Preoccupied by thoughts of housebreaking, I realize I have been unduly quiet, and not wishing to appear distracted by thoughts of housebreaking, I compliment Miss Braithwaite on the lovely cannetille brooch.
“No, no,” she says tartly. “We are not friends, Miss Hyde-Clare. We will never be friends. You are a convenient device for irritating my mother.”
Remarkably, it is not the first time I have served this function, and I obligingly hold my tongue.
Chapter Twelve
Miss Nutting throws herself into my arms, giving me a glimpse of yellow silk before I am hurled backward by the force of her body. Instinctively, my muscles stiffen to support her weight because I cannot allow her to tumble to the floor, can I?
It is a sincere question.
As I have never been assaulted upon entering a drawing room, the proper etiquette for the situation escapes me. Even so, allowing a young woman to spill onto the Axminster is rarely the appropriate solution.
Miss Nutting tightens her arms around my neck as I look across the room at the girl’s mother, who is retreating into an armchair. Placidly, she says, “There you are, my darling. Miss Hyde-Clare has come to comfort you. You may tellherhow miserable you are while I enjoy a brandy.”
But she does not raise the glass to her lips, preferring instead to press her back against the cushion, sigh deeply, and close her eyes. Despite her apparent exhaustion, she does not appear fatigued, with her round cheeks flush with color and the faint wrinkles in her high forehead smooth. Her short dark hair curls loosely under a silk mobcap.
Despite Mr. Braithwaite’s claim about his neighbor’s penury, the drawing room is in excellent condition, with fresh blue paint on the walls and pristine fabrics in a variety of striped patterns. Examining the ceiling from my vantage under Miss Nutting’s weight, I notice the intricate moldings and a pair of gilt chandeliers. If the family estateismortgaged to the hilt, they are determined to hide it with the gloss of perfection.
When Mrs. Nutting does not immediately open her eyes again, I realize I must extricate myself from her daughter’s grip without her assistance. Cautiously, I lower one shoulder, then the other, in a sort of wiggly worm maneuver.
Squirming gets me nowhere!
The girl is determined to hang on me like a garland.
Heeding her mother’s advice, she affirms that she is indeed miserable. “Meaning and joy have been leeched from the world, leaving behind only gray.”
Although this observation might be true in a figurative sense, it does not apply in the literal one, as Miss Nutting herself is a bright burst of color in a jonquil morning dress. To offset its cheerfulness, she has tied a black silk scarf around her neck. The quality of both garments is excellent, and I smother the impulse to ask the name of her modiste.
All in good time.
As squiggling achieved nothing, I abandon subtlety and announce that my legs are feeling unsteady. “If you do not let go, then we are both going to drop.”
Miss Nutting does not care.
The world has already collapsed.
“Perhaps, butIhave not,” I murmur smoothly.
Across the room, Mrs. Nutting advises her daughter to let me go lest I knock my head in the fall. “Miss Hyde-Clare cannot comfort you if she is unconscious.”
This highly sensible observation resonates with my captor, and she loosens her grip around my neck slowly. Stepping back slightly, she smiles shyly, then leads me to the settee. “Here, you may make yourself comfortable as you comfort me. I am so grateful you have come, Miss Hyde-Clare, as I have been beside myself with misery."
Red-eyed from weeping, she nevertheless looks like an Incomparable in her sunny gown and expert chignon, her dark hair glossy, her gray eyes shiny. Even the black scarf, which creates a bit of a bumblebee effect in concert with the yellow, heightens her beauty. She is delicate and tragic.
“There, there, you poor thing,” I say gently, patting her hand, struck by the irony of her grief. All day I have been looking for a romantic connection between the steward and one of the gently bred females in the district, and now that I have finally found one, I do not care.
I am firm in my conviction that land policies are the motive.
“Are you very upset about Mr. Keast’s death?” I ask.
“Upset!” Miss Nutting spits out the word. “I am devastated, destroyed, demolished.”
The parade of adjectives is a little grandiose, but I am here to gather information, not to critique her mode of expression. “Oh, I see. Were you and he close?”
Miss Nutting’s mournful expression turns thunderous as she glares at her mother and says, “No, we were not.Shewould not allow it!”
Mrs. Nutting acknowledges the accusation by opening her eyes but does not speak. Instead, she raises the brandy to her lips and empties the glass in a single gulp.
