Chapter 5 #2
In Leviticus—that is, the book with all those ungainly rules—it helpfully lists the animals we may eat, which my brother would know if he were not so illiterate.
It is all very fun and easy for him to mock my reading habits, but gothics contain many improving passages, including snippets of Scripture. The Empress of White Orchid Mountain even quotes the Sermon on the Mount in its entirety.
Either Chester is as ignorant as Russell or he does not wish to embarrass his guest, for he ignores the grossly inaccurate statement and asks if he is a fellow Pythagoreanist, a term so unwieldy my brother has to ask him to repeat it three times.
Oh, Russell!
You cannot be the thing if you cannot pronounce the thing.
As Pythagoreanists abstain from eating meat, beans, and fish, my brother most certainly does not qualify, as the pile of ham on his plate unambiguously attests, but Chester eschews purity and insists that any reduction in the consumption of animal flesh benefits the movement.
In regard to beans, Chester is indifferent.
Russell may consume all the broad beans, runner beans, mung beans, kidney beans, and haricot beans he desires. It makes no difference to him!
When my nodcock brother thanks him for this generous dispensation, I excuse myself, for there is only so much nonsense I can bear to witness without comment.
If I remain, I will of a certainty say something cutting to Russell and most likely to Chester as well, as he appears to be equally dense.
As I step into the hallway, the pair commune over their shared dislike of chickpeas, which they both pick out of dishes one by one.
Oh, yes, leaving is the only viable option if I do wish to refrain from insulting the youngest Holcroft male, who of his siblings appears to resent me the least, based on the number of times he has sneered quaint at me (four and a half, the half being the one time his employment of the word might have been sincere).
I return to my bedchamber to gather my thoughts, which are whirling with the information shared by Mrs. Holcroft and her daughters.
Their dismay at discovering that one of their staff was trysting beneath their noses does not interest me, as dozens of things occur in a household without any of the family noticing.
Bea, for instance, was solving murder mysteries for months before anyone in Portman Square realized it, and people pay even less attention to their staff than they do members of their own families.
(In theory, that is! In practice, Mama watched the butler with an eagle eye and summarily ignored my cousin, but that was only because she never feared Bea would steal the silver.)
(Do note: Dawson is a fine servant who carries out his duties efficiently despite the constraints imposed by Mama, and he would never pilfer anything, not even the candlesticks by the great Paul Storr himself, although their design—of an ostrich on a rockwork base supporting the holder—is so garish my father keeps them in a drawer.)
If Mr. Keast was determined to woo his widow, then I have no doubt he would have managed it without anyone being the wiser.
But how did he meet his widow?
That is the more pertinent question.
In light of his manifold responsibilities and steadfast commitment to work, he would have had few opportunities for a chance encounter, an occurrence made unlikelier still by the fact that the lady in question does not hail from Lower Bigglesmeade.
The only explanation that makes sense is that Mr. Keast had business in the neighboring town and met the widow on one of his outings.
Did he have business in a neighboring town?
That would depend on the town itself and what it has to offer a steward with an excessive devotion to agricultural innovation, would it not? The town could be a hub of technological advancement, or maybe it sells the best-quality shovels in the county.
The point is, I do not know, because I am not familiar with the area. Having never visited Flitstone or Mickle Hill, I cannot say what goods or services either has to offer. In the same vein, I am forced to take Mr. Jenner’s word that both villages are equally viable.
For all I know, there are other distinguishing clues in the letter.
Oh, but I do not have to take the constable’s word for it!
Sebastian has the letters. He snagged them from his father to preclude their destruction.
To peruse the correspondence for myself, I seek out Sebastian, who, I am informed by the housekeeper, left the premises about thirty minutes before to call on the vicar.
Donning my most ingratiating smile, I thank Mrs. Jackson with breezy confidence and mount the stairs as though returning to my bedchamber.
At the second-floor landing, however, I turn left and dart down the hallway until I reach Sebastian’s door.
There is no doubt about it: My heart is racing.
If anyone finds me inside his bedroom, then my reputation will be in tatters.
