Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Igrin.
Why do I grin?
I have no idea!
It is my first line of defense, the habit that has been ingrained in me since childhood, when Mama would say with alarming regularity, “A lady smiles, and a young lady smiles prettily.”
I, a young lady caught in an improper situation, smile prettily.
Obviously, I know it is facile.
An appealing curve of the lips is not the cure-all Vera Hyde-Clare believes it to be, but it is a response, and whenever you are caught prying in your beau’s youngest sister’s bedchamber seconds after deciding you are not going to prove she is a murderer, it is better to respond than not to respond.
A blank stare exposes everything.
A wide grin conceals it.
Oh, but now I must speak.
A wide grin plus an unsettling period of extended silence is also revealing.
But speaking is much harder than smiling.
It requires cogent thought.
Mama, you will be unsurprised to learn, was less skilled in teaching me how to think cogently. Her instruction never went beyond the smile.
I turn around.
I have to!
It is impossible to lie to him when he is regarding me with all that weary patience, as though he knows a falsehood is coming.
His green eyes are so bright and lovely and understanding, and I want them to be dark and ugly and annoyed so that I do not feel like a monster for inventing a story out of whole cloth.
Whole cloth!
Yes, yes, yes, I think, hurling myself toward the table with all the magazines and grabbing the one on top. I hold it aloft as though it were a trophy and swivel around and say with only a slight breathlessness, “I knew if anyone had the latest issue of The Lady’s Magazine, it would be Eleanor.”
It is not ideal, because The Lady’s Magazine offers more articles on cultural subjects—plays, poetry, fiction, music, et cetera—than I like in a fashion periodical.
The reports are extremely worthy and improving to the female mind, but all I want are lavish illustrations of morning dresses and evening gowns, with a smattering of needlework patterns.
The only time I read it is when the more interesting options are not available to me, which is not the case now.
But Sebastian wouldn’t know that.
I mean, how would he know it?
It is not as though we have had an extensive conversation about my literary tastes other than to discuss the Kepler biography I am slowly making my way through.
Having read it as well, he was eager to share his thoughts on the accomplished astronomer and natural philosopher, and I could not bring myself to admit that the only reason I had begun the book was to join my father and Bea’s weekly discussion about it.
The truth is, I am not interested in Kepler and find his tinkering with Galileo’s telescope design disrespectful.
(I realize that his alterations made it a better instrument, but sometimes kindness requires us to allow an inferior product to stand rather than embarrass a colleague with our superior gifts.)
“I am so relieved that my hunch proved correct, as The Lady’s Magazine is exactly what I am in the mood to read right now,” I add in a giddy rush.
“Russell and my mother are on a walk in the park, but I wanted to enjoy a quiet hour with a magazine. You do not think your sister will mind my popping into and taking it without her permission, do you? As she is also gone from the house, I assumed she would never know.”
My grin broadens.
How proud Mama would be!
Sebastian steps into the room and frowns.
That is right: He has the temerity to frown when I have done so much hard work to maintain the appearance of good cheer.
All those smiles gone to waste!
“Why are you really here?” he asks soberly, and it is gutting. Nobody does sobriety like Holcroft the Holy. “I know it is not for that magazine.”
I plow forward.
Thoroughly in the wrong, I have no option but to act as though I am in the right.
“But it is for this issue,” I insist, glancing at the cover and noting the date of publication.
“I did not get to read the April edition, and spring fashions are my favorite because the colors are cheerful but not too cheerful.”
Sebastian’s brow darkens. “You are lying, Flora.”
I furrow my forehead as if confused by the accusation, but there is not a hint of defensiveness in my tone as I say, “Mama gave the issue to her sister. Aunt Susan was feeling under the weather, and my mother thought the light reading material would perk her up. She also sent over La Belle Assemblée and Maria Edgeworth’s most recent novel. ”
Gravely disappointed, he shakes his head. “There is no point in denying it, my dear, because I know for a fact you are lying.”
Stung by the accusation, for I am unduly good at telling a tale when I set my mind to it, I exclaim, “You cannot know!”
“You are blinking your eyelids,” he replies.
It is a simple declaration, and yet I realize it conveys more than what it states. Nobody declares the obvious with so much conviction unless they’re hinting at an underlying complexity.
