It cannot be put off any longer.
I must sit!
Like Eleanor, I hover uneasily for several seconds before lowering onto the cushion next to my mother. I look at her in profile, her slightly off-center nose twitching like a bunny’s, and see something new and severe in the pinch of her lips.
She is angry with me.
I cannot recall the last time Mama was angry with me.
Impatient, yes, all the time, as well as annoyed, despairing, disgruntled, disappointed—oh so much disappointment—but anger is rare.
The room is silent as we wait for Sarah to return, and I take the opportunity to organize my thoughts. There is no avoiding the terrifying lethality of the tale, for making Sebastian’s sisters comprehend how close he came to dying at the hands of dear, sweet Uncle Dudley had been the crux of our discussion. But Icanprotect Bea from my mother’s condemnation. Mama would be beside herself if she discovered that Mr. Davies was a fiction or that I had exposed myself to mortal peril in the hope of expunging my guilt over mistreating my cousin for years.
Sarah enters the room, followed by a footman bearing a tray laden with refreshments, including biscuits. He places the salver on the table next to Mrs. Dowell, who pours the bohea quickly and efficiently, and leaves the room.
His exit is my cue to begin.
Swallowing a lemon biscuit, which tastes like dust, I turn slightly to face my mother and say in a slightly teasing tone, “Let me start with the worst of it, Mama. Mr. Holcroft’s sisters found me here searching through their father’s private documents.”
I receive no answering smile.
“You were not sick in April,” she says instead, returning the teacup to the table without taking a sip. “You were only pretending you had a stomach ailment so you could leave the house. I see that clearly now. Ordinarily, you are a terrible patient. You complain about being bored and beg your brother to play cards. But we did not hear a peep from you all day. I thought it was a sign of your growing maturity. But you were just playing me for a fool and your father as well.”
Mama is not just angry.
She is bitter.
I do not know what to do with a bitter mother.
Cajoling her out of her temper seems unlikely to prosper.
Instead, I validate her conclusion. “You are correct. I was not ill. Through a series of unexpected events, I stumbled across a gross injustice in the Chancery courts and knew it was my duty as a citizen of this great country to put a stop to it. Mr. Holcroft, who you know has earned a reputation for upholding the tenets of honor and integrity even if it comes at great personal expense, aided me in exposing the corruption. He was well suited to lend his assistance because he had a connection high up in the courts system who should have helped us resolve the issue. Instead, he tried to harm us, as it was he who was in charge of the?—“
“He tried to kill you,” Mama says matter-of-factly. “Not harm, kill.”
Oh, I see, so the queen of the circuitous description suddenly has no patience for euphemism.
That is a totally fair reversal.
I have no reason to quibble.
Nodding, I confirm this fact as well, then immediately return to my description of Grimston’s iniquity, as I can see no reason to dwell on the details of the murder plot.
“In a seedy building,” my mother says, interrupting again. “He tried to kill, not harm you in a seedy building.”
“Correct,” I say. “As master of the rolls, he was able to manipulate?—”
“In a wretched little room,” Mama adds dispassionately. “That is how you described it to Mr. Holcroft’s sisters: a wretched little room with stained walls and rotted floorboards? Am I recalling accurately the room where your body was to have been defiled and discovered? Wretched, little, stained, rotted?”
How do I answer?
I do not know how to answer.
Yes, Mama, your memory is precise.
All those adjectives apply!
But I do not think she is actually seeking verification from me.
