That shriek belongs to my mother.
I know it without turning my head to look at her.
Readily, I can picture her standing there, fingers clutching the frame of the door as though she were about to swoon, her knuckles white from the effort to remain upright.
Ye gods!
I have the most abysmal luck in the whole world.
Chapter Fourteen
My brows, already pitched in a sharp vee, tighten further as I glower at Mrs. Dowell, who appears to have little understanding what is happening.
My life is over.
That is what is happening.
For the rest of my days, I shall be entombed in a single room to survive on bread and water like an inmate in Newgate.
Snarling ferociously—but also quietly because my mother is just three feet away—I say, “You fiend! Now see what you made me do!”
And I grin.
Wide and cheerful and displaying all my teeth, the smile is a Vera Hyde-Clare special, specifically calculated to hide any and all emotion, and I loosen my fingers accordingly. I cannot appear untroubled if my hands are fisted to deal a blow to Mrs. Dowell’s smug face.
My color is also high, but there is nothing to be done about it.
And the beads of perspiration edging my hairline—I must ignore them as well, for nothing would horrify Mama more than my wiping away sweat with the back of my hand. (That is,irrespective of my being defiled and murdered in a seedy room in a ramshackle lane.)
Turning to my mother, I say with reassuring calm, “Everything is fine, Mama. Nothing bad is happening. Here, let us enjoy a quiet coze and leave Sebastian’s sisters to their private business. We do not wish to impose on them further.”
Do I actually think this ruse will work?
Not really.
It is a long shot and as such has little chance of prospering. But Mama’s horror at intruding on someone else’s personal matter is acute, and as guests we are at risk of encroaching before we realize we are doing it. She is also inclined to perceive her absence from a space as an act of kindness toward others.
Firmly, Mama says no.
Then she says it again.
A third time even.
“We shall not leave the Holcroft girls to their private business, astheirprivate business seems to be intimately enmeshed withyourprivate business, which makes itmyprivate business,” she says starkly, her voice oddly devoid of emotion. Contrary to my expectations, she is not holding on to the door frame for dear life.
Even so, she looks faint.
“Please, Mama, let us go sit in your bedchamber and have tea,” I say softly, drawing closer to lend her my arm. “A reviving cup of tea. Wouldn’t you like that?”
Twisting away from me, she says, “No, Flora Elizabeth Joanna Hyde-Clare. You cannot bamboozle me. I will have a full explanation, and I will have it right now.”
But she is worryingly pale despite the rigidity of her refusal, and Mrs. Dowell, taking note of it as well, gently suggests that Mama take a seat in her father’s study.
My mother agrees without issuing a single word of protest, which is the most troubling sign yet that she is not herself. Vera Hyde-Clare would never presume to make herself comfortable in her host’s private domain without his express invitation.
“I shall ring for that tea, shall I?” Sarah adds soothingly.
Mrs. Dowell gives her assent as she escorts Mama to the settee, then sits in the adjacent bergère. Eleanor walks around the desk to the quintet of chairs, stands awkwardly for a moment, then settles in the chauffeuse next to her sister.
