Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Miss Nutting throws herself into my arms, giving me a glimpse of yellow silk before I am hurled backward by the force of her body. Instinctively, my muscles stiffen to support her weight because I cannot allow her to tumble to the floor, can I?
It is a sincere question.
As I have never been assaulted upon entering a drawing room, the proper etiquette for the situation escapes me. Even so, allowing a young woman to spill onto the Axminster is rarely the appropriate solution.
Miss Nutting tightens her arms around my neck as I look across the room at the girl’s mother, who is retreating into an armchair. Placidly, she says, “There you are, my darling. Miss Hyde-Clare has come to comfort you. You may tell her how miserable you are while I enjoy a brandy.”
But she does not raise the glass to her lips, preferring instead to press her back against the cushion, sigh deeply, and close her eyes.
Despite her apparent exhaustion, she does not appear fatigued, with her round cheeks flush with color and the faint wrinkles in her high forehead smooth.
Her short dark hair curls loosely under a silk mobcap.
Despite Mr. Braithwaite’s claim about his neighbor’s penury, the drawing room is in excellent condition, with fresh blue paint on the walls and pristine fabrics in a variety of striped patterns.
Examining the ceiling from my vantage under Miss Nutting’s weight, I notice the intricate moldings and a pair of gilt chandeliers.
If the family estate is mortgaged to the hilt, they are determined to hide it with the gloss of perfection.
When Mrs. Nutting does not immediately open her eyes again, I realize I must extricate myself from her daughter’s grip without her assistance. Cautiously, I lower one shoulder, then the other, in a sort of wiggly worm maneuver.
Squirming gets me nowhere!
The girl is determined to hang on me like a garland.
Heeding her mother’s advice, she affirms that she is indeed miserable. “Meaning and joy have been leeched from the world, leaving behind only gray.”
Although this observation might be true in a figurative sense, it does not apply in the literal one, as Miss Nutting herself is a bright burst of color in a jonquil morning dress.
To offset its cheerfulness, she has tied a black silk scarf around her neck.
The quality of both garments is excellent, and I smother the impulse to ask the name of her modiste.
All in good time.
As squiggling achieved nothing, I abandon subtlety and announce that my legs are feeling unsteady. “If you do not let go, then we are both going to drop.”
Miss Nutting does not care.
The world has already collapsed.
“Perhaps, but I have not,” I murmur smoothly.
Across the room, Mrs. Nutting advises her daughter to let me go lest I knock my head in the fall. “Miss Hyde-Clare cannot comfort you if she is unconscious.”
This highly sensible observation resonates with my captor, and she loosens her grip around my neck slowly.
Stepping back slightly, she smiles shyly, then leads me to the settee.
“Here, you may make yourself comfortable as you comfort me.
I am so grateful you have come, Miss Hyde-Clare, as I have been beside myself with misery. "
Red-eyed from weeping, she nevertheless looks like an Incomparable in her sunny gown and expert chignon, her dark hair glossy, her gray eyes shiny. Even the black scarf, which creates a bit of a bumblebee effect in concert with the yellow, heightens her beauty. She is delicate and tragic.
“There, there, you poor thing,” I say gently, patting her hand, struck by the irony of her grief. All day I have been looking for a romantic connection between the steward and one of the gently bred females in the district, and now that I have finally found one, I do not care.
I am firm in my conviction that land policies are the motive.
“Are you very upset about Mr. Keast’s death?” I ask.
“Upset!” Miss Nutting spits out the word. “I am devastated, destroyed, demolished.”
The parade of adjectives is a little grandiose, but I am here to gather information, not to critique her mode of expression. “Oh, I see. Were you and he close?”
Miss Nutting’s mournful expression turns thunderous as she glares at her mother and says, “No, we were not. She would not allow it!”
Mrs. Nutting acknowledges the accusation by opening her eyes but does not speak. Instead, she raises the brandy to her lips and empties the glass in a single gulp.
“She said it would not be appropriate for us to pursue a relationship because Papa hated him,” Miss Nutting added angrily.
