Eleanor colors slightly and accepts the compliment on behalf of her family.
Like her mother and sisters, she knows precisely what Mama is doing and is grateful for her tactful intervention.
What none of them can fathom ishowMama is doing it.
Merely a dozen hours before, she had been a rambling madwoman whose every syllable gave offense, and now she is the only composed voice in the room.
The explanation is death.
That is how Mama is able to do it.
Inexplicably, being in the presence of grief-stricken mourners clarifies my mother’s thinking. Something about their anguish and sorrow straightens the twisting pathways in her brain, and she speaks without stumbling over her words or rushing to issue corrections that only make everything worse.
It is a wonder to behold, especially if you have never witnessed it before. Mrs. Holcroft, who feels keenly the inappropriate bent of her and her daughters’ conversation, keeps glancing at my mother with gratitude.
And not just gratitude.
Immensegratitude.
She does not express it openly.
The wordsthank youdo not pass her lips.
But it is patently clear to any half-wit that she hugely appreciates Mama’s efforts to observe the proprieties. Although the easiest way to accomplish that goal would be to break up the little group, Mrs. Holcroft appears deeply reluctant to be alone with her thoughts, and when the housekeeper announces that breakfast has been laid out at last, she rises with alacrity. “Thank you, Mrs. Jackson. Let us go, then, my dears, and partake in a meal. Sustenance is what we need to help us make sense of this tragedy. But silently, of course. We do not wish to agitate your father further with our speculations.”
But Mr. Holcroft is not present in the breakfast room when we arrive, and Papa explains that our host has been unavoidably detained. Sarah cries out softly at this information, perceiving not incorrectly that her father is overseeing the removal of thesteward’s body from his bedchamber. He cannot in all good conscience allow it to remain on the upper floor, where the heat of the house tends to collect, and must bring it instead to the cellar, where it will linger before continuing to its final resting place.
Equally troubled, Eleanor lays her hand on her sister’s forearm and directs her to the table, where they both take their seats. Worried about their health, Mrs. Dowell chastises them for not attending to their own welfare and piles two plates high with gammon and shirred eggs. She places the dishes before them and notes that famishment will do nothing to aid Mr. Keast’s cause, a point both girls readily grant.
Nothing will aid Mr. Keast’s cause.
“He is lost,” Sarah adds mournfully. “His cause is lost.”
Mrs. Dowell colors mildly at the rebuke and insists that there is still the cause of justice, for the steward’s killer must be made to stand trial for his sins. “We cannot allow a widow with violent proclivities to roam the countryside freely, drawing other vulnerable young men into her web of deceit and desire, her bosoms heaving with?—”
“Are those tulips?” Mama asks, imbuing her question with more wondrous appreciation as she gestures to the bouquet on a small table next to the window. “It is unusual to see them so late in the season. Do you have a hothouse, Mrs. Holcroft?”
Gratefully, our hostess affirms that Red Oaks has two, in fact, both situated to the south of the hall, tucked behind the stables, and lists the plants cultivated within their confines, an endeavor that takes ten minutes. To extend the topic, Mama suggests other types of flowers that would do well in Bedfordshire’s favorable climate and mentions that Haverill Hall—the ancestral estate of her niece’s husband’s family—has a pinery.
Ordinarily, this is the sort of declaration that propels Mama into a state of high agitation, for she would neverdeliberatelyflaunt her esteemed relations, and in her rush to clarify how very unesteemed they are, she would say something horrible about Bea before making nonsensical comments about everyone else.
But this circumstance is not ordinary.
Mr. Keast is dead, which is a balm for her nerves, and she blithely sails past the misstep to the delights of the pinery itself, an impressive feat of engineering.
Oh, Mama, daring to use a word likeengineering!
Surely, she has breezed too far this time.
But no!
She had learned about bark pits and glass angling during her brief spell at Haverill Hall and discusses the innovations so cogently that even Papa shows interest in the subject. She answers his queries without rambling or stammering, and Mrs. Holcroft admires her erudition before inviting her to tour the hothouse. Mrs. Holcroft does not meanright now,but Mama accepts eagerly and jumps to her feet, leaving the other woman no choice but to rise as well. Papa tries to grab Mama’s hand to keep her from embarrassing him further, but she neatly steps out of his reach—on purpose or not is unclear.
Russell enters the room with Chester just in time to ask Mama where she is going.
“To confer my approval on the oleander,” she replies as she brushes by him.
My brother assumes this is more of Mama’s customary gibberish and blushes hotly as he turns to inspect the options on the sideboard. Heaping an obscene amount of ham onto his plate, along with two thick pieces of toast, he sits down in the chair our mother recently vacated and extends his condolences to the ladies present. Acknowledging that he had not known Mr. Keast long or well, Russell could easily judge the steward’s significance to the household by the pall his death has created.
