I think she is grappling for some way to comprehend how I could come so close to death without her having the slightest notion. Nothing in her world had altered even as her world teetered on the brink of annihilation. I mean, what is even the point of motherhood if it does not give you a preternatural insight into your child’s welfare?
But maybe I am wrong.
Maybe she just wants to make sure she can describe the horrifying events with complete accuracy to my father. The poor dear has always been a bit of a stickler.
“Did he really do all of that?”
It is Eleanor, to my right.
With effort, I tear my eyes from my mother’s profile and turn toward the youngest Holcroft daughter. Tears, fat andglistening, trickle down her cheeks, and she makes no effort to brush them away. “Did Uncle Dudley really do all that to Seb?” she asks, her tone a heartbreaking mixture of sorrow and disbelief.
“Yes, he did,” I say gently.
But it is an effort.
Inside, I am roiling with anger, for it is decidedly unfair thatIhave to be the bearer of this horrible news. Having endured the worst of Grimston’s villainy, I should be excused from relaying the extent of it to the people who love him.
I am a crusader dedicated to the heroic pursuit of justice.
But this feels vaguely too heroic.
Eleanor sobs, lowering her head so that the tears drop into her lap, and Sarah reaches across the table to grasp her sister’s hand.
“I am sorry,” Mrs. Dowell says.
It sounds as though she is expressing sympathy for the ordeal I endured at the hands of her godfather, but the apology is for treating me with suspicion and disdain. Then she promises to make amends with her brother as well, for she has spent the past few days murmuring nasty little comments about my family and me, criticizing everything from our clothes to our conversation.
“We are not usually vile creatures to guests in our home, but we thought you were part of the plot to destroy our beloved uncle,” she says, the flush rising in her cheeks.
Good, I think.
Sheshouldbe embarrassed.
And yet even that narrow vein of satisfaction is undermined by the image of her and her sisters dissecting my wardrobe, cackling over the quality of my dresses—all competently made but neither outstanding nor original.
I havebeggedMama for a gown by Madame Bélanger to no avail.
It does not even have to be red!
Ah, but that rather misses the point, does it not?
It is not the comments that matter but the commenters. As long as the Holcroft sisters were bent on snideness, they would have found faults to critique.
Perhaps I am lucky that my clothes provide an easy target.
Mama takes the news that she was subject to their spiteful assessment better than I do. Although she has expended thousands of words over the course of her life to avoid being mistakenly seen in the worst light possible, she does not flinch or turn pink or begin to ramble. Coolly, she accepts the apology, then adds with staggering graciousness, “Your suspicions about Flora were not entirely unfounded, as youdidfind her in your father’s study looking through his desk.”
Or is she teasing?
Is Mama making one of her rare sallies?
The truth is, I have no idea. Displays of humor from my mother are so infrequent that I have yet to figure out what she finds funny.
Regardless, Mrs. Dowell trills lightly and lauds my mother for