Chapter 14 #2
Mama takes the news that she was subject to their spiteful assessment better than I do.
Although she has expended thousands of words over the course of her life to avoid being mistakenly seen in the worst light possible, she does not flinch or turn pink or begin to ramble.
Coolly, she accepts the apology, then adds with staggering graciousness, “Your suspicions about Flora were not entirely unfounded, as you did find her in your father’s study looking through his desk. ”
Or is she teasing?
Is Mama making one of her rare sallies?
The truth is, I have no idea. Displays of humor from my mother are so infrequent that I have yet to figure out what she finds funny.
Regardless, Mrs. Dowell trills lightly and lauds my mother for her generosity. “I do not know if I could display the same tolerance if the situations were reversed. When I think of what Uncle Dudley…er, Grimston…did to your daughter…I…I… “
She does not have the words.
Water gathers in the corners of her eyes as she struggles to find the words.
“When I think of the terror and violence to which Miss Hyde-Clare was subjected by Grimston, it shames me to know she was further abused by us,” Mrs. Dowell says, brushing away the lone tear that spills onto her cheek.
“I will have words with my father about this. You may be assured I will have many words.”
“We all will,” Sarah says, releasing her sister’s hand to refill her teacup, her own eyes not entirely dry.
“And with Mother as well. She should have known better. Despite perceiving himself as a man of science and methodical reasoning, our father fired the last steward when Gettleson pointed out errors in his analysis. He is astonishingly immune to facts he finds disagreeable. On the other hand, there is Mother, who is sensible and should have made him accept Seb’s version of events. ”
As if summoned by these remarks, Mr. Holcroft strides into the room and observes how unusual it is to find his study occupied in his absence.
Does he sound slightly peeved?
Yes, he does.
The study is his inner sanctum and as such should be treated with inviolability.
“But you girls will have your strange starts despite my clearly stated preferences,” he adds, smiling in a bid to hide the churlishness of the sentiment.
Then he comes to an abrupt halt as he notices all three of his daughters in varying degrees of distress and coughs awkwardly.
“Ah, yes, these very strange female starts. All right, then, I will be on my way. I am supposed to be changing for dinner anyway. If any of you are feeling too poorly for dinner, then you must take a tray in your room. No need to soldier through and make everything soggy.”
He turns sharply on his heels.
Swoop!
Highly discomfited by the waterworks, he cannot leave the room fast enough.
But his eldest daughter will not allow him to escape that easily.
She will have words.
He is almost at the door when she calls his name—so close—and he stops with an air of grievance. But he manages to present an agreeable expression when he says, “Is there something you need that your mother or the servants cannot provide, Margaret?”
“There is, yes,” Mrs. Dowell says in an equally amiable tone. “I was hoping you could explain why you failed to mention Uncle Dudley’s attempt to kill Seb? You talk about Uncle Dudley frequently and yet somehow the fact that he lured my brother to a wretched little room with stained walls—”
She pauses to glance at my mother for confirmation. “Is that description correct, Mrs. Hyde-Clare?”
Mama reminds her of the rotted floorboards.
“Yes, that is right: a wretched little room with stained walls and rotted floorboards,” Mrs. Dowell says with smooth comprehension before returning her attention to her father. “All that talk of Uncle Dudley’s misfortunes and not a word about his misdeeds. Why is that?”
Mr. Holcroft is startled.
The notion that he would be called to account for any decision is clearly an alien one to him, and he seems on the verge of reprimanding his daughter for her impertinence.
But he does not.
Instead, he chastises her rudeness.
“It pains me to know you are so lacking in courtesy as to raise a subject that is sure to be uncomfortable for our guests,” Mr. Holcroft says chidingly.
“But I will not oblige. We can discuss Miss Hyde-Clare’s place in the plot to destroy my oldest and dearest friend another time if you so wish.
In the meanwhile, I trust you will apologize to Miss Hyde-Clare and her mother. ”
And then he tries to leave.
