Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Supper is loud.
A cacophonous affair, it is all relentless high spirits, with every occupant at the table seemingly determined to overcome the wretchedness of the murder with effusive chatter.
Mrs. Holcroft lauds Keane’s performance as Shylock at Drury Lane, which she had the pleasure of seeing more than two years before, while her husband marvels over the tenderness of the veal, spurring Chester to advocate for Pythagoreanism.
Russell rushes to explain the term to our father, who finds the notion of restricting one’s diet during a time of abundance to go against the strictures of God.
Sarah defends her younger brother’s notion as harmless, even though she adores butter and could not go a whole week without cheese.
“Nevertheless, it behooves us all to be kinder to one another!” she announces.
Mrs. Dowell scoffs at the idealism, Sarah derides her sister’s cynicism, and Sebastian suggests that both points of view are valid. Mama gushes over Russell’s pronunciation of the Greek term, then admires the bouquet on the sideboard, which features pansies and roses in equal measure.
The blossoms are so vibrant!
Mrs. Holcroft once again praises the skill of the gardener, while Chester adds that the petals are edible, which amazes my brother, who launches into an exhaustive list of other flowers, to see if they, too, may be eaten.
Mrs. Holcroft cries out in alarm when Russell arrives at belladonna, which is famously unsafe to eat.
“That is why it is called deadly nightshade, you dunderhead,” Papa mutters scathingly, causing his son to color with embarrassment, which is excessively unfair because I am too distracted to enjoy my brother’s humiliation.
By rights I should be cackling in superiority while reciting a topically appropriate Latin phrase to demonstrate my own erudition.
The perfect one-two punch, as the pugilists say.
Instead, I am consumed by a monumental effort to stop myself from wondering which Holcroft sister killed Mr. Keast and why she would choose such a destructive path.
It is easier to devise a motive for Eleanor or Sarah, as they are young, unmarried women who reside in the same house as the victim, which made them vulnerable to his machinations—had he been given to machinations.
Mrs. Dowell does not live at Red Oaks and she is married, which means the steward would have had less opportunity to abuse or seduce her, and finding herself in an interesting condition would not be as ruinous to her reputation.
But her wardrobe contains several garments by Madame Bélanger, so it would be unextraordinary for her to have a shawl by the modiste’s chief rival, and if she discovered one of her sisters had been abused by the steward—
No speculation, my girl!
With effort, I return my attention to the conversation at the table, but it feels as though the fates are taunting me, because Sarah immediately mentions that the Contessa di Bianchi drinks belladonna to thwart her husband’s plans for her in The Priest of Sicily.
Death!
Poison!
Gothics!
It requires every ounce of my self-control not to lean forward and ask if she has read other works in the gothic tradition, including but not limited to the extremely popular The Fate of the Dark Dawn.
You do not want to know.
That is what I keep saying to myself: You do not want to know.
You wish to remain ignorant.
But suppressing my curiosity is so difficult!
It goes against every natural inclination, and I have to literally bite my tongue.
Gently, of course.
I have no desire to compound the discomfort of the meal with a physical wound.
“Isn’t that what Juliet took to fake her death in Romeo and Juliet?” Mrs. Dowell asks.
“Juliet uses poison made from the root of the mandragora plant,” Mr. Holcroft says, allowing that the two plants share enough similarities to justify the confusion.
He then expounds at length on the mandrake’s ubiquity in ancient literature, a tedious lecture that nevertheless holds everyone’s attention.
He falls silent as he reaches the end of his monologue, and a disconcerting hush settles over the room until Mama begs him to tell us about papyrus.
Readily, he complies.
The ordeal is interminable—and I do not mean the meditation on papyri, although that is even more boring than the preceding sermon.
Supper itself goes on and on, with an endless parade of dishes requiring verbal accompaniment, and every time a lull threatens to douse the excessive good humor of the occasion, a new subject is introduced with almost aggressive gaiety.
Mrs. Holcroft offers backgammon.
Chester proposes horse manure.
Eleanor contributes fishing in the pond when the weather improves.
Do I whimper?
Possibly.
