But an offhand remark about her lower appendage bearing a vague resemblance to an elephant’s ear is within the bounds of acceptable. It is a maneuver my brother employs all the time, throwing a tantrum about one intolerable injustice (Dawson moving Russell’s boots from the center of the drawing room) while really up in arms about another (Papa refusing to loosen the purse strings).
According to Miss Burgess, the girl’s pursuit of the steward was not in earnest. It was merely a lighthearted diversion to pass the months until her London season. But what if Mr. Keast’s indifference awakened something deeper in her heart?
No, not love.
Resentment.
Incensed by his refusal to fall in line, Miss Braithwaite might have redoubled her efforts, aggressively flirting with the stewardto win his affection. A father observing these labors would most probably not recognize the underlying animus.
Mr. Braithwaite pays no need to his daughter’s implorations and chides both women for bothering him with their female dramas. “I have no idea what you are even talking about.”
Miss Braithwaite opens her mouth.
“And I do not want to know,” he adds crushingly before she can speak. “I have more pressing things on my mind than an event that is almost a year away.”
“Of course you do,” his wife murmurs consolingly.
Equally contrite, Miss Braithwaite insists thatsheis the beast for allowing herself to be provoked by her mother at a time like this. “I know how she likes to vex me, and I still let her do it. Obviously, she is as concerned about the perception of my feet as I am.”
Mr. Braithwaite acknowledges the pair of mea culpas with an absent nod as he cuts a slice of roast beef, and I wonder about the more pressing matter on his mind.
Is it murder?
The strangulation of a steward would certainly serve as a distraction.
Recalling the argument between the two men witnessed by Miss Burgess, I am struck by the oddity of Mr. Keast calling at Chilton Hall. As his duties pertained exclusively to Holcroft land, he would have no reason to visit the neighboring estate.
Nobusinessreason, that is.
I cast a pensive look at Miss Braithwaite and contemplate the likelihood that she would be foolish enough to tryst with her lover in her own home.
Surely, Mr. Keast was too shrewd to risk it.
And yet he would not be the first infatuated man to take rash action.
Lord Rivington poured a glass of lemonade on Metcalfein the middle of Almack’sto secure the pleasure of leading Miss Petworth in the first dance of the evening. (It goes without saying, I trust, that he was ejected from the premises at the directive of Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, who waited until after the quadrille had finished to avoid making a larger scene.)
To know if the theory has credence, I must discover the source of the quarrel.
Asking my host to relay the contents of a private conversation is a gross breach of etiquette, especially as I do not wish to be seen as openly investigating Mr. Keast’s murder. I have to maintain an appearance of frivolity and naiveté, which means I must wade into deep waters as if by accident. The best way to accomplish that is by saying something horribly indiscreet out of guileless candor.
To that end, I compliment Mr. Braithwaite on his appetite. “You are holding up remarkably well under the strain, all things considered, that is. A lesser man would be wracked with guilt if the steward whom he had threatened to strangle to death only a few days before had actually been strangled to death, but here you are, eating lunch as though it had never happened. Your apathy is enviable.”
Then I flutter my lashes admiringly.
Is it strange that accusing a man of heartlessness is less fraught than asking a direct question?
Yes, but that is how Mama raised me. Sycophancy is preferable to honesty.
Mr. Braithwaite does not reply, chewing his roast beef in silent contemplation and compelling his wife to ask what I am talking about.
“The death threats,” I explain concisely, then rush to explain further in the style of Vera Hyde-Clare, who has never used three words when three dozen can overwhelm her original stateandher listener’s patience. “That is, the death threats Mr. Braithwaite issued to Mr. Keast, not the death threats Mr. Keast issued to Mr. Braithwaite. Mr. Keast did not issue death threats to Mr. Braithwaite. Or, rather, I do notknowif Mr. Keast issued death threats to Mr. Braithwaite, and I would never presume to tell Mr. Braithwaite what death threats were or were not issued to him. A man of his standing may receive all manner of death threats, and I do not mean to limit his importance by implying he is not worth threatening with death. I am sure many people in the community wish to kill your husband.”
Astonishment greets the end of my maundering speech, and all three members of the family stare at me, unable to believe what they just heard.
I cannot either.
It is disconcertingly,horrifyinglyeasy to ape my mother’s habit of speaking. Midway through the chatter, I felt almost as though I were slipping on ice, and every attempt to grasp onto something solid only further undermined my attempt to regain control.