Feeling compelled to clarify, Mrs. Nutting insists that was the reason she had given for why a relationship would not be wise.
“It would not have been appropriate because of the great disparity in your positions. You are the daughter of a wealthy landowner whose grandfather was a viscount, and Keast was a steward. Your father would never have condoned the match, even if he liked and respected the man.”
“Papa would have come around to the idea eventually!” Miss Nutting spits angrily, the flush increasing in her cheeks in step with her temper.
“With enough time he would have given his blessing. All Papa wants is for me to be happy—unlike you. You just want me to be miserable, and I am, so I am sure you’re elated! ”
It is a childish outburst.
Having lodged the same allegation against my own mother, over a spring green gown with the most intricate detailing and sumptuous lace—not a male member of the staff—I recognize an adolescent tantrum when it screams a few inches from my ear.
Mrs. Nutting does as well.
Calmly, she reminds her daughter that she is raging over a moot point. “Must I mention yet again Keast’s utter lack of interest in your existence, my darling? If required, he would have been hard-pressed to address you by name.”
The girl seethes, her soft gray eyes popping with fury as she accuses her mother of fabricating savage lies just to hurt her.
“He would have known my name! He would have because it is Jane. That is the easiest name in the world to remember because it is the plainest and most boring name in the whole world, which is why you chose it, because you hate me. If you loved me, you would have called me Althea or Clementina or Isabel.”
Introducing a new grievance is a misstep. If a fit of temper is to have any hope of achieving its objective, it must remain focused on a single resentment. Diluting the original complaint provides your parent with an excuse to roll her eyes and stop listening.
Mrs. Nutting displays this tendency now, rising to her feet and refilling her drink. She takes a sip of her brandy as she returns to the chair, then examines the liquid silently.
Does she appear bored?
Yes, she affects boredom brilliantly.
Miss Nutting cites this failure to respond as unequivocal proof that her mother never loved her, and when this charge also fails to provoke a reply, the girl’s assertions grow increasingly absurd until she decries an effort to drown her at birth.
Her mother, refusing to oblige her daughter’s desire for a quarrel, remains quietly introspective, and watching Miss Nutting make one outrageous claim after another, I decide that Mr. Keast had nothing to do with the girl.
She is simply too immature for a man of his habits and interests.
Even if he thought he could exploit her attraction to attain financial security for himself, he would realize her volatility was too much of a drawback.
The fact that the deceased failed to return Miss Nutting’s affection does not make her grief at his passing any less acute. Her emotions, of which she clearly has little control, are no less real for being misplaced.
As an investigator, I must concentrate on the clues and evidence that will lead me to the killer, and comforting the inconsolable girl accomplishes nothing. Still, I know what it feels like to have your heart broken, so I listen politely as she rails against her mother.
Sooner or later, she will dissolve into a pool of tears, allowing me to gently shove her aside.
The problem is, she does not.
Miss Nutting is made of infinite umbrage, and after ten minutes of displaying the most profound understanding of her plight, I slide to the other end of the settee to move closer to Mrs. Nutting, to ask if she counts a silk shawl by Madame Valenaire among her recent acquisitions in London.
The query draws an angry gasp from Miss Nutting, who breaks off in the middle of a sentence to demand that I pay attention to her.
Sincerely, I beg her pardon. “Do you count a silk shawl by Madame Valenaire among your recent acquisitions in London, Miss Nutting?”
Grateful for the change in subject, Mrs. Nutting does not wait for her daughter to reply and confirms she has two perfectly stunning shawls by the popular modiste.
“I have gotten much use of them this summer, as they are just the thing for a chilly evening. Jane has one as well, in a lovely pink, but refuses to wear it.”
“It is Russian flame,” Miss Nutting sneers.
“Yes, a lovely warm pinkish tan,” her mother replies smoothly.
“I wanted blossom, but you said that it was too expensive and that I must get Russian flame even though it makes my complexion sallow, which you would care about if you loved me even a little,” Miss Nutting says with scathing petulance.