Mr. Jenner stares in reply, his gaze fixed and intense, and I suppose he is replaying the conversation in his head, trying to figure out where he had gone astray. There is definitely a hint of fury in his eyes, as though angry at me for springing a trap.
The moment goes on, stretching from one second to three seconds to five, and ends abruptly when he pivots on his heels toward the door. “All right, then, I am off! I leave the matter in your capable hands, George. I trust you to dispose of your steward and his belongings appropriately, including the letters, as already mentioned,” he says, turning next to address me. “Miss Hyde-Clare, you are charming—not clever, as you rightfully noted, but charming. I wish you the best of luck with that scatterbrained mother of yours. From the report I received of her drawing room antics, you will need it.”
As far as final cutting remarks go, it is superb. Nothing embarrasses me like my mother’s conduct, and to find out the drawing room massacre—no, that is too violent a term touse to describe my mother’s rambling insults while standing beside a strangled corpse—is already so famous that even the neighbors who were not in attendance have heard of it is beyond mortifying.
I almost lower my head in shame.
The reason I do not is obvious, though Mr. Jenner could not conceive of it: Mama’s conduct is always egregious. For years, I have stood beside her while she issued insults to one leader of thetonafter another: Lady Jersey, Mrs. Jordan,Wellington!
The poor dear tries so hard but simply cannot help herself.
Resigned to it after so long, I barely acknowledge Mr. Jenner’s taunt, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my embarrassment. Instead, I smile sweetly, thanking him with all due sincerity for his kindness, and he responds with a reappraising look, as though restoring his original judgment.
Iama pea widgeon.
All that chatter about widows was an accident, not an ambush.
Sebastian takes offense on my behalf and draws a threatening step closer to the constable, who reiterates his faith in Mr. Holcroft before announcing that he will show himself out. “There is no need to make a fuss on my account.”
Mr. Holcroft commends him for swiftly discharging his duty.
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Jenner murmurs modestly, as though his half-hearted efforts on behalf of the murder victim have been heroic or even sufficient. “I am always gratified to serve the community in any way I can.”
Preening numbskull!
Despite the constable’s assurances, Mr. Holcroft insists on escorting Mr. Jenner to the door, and as he turns to leave, he slips the letters into his pocket.
“I will take those, sir,” Sebastian says, holding his hand out for the packet.
Mr. Holcroft appears on the verge of refusing the request. An ornery expression enters his eyes, and he presses his lips together waspishly. Nevertheless, he complies. Giving the letters to his son, he asserts his confidence that Sebastian will safeguard the family’s honor and do nothing to harm his sisters’ prospects. “You are an honorable brother who wishes nothing more than to see them comfortably settled with husbands and children of their own. I trust you implicitly.”
Then he and Mr. Jenner leave.
Chapter Five
Everyone is shocked.
A half hour later, we are gathered in the drawing room, the site of last night’s massacre?—
Goodness me, I did it again!
How readily that word pops into my head!
It is appalling, and resolving to expungemassacrefrom my vocabulary, I close my eyes and picture tossing the letters off a cliff into the turbulent sea below.
(Moreviolence, Flora. Well done!)
Regardless, in the wake of Mr. Keast’s murder, we are here again, in the drawing room at Red Oaks, where Mama managed to insult every Holcroft female currently in residence. The company is sad and confused, as the notion of the steward as a villain who lures vulnerable widows to their doom belies everything they think they know about the studious young man. During his eighteen months of service, he displayed no interest in women, preferring to spend his time examining soil samples and advocating for farming improvements and Dutch plows and land enclosure, and now they must accept it was all a charade to hide his true self, which was a vile seducer of widows.
In expressing their confoundment, Sebastian’s mother and sisters, one after the other, stray into indelicate territory, making observations that are decidedly improper for innocent ears. Each time it happens, my mother gently interrupts the speaker and nudges the conversation back to a more appropriate topic.
The flowers on the mantel, for example.
So far, Mama has commented on the rich purple of the irises, the delightful scent of the roses, and the endearing whimsy of the allium. Her ability to effortlessly return the conversation to decorum reveals a coherence none of the occupants believed possible for my clumsy parent, and that is the source of their astonishment.
Eleanor, who notes that the steward’s dark good looks were broadly appealing, cannot comprehend how he found the time to court a widow when he was always bracketed in the study with their father or visiting the fields or meeting with merchants or arguing with villagers about the changes he was advising Mr. Holcroft to make or reading journals on crop cultivation methods. “And for the affair to have progressed so far in so many months—it just does not make sense to me. The act of consummation alone requires?—"
“I hope you will excuse me, Miss Holcroft, if I am moved to express envy of how ample the peonies from your gardens are,” Mama inserts smoothly, her tone easy and natural, as though awe for the bloom’s fulsomeness is her only reason for interrupting. “The ones we grow at Welldale House do not have that same pleasing plumpness. It is a wonder. Your gardener is to be commended.”