He manages to get one foot into the corridor before Sarah says, “No, Father, we will discuss this now. You may join us in tea, if you like, or remain in the doorway—whichever suits you best.”
Mr. Holcroft shakes his head forlornly, as if saddened by the intractability of daughters, and steps far enough into the room to lean against his desk.
“The problem, my dears, is there is nothing to discuss. One cannot fail to mention something that did not happen. The story Miss Hyde-Clare has told you is a fiction devised by Sir Dudley’s enemies, and if you believe it, then you are willing dupes in the plot to destroy your uncle.
That might sit well with you, but I find it repugnant,” he says, softening his disdain with a smile.
“I was afraid this would happen when Seb insisted on inviting Miss Hyde-Clare to Red Oaks. I do not blame the girl, who seems more troubled than malicious. Even so, I would prefer if Seb were not exposed to her ideas, especially as her odd fixation on Sir Dudley has allowed her to be manipulated by his enemies. I have tried to caution Seb against allowing his better judgment to be overcome by a pretty face, but as yet he is impervious to reason. It is my hope that exposure to her dreadful family succeeds where my arguments have failed.”
Stunned silence follows this speech.
Stunned.
Silence.
Mrs. Dowell blinks at her father in confusion, as though trying to figure out who he is, and Sarah drops her eyes to her hands, which are clenched in her lap.
Eleanor reaches over to clasp them in her own, while I glance at my mother, whose expression is inscrutable.
It is not blank, per se, but neither is it angry or mortified or apprehensive or even confused.
Is it curious?
Maybe she is trying to understand how Mr. Holcroft has the unmitigated gall to speak of her daughter as though she is not in the room?
Actually, that is I.
I am astonished by his unmitigated gall.
“Found them!” Russell says, pausing on the threshold as he calls to someone still in the hallway. “They are in here.”
Two someones: Papa and Chester.
“We have been looking everywhere for you,” my brother continues as he steps aside to make room for the others.
There are two chairs available in the seating area, and he knows enough to allow our father to establish his preference.
“We just got back from the stables. We thought everyone would be upstairs, changing for dinner. But here you all are, having tea. Ooh, are those lemon biscuits? I love lemon biscuits.”
Mrs. Dowell raises the plate to offer one to Russell.
She does not speak.
Nobody speaks.
Are they waiting for me to reply because I am the injured party? Do they think I have the right to first defense, or are they too timid to enter the fray?
Either way, I resent that the responsibility falls to me.
I have borne enough of the brunt.
“We are listening to the tale of how your sister narrowly escaped death in a decrepit building in a wretched part of town,” Mama says with brutal honesty, causing Russell to smile fleetingly at what he presumes to be a jest, then drops the biscuit onto the rug when he realizes it is not.
“You also missed the Holcroft sisters apologizing for misjudging Flora and our kind host calling her deranged, gullible, malevolent, and deceitful.”
My mother’s ability to retain her coherence is remarkable.
By rights, she should be babbling about not wishing to give offense to her host while giving offense to her host and chiding Russell for spilling crumbs on the rug.
Instead, she is being sarcastic.
Our kind host!
Something about having her child flagrantly maligned is akin to death for her.
Russell swivels toward Chester, as if expecting him to answer for the deeds of his father, while Papa looks at my mother with an expression of pained incredulity.
He cannot believe either the claim or my mother’s audacity in making it.
And Mr. Holcroft?
He looks smug, as though Mama’s summation of his judgment proves its accuracy, and I marvel that I ever felt awed by this petty, delusional man who loves his own opinion more than his son.
“I memorized cabbage,” I murmur.
My mother, laying a comforting hand on mine, says, “What was that, dear?”
“Cabbage,” I reply with an air of wonder, recalling the dozens of trips I made to the lending library in search of information.
“In preparation for meeting Sebastian’s father, I memorized everything there was to know about cabbage because I wanted him to like me.
I read books and journals and newspapers and even a farmer’s almanac. ”
Mama is startled by my industriousness, which she neither noticed nor suspected.
