It is another trap.
I am not clever enough to understand all the pitfalls of giving a reply, but I recognize a lure when it is dangled in front of me.
Obviously, there is no safe answer I can give.
Turning my shoulders abruptly, I regard Mr. Holcroft with interest and ask what he hopes to accomplish with his experiments in clover. It is on the tip of my tongue to reference his earlier research with cabbage—not to insert an interesting fact, such as the forty-five days the vegetable takes to mature, as that moment has passed, but to reveal a deeper interest in the agricultural sciences. There is danger in saying too much, which I feel keenly. Every word I utter is a fresh opportunity for ridicule, and I resolve only to ask questions until Bea and Kesgrave arrive on Saturday.
Originally, they had intended to travel to Bedfordshire with us, but recent shocking events compelled the duke to change their plans. (What events? Oh, nothing much, just a scurrilous rumor that my cousin was an unhinged killer who had murdered every victim she had purported to help, which anastonishing segment of the beau monde accepted with delight and enthusiasm. How is she now? Bea is fine. How is the duke? All but demanding an individual apology from every member of society. It is a wholething.Believe me!)
Restricting myself to queries feels like an attainable goal, though sustaining interest in dull subjects proved challenging in the past. That is the reason I know absolutely nothing about Greek antiquities—my mind wandered every time Higgy taught a lesson on kraters and amphorae. In this case, however, the incentive is great enough to keep me alert.
And it is only five days.
I can simper and gush and marvel for five days.
It is how Mama raised me: to display profound fascination with anything a gentleman says, however mundane or wrongheaded. For almost a year, I have nodded in rapt approval while eligiblepartisof all stripes intone the brilliance ofGuy Mannering—an impressive feat as I have yet to encounter a duller work of fiction.
And then their graces will be here, the incomparable Duke and Duchess of Kesgrave, and the former will regard Mrs. Dowell and her siblings as dirt on the heels of his Hessians, and they will curl up into balls like sow bugs, and I will gloat.
Silently, of course.
I would never be so rag-mannered as to gloat openly.
They are still members of Sebastian’s family, even if they are mean bullies, and if we are to have any future together, then they will have to embrace me warmly.
Ooh, perhaps Kesgrave could be persuaded to play the villain to help cast me in a more flattering light. He could threaten to do something extremely horrible, and I could bravely intervene, like when Prince Ravenzio pretends he is about to toss Lucinda from the ramparts so that his son can make a lavish show ofrescuing her, thereby winning her affection and securing her dowry inThe Turbulent Coast.
Well,almostlike that.
Obviously, my goal is not nefarious.
I simply want to be loved and adored by my beau’s relatives.
All in all, it is a small thing to ask.
Having settled on a tactic, I hold fast to it now, pressing Mr. Holcroft for more and more details about his choices. Why plant clover? Why rotate four crops when three is considered best for the soil? Why not allow the land to lie fallow for a year, as advised? What appeals to him about Tullian practices?
Do I know whatTullianmeans?
Not at all!
But Mr. Holcroft describes himself as Tullian in his practice and that is all I need to flaunt the term with familiarity. If asked, I, too, will identify as a Tullian practitioner.
My father, who regards himself as a gentleman farmer during the first week or two after we return to Welldale House following several months in London, asks about instruments such as the seed drill and the moldboard plow. The former is a notoriously persnickety contraption that frequently breaks, and it is Bea who noticed that Papa’s interest in gentleman farming wanes at the first snap of the seeding pipe.
Mr. Holcroft is spared such mechanical frustrations by his steward, who oversees every practical detail, leaving him free to design experiments and to organize and analyze the data they yield. The landowner is convinced there is an ideal method for tending to one’s fields, and everything he does is designed to achieve that maximum efficiency. As he explains how the use of ryegrass by Norfolk farmers led him to clover, I see a glimmer of Sebastian in him for the first time. He lacks his son’s strident morality—Mr. Holcroft’s continued allegiance to dear old Grimy could not make the pliability of his ethics any clearer—but hehas the spirit of a man who wants to leave things better than he found them.
In his enthusiasm to discuss a topic about which he feels genuine passion, Mr. Holcroft either forgets his resentment or puts it aside, because he talks to me kindly, often pausing to clarify a concept he thinks I might not be familiar with.
Dibbling, for instance, by which one crop is planted between rows of another crop.
The conversation is so pleasant the knot in my belly unfurls for the first time since we arrived, and I raise the teacup to my lips. Now that my hands have stopped shaking, I can take a sip without fear of embarrassing myself.
The siblings do not like it.
Eleanor glowers while Chester tries to interrupt to tell his father the time. I do not know the significance of two o’clock, but it is meaningful to the young man, whose efforts are rebuffed. Mr. Holcroft waves him off, and when he tries for a third time to point out that it is almost half past now, his mother subtly shakes her head. Sighing loudly, he sits back in his chair with a sullen expression.
It is delightful, and I bury my nose in the teacup to hide my smirk.