Having withstood one provocation, it seems criminally unfair that I be made to resist another, and the surprised look Sebastian darts in my direction suggests that I have transgressed in some way.
Was my peep of distress audible?
I very much fear it was audible.
Eventually, supper ends, and we adjourn to the drawing room.
In a break with tradition, the men join us rather than remain behind to discuss weighty matters over port.
Keeping the incessant prattle going is a group project requiring the entire company, and as soon as he finishes pouring cordial for his daughters, Mr. Holcroft casts about for more fodder, stumbling over his words before observing that the weather is chilly for July.
Fervently, his wife agrees, noting that the fire in the hearth could be more robust, and Mama draws everyone’s attention to the tapestries, whose artistry cannot be denied. A gentle inquisition follows regarding their history, which the elder Holcrofts answer gratefully.
The interrogation lasts twenty minutes and is almost interesting enough to take my mind off the absorbing question of the sisters’ culpability.
But not even a harrowing tale of an early-morning conflagration from which the tapestries were barely rescued can divert me.
Try as I might, I simply cannot stop myself from examining them thoughtfully, my eyes darting from Eleanor to Sarah to Mrs. Dowell.
They all seem guilty.
They all seem innocent.
Honestly, I have no idea.
You wish to remain ignorant.
Chester asks my brother if he plays chess, which earns him a glare from his mother, who appears displeased at the notion of the large party breaking up into smaller pairings.
On this front, at least, she has nothing to fear, as Russell cannot be bothered with a complex game of strategy, but Mrs. Dowell takes the query as her cue to leave, announcing that she has fallen behind in her correspondence.
“I owe my husband and his mother letters,” she explains, a slight frown marring her brow as she contemplates the duty, and my shoulders tighten as if struck.
Letters!
She dares to mention letters in my presence.
I do not know who is teasing me, but some trickster rogue is indulging a laugh at my expense and I do not have the wherewithal to endure yet another taunt, especially not one so on the mark. If she had announced her intention to retire to her bedchamber to read, I might have stayed strong.
But letters!
The universe itself is determined to undermine me.
Powerless against the greater force, I realize that the universe has also shown me the way to investigate my suspects without embroiling the staff.
Writing samples!
All I need are examples of each woman’s penmanship.
How to get them?
I have no idea!
And yet I still stop Mrs. Dowell from leaving by saying, “We should all play—not chess, of course, for that is limiting. But a game we can play together.”
It is a disastrous remark.
Even before Mrs. Holcroft turns to me with avid interest, I know it will be my downfall.
By halting Mrs. Dowell’s departure, by keeping all the sisters in the drawing room, I am affirming my commitment to the steward: I will find your killer.
No law compels me to act in this manner, it is true, but I am bound by something more fixed than the English legal system: moral scrupulosity.
Even if the truth comes at the expense of my own happiness, I must pursue it.
Possessing an inviolable core of decency is the very devil!
Sebastian will understand.
He is also a highly ethical creature who is compelled by decency to follow a rigid code of morality even if it costs him personally. Upon discovering his own cousin’s corruption, he promptly reported him to the authorities, thereby ensuring Mr. Carruthers was struck from the rolls.
But comprehending the necessity of an action is not the same as forgiving it, and I cannot believe Sebastian would blithely accept the apprehension, conviction, and punishment of his sister as an ethical imperative.
If the situations were reversed and he oversaw the destruction of Russell in the name of some abstract principle about justice, I would not be able to look at Sebastian without feeling sad and disgusted and angry.
Would I resent Russell to the depth of my soul for ruining my one chance at happiness with his wickedness and devilry?
Absolutely, yes.
But the bonds of family cannot be torn asunder just because one’s nodcock sibling happens to have the poor sense to be a murderer.
Regardless, the die has been cast.
With my one bold statement, my future is set and now I must stand strong.
The ardent and courageous Miss Hyde-Clare holding fast to her principles.
But resolving myself to the implacability of fate is only part of my current predicament. The larger problem is coming up with a game that all eleven of us can play that will advance my agenda, and my insides seize up in terror as Mrs. Holcroft asks what I have in mind.
Nothing!
I have nothing in mind!
Is it not obvious that I spoke without thinking?