Chapter 11 #2
Briskly, Mrs. Braithwaite confirms that I was the source of the commotion and instructs her daughter to be gracious, as there is nothing to be done about it.
“The girl’s wits appear to have gone begging in the wake of the tragedy, and the best thing we can do for her is treat her kindly.
That is why I have invited her to have lunch with us.
Is that not correct, Miss Hyde-Clare?” she asks me gently.
Because I want them to think I am a ninny, I nod silently.
But it is hard.
Miss Braithwaite already assumes she is superior to me because her nose is adorably pert and her eyes tip up like an exotic cat’s, and I bristle now as she beckons me to sit down next to her in a tone so soothing that it is actually a little hostile.
I hesitate.
Appearing simple is central to this encounter, and yet I cannot help but balk at assuming the role in its entirety.
“Go on, my dear,” Mrs. Braithwaite urges, pressing a hand to my back.
With effort, I manage a shy smile and sit down at the table.
As a footman lays a setting before me on the table, I apologize for disturbing their meal and for interrupting their day and for upsetting their butler and for lacking the wherewithal to intercede when my mother was insulting them the other evening and for being the sort of person who cuts up a grieving family’s peace to indulge in an orgy of apologies.
“I see now that I am more affected by Mr. Keast’s murder than I previously supposed,” I say with a dejected dip of my head.
And a pitiful tremor in my tone.
I must not forget the pitiful tremor—it is a thing of beauty, so genuine sounding, as though I am about to dissolve into a spate of tears.
(Honestly, it is shocking that I cannot produce tears, as I am otherwise extremely proficient in the art of mournful detection.)
Bravely, I confess that the decision to take responsibility for my mother’s insults was merely an excuse to escape Red Oaks.
“Mrs. Braithwaite asked how the family are, and the answer is they are sad and confused. They do not understand how something so atrocious could happen in their own home, and the allegations of an affair are even more upsetting. The atmosphere is gloomy and oppressive, and I had to leave. But I also did want to sincerely and personally express my remorse for the awful things my mother said. I wish I could say it was an aberration, but it happens with alarming regularity. She is easily flustered, and once she gets rattled by something, she cannot restrain herself and she makes the matter worse with every attempt to fix it. That is no excuse for the insults she dealt you but an explanation. Regardless, I am sorry.”
Mrs. Braithwaite, who suffered the greater offense, as her features bear no resemblance to waterfowl, either mallard or smew, grants her forgiveness.
Her daughter, disinclined to demonstrate equal charity, announces that some offenses are too grave to pardon and that she would continue to bear a grudge until such a time as she no longer feels the sting of the slight.
Naturally, I murmur with approval.
It is her right to hold on to as many petty resentments as she wishes.
Her mother takes the opposing view and urges her to accept the apology.
Miss Braithwaite swears she cannot. “It is too painful.”
“Nonsense,” her mother says with an impatient scoff.
Stung by the brusque dismissal, the girl replies with a plaintive whine, “You do not understand. Every step I take is a brutal reminder. It is torture.”
“Good Lord, child, your feet are in perfect proportion to your body!” Mrs. Braithwaite growls irritably.
“You cannot take every minor criticism to heart if you are to have any hope of securing a husband next season. You will gain a reputation as a fuss-box, which is much worse than any drivel Mrs. Hyde-Clare might say.”
Miss Braithwaite huffs and frowns and regards her mother with intense dislike before turning beseechingly to her father. “You must tell Mother she is being beastly because she is being beastly. Saying my come-out in London will end in failure—that is a beastly way to treat your own daughter.”
Curiously, Mama’s comment regarding the size of the Incomparable’s feet was actually quite mild, especially in comparison to the insult she dealt Miss Nutting, who may never stop checking her breath against her hand.
Miss Braithwaite’s inability to regulate her emotions leads me to wonder if she is actually upset about something else—and if “something else” is Mr. Keast’s murder.
She cannot rage or rail against his death.
It would be unseemly!
But an offhand remark about her lower appendage bearing a vague resemblance to an elephant’s ear is within the bounds of acceptable.
It is a maneuver my brother employs all the time, throwing a tantrum about one intolerable injustice (Dawson moving Russell’s boots from the center of the drawing room) while really up in arms about another (Papa refusing to loosen the purse strings).
