Thank goodness for the drawing room debacle!
If Mama bore any resemblance to the creature of grace and composure whom she constantly touts as the epitome of goodton,she would not have insulted either Braithwaite woman and I would be compelled to come up with a credible reason to call.
As it is, the occupants of Chilton Hall are disinclined to accept visitors.
Unsettled by the tragic turn of events, they require a period of respite to grieve and reflect. The butler advises me to come back in a week. “Thursday next is ideal.”
Thursday next!
I cannot wait over a week to resolve my argument with Sebastian.
It has been little more than two hours now, and already our rift is intolerable.
The thought of carrying this sadness and resentment and confusion and annoyance foreight more daysis unbearable.
My theory must be proved correct by the end of the day, so that he can apologize abjectly and declare his love profusely and swear to never underestimate me again.
I will accept no other outcome!
(Is that true? Will I really renounce the only love I have ever known because he did not extend to me the respect I believe I am due? Honestly, I do not know. But I like to think I would.)
The butler promises to extend my compliments to the family, then closes the door, leaving me no choice but to wail. As the lock clicks into place, I release a mournful howl from deep within my soul. It is loud and shrieky, and I try to squeeze out a few accompanying tears.
If I am going to humiliate myself in the pursuit of justice, then I might as well humiliate myself without condition. Crying on command, however, is not a talent I have mastered, despite the many hours devoted to its cultivation. (As its benefits are readily apparent and murder investigations are more common than I originally supposed, I should probably renew my efforts.)
Even without the waterworks, it is an impressive display.
Diminutive in size, I nevertheless possess a healthy set of lungs, and I am able to draw out a screech for more than a dozen seconds. Then I release a series of short, despondent moans before letting out another yowl.
Ultimately, I sound like an injured wolf, which is perfect.
Nobody wants an injured wolf on their doorstep, especially not a butler in an elegant home in the country—and the homeiselegant.
No unwieldy peel.
No brooding menace.
Just smooth, golden sandstone.
As there are no nearby neighbors to peer censoriously through their curtains, the need to quell my outburst is not acute. But the high-pitched squeal cuts through the pastoral tranquility like a knife.
The door swings open, and the butler, his cheeks flushed, snarls my name with ardent disapproval: “Miss Hyde-Clare!”
If only I had been able to produce tears!
Tears would have been so persuasive right now.
Oh, but Icanmake my lower lip tremble.
It is not the same as openly sobbing, but it does frequently precede open sobs.
The threat of a proper weeping fit should be enough to gain access to the entry hall.
Pathetically, I eke out an apology.
It is only one word:awful.
What I am trying to say is “I am sorry, I know it is awful,” but I am too overwrought.
