Would I resent Russell to the depth of my soul for ruining my one chance at happiness with his wickedness and devilry?
Absolutely, yes.
But the bonds of family cannot be torn asunder just because one’s nodcock sibling happens to have the poor sense to be a murderer.
Regardless, the die has been cast.
With my one bold statement, my future is set and now I must stand strong.
The ardent and courageous Miss Hyde-Clare holding fast to her principles.
But resolving myself to the implacability of fate is only part of my current predicament. The larger problem is coming up with a game that all eleven of us can play that will advance my agenda, and my insides seize up in terror as Mrs. Holcroft asks what I have in mind.
Nothing!
I have nothing in mind!
Is it not obvious that I spoke without thinking?
Mrs. Dowell’s look of expectation as she returns to the settee indicates that it is not readily apparent how out of my depth I am, and grappling for a pretext to delay the inevitable, I request scraps of paper and writing utensils for everyone in the room. The only thing I know about the activity is that it will provide writing samples to compare against Eternally Devoted’s originals.
But eleven fountain pens are so many.
“Is that all right?” I ask hesitantly.
Peeved by the insinuation of scarcity, Mr. Holcroft insists it is an easy thing and summons a footman to set about gathering the materials at once. While he addresses the servant, I review the parlor games I know. Vexingly, they are all a variation on charades. One version requires participants to write down the phrases to be acted out, but then the slips go into a bowl, which makes it impossible to identify who wrote which slip. Furthermore, the scribbles are usually just a word or two long, which is too short to conduct a meaningful handwriting analysis.
For it to be of any practical use, the game must require its players to write a full sentence, perhaps even a few. Inventing a parlor game that incorporates whole paragraphs feels likean insurmountable challenge, and I glare at a tapestry, highly annoyed at the quandary I have created for myself.
If only I were clever like Bea!
Then I would have thought before speaking.
AndI would have realized that the smarter way to gather handwriting samples is to search the Holcroft sisters’ bedchambers when they are vacant.
It is not too late to suggest charades.
But the prospect of squandering an opportunity causes me pain, and staring at the tapestry, I am unaccountably annoyed at myself for not having the foresight to devise a game during the extended discussion of the ancient works.
Oh, wait!
The ancient works, I think excitedly. All that elaborate needlework provides a multitude of details to observe and record.
“The game is similar to hy spy and was taught to me by my cousin the Duchess of Kesgrave,” I announce portentously, giving the diversion an impressive provenance so that it does not sound as though I made it up on the spot. “It is simple and fun, and I am sure we will all enjoy it. You start by identifying a single image to be examined, such as one of these tapestries. Next, you write down everything you see in the image that starts with a particular letter, following a prescribed time limit, which is usually a minute. Then we compare lists, and anytime you find something that nobody else did, you score a point. The person with the most points after three rounds wins.”
Mama furrows her brow as though these simple instructions are hopelessly complex, but Sebastian readily comprehends and illustrates with an example. “So, if the letter is A and we are using the tapestry above the sofa, then I would putappleon my list.”
“Precisely!” I say with a grateful smile.
Sarah asks how the letter is chosen as Russell eyes me with suspicion and asks when Bea began playing parlor games. “She never played once when she lived with us, and I should like to see the duke routing around a musty tapestry, looking for apples.”
“None of the tapestries in Kesgrave Housearemusty!” my mother exclaims reproachfully, then immediately chirps with distress as she perceives the implied slight. “As are none of the tapestries in Red Oaks. I believe my admiration for the works in this room has been competently expressed, but I am happy to reiterate it at length if it will appease anyone’s concerns.”
Although I brace for further blather, Mama stops her ramble there, and I answer Sarah’s question as if neither member of my family had spoken. “We may decide as a group among a few options. We can go in the order of the alphabet or choose a letter at random. At Kesgrave House, we select a book, and someone calls out a page number. Whatever letter is at the top left of that page is the one we use.”
Where are these thoughts coming from?
I have no idea!