According to Miss Burgess, the girl’s pursuit of the steward was not in earnest. It was merely a lighthearted diversion to pass the months until her London season. But what if Mr. Keast’s indifference awakened something deeper in her heart?
No, not love.
Resentment.
Incensed by his refusal to fall in line, Miss Braithwaite might have redoubled her efforts, aggressively flirting with the steward to win his affection. A father observing these labors would most probably not recognize the underlying animus.
Mr. Braithwaite pays no need to his daughter’s implorations and chides both women for bothering him with their female dramas. “I have no idea what you are even talking about.”
Miss Braithwaite opens her mouth.
“And I do not want to know,” he adds crushingly before she can speak. “I have more pressing things on my mind than an event that is almost a year away.”
“Of course you do,” his wife murmurs consolingly.
Equally contrite, Miss Braithwaite insists that she is the beast for allowing herself to be provoked by her mother at a time like this. “I know how she likes to vex me, and I still let her do it. Obviously, she is as concerned about the perception of my feet as I am.”
Mr. Braithwaite acknowledges the pair of mea culpas with an absent nod as he cuts a slice of roast beef, and I wonder about the more pressing matter on his mind.
Is it murder?
The strangulation of a steward would certainly serve as a distraction.
Recalling the argument between the two men witnessed by Miss Burgess, I am struck by the oddity of Mr. Keast calling at Chilton Hall. As his duties pertained exclusively to Holcroft land, he would have no reason to visit the neighboring estate.
No business reason, that is.
I cast a pensive look at Miss Braithwaite and contemplate the likelihood that she would be foolish enough to tryst with her lover in her own home.
Surely, Mr. Keast was too shrewd to risk it.
And yet he would not be the first infatuated man to take rash action.
Lord Rivington poured a glass of lemonade on Metcalfe in the middle of Almack’s to secure the pleasure of leading Miss Petworth in the first dance of the evening.
(It goes without saying, I trust, that he was ejected from the premises at the directive of Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, who waited until after the quadrille had finished to avoid making a larger scene.)
To know if the theory has credence, I must discover the source of the quarrel.
Asking my host to relay the contents of a private conversation is a gross breach of etiquette, especially as I do not wish to be seen as openly investigating Mr. Keast’s murder.
I have to maintain an appearance of frivolity and naiveté, which means I must wade into deep waters as if by accident.
The best way to accomplish that is by saying something horribly indiscreet out of guileless candor.
To that end, I compliment Mr. Braithwaite on his appetite.
“You are holding up remarkably well under the strain, all things considered, that is. A lesser man would be wracked with guilt if the steward whom he had threatened to strangle to death only a few days before had actually been strangled to death, but here you are, eating lunch as though it had never happened. Your apathy is enviable.”
Then I flutter my lashes admiringly.
Is it strange that accusing a man of heartlessness is less fraught than asking a direct question?
Yes, but that is how Mama raised me. Sycophancy is preferable to honesty.
Mr. Braithwaite does not reply, chewing his roast beef in silent contemplation and compelling his wife to ask what I am talking about.
“The death threats,” I explain concisely, then rush to explain further in the style of Vera Hyde-Clare, who has never used three words when three dozen can overwhelm her original state and her listener’s patience.
“That is, the death threats Mr. Braithwaite issued to Mr. Keast, not the death threats Mr. Keast issued to Mr. Braithwaite. Mr. Keast did not issue death threats to Mr. Braithwaite. Or, rather, I do not know if Mr. Keast issued death threats to Mr. Braithwaite, and I would never presume to tell Mr. Braithwaite what death threats were or were not issued to him. A man of his standing may receive all manner of death threats, and I do not mean to limit his importance by implying he is not worth threatening with death. I am sure many people in the community wish to kill your husband.”
Astonishment greets the end of my maundering speech, and all three members of the family stare at me, unable to believe what they just heard.
I cannot either.
It is disconcertingly, horrifyingly easy to ape my mother’s habit of speaking. Midway through the chatter, I felt almost as though I were slipping on ice, and every attempt to grasp onto something solid only further undermined my attempt to regain control.
Poor Mama.
If sliding on ice is how she feels all the time, then it is a marvel she can string a sentence together at all.