Supper is loud.
A cacophonous affair, it is all relentless high spirits, with every occupant at the table seemingly determined to overcome the wretchedness of the murder with effusive chatter. Mrs. Holcroft lauds Keane’s performance as Shylock at Drury Lane, which she had the pleasure of seeing more than two years before, while her husband marvels over the tenderness of the veal, spurring Chester to advocate for Pythagoreanism. Russell rushes to explain the term to our father, who finds the notion of restricting one’s diet during a time of abundance to go against the strictures of God. Sarah defends her younger brother’s notion as harmless, even though she adores butter and could not go a whole week without cheese.
“Nevertheless, it behooves us all to be kinder to one another!” she announces.
Mrs. Dowell scoffs at the idealism, Sarah derides her sister’s cynicism, and Sebastian suggests that both points of view are valid. Mama gushes over Russell’s pronunciation of the Greek term, then admires the bouquet on the sideboard, which features pansies and roses in equal measure.
The blossoms are so vibrant!
Mrs. Holcroft once again praises the skill of the gardener, while Chester adds that the petals are edible, which amazes my brother, who launches into an exhaustive list of other flowers, to see if they, too, may be eaten. Mrs. Holcroft cries out in alarm when Russell arrives at belladonna, which is famously unsafe to eat.
“That is why it is called deadly nightshade, you dunderhead,” Papa mutters scathingly, causing his son to color with embarrassment, which is excessively unfair because I am too distracted to enjoy my brother’s humiliation. By rights I should be cackling in superiority while reciting a topically appropriate Latin phrase to demonstrate my own erudition.
The perfect one-two punch, as the pugilists say.
Instead, I am consumed by a monumental effort to stop myself from wondering which Holcroft sister killed Mr. Keast and why she would choose such a destructive path. It is easier to devise a motive for Eleanor or Sarah, as they are young, unmarried women who reside in the same house as the victim, which made them vulnerable to his machinations—had he been given to machinations. Mrs. Dowell does not live at Red Oaks and she is married, which means the steward would have had less opportunity to abuse or seduce her, and finding herself in an interesting condition would not be as ruinous to her reputation. But her wardrobe contains several garments by Madame Bélanger, so it would be unextraordinary for her to have a shawl by the modiste’s chief rival, and if she discovered one of her sisters had been abused by the steward?—
No speculation, my girl!
With effort, I return my attention to the conversation at the table, but it feels as though the fates are taunting me, because Sarah immediately mentions that the Contessa di Bianchi drinks belladonna to thwart her husband’s plans for her inThe Priest of Sicily.
Death!
Poison!
Gothics!
It requires every ounce of my self-control not to lean forward and ask if she has read other works in the gothic tradition, including but not limited to the extremely popularThe Fate of the Dark Dawn.
You do not want to know.
That is what I keep saying to myself: You do not want to know.
You wish to remain ignorant.
But suppressing my curiosity is so difficult!
It goes against every natural inclination, and I have to literally bite my tongue.
Gently, of course.
I have no desire to compound the discomfort of the meal with a physical wound.
“Isn’t that what Juliet took to fake her death in Romeo and Juliet?” Mrs. Dowell asks.
“Juliet uses poison made from the root of the mandragora plant,” Mr. Holcroft says, allowing that the two plants share enough similarities to justify the confusion. He then expounds at length on the mandrake’s ubiquity in ancient literature, a tedious lecture that nevertheless holds everyone’s attention. He falls silent as he reaches the end of his monologue, and a disconcerting hush settles over the room until Mama begs him to tell us about papyrus.
Readily, he complies.
The ordeal is interminable—and I do not mean the meditation on papyri, although that is even more boring than the preceding sermon. Supper itself goes on and on, with an endless parade of dishes requiring verbal accompaniment, and every time a lull threatens to douse the excessive good humor ofthe occasion, a new subject is introduced with almost aggressive gaiety.
Mrs. Holcroft offers backgammon.
Chester proposes horse manure.
Eleanor contributes fishing in the pond when the weather improves.
Do I whimper?
