Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Before anyone can disabuse Sebastian of this wildly inaccurate notion, Mrs. Holcroft peers over his shoulder, takes note of the entire party gathered in the study, and asks why nobody is changing for dinner.
“Mrs. Jackson is on pace to lay the first dishes at six, and it is well after five now,” she adds, gesturing to the clock on the wall.
“We keep country hours when we are in the country, which I believe everyone knows, and if the schedule is being changed for some reason, then I must be informed so I can instruct the housekeeper to adjust her plans accordingly.”
“Miss Hyde-Clare is lecturing us on cabbages,” Chester says.
“No, she is not, you dunderhead,” Mrs. Dowell mutters with disgust.
“Sugarloaf cabbage: tapering shape; large, delicate leaves; varies in color from yellowish to blue-green; best suited for cold climes,” he says, reciting the first entry in my catalogue to prove his point.
“I wish to hear about the others: white cabbage, Pontefract cabbage, Battersea cabbage, and green cabbage. As a Pythagoreanist, I have a heightened interest in all vegetables and appreciate Miss Hyde-Clare sharing her knowledge, even if she was just doing it to mark her displeasure with Father for calling her deranged, malevolent, and deceitful.”
The room erupts in a clamor as the Holcrofts all speak at once: Mrs. Holcroft rebukes Chester for spouting nonsense, while Sarah accuses him of lacking the sense God gave a turnip, which compels him to defend the intelligence of vegetables, a response that more or less proves her point.
Mrs. Dowell berates her mother for withholding the truth about Grimston, inducing Mr. Holcroft to leap once again to his dear friend’s defense, which infuriates Sebastian, whose hackles had risen at Chester’s statement—incomplete, as Sarah endeavors to remind everyone. “Father also called her gullible.”
The clock prevails.
No, not the hour.
The gongs.
Three, to be precise, when the minute hand hits five-thirty.
One by one they cease speaking, as the tolls sound until only Mrs. Holcroft can be heard lamenting that dinner will be ruined.
“Mrs. Jackson will have to move everything back an hour. The sauce will curdle, and the capons will dry out. Well, there is no crying over spilled milk. Let us all retire now and hope for the best. I suppose Cook can always make a brown sauce if the hollandaise is spoiled.”
“We are not sitting down to dinner until this matter is addressed,” Sebastian says severely. “I will not ask Miss Hyde-Clare or her parents to sit down to a meal with a man who thinks so poorly of her, and I am shocked, Mother, that you would suggest it.”
Mrs. Holcroft smiles soothingly and promises to discuss whatever he wishes ad infinitum after we eat. “We cannot allow the broccoli to get soggy.”
Sebastian insists they can.
Chester, who claims to have a positive horror of mushy vegetables, scolds his brother for making a fuss over nothing.
“Father has thought poorly of Miss Hyde-Clare through any number of meals now and it has not affected her enjoyment,” he says before aiming a glance at me. “Is that not right, Miss Hyde-Clare?”
“Do not answer the numbskull,” Mrs. Dowell says sternly. “And I agree with Seb. In failing to tell us the truth about Grimston’s actions, Father has lied to us as well and caused us to be rude to a guest. I am also disinclined to share a meal with him.”
“Why must you children be so stubborn?” Mrs. Holcroft asks with a plaintive wail.
“It is so exasperating! Your father has all sorts of ideas that are unduly vexing, and we allow him to think what he wants while we go on our merry way. You know that! He can be singularly immune to reason sometimes and bears a special affection for your Uncle Dudley. You all do. That is why I begged Sebastian not to tell you anything. I wanted to preserve your fond memories. It was a compromise. We all must make compromises. Do you think I am delighted that every conversation revolves around crop yields and harvest tables? I am heartily sick of clover, and if I have to hear Keast advocate for enclosing the pasture one more time, I swear I will—”
She breaks off on a sharp inhale, lowers herself into the armchair, and literally throws up her arms. “Very well, we will have cold meats for dinner. Eleanor, please tell Mrs. Jackson that we are postponing the planned meal and will make do with whatever is convenient at the time we finally make our way into the dining room.”
As her youngest daughter rises to do her bidding, Mrs. Holcroft turns to me and apologizes for any discourtesy I may have encountered during my visit.