It is hardly surprising.
Having failed to realize that I was leaving the house to conduct a murder investigation, she is hardly likely to have detected an influx of reading material.
“Sugarloaf!” I exclaim, which causes Mr. Holcroft to smirk.
Of course he is amused.
The excessiveness of my efforts is funny.
That is the whole point—hours of my life given over to an act of futility.
There was no battle to be won.
The war was canceled on account of disgust for the foe.
“Sugarloaf cabbage’s chief characteristics are a tapering shape with large, delicate leaves.
It varies in color from yellowish to blue-green and is best suited for cold climes,” I continue, rising to my feet as though conducting a lecture at the Royal Horticulture Society.
In all likelihood, this is my only opportunity to show off my arcane knowledge, so I am going to show off my arcane knowledge.
If only I had a podium!
I have always thought I would look well behind a podium, all serious and scholarly.
“Compare sugarloaf with savoy cabbage, which has crinkled, emerald green leaves and a loose, spherical head. It enjoys plenty of sunlight and is best suited for moderate clime. And then there is the humble red cabbage, with its tightly wound, waxy leaves in a deep violet burgundy hue. It requires well-fertilized soil and is best suited for a humid clime,” I say, adding that I could go on: white cabbage, Pontefract cabbage, Battersea cabbage, green cabbage.
Possessing as I do an intimate acquaintance with Brassica oleracea, I could hold the floor for hours, rattling off one variety after another, and I am tempted to keep going just to force Mr. Holcroft to remain there.
He might be appalled by my weak-minded Delilah ways, but this is still his study, and he will not allow himself to be run off.
He will listen to all the irrelevant lectures necessary to reclaim his territory.
Irrelevant indeed, I think, realizing it applies to him.
Mr. Holcroft is irrelevant.
Once he made it known that I would never earn his approval, he became irrelevant to me. The Hyde-Clares might desire approval at all cost, but we are not immune to reality. We face it staunchly, our shoulders pulled tight in expectation that it will be worse than we feared.
“I declined a visit to Vauxhall Gardens with my cousin to stay bracketed in my bedchamber with my research because I wanted to impress you,” I say, unable to believe such a thing actually transpired.
Vauxhall with all its delights.
Fireworks!
Grottoes!
Cascades!
“You,” I repeat with particular emphasis, “a pathetic little man who readily believes the lies of a murderer over his son.”
Mr. Holcroft’s rigid expression softens as he endeavors to regard me as a feeble woman who must be indulged. “Are you finished now, Miss Hyde-Clare? Or shall I have dinner moved back an hour so that you may continue venting your spleen?”
Papa growls.
An unprecedented sound, it starts low in his throat and travels upward, like a river running north, and he clenches his right hand.
“You did not thank him, Flora,” my mother says, her concerned eyes darting from me to her husband.
As daring as the Hyde-Clares have been today, brawling with our host is an audacity too far.
“Mr. Holcroft also called you pretty and you did not thank him. A compliment is a compliment even when it is included amid a lengthy catalogue of insults. As you know, I have always believed graciousness is next to godliness.”
Oh, Mama.
If only Bea could see her now, blending obsequiousness and obtrusiveness. My cousin would have no idea what to think.
Bowing to my mother’s superior sense of etiquette, I don my sweetest smile—the one I use at Almack’s when I am standing next to the refreshment table while a handsome man secures me a glass of lemonade—and say, “I am grateful to have earned your favorable opinion, Mr. Holcroft.”
As much as he resents the obligations of courtesy, he refuses to be outstripped by an insipid miss he cannot stand and replies with an empty gallantry.
But Sebastian does not know it.
Poor Sebastian, arriving in the room after the skirmish end and lacking all understanding of the events before his eyes.
Delighted with the progress that appears to have been made in his absence, he grins with pleasure and says, “Well, there, you see, Father? I told you Miss Hyde-Clare would win you over.”