There is not a single nervously rambled insult Mama could utter that would do more damage to my prospects than my own foolish behavior.
But a murderer is on the loose!
As an investigator, I am honor bound to do whatever is necessary to identify the culprit and ensure that she is held accountable for her crime. Bea has been trapped in sheds and locked in cellars and held at gunpoint in the pursuit of justice.
The very least I can do is court ruination.
It is a very slight courtship, as Sebastian keeps a neat room, allowing me to locate the letters quickly.
They are on the nightstand, next to a well-thumbed copy of The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, and I slip the packet into my pocket before dashing back toward the door.
As it has not been even a full minute since I entered, I do not pause to confirm the hallway is empty.
I run out, blood thumping loudly in my ears, and scurry back to the landing, where I stop to regain my breath.
I do not sag my shoulders with relief, but my knees feel momentarily weak, and I clutch the balustrade to make sure I remain upright.
One of the footmen, John, notices me as he trots down the stairs from above, and it requires all my self-control not to startle guiltily.
Instead, I hold steady, momentarily tightening my grip on the handrail before continuing down the corridor as though nothing untoward has happened.
By the time I reach my bedchamber, however, my hands are trembling, and I manage the door with awkward dexterity.
Once inside, I toss myself onto the counterpane.
Phew!
Although the mission to fetch the letters was not fraught, it feels extremely fraught, and it takes me a little while to calm down.
I inhale deeply as my fingers slowly stop shaking and settle myself against the pillows.
Then I withdraw the packet of letters from my pocket.
There are ten in total, the first one dated the fifteenth of January.
It is brief and to the point: “Dearest Evan: From the moment our paths crossed next to the pond, I have been unable to banish you from my thoughts. I think of you constantly. I am old enough to know better than to allow myself to be overtaken by yearning, and yet I am powerless in the face of my attraction to you. When can we meet again?”
The second dispatch, which is twice as long, alludes to the delights of their subsequent encounter and ends with the promise of more to come.
Despite the apparent warmth of their relationship, it is not until the fourth missive that the widow openly declares her affection, identifying Mr. Keast as “my true love,” signing her letter as “eternally devoted,” and pledging her heart to him until her death and beyond.
Although the passage does not quite rise to the level of poetry, it is earnest and affecting and calls to mind Georgiana standing on a windswept bluff above the Aegean Sea, swearing her love for Lazarus in The Fate of the Dark Dawn.
It has precisely that air of melodrama and tragedy.
Unlike the heroine of the gothic, the widow did not fling herself off a lonesome cliff (only to land safely on a grassy outcropping six feet below).
Instead, she chose to inflict violence on her lover, though she does not know it yet.
Still in the heady early days of her romance, she has no idea of the horror to come, of the way her disappointment will twist the beauty of their union into an atrocity.
Poor Mr. Keast!
Twice deprived—once of his illusions, once of his life.
To be sure, promising marriage and then failing to follow through is not an honorable way to treat the mother of one’s unborn child. It is a dastardly stroke, and the steward deserved to suffer some consequence for his actions, such as public exposure.
As the widow’s condition would be readily apparent soon enough, she might as well point a finger in blame.
According to the letters, which make reference to Mr. Keast’s own written response, she has all the evidence she needs to prove his paternity.
Armed with their correspondence, she could have prevailed upon the vicar to convince the steward to set a wedding date or sought Mr. Holcroft’s assistance.
Both men are morally upstanding, and even if they had failed to persuade Mr. Keast to respond with decency, they would have castigated him harshly.
Admittedly, a stern talking-to does not possess the same primal satisfaction as slowly squeezing the life out of one’s betrayer, but it also does not require the sacrifice of one’s mortal soul.
And one’s shawl.
One’s lovely, beautiful, expertly sewn, gossamer silk shawl.
Make no mistake: I do not mean to imply that the shawl is worth more than the widow’s immortal soul. Obviously, the latter is of greater value.
A person’s animating spirit is everything.
That is true, yes.
Unequivocally so.