They are all gathered around a doorway.
I approach hesitantly, and Mrs. Dowell notices me first.
Her expression, already censorious, her generous lips pulled tight in a frown, does not change as she bids me good morning. Then she instructs me to leave. “We have had a terrible tragedyand require some time to restore order. I am sorry if you are impatient for your breakfast, but that is just the way it is. We appreciate your understanding.”
But she does not.
According to her curt dismissal, she resents having to address me at all.
Troubled by the information, I look from Chester to Mrs. Holcroft and then back to the sister and extend my sympathies for the unknown event. “I am sorry to hear of the difficulty and of course I have no wish to intrude. I shall return downstairs at once.”
It is the correct thing to say.
Misfortune has struck Red Oaks, and I do not have the right to stand there and gawk simply to satisfy my curiosity. It is a private matter affecting members of the household, and my unfamiliar presence is an imposition, requiring my hosts to worry about my comfort at the moment they are least capable of ensuring it.
Mrs. Holcroft dips her head in a polite nod, clearly grateful for my display of decorum, and I acknowledge the gesture with a restrained one of my own.
By any measure, my behavior is impeccable, I think, slipping between a pair of footmen as I return to the landing, the buzz of conversation persistent but incomprehensible. It is all random words without context:cold, silk, coffee, Meacham.
Even so, I try to piece together a narrative to tell my family.
Mama, in particular, will not respond well to the delay in breakfast. In a flutter, she will make snide comments about the quality of the Holcrofts’ hospitality, which she will immediately retract before issuing it again. The poor dear cannot handle disruption. She expects certain things to happen at certain times, and when events veer from the schedule, she gets overwhelmed.
And to deal with disorder without the calming influence of tea.
Utter chaos!
Perhaps I can dart belowstairs and fetch a pot myself. The presence of two teacups in the breakfast room indicates that water was boiled at some point this morning.
Drawing closer to the steps, I picture Mrs. Dowell’s expression if she discovers that I have been poking around in the kitchens.Quaintwould take on a new level of disgust.
It would be almost worth it just to shock her, I decide, as stray words continue to waft across the distance:foot, coriander, murder, andiron.Although she probably would not be shocked, as that sort of vulgar conduct is what she expects from?—
Wait a moment.
Did someone saymurder?
Wasmurderone of the words I just heard?
Abruptly, I spin on my heels and stride back down the corridor. Mrs. Dowell gasps at my impertinence, then marvels at my stunning lack of respect. “That someone of your ilk would flout convention so blatantly should not be shocking to me and yet I cannot imagine where you get the impudence to expressly ignore our request at a time of great personal tragedy. Previously, I begged for your understanding. Now I am demanding it. You will leave us to deal with this unfortunate situation in peace.”
I should cower.
No child of Vera Hyde-Clare should have the pluck to withstand the withering critique of a genteel young woman whose great uncle was an earl. The only acceptable reply is an abject apology and a speedy retreat.
But my spine stays stiff.
Indeed, I even raise my chin, and although I would not say it is an audacity equal to Bea’s brazen interrogation of Kesgrave in the drawing room at Lakeview Hall, it comes close. “Is it true? Has someone been murdered?”
The coarseness of the query repels her, and she takes a step back. Her tone riven with anger, she says, “I cannot conceive of how that is relevant to the situation. You have no right to impose on our?—”
“It is my area of expertise,” I announce confidently.
Although clear and concise, my answer appears to stump her, and as she looks to her brother Chester for clarity, I brush past her to enter the room, whose door is partially blocked by the crowd.
“It is her what?” Mrs. Holcroft asks in my wake.
“I do not know,” Chester replies. “I think she said expertise, her area of expertise.”
