed and ready for breakfast by now, but he has yet to appear, which is strange.
Stranger still is the fact that I have not seen anyone in the past half hour—neither a member of the family nor a servant.
We are in the country, after all, where I was awakened yesterday morning at seven.
The house keeps early hours, especially the staff.
One of the maids or footmen should have noticed my presence in the parlor and asked if I required anything.
The Holcroft family en masse may sneer at the Hyde-Clares all they like, but at least our servants know how to offer a guest a cup of tea.
Peeved, I thwop the book closed.
That is enough of that!
Rising to my feet, I return the volume to the table and stride into the corridor to look for Sebastian. Perhaps he had approached the breakfast room from the other direction. If so, he would have no idea I was waiting next door to be reassured.
He is not in the breakfast room.
Nobody is.
Whereas on previous mornings the sideboard had been laid with plates of eggs, toast, pastries, and jam, today it is bare. Not a single muffin rests on its gleaming surface.
Struck by the oddity, I turn to the table and see two half-filled teacups and a sugar bowl in the center, a clear indication that two people were here.
And now they are gone.
Baffled, I wonder if breakfast is being served somewhere else.
It is Tuesday, which does not stand out for any particular reason, but we are in the country and country folk pride themselves on doing things differently.
Perhaps Tuesday is when they lay out breakfast in the drawing room.
No, not the drawing room. It is too far from the kitchens.
Out of deference to the staff, the family would use the dining room.
Returning to the hallway, my stomach growling now with the first pang of hunger, I proceed to the dining room.
At the end of the corridor, I turn left and watch as a footman dashes up the staircase.
Even as I raise my hand to gain his attention, he disappears around the bend.
A moment later, a maid emerges from a doorway at the far end and follows closely on his heels.
Rather than call out, I mount the steps myself, spurred by curiosity at the bizarreness of it all.
Mrs. Holcroft runs an orderly household.
The presentation of every meal has been pristine, with each dish served at the precisely correct temperature, a feat Mama rarely accomplishes, and everything about my bedchamber is perfect.
Every time I lay my head down to sleep, my pillows smell of fresh rosemary.
It is a marvel.
If the servants are behaving in unexpected ways, then that is because something unexpected has happened.
I want to know what.
Aware that there is something transgressive and gauche about stalking the servants, I proceed cautiously to avoid detection.
When the maid pauses on the second floor, I pause as well.
It is brief and she resumes her climb. At the next landing, she stops again, then proceeds to the right.
Before I arrive at the top, I hear the hum of voices, which is even odder.
Staff typically do not congregate on the third floor when there is breakfast to be served, and as soon as I turn into the corridor, I see the cluster.
But it is not just servants.
Mrs. Dowell is there.
Chester is there.
Even Mrs. Holcroft, her clasped hands clenched so tightly that her knuckles are white, is standing there, her presence conferring silent approval.
They are all gathered around a doorway.
I approach hesitantly, and Mrs. Dowell notices me first.
Her expression, already censorious, her generous lips pulled tight in a frown, does not change as she bids me good morning.
Then she instructs me to leave. “We have had a terrible tragedy and require some time to restore order. I am sorry if you are impatient for your breakfast, but that is just the way it is. We appreciate your understanding.”
But she does not.
According to her curt dismissal, she resents having to address me at all.
Troubled by the information, I look from Chester to Mrs. Holcroft and then back to the sister and extend my sympathies for the unknown event. “I am sorry to hear of the difficulty and of course I have no wish to intrude. I shall return downstairs at once.”
It is the correct thing to say.
Misfortune has struck Red Oaks, and I do not have the right to stand there and gawk simply to satisfy my curiosity.
It is a private matter affecting members of the household, and my unfamiliar presence is an imposition, requiring my hosts to worry about my comfort at the moment they are least capable of ensuring it.
Mrs. Holcroft dips her head in a polite nod, clearly grateful for my display of decorum, and I acknowledge the gesture with a restrained one of my own.
By any measure, my behavior is impeccable, I think, slipping between a pair of footmen as I return to the landing, the buzz of conversation persistent but incomprehensible. It is all random words without context: cold, silk, coffee, Meacham.
Even so, I try to piece together a narrative to tell my family.
Mama, in particular, will not respond well to the delay in breakfast. In a flutter, she will make snide comments about the quality of the Holcrofts’ hospitality, which she will immediately retract before issuing it again.
The poor dear cannot handle disruption. She expects certain things to happen at certain times, and when events veer from the schedule, she gets overwhelmed.
And to deal with disorder without the calming influence of tea.
Utter chaos!
Perhaps I can dart belowstairs and fetch a pot myself. The presence of two teacups in the breakfast room indicates that water was boiled at some point this morning.
Drawing closer to the steps, I picture Mrs. Dowell’s expression if she discovers that I have been poking around in the kitchens. Quaint would take on a new level of disgust.
It would be almost worth it just to shock her, I decide, as stray words continue to waft across the distance: foot, coriander, murder, andiron. Although she probably would not be shocked, as that sort of vulgar conduct is what she expects from—
Wait a moment.
Did someone say murder?
Was murder one of the words I just heard?
Abruptly, I spin on my heels and stride back down the corridor.
Mrs. Dowell gasps at my impertinence, then marvels at my stunning lack of respect.
“That someone of your ilk would flout convention so blatantly should not be shocking to me and yet I cannot imagine where you get the impudence to expressly ignore our request at a time of great personal tragedy. Previously, I begged for your understanding. Now I am demanding it. You will leave us to deal with this unfortunate situation in peace.”
I should cower.
No child of Vera Hyde-Clare should have the pluck to withstand the withering critique of a genteel young woman whose great uncle was an earl. The only acceptable reply is an abject apology and a speedy retreat.
But my spine stays stiff.
Indeed, I even raise my chin, and although I would not say it is an audacity equal to Bea’s brazen interrogation of Kesgrave in the drawing room at Lakeview Hall, it comes close. “Is it true? Has someone been murdered?”