Chapter 18 #2
But Chester—dear, bumbling, Pythagoreanist Chester—understands and spells out the maiden name of the vicar’s mother.
Miss Burgess’s countenance grows even bleaker, and she shakes her head.
Her brother nods.
Unable to believe it, she shakes her head again, and in the wild tremble of her chin, I perceive the depth of her horror. Learning what her brother is capable of is somehow more devastating than the threat of the gibbet.
Mr. Nutting’s amusement deepens in the wake of Chester’s comment, and he makes a great show of doubling over with laughter.
He is a buffoon—a detestable buffoon—and I am relieved for Miss Burgess that she only ruined herself for him, not ruined.
Is not staining one’s immortal soul with murder a small consolation?
Indeed, yes.
But it is all that is to be had.
Genially, Mrs. Holcroft tells her neighbor to shut up. “Or I will have that tête-à-tête with Grace after all,” she says before looking at me pointedly. “I would like you to explain the meaning of my son’s cryptic remark.”
Mr. Burgess speaks first.
Without ceremony, he says, “I killed Keast. He was a scourge upon this village, and I removed him before he convinced Mr. Holcroft to do away with traditional farming altogether. What befits one man does not always befit his community. I tried on multiple occasions to explain that to Keast, but he mocked my beliefs and avowed progress was his only religion. After so many months, it became unbearable and I resolved to take action. I was sent here to save men’s souls, but I was losing them: Michael Smith, James Grant, Elias Marsh.
They were good men who succumbed to despair.
I did what I had to do. My sister had nothing to do with it.
Had I not made the mistake with the shawl, her name would never have come into it.
I had no idea it was of particular value.
I chose it only because it resembled the one worn by Georgiana at the end of chapter seven in The Fate of the Dark Dawn. ”
Miss Burgess gurgles as sobs overcome her, and pulling her feet onto the chair, she presses her wet cheeks against her knees.
Stricken, her brother lays a hand against her shoulder and presses it comfortingly, but he is also weeping.
He tries to speak softly in her ear but seems incapable of forming words.
It is a pathetic display, saddening and upsetting to watch, and Sarah turns away to glower at her father. “Look what you have done!”
Taken aback by the allegation, Mr. Holcroft returns her glare with bemused patience.
“I have done? My dear, you seem to forget that I am one of the victims here. Keast was my steward, and I relied upon his good sense. If there were larger concerns in the village to be raised, then it is not my fault the vicar lacks the wherewithal to raise them with me. I am a rational man.”
“Oh, yes, the man who refuses to believe the evidence presented to him by his own son is the epitome of rationality,” Sarah replies scathingly.
Eleanor points out that Mr. Burgess had raised the issue with the powerful landowner several times, as land management and farming practices were the subjects of at least a dozen passionate sermons in the past year.
The notion that he should be expected to listen in church is highly unwelcome to Mr. Holcroft, who considers the two-hour service to be the best rest he gets each week.
“You are horrible!” Eleanor says. “All you care about are plants and seeds. And now see what you have wrought.”
Mr. Holcroft continues to marvel that he has somehow become the villain, and Mr. Nutting assures him that the truculence of willful children is to blame.
“They appreciate nothing, as this episode with the shawl demonstrates. It will be a long time before I sanction a purchase from Madame Valenaire again.”
“It will be a long time before you can afford a purchase from Madame Valenaire,” Mrs. Holcroft says with appealing malice before announcing quite firmly that we must leave the Burgesses to their privacy.
She arranges for Sebastian to wait for the constable, then bundles us into the carriages.
As the investigator who identified the murderer, I feel as though I should remain behind to explain my process to the constable, but I am simply too tired to protest.
The drive back to Red Oaks is subdued, with Mama periodically patting my hand and saying, “There, there,” as though the evening has been especially upsetting to me.
I allow it.
The poor dear has been put through her paces.
So many new experiences for one night.
Mr. Holcroft continues to resist the idea that he has made any missteps, from his faith in Grimston to his lack of interest in labor issues, and emerges from the carriage still grumbling about his ungrateful progeny.
“I have nurtured a nest of vipers,” he mutters as his wife leaves him standing in the entryway with the butler.
