My inability to express myself coherently further upsets me, and I indulge another wail. The butler glowers at me with tart disapproval but does not know what to do other than plead with me to get ahold of myself.
Breathlessly, between bursts of genteel hiccups, I mutter to myself, “Stupid, stupid girl. Can you not do anything right?”
Deciding a gentle approach might fare better, the butler softens his tone and says, “Please, miss, there is nothing to get yourself so worked in a?—”
“Everyone is so cross with me!” I say plaintively. “I just want to do the right thing. Is that so terrible? I just want to help where I can, but Mrs. Holcroft refused my assistance and so did her daughters, all three of them. They told me to stay in my room. Like I am a small child they want out of the way. So I got out of their way and came here to apologize to Mrs. Braithwaite and her daughter for my mother’s egregious breach of etiquette the other evening. But they do not want me either, so all I have done is commit another terrible breach. I just wanted to do one thing right, and Mama always said you cannot go awry with an apology. But Ihavegone awry.”
I screech again.
“I say, Rodale, what is a desperate racket? Can you not put the thing out of its misery and be done with it?” a female voice calls from deep inside the house. “We are trying to enjoy lunch.”
The butler’s eyes beg me to fall silent.
But I cannot comply.
Having bungled a simple apology, I am now devastated to discover that I have also ruined their midday meal. I have no option but to keen in despair.
Suddenly, the door swings open and Mrs. Braithwaite glares with annoyed impatience for a second before recognizing me. “Good heavens, Miss Hyde-Clare, whatever is the matter? Why are you impersonating a dying hyena in my entry?”
A dying hyena?
I cannot pretend the description does not hurt.
An injured wolf might have been unduly optimistic in light of my vocal range, but an animal famous for its howling bark is needlessly cruel.
If I were capable of fake tears, they would begin to fall in earnest.
“I am sorry, ma’am,” I murmur pathetically, my eyes darting briefly up to examine her shocked expression before lowering them again to the ground. “That is all I wished to say: I am sorry for my mother’s treatment of you and Miss Braithwaite the other evening. She said so many horrid things, which happens when she is flustered, and I came to apologize for whatever offense she gave. But your butler said you would not see me, and I am afraidthaton top of everything else made me distraught. You see, it is difficult to be at Red Oaks right now, and Iwantto be helpful, but I cannot figure out how. That is when I decided to call on you and your daughter to apologize. But I am not helping here either. Instead, I am spoiling your lunch with my cries that sound vaguely like a hyena is dying. I am so very sorry. I hope you can forgive me. And I hope you will not mention this debacleto Mrs. Holcroft, because she will call my fit of weepingquaint,and that I cannot bear.”
Briskly, Mrs. Braithwaite dismisses my concern. “I am certain Louisa has never called anything quaint in her life. But let us not dwell on that now. Since you have interrupted our lunch, you might as well come in and join us. We are having a collation of cold meats because none of us are very hungry. I trust you are not very hungry either.”
I am famished!
It has been more than five hours since breakfast, and I have been too engrossed in finding the killer to sit down to a meal. The prospect of sustenance makes my mouth water.
Nevertheless, I assure her that I am only the slightest bit peckish.
An investigator does not display want where her suspects have revealed disinterest.
It is a core tenet of a murder probe.
The best way to cajole information from your suspects is to pretend to be like them.
(Hmm. I wonder if that axiom would fit on an embroidery sampler. If so, it might make a nice Christmas present for Bea, assuming she has also found the tactic useful.)
As Rodale steps aside to allow me to enter the hall, I cast an apologetic look in his direction, but not so directly that he realizes I am genuinely contrite. Contending with overly emotional females is probably the least pleasant aspect of his occupation, and I do feel terrible about subjecting him to my hysterics. It was unavoidable, of course, for a murder investigation cannot defer to the feelings of the servants.
As she escorts me to the dining room through richly veined marble as refined as the home’s facade, Mrs. Braithwaite explains that the family is keeping to themselves after the tragic events at Red Oaks. “We are too distressed to think ofentertaining. But here you are, so that plan is scotched. Since you are here, you may tell me how everyone is faring. I sent Louisa a letter, of course, entreating her not to hesitate to let us know if there is something she needs. The whole thing is so shocking that I really do not know what to say, which is another reason I told Rodale to refuse visitors.”
My cheeks turn pink at her admonishments.
Twice rebuked in a single statement!
Despite Mr. Burgess’s judgment, I am not impervious to shame and have to forcefully squelch my embarrassment. If Bea can openly interrogate the overbearing Duke of Kesgrave in a roomful of hostile almost-strangers, then I can gently ask Mr. Braithwaite and his daughter a few questions.
It will be fine.
My optimism falters under the cold stares of the room’s occupants.
