Or do I meananotherfrying pan, as the situations are not appreciably different? Accusing his mother of horrible things is extremely similar to accusing his sister.
In that respect, then, maybe I have always been in the fire?
Regardless!
Sebastian slides the drawer shut and suggests we visit the garden.
Grateful for the respite, I agree.
My investigation into his mother’s plausible iniquity cannot be delayed indefinitely, but it can wait briefly while I enjoy a pleasant interlude among the flowers.
We leave the room cautiously, with Sebastian exiting first, as his presence in his sister’s bedchamber is not as difficult to explain to the staff as my own. We meet again at the bottom of the staircase, and proffering his arm, he leads me to the terrace doors. Stepping outside, I feel the sun on my face, and it is a gorgeous sensation. I inhale deeply and lament the fact that murder must mar such a lovely day.
If not for my high moral standards, I would be free to enjoy his company unencumbered by guilt and a looming sense of doom. The only consoling factor is Mrs. Holcroft’s maturity. At her advanced age, she has already enjoyed a full life. Her best years are behind her, and unlike Eleanor she does not have time to grow into a better person. By now, she has settled into her depravity. If she has trysted with one servant, then she has trysted with a dozen.
For all we know, there could be other victims.
She might make a regular habit of slaying her lovers.
That large brood she shares with Mr. Holcroft—are all of those children even his?
Troubled by my thoughts, I nevertheless manage to smile serenely as Sebastian guides us to a stone bench in front of a row of manicured hedges. To the right is an urn overflowing with pink roses and to the left is a marble basin with a pair of graceful swans forming the base of the ornamental bath.
It is a lovely spot in which to linger, and I endeavor to match my thoughts to the setting. I do nothaveto contemplate Mrs. Holcroft’s culpability. Instead, I can reflect on Sebastian’s decency, his worthiness, his handsome face, his verdant green eyes that glow with a particular light when he looks at me.
His eyes are glowing now as he regards me in the sunshine, and I realize this is precisely how I would wish for him to propose, should he decide we would suit.
Here, in a garden, surrounded by birdsong and blossoms, not in the slightly shabby Portman Square drawing room with Mama hovering outside the door, her hands clenched tightly as she trembles in anticipation, the likeliness of my acceptance causing her as much apprehension as the possibility of my refusal.
Cruelly, my mind darts from my mother to his mother, and I know with unflinching certainty that the offer will never come. Forgiving one charge of murder against a family member is anact of affection; forgiving a second is self-flagellation. At some point, a gentleman is compelled to seek out a young lady who does not endlessly assume the worst about his relatives.
I smile.
It is the only response I know to emotional devastation.
Then I borrow a page from Mama’s book and chatter about the peonies. I marvel at their plumpness and gush over the gardener’s skill and bemoan the fact that their blossoms last for little more than a week.
How do I know they blossom for little more than a week?
Because Mama mentioned it the morning before.
Everything I say is a reprise of her performance from yesterday.
Sebastian, not sharing my bemusement at their beauty, grasps one of my hands and says, “Hush, Flora, it is all right. You may accuse my mother of murdering Keast without fear of anyone overhearing. Go on, I will not take offense.”
A charitable pronouncement, to be sure, and yet he already sounds annoyed.
Chapter Nine
My instinct is to smile wider.
Smile wider, toss my head back, chortle with amusement, and dismiss his concern: accuse your mother? Why, Mr. Holcroft, you do say the most outrageous things.
Producing a persuasive chortle is not as effortless as a convincing giggle, because it requires a greater level of control. The latter can come in a single giddy stream, but the latter must be released in bursts.
Through practice and repetition, I have mastered both.
Even so, I restrain myself.
