Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Thank goodness for the drawing room debacle!
If Mama bore any resemblance to the creature of grace and composure whom she constantly touts as the epitome of good ton, she would not have insulted either Braithwaite woman and I would be compelled to come up with a credible reason to call.
As it is, the occupants of Chilton Hall are disinclined to accept visitors.
Unsettled by the tragic turn of events, they require a period of respite to grieve and reflect. The butler advises me to come back in a week. “Thursday next is ideal.”
Thursday next!
I cannot wait over a week to resolve my argument with Sebastian.
It has been little more than two hours now, and already our rift is intolerable.
The thought of carrying this sadness and resentment and confusion and annoyance for eight more days is unbearable.
My theory must be proved correct by the end of the day, so that he can apologize abjectly and declare his love profusely and swear to never underestimate me again.
I will accept no other outcome!
(Is that true? Will I really renounce the only love I have ever known because he did not extend to me the respect I believe I am due? Honestly, I do not know. But I like to think I would.)
The butler promises to extend my compliments to the family, then closes the door, leaving me no choice but to wail. As the lock clicks into place, I release a mournful howl from deep within my soul. It is loud and shrieky, and I try to squeeze out a few accompanying tears.
If I am going to humiliate myself in the pursuit of justice, then I might as well humiliate myself without condition.
Crying on command, however, is not a talent I have mastered, despite the many hours devoted to its cultivation.
(As its benefits are readily apparent and murder investigations are more common than I originally supposed, I should probably renew my efforts.)
Even without the waterworks, it is an impressive display.
Diminutive in size, I nevertheless possess a healthy set of lungs, and I am able to draw out a screech for more than a dozen seconds. Then I release a series of short, despondent moans before letting out another yowl.
Ultimately, I sound like an injured wolf, which is perfect.
Nobody wants an injured wolf on their doorstep, especially not a butler in an elegant home in the country—and the home is elegant.
No unwieldy peel.
No brooding menace.
Just smooth, golden sandstone.
As there are no nearby neighbors to peer censoriously through their curtains, the need to quell my outburst is not acute. But the high-pitched squeal cuts through the pastoral tranquility like a knife.
The door swings open, and the butler, his cheeks flushed, snarls my name with ardent disapproval: “Miss Hyde-Clare!”
If only I had been able to produce tears!
Tears would have been so persuasive right now.
Oh, but I can make my lower lip tremble.
It is not the same as openly sobbing, but it does frequently precede open sobs.
The threat of a proper weeping fit should be enough to gain access to the entry hall.
Pathetically, I eke out an apology.
It is only one word: awful.
What I am trying to say is “I am sorry, I know it is awful,” but I am too overwrought.
My inability to express myself coherently further upsets me, and I indulge another wail. The butler glowers at me with tart disapproval but does not know what to do other than plead with me to get ahold of myself.
Breathlessly, between bursts of genteel hiccups, I mutter to myself, “Stupid, stupid girl. Can you not do anything right?”
Deciding a gentle approach might fare better, the butler softens his tone and says, “Please, miss, there is nothing to get yourself so worked in a—”
“Everyone is so cross with me!” I say plaintively.
“I just want to do the right thing. Is that so terrible? I just want to help where I can, but Mrs. Holcroft refused my assistance and so did her daughters, all three of them. They told me to stay in my room. Like I am a small child they want out of the way. So I got out of their way and came here to apologize to Mrs. Braithwaite and her daughter for my mother’s egregious breach of etiquette the other evening.
But they do not want me either, so all I have done is commit another terrible breach.
I just wanted to do one thing right, and Mama always said you cannot go awry with an apology. But I have gone awry.”
I screech again.
“I say, Rodale, what is a desperate racket? Can you not put the thing out of its misery and be done with it?” a female voice calls from deep inside the house. “We are trying to enjoy lunch.”
The butler’s eyes beg me to fall silent.
But I cannot comply.
Having bungled a simple apology, I am now devastated to discover that I have also ruined their midday meal. I have no option but to keen in despair.