Unnerved, I nevertheless reply coolly, “Well, yes, I tend to do that with regular frequency during my waking hours. I do it less frequently while sleeping.”
Sebastian acknowledges the accuracy of the response. “Forgive me. I should have said that you are blinking your eyelids rapidly. You always do when you are lying.”
I gasp. “I do not!”
“You did it every time you talked about Mr. Davies,” he continues, ignoring my denial to explain that he can see it clearly in retrospect.
“If you wish to make a habit of lying to me, then you must learn to regulate your eyelids. In the meantime, however, I will ask you again why you are really in Eleanor’s room. ”
Outraged by the implication that I want to lie to him, that lying to him does not cut me to the quick, I say, “Yes, well, you palmed me off with lie after lie for weeks, hiding the truth from me and allowing me to suffer the torment of believing you no longer cared for me.”
The comment elicits a fierce frown and he asks with an air of frustration if I am going to bring up the Altick episode every time we argue. “Will you hold it against me forever?”
Maybe.
The answer is maybe.
I do not say it because it is unsatisfying and indecisive.
I would rather respond definitively even if it is in the affirmative, but I truly do not know if I will ever stop smarting at the cruel subterfuge.
My resentment feels heightened now, at this moment, because I have been caught in an indiscretion and because I am already tense from the treatment I have endured at the hands of his family.
But perhaps my bitterness would pop like a bubble if he would just say, “I love you, Flora.”
Evading a direct reply, I say, “If you did not want me to remind you of your deceit, then you should not have deceived me. It is a simple concept that a man of your intelligence should grasp.”
He does not take offense at my censure and instead seeks to assure me that he is neither angry nor dismayed by my dishonesty.
“I trust you have a good reason for being here, and I am anxious to hear it before one of the upstairs maids discovers us alone together in a bedchamber, irreparably harming your reputation and sending your mother into transports. Logically, I can only conclude that you are looking for something. Did you lose a valuable item to Eleanor? She does enjoy making minor bets.”
A lost wager is an excellent fiction, and it is on the tip of my tongue to chastise him for not warning me about his sister’s gambling habit. But then I remember I cannot lie to him without revealing the truth with my rapidly blinking eyelids.
What if I hold them open so wide I cease blinking altogether?
Yes, Flora dear, he would not notice that at all!
Earnestly, I reply that I cannot tell him.
“I have a very good reason to withhold the information from you, and you must trust me when I say it is better for you not to know. I swear, you do not want to know. I did come here to look for something but have since realized the foolishness of that decision and was on the verge of leaving when I spotted you on the threshold. Now, come, let us go before that housemaid or a footman finds us,” I add, with an imperious gesture toward the door, a high-handed display made convincing by my impatience to depart.
“You know that everything I have said is true because I am not blinking rapidly. My blinking is entirely normal.”
Is it actually normal?
I have no idea.
Now that I have been made aware of the abnormality of my fluttering lashes, it is likely that I will never blink normally again.
But it feels like my blinking is normal.
That has to count for something.
In fact, it counts for nothing.
Sebastian clasps his hands together behind his back and widens his stance slightly—an immovable object fortifying itself against an irresistible force—but does not otherwise speak, allowing the heft of his silence to compel me to respond.
We are at an impasse.
“Very well, fine,” I snap angrily.
All I want to do is to protect him from the horrible ugliness of the world.
But he cannot extend even that grace to me.
For whatever reason he is incapable of permitting himself to remain in the dark, and so I am forced to destroy his illusions about his younger sister.
And once it is done, he will have to find a way to live with the regret.
Stiffening my shoulders, I say it all in a single breathless burst.
Astonished, he stares at me. “What?”
Nodding sympathetically, I murmur an apology, mortified by the inadequacy of my reply. But I do not know what else to do. Mama’s lessons never encompassed how to comfort your suitor after revealing his sister to be a wanton murderess.
Obviously, a smile will not do.
Perhaps a moue of concern.
Or is that still too flippant?
“No, Flora, I did not hear what you said,” Sebastian explains calmly. “You spoke too quickly. You will have to repeat it.”
Repeat it?