Chapter 15 #3
As members of his family file out of the room, Sebastian asks me to remain behind, and in full charity with him, I assent.
Following this morning’s hugely disheartening encounter, he has redeemed himself wonderfully by admitting he was wrong, praising my superior knowledge of fripperies, agreeing to join my investigation rather than trying to make it his own, and explaining that I was never on trial.
I am happy to linger in the study as long as he likes.
(Well, as long as “as long as he likes” does not stretch too long, as it is now sixty-nine minutes past dinnertime.)
Sebastian makes the same request of my parents, who are startled but nevertheless compliant as they sit down on the settee.
Next, he gestures to the adjacent armchair, which I assume without comment, although I am also disconcerted.
He lowers himself onto the bergère across from them, clasps his hands in his lap, and draws his features into a solemn expression.
Oh, no, solemn.
This is a solemn occasion?
But I do not like solemnity.
Leaning forward slightly in his seat, he says, “Mr. and Mrs. Hyde-Clare, your daughter is the most remarkable woman I have ever met.”
Having tensed my shoulders in expectation of a somber announcement, I am not easily able to adjust my posture. Even though I hear the lovely tribute, I still stiffen as if absorbing a blow.
Mama and Papa are also disconcerted.
No, that is not accurate.
The poor dears are flummoxed.
They know how to respond to a critique.
If only Sebastian had had the decency to criticize, then they could extend their sympathies, offer their apologies, and swear to do better.
But a superlative?
The implication of peerless excellence?
It is dumbfounding.
Perhaps Sebastian meant to compliment someone else?
Continuing as though his audience is not stupefied, he says, “It is through my actions that your daughter was exposed to danger, and I will never forgive myself for putting my trust in the wrong individual. Please know that as troubled as you are to know Miss Hyde-Clare’s life was in peril, I am doubly so. ”
My father recovers first from the shock, saying with earnest understanding, “He is your godfather. You cannot apologize for trusting your godfather. He violated his compact not only with you but God as well. There is nothing you can do about a man so lacking in fundamental decency.”
Lovely Papa!
It is a rare occasion when he manages to say the right thing at the right time.
“Thank you, Mr. Hyde-Clare, as you cannot know how much I appreciate that,” Sebastian replies gravely.
“I agree that the shock of Grimston’s venality has yet to fully sink in because it runs counter to everything I thought I knew about him.
But that does not excuse my own behavior.
When I encountered your daughter in a potentially unsafe situation, I should have escorted her home immediately.
It was a moral imperative that I failed to heed. ”
Good heavens, is he still smarting over that!
Holcroft the Holy and his strict code.
“That failure was out of character for me, and I regret that my behavior did not conform to my own standards,” he says, forcing me to smother an impatient sigh at the tedious repetitiveness of his mea culpa.
Yes, yes, sir, we get it. You are a highly moral creature who fell short—once!
“The problem, Mr. and Mrs. Hyde-Clare, is that I cannot sufficiently regret the breach in honor, because it led to the most felicitous occasion of my life: meeting your daughter. Had I abided by my conscience, I would not know her as I do or love her as I do. I understand that I have violated your trust and pledge now to earn it back.”
Wait.
Did he just…
I am sorry—what?
A glance at my parents reveals nothing untoward.
But seriously!
Incensed, I say briskly, “Mama and Papa, please leave.”
Astonishingly, they do.
Despite a lifetime of the contrary, they display good sense and rise from the sofa without saying a word. Of course Mama looks as though she wants to argue, but she holds her tongue as she follows my father to the entry.
As soon as the door snaps shut, I jump to my feet, rigid with anger, and seethe, “How dare you!”
Do I stamp my foot?
I might have stamped my foot.
Honestly, I am too irate to notice.
Sebastian takes a step toward me, his bearing as severe as mine as he says, “I am sorry if you do not like it, but the fact of the matter is that I do owe your parents an apology. I did violate their trust by allowing you to enter Lyon’s Inn.
I should have returned you immediately to Portman Square.
It was a violation of your trust, too, and—”
I let out a squeal, a high-pitched wail of consuming frustration—or a dying-hyena cry (I am desolate to report that I cannot tell the difference)—and he stares at me, thunderstruck, still seemingly incapable of comprehending his transgression.
Huffily, I say, “I am beginning to think you are not perfect, Sebastian.”
A blank look.
He gives me a blank look.
The nodcock.
Imperfect indeed!
“How dare you tell my parents you love me before you tell me?” I ask furiously.
Sebastian takes umbrage at the accusation.
He is offended.
The man who professed love to me via my parents!
“I did not tell your par—”
But he halts his denial in the middle of a word, then draws his brows close and asks with confusion, “Did I really?”
“It is a moment I will cherish for the rest of my life: you, me, my parents,” I say heatedly. “A heartwarming story I cannot wait to tell our children.”
He laughs, lightly at first but with growing humor.
“It is not funny,” I mutter. “I have pictured it a million times and now it is ruined.”
Although he claims to agree, he cannot smother his amusement, and he murmurs something about wanting to clear his conscience before swearing eternal devotion.
Then he kisses me.
Oh, how he kisses me, languid and deep and shocking and ardent, and I am lying on the settee in a position that all but certainty violates the trust he begged my parents to place in him minutes ago.
He pulls back and is wearing that expression.
His apology face.
As remorse for our recent activity is intolerable to me, I announce that I am also riled at his failure to mention my remarkableness sooner.
“If I had known the extent of your esteem, I might have handled your family’s rudeness with greater aplomb.
As it happened, I was beside myself with anxiety at how egregiously I seemed to be failing the test.”
Now when he airs his regret, it is entirely appropriate, and when I lean forward to express my appreciation, he groans as if genuinely pained and rises.
“Dinner awaits—and so do your parents. You know as well as I do that they are standing outside the door, counting the minutes and biding their time till they knock. By my own calculations, we have another forty-three seconds.”
The fact is, we have five, and as soon as the knock sounds, I devolve into a fit of giggles. Sebastian exhorts me to show a little dignity, but I cannot.
I am happy.
Dinner does little to lessen my giddiness.
Despite my hostess’s dire concerns, the food is delicious—the hollandaise is silky, the capons are moist—and the company is amiable.
The Holcrofts en masse are far more pleasant to break bread with when they are not eyeing you with suspicion.
Convince them you are not spying for the chancellor, and they are delightful dining companions.
Even Mama notices the difference and slowly allows herself to relax enough to make a sally, noting that their cook’s ruined meal surpasses our cook’s finest offering.
Laughing modestly, Mrs. Holcroft signals for dessert to be presented just as Nutting appears in the doorway. She rounds her shoulders in defeat and looks at her husband with recrimination. “George, you did not!”
“I did!” he replies with relish, dropping his fork so that it lands with a clattering clang on his plate. “Of course I did. If the situations were reversed, I would expect him to do the same for me. It is neighborly and gentlemanly and just plain decent, as they say.”
Mr. Holcroft bids the caller to enter.
“Come in, my good fellow. Do not be shy. Come in and face your accuser,” he says.
Then he looks me in the eye and smirks.
Checkmate.