Tittering is the quaint of laughing.
Although the sound is mild, it rings in my ears, growing louder still when my mother joins the roaring hum, unwilling to appear as though she does not perceive the joke. Only my father remains quiet, looking at me with faint disapproval, as if he cannot believe he has sired such a ninny.
Blessedly, Russell is not here.
He is touring the estate with Sebastian and the steward, and as annoyed as I am with my beau for leaving me to fend for myself amid this nest of vipers, I am more grateful to him for taking my brother away. If he were here, I would never live down the disgrace of my ignorant display.
As it is, it will take me years to overcome the humiliation I feel, especially when Mrs. Holcroft compliments Mama on my droll sense of humor. “Miss Hyde-Clare must keep you in a constant state of amusement.”
Mama preens.
It is a compliment, so she receives it proudly, her shoulders pulling back and her smile widening. Whatever deeper meaning is hidden in the praise is none of her concern.
Papa scowls.
He knows he is being mocked by extension.
The damage is irreversible, I realize. The Holcrofts know I am a goose, and there is nothing to be gained by pretending I am deliberately teasing. My only recourse is to call attention to their scorn and hope they feel some embarrassment at having it openly acknowledged. “I am sure it is quaint of me to ask a sincere question, but I am truly curious to know if the clover Mr. Holcroft planted has three leaves or four. The field beyond ourhouse in Sussex is strewn with three-leaf clover that blooms in the spring.”
Although none of the company appears chastened except my mother, who flinches at the implied criticism in my comment, Chester explains that there is no such thing as four-leaf clover. “You may find one here or there in a pasture, but it does not exist except as an anomaly. Clover is identified by species. The type my father grows is calledTrifolium repens.”
Chester’s tone is neutral, disguising whatever contempt he feels for me, which I appreciate. Naturally, I would prefer if Sebastian’s relatives did not loathe me, but as that option is not available to me, then I am grateful to accept the patina of esteem.
To that end, I aim my sunniest smile at Chester.
I am not an Incomparable like Miss Petworth to bring men to their knees with a doting look, but I can sparkle appealingly upon occasion. Usually, I have to be wearing one of my loveliest dresses. There is no doubt about it: I twinkle brightest in my Egyptian blue silk with rosettes and pearl trim. And yet I manage to glow prettily as I say with arch comprehension, “Ah, I see.Exceptio probat regulam in casibus non exceptis.I did not realize the four-leaf clover was the exception. Thank you for kindly correcting my mistake.”
It is on the tip of my tongue to continue in this vein, brandishing more Latin to demonstrate the quality of my education. I can rattle off a dozen maxims, employing pristine pronunciation with no effort at all, including “Castigat ridendo mores,” which would be an appropriate indictment of their derisive titters (although whoever decided that laughing at something is the best way to change it has clearly never sat in a drawing room with a parcel of Holcrofts).
Nevertheless, I refrain.
At a certain point, flaunting one’s accomplishments diminishes their value and speaking Latin becomes indistinguishable from juggling.
Chester agrees that the four-leaf clover is indeed the exception that proves the rule just as Eleanor asks in comically rapid French what other money I speak.
No, notl’argent.
Langues.
Well, that is a perfect muddle, is it not?
Either I deny knowing French or confess my fluency with the deliberate precision necessary to make sure I use correct vocabulary and grammar. Compared to Eleanor, I will appear as plodding as a tortoise making its way across a grassy field.
Frantically I struggle to come up with a third option, and struck by a devilish impulse, I compliment the younger Miss Holcroft on her accent—herquaintaccent.
It is a malicious thing to say, for in truth her French is impeccable. If women were admitted into the diplomatic corps, she could have negotiated the Treaty of Paris on behalf of England. It does not matter how many years I spend practicing my pronunciation, I will never achieve her proficiency, and it feels so strange to prick her with an insult when under normal circumstances I would offer effusive praise.
But there is nothing normal about my current situation, as demonstrated by Mrs. Dowell’s next remark, which draws everyone’s attention to the cup of cooling tea on the table before me. “You have barely taken a sip, Miss Hyde-Clare. I am sorry if our simple country brew is too provincial for you.”
Too provincial forme?
My best gown was sewn by a seamstress residing in an unfashionable—er,modest—area of London. I have never worn anything made by a French modiste, let alone one with an illustrious pedigree like Madame Bélanger, whose handiworkI recognize in the expert stitches edging the bodice of Mrs. Dowell’s lovely pink dress.
If I have not touched my tea, that is because I am queasy with nerves. The thought of drinking anything roils my stomach. It has been like this from almost the very start. We had yet to wipe the travel dust from our clothes before the allegations of quaintness began.
Smothering a defensive reply, I assure the older woman that the opposite is true. “The tea is so delicious that I am savoring it.”
But this is also the wrong thing to say, for Sarah clucks reproachfully and swears they have plenty of bohea on hand. “You do not need to ration your consumption on our account. We are not so bumpkinish as that.”