“I am for bed,” Mrs. Holcroft announces as she passes through the width of the peel tower toward the wide staircase that leads to a warmer section of the home.
Before she mounts the first step, she turns to my parents and congratulates them on raising an impressive daughter.
“Miss Hyde-Clare is a credit to you. She is clever, composed, and commanding, which is I think the best combination.”
“You are too kind,” Mama replies modestly.
Papa echoes the sentiment.
They hold their dignified poses until our host disappears around the bend, then my mother grabs the balustrade as though she were about to swoon. “Clever, composed, and commanding! Have you ever heard such an amiable trio of adjectives, Horace?”
My father swears he has not.
Mama laughs, reaches for me with her other hand, and squeezes my fingers so tightly I have to bite back a cry.
“Flora, when you stood up, I thought we would have to slink away in the dark after all! But then you made that admirable showing. It is this place. It is Bedfordshire. You must always remain here. I vow you are not clever, composed, or commanding in London. I suppose it has something to do with the air here.”
Russell snickers.
But as no adjectives have been bestowed on him today, let alone a trio of amiable ones, I permit the snide gesture to pass without protest.
The morning will be soon enough to remind him of his inadequacy.
When Mama’s legs feel sturdy again, we proceed up the stairs to our rooms. I get a fond kiss from both my parents, and even Russell lauds my performance as “not the most mortifying experience in my life.”
Well, of course not.
Mama subjects him to worse once a week.
Still, I appreciate the sentiment and decide to wait a full day before cataloguing his many deficiencies (because I am clever, composed, commanding, and kind).
Annie is waiting, and as she helps me prepare for bed, I explain the denouement of the day’s adventure, thanking her for the pivotal information regarding the wet rug.
“It was not the decisive factor,” I explain as she runs the brush through my hair, “but it was a decisive factor.”
She is pleased and tells me the gossip from belowstairs, which is awhirl with the master’s refusal to condemn Grimston, who, it seems, none of the servants like. He would come to stay for weeks on end, doubling their amount of work with his demands, and never hand out tips to the staff.
Shocking!
If I were mistress of Red Oaks, I would make gratuities compulsory for all guests, mostly in a bid to earn the staff’s affection. (Oooh, I must remember to suggest that policy to Bea.) But I would also not make a habit of having corrupt solicitors walking the halls.
Except that rule would make it impossible for poor Mr. Caruthers to visit.
Amendment: murderous corrupt solicitors.
Pleased with the day’s progress—one declaration of love, one confession of murder, three apologies, a host of compliments from my host—I lay my head on the pillow and drift effortlessly to sleep.
In the morning, I wake up far later than I had intended, opening my eyes only when Annie enters the room with a tray.
Apologetically, she explains that my mother said I had done enough lazing about.
As I am eager to talk to Sebastian, I wholeheartedly agree.
An early riser, he might already be out for a ride or attending to estate business.
In fact, he is arguing with his father.
The three Holcroft daughters are standing outside their father’s study, their ears pressed to the door, and spotting me, Mrs. Dowell extends her arm, loops it through mine, and pulls me in closer. I protest that it is unseemly, and all three of them say, “Hush.”
Mrs. Dowell whispers, “Father and Seb are having the most awful row. It is about grandmother’s ring.
It is a gorgeous thing, all sapphires and diamonds.
Father says it is too valuable to take out of the safe, and Seb thinks that is absurd.
A ring is meant to be worn. They have been quarreling for about fifteen minutes now. ”
“But it is not really about the ring,” Sarah says softly.
“It is a proxy for a more meaningful difference of opinion,” Eleanor adds archly. “But you must not worry that you shall be tied to an ogre, for Mother will take Father in hand now and demand that he behave. He knows he is in the wrong and will eventually admit it.”
Blushing at the implication, I mumble something nonsensical about the preciousness of family heirlooms, then scurry away before I am caught eavesdropping.
I take refuge in the breakfast room, which is empty due to the lateness of the hour.
Perching over a newspaper as though enthralled by its contents, I sip tea and tell myself not to build castles in the air.
Sometimes an argument about a ring is just an argument about a ring, and regardless, this article about the local theater’s production of Molière is fascinating.
The director’s decision to have an English king, rather than the king of France, set matters to right is a bold move. I am sure it befits the story.