Suddenly, the door swings open and Mrs. Braithwaite glares with annoyed impatience for a second before recognizing me. “Good heavens, Miss Hyde-Clare, whatever is the matter? Why are you impersonating a dying hyena in my entry?”
A dying hyena?
I cannot pretend the description does not hurt.
An injured wolf might have been unduly optimistic in light of my vocal range, but an animal famous for its howling bark is needlessly cruel.
If I were capable of fake tears, they would begin to fall in earnest.
“I am sorry, ma’am,” I murmur pathetically, my eyes darting briefly up to examine her shocked expression before lowering them again to the ground.
“That is all I wished to say: I am sorry for my mother’s treatment of you and Miss Braithwaite the other evening.
She said so many horrid things, which happens when she is flustered, and I came to apologize for whatever offense she gave.
But your butler said you would not see me, and I am afraid that on top of everything else made me distraught.
You see, it is difficult to be at Red Oaks right now, and I want to be helpful, but I cannot figure out how.
That is when I decided to call on you and your daughter to apologize.
But I am not helping here either. Instead, I am spoiling your lunch with my cries that sound vaguely like a hyena is dying.
I am so very sorry. I hope you can forgive me.
And I hope you will not mention this debacle to Mrs. Holcroft, because she will call my fit of weeping quaint, and that I cannot bear. ”
Briskly, Mrs. Braithwaite dismisses my concern.
“I am certain Louisa has never called anything quaint in her life. But let us not dwell on that now. Since you have interrupted our lunch, you might as well come in and join us. We are having a collation of cold meats because none of us are very hungry. I trust you are not very hungry either.”
I am famished!
It has been more than five hours since breakfast, and I have been too engrossed in finding the killer to sit down to a meal. The prospect of sustenance makes my mouth water.
Nevertheless, I assure her that I am only the slightest bit peckish.
An investigator does not display want where her suspects have revealed disinterest.
It is a core tenet of a murder probe.
The best way to cajole information from your suspects is to pretend to be like them.
(Hmm. I wonder if that axiom would fit on an embroidery sampler. If so, it might make a nice Christmas present for Bea, assuming she has also found the tactic useful.)
As Rodale steps aside to allow me to enter the hall, I cast an apologetic look in his direction, but not so directly that he realizes I am genuinely contrite.
Contending with overly emotional females is probably the least pleasant aspect of his occupation, and I do feel terrible about subjecting him to my hysterics.
It was unavoidable, of course, for a murder investigation cannot defer to the feelings of the servants.
As she escorts me to the dining room through richly veined marble as refined as the home’s facade, Mrs. Braithwaite explains that the family is keeping to themselves after the tragic events at Red Oaks.
“We are too distressed to think of entertaining. But here you are, so that plan is scotched. Since you are here, you may tell me how everyone is faring. I sent Louisa a letter, of course, entreating her not to hesitate to let us know if there is something she needs. The whole thing is so shocking that I really do not know what to say, which is another reason I told Rodale to refuse visitors.”
My cheeks turn pink at her admonishments.
Twice rebuked in a single statement!
Despite Mr. Burgess’s judgment, I am not impervious to shame and have to forcefully squelch my embarrassment. If Bea can openly interrogate the overbearing Duke of Kesgrave in a roomful of hostile almost-strangers, then I can gently ask Mr. Braithwaite and his daughter a few questions.
It will be fine.
My optimism falters under the cold stares of the room’s occupants.
Miss Braithwaite is as stunning as ever, her blond hair arranged in a knot at the nape of her neck, emphasizing her sparkling blue eyes and rose-red lips, and her morning dress is a simple but refined confection adorned with a lovely brooch of gold wire coiled and twisted to create a delicate, scrolling effect and strewn with colorful gems.
Although my appearance would not rival hers even on my best day, I am inordinately pleased now that I cannot cry on command. At least my eyes are not puffy and red.
Mr. Braithwaite is dressed more casually, in his shirtsleeves and nonchalant cravat knot, an indication of his intention not to receive visitors.
“Never say she was making that appalling noise!” Miss Braithwaite exclaims.
My blush deepens.