Miss Braithwaite is as stunning as ever, her blond hair arranged in a knot at the nape of her neck, emphasizing her sparkling blue eyes and rose-red lips, and her morning dress is a simple but refined confection adorned with a lovely brooch of gold wire coiled and twisted to create a delicate, scrolling effect and strewn with colorful gems.
Although my appearance would not rival hers even on my best day, I am inordinately pleased now that I cannot cry on command. At least my eyes are not puffy and red.
Mr. Braithwaite is dressed more casually, in his shirtsleeves and nonchalant cravat knot, an indication of his intention not to receive visitors.
“Never sayshewas making that appalling noise!” Miss Braithwaite exclaims.
My blush deepens.
Briskly, Mrs. Braithwaite confirms that I was the source of the commotion and instructs her daughter to be gracious, asthere is nothing to be done about it. “The girl’s wits appear to have gone begging in the wake of the tragedy, and the best thing we can do for her is treat her kindly. That is why I have invited her to have lunch with us. Is that not correct, Miss Hyde-Clare?” she asks me gently.
Because Iwantthem to think I am a ninny, I nod silently.
But it is hard.
Miss Braithwaite already assumes she is superior to me because her nose is adorably pert and her eyes tip up like an exotic cat’s, and I bristle now as she beckons me to sit down next to her in a tone so soothing that it is actually a little hostile.
I hesitate.
Appearing simple is central to this encounter, and yet I cannot help but balk at assuming the role in its entirety.
“Go on, my dear,” Mrs. Braithwaite urges, pressing a hand to my back.
With effort, I manage a shy smile and sit down at the table. As a footman lays a setting before me on the table, I apologize for disturbing their meal and for interrupting their day and for upsetting their butler and for lacking the wherewithal to intercede when my mother was insulting them the other evening and for being the sort of person who cuts up a grieving family’s peace to indulge in an orgy of apologies.
“I see now that I am more affected by Mr. Keast’s murder than I previously supposed,” I say with a dejected dip of my head.
Anda pitiful tremor in my tone.
I must not forget the pitiful tremor—it is a thing of beauty, so genuine sounding, as though I am about to dissolve into a spate of tears.
(Honestly, it is shocking that I cannot produce tears, as I am otherwise extremely proficient in the art of mournful detection.)
Bravely, I confess that the decision to take responsibility for my mother’s insults was merely an excuse to escape Red Oaks. “Mrs. Braithwaite asked how the family are, and the answer is they are sad and confused. They do not understand how something so atrocious could happen in their own home, and the allegations of an affair are even more upsetting. The atmosphere is gloomy and oppressive, and I had to leave. But I alsodidwant to sincerely and personally express my remorse for the awful things my mother said. I wish I could say it was an aberration, but it happens with alarming regularity. She is easily flustered, and once she gets rattled by something, she cannot restrain herself and she makes the matter worse with every attempt to fix it. That is no excuse for the insults she dealt you but an explanation. Regardless, I am sorry.”
Mrs. Braithwaite, who suffered the greater offense, as her features bear no resemblance to waterfowl, either mallard or smew, grants her forgiveness. Her daughter, disinclined to demonstrate equal charity, announces that some offenses are too grave to pardon and that she would continue to bear a grudge until such a time as she no longer feels the sting of the slight.
Naturally, I murmur with approval.
It is her right to hold on to as many petty resentments as she wishes.
Her mother takes the opposing view and urges her to accept the apology.
Miss Braithwaite swears she cannot. “It is too painful.”
“Nonsense,” her mother says with an impatient scoff.
Stung by the brusque dismissal, the girl replies with a plaintive whine, “You do not understand. Every step I take is a brutal reminder. It is torture.”
“Good Lord, child, your feet are in perfect proportion to your body!” Mrs. Braithwaite growls irritably. “You cannot take everyminor criticism to heart if you are to have any hope of securing a husband next season. You will gain a reputation as a fuss-box, which is much worse than any drivel Mrs. Hyde-Clare might say.”
Miss Braithwaite huffs and frowns and regards her mother with intense dislike before turning beseechingly to her father. “You must tell Mother she is being beastly because she is being beastly. Saying my come-out in London will end in failure—that is a beastly way to treat your own daughter.”
Curiously, Mama’s comment regarding the size of the Incomparable’s feet was actually quite mild, especially in comparison to the insult she dealt Miss Nutting, who may never stop checking her breath against her hand. Miss Braithwaite’s inability to regulate her emotions leads me to wonder if she is actually upset about something else—and if “something else” is Mr. Keast’s murder.
She cannot rage or rail against his death.
It would be unseemly!
