That is my intention.
I do not wish to come across as shrill.
Mrs. Dowell, whose rounded features make her seem younger than her thirty-two years, regards me with amused expectation as she waits for me to respond to her exhortation to speak my mind.
No, not amused.
Complacent.
She is certain I will fall flat on my face.
Of all the Holcroft offspring, Mrs. Dowell is most justified in sharing her father’s bitterness. As the oldest child, she had the greatest opportunity to form an attachment to Grimston, who, by all accounts, was a doting figure in her childhood. But by the time Eleanor came along, he was residing in London year-round. What kind of sentimental bond, then, could the youngest Holcroft feel toward theman who tried to murder her brother?
And not a wholesome murder, either.
Grimston’s plan entailed sullying Sebastian’s noble reputation so thoroughly the Holcroft name would be in tatters for generations to come.
Bearing no partiality for gardening or any of the tools to support it, I nevertheless must insist on calling a spade a spade: Grimston is an irredeemable monster. And even if he had not turned his murderous gaze on a beloved member of the Holcroft family, he had still ordered the stabbing death of William Gorman, an investigator whose only crime was trying to discover the truth on behalf of his client.
My own parents, whose faults are manifold and include a mortifying reverence for their betters, know that killers are to be condemned without qualification, even those who occupy the highest stratum of society. (They might offer their condemnation tepidly, but they would still offer it.)
Sarah, following her sister’s lead, adds her encouragement. “Yes, Miss Hyde-Clare, do tell us what you are thinking. I am certain it is insightful.”
No, she is not.
If anything, she is certain it is frivolous or inane.
But the substance of my remark does not matter.
Whatever words cross my lips will be deemed quaint by her or Mrs. Dowell or Sarah or their mother. There is no version of this conversation that does not end with my absorbing another blow, and I wonder what would happen if I usedquaintmyself before they have the opportunity.
Would it take all the pleasure out of the insult?
Would they recognize the maneuver as shrewd and adjust their opinion of me accordingly?
Or would they simply default en masse to their next favorite gibe?
The latter, I think, most definitely the latter.
Regardless, it does not help me now.
Now I am a trout, my lips fluttering uselessly in the air, and I must respond before more seconds tick by. It has already been too long.
But what to say?
In that respect my mind is blank.
It is consumed by other things: anxiety, confusion, outrage, dismay.
If only the ceiling in the drawing room were not quite so high or the tapestries not quite so old or the Holcrofts not quite so mean. Then I would be able to make a coherent reply despite knowing little about clover, and even as I strive for cogency, I recognize the futility.
It is all quaint in the end.
With this revelation in mind, I lower my chin a few inches to what I believe is my most convincingly pensive angle to indicate that I have been giving the weighty topic the consideration it deserves. Then I ask, “Three-leaf clover or four?”
They titter.
It starts modestly and continues modestly because at the heart of the titter is a visceral reserve, as if you are only just amused enough to expel a partial puff of air.