“George was set against you because of that dreadful business with Sir Dudley, and I have found during the long years of our union that it is better to allow him to think what he wants than to try to argue him out of his beliefs. The problem with Sir Dudley’s crimes is they are so horrific that they sound made up, like something from the book Alan lent me, the one about that fellow with the hunchback and all those scars on his hands from the disfiguring fire…
I do not recall the name…where all sorts of extremely villainous acts occur.
If Sir Dudley had been slightly villainous, I suspect George would have accepted it without protest. Sir Dudley has always been a bit of a scoundrel. That is his charm.”
Mr. Holcroft takes exception to everything about this characterization, from his own credulity to his friend’s roguishness, but his wife pays him no heed.
Raising her voice over his grumbles, she says, “For what it is worth, Miss Hyde-Clare, I think you are an adequate choice for my son—not as stellar as one might have wished, for one was hoping for a paragon like Miss Jenner—but mildly intelligent and passably pretty. The game you introduced us to last night to distract us from our grief was entertaining, and although I expected to be constantly annoyed by your mother’s nerve-racking prattle, I have found her to be quite sensible in a crisis. ”
These compliments send Mama into transports, for a Hyde-Clare can aspire no higher than adequateness, and she expresses her pleasure with so much meandering, effusive nonsense that she risks losing Mrs. Holcroft’s good opinion.
Papa, recognizing the peril, halts the descent by interrupting his wife to express his gratitude with more moderate appreciation, noting that her observations were on the mark.
“Flora is indeed satisfactory,” he says happily.
I simper.
After a turbulent journey, the ship seems to be sailing through placid waters, and I do not want to do anything that will kick up the waves.
Despite his position as patriarch, Mr. Holcroft appears to have been relegated to a corner like a petulant child, which I think is a fair compromise.
I have no desire to sunder Sebastian’s relationship with his father, but nor do I wish to be unjustly maligned.
If a gentle ignoration brings peace to the household, then who am I to advocate for banishment?
Mrs. Holcroft pats my hand approvingly and says, “Yes, Miss Hyde-Clare is absolutely tolerable.”
Unaccustomed to the middling joys of mediocrity, Sebastian bristles with insult.
“Mildly intelligent? Passably pretty? Mother, have your wits gone begging? Miss Hyde-Clare…Flora…is among the cleverest people I know, and she outshines every other lady in the district, especially Miss Jenner, who is a hollow creature. Miss Hyde-Clare has contorted herself into knots to earn your approval because she thought that I invited her here for that purpose, that I meant to parade her before my family and allow them to render judgment. But that is the rare case of her being wrongheaded.”
Rare case is gratifying.
It makes my fingers start to tingle, even though it is totally inaccurate. I can list at least a dozen things I have been wrongheaded about in the past twenty-four hours, but it is wonderful to have a suitor who holds a higher opinion of me than I do.
More compliments, please.
“It was the other way around, Flora,” he adds, walking to the settee and holding out his hand for me to grasp. “I invited you here to allow you to render judgment on them.”
“Well, I like that,” Sarah mutters, while Mr. Holcroft fusses over the blatant display of insolence. “I am your father!”
Sebastian tugs me to my feet. “I wanted you to have an unvarnished picture of what you would be getting if you agreed to plight your troth to mine. We are a rather disreputable bunch: My godfather tried to kill you, my cousin Charles was struck from the rolls for corruption, my father is pigheaded and frequently irritating, my mother is determined to damn you with faint praise, my brother will not stop lecturing you on the evils of animal flesh, and my sisters have been waging a sotto voce campaign against you that can only be described as whispered warfare. Since arriving you have been smirked at, condescended to, dismissed, and described as quaint too many times to count. I would include the appalling ghastliness of Keast’s unfortunate end in this litany, but I know the opportunity to conduct an investigation is the only thing weighing in our favor,” he says, smiling slyly.
He knows me so well.
It is gorgeous.
“This was not a test for you, Flora,” he continues, tightening his hold on my fingers. “If it was anything, it was a seminar convened with the express purpose of providing you with all the data you need to make an informed decision.”
Absurd man!
If disclosing the full horrors of one’s family were a prerequisite for a proposal, then no Hyde-Clare would ever have married.
But of course that was his tactic.
Holcroft the Holy.