“She said it would not be appropriate for us to pursue a relationship because Papa hated him,” Miss Nutting added angrily.
Feeling compelled to clarify, Mrs. Nutting insists that was the reason she had given for why a relationship would not bewise.“It would not have beenappropriatebecause of the great disparity in your positions. You are the daughter of a wealthy landowner whose grandfather was a viscount, and Keast was a steward. Your father would never have condoned the match, even if he liked and respected the man.”
“Papa would have come around to the idea eventually!” Miss Nutting spits angrily, the flush increasing in her cheeks in step with her temper. “With enough time he would have given his blessing. All Papa wants is for me to be happy—unlike you. You just want me to be miserable, and I am, so I am sure you’re elated!”
It is a childish outburst.
Having lodged the same allegation against my own mother, over a spring green gown with the most intricate detailing and sumptuous lace—nota male member of the staff—I recognize an adolescent tantrum when it screams a few inches from my ear.
Mrs. Nutting does as well.
Calmly, she reminds her daughter that she is raging over a moot point. “Must I mention yet again Keast’s utter lack of interest in your existence, my darling? If required, he would have been hard-pressed to address you by name.”
The girl seethes, her soft gray eyes popping with fury as she accuses her mother of fabricating savage lies just to hurt her. “He would have known my name! He would have because it is Jane. That is the easiest name in the world to remember because it is the plainest and most boring name in the whole world, which is why you chose it, because you hate me. If you loved me, you would have called me Althea or Clementina or Isabel.”
Introducing a new grievance is a misstep. If a fit of temper is to have any hope of achieving its objective, it must remain focused on a single resentment. Diluting the original complaintprovides your parent with an excuse to roll her eyes and stop listening.
Mrs. Nutting displays this tendency now, rising to her feet and refilling her drink. She takes a sip of her brandy as she returns to the chair, then examines the liquid silently.
Does she appear bored?
Yes, she affects boredom brilliantly.
Miss Nutting cites this failure to respond as unequivocal proof that her mother never loved her, and when this charge also fails to provoke a reply, the girl’s assertions grow increasingly absurd until she decries an effort to drown her at birth. Her mother, refusing to oblige her daughter’s desire for a quarrel, remains quietly introspective, and watching Miss Nutting make one outrageous claim after another, I decide that Mr. Keast had nothing to do with the girl. She is simply too immature for a man of his habits and interests. Even if he thought he could exploit her attraction to attain financial security for himself, he would realize her volatility was too much of a drawback.
The fact that the deceased failed to return Miss Nutting’s affection does not make her grief at his passing any less acute. Her emotions, of which she clearly has little control, are no less real for being misplaced.
As an investigator, I must concentrate on the clues and evidence that will lead me to the killer, and comforting the inconsolable girl accomplishes nothing. Still, I know what it feels like to have your heart broken, so I listen politely as she rails against her mother.
Sooner or later, she will dissolve into a pool of tears, allowing me to gently shove her aside.
The problem is, she does not.
Miss Nutting is made of infinite umbrage, and after ten minutes of displaying the most profound understanding of her plight, I slide to the other end of the settee to move closer to Mrs.Nutting, to ask if she counts a silk shawl by Madame Valenaire among her recent acquisitions in London. The query draws an angry gasp from Miss Nutting, who breaks off in the middle of a sentence to demand that I pay attention to her.
Sincerely, I beg her pardon. “Do you count a silk shawl by Madame Valenaire among your recent acquisitions in London, Miss Nutting?”
Grateful for the change in subject, Mrs. Nutting does not wait for her daughter to reply and confirms she has two perfectly stunning shawls by the popular modiste. “I have gotten much use of them this summer, as they are just the thing for a chilly evening. Jane has one as well, in a lovely pink, but refuses to wear it.”
“It is Russian flame,” Miss Nutting sneers.
“Yes, a lovely warmpinkishtan,” her mother replies smoothly.
“I wanted blossom, but you said that it was too expensive and that I must get Russian flame even though it makes my complexion sallow, which you would care about if you loved me even a little,” Miss Nutting says with scathing petulance.
Color tinges her mother’s cheeks as she explains that the modiste had had a dozen yards of Russian flame silk on hand and very few of the blossom. “She had already promised it to another, but she was open to persuasion. She did not mention a specific amount, but I knew it would be too dear and, really, the Russian flame is lovely. I am sure Jane is being unduly harsh in her judgment. The only shade that does not flatter her is cabbage green, and I would never buy her a shawl in cabbage green, no matter how many yards of it Madame Valenaire wishes to remove from her shelves.”
Gleefully, Miss Nutting announces that she gave the detestable shawl to her maid and then grins at her mother triumphantly. “Not much of a bargain now, is it?”
Mrs. Nutting turns purple and drops her glass to the table with a hard thud. Brandy splashes over the side. “You stupid girl! You ignorant chit! If you had any idea of the contortions and compromises your father and I have to make to provide you with all the advantages you enjoy, you would not be so pleased with yourself. We are one step ahead of the creditors, and yet you have the audacity to stand before me with a smile on your face andbragabout treating hard-won extravagances like rubbish.”
The speech has the desired effect, and the girl shrinks back in horror. “Wh-wh-what…do you…you m-mean…we are one st-st-step…ahead of the…the…cr-creditors?” she asks, her face devoid of color. “Are wepoor?”
Offering no reassurances, her mother marches across the room, opens the door, and demands to see Hester. “Right now, this instant!”
The startled footman rushes off to do her bidding, while Miss Nutting sinks into the sofa cushions and begins to cry in earnest. As devastated as she is by Mr. Keast’s death, she is utterly ravaged by the prospect of her own indigence. Mrs. Nutting, standing in the entrance to the room, alternates her glare between her daughter and the empty corridor. She taps her foot impatiently as she waits.
Finally, Hester appears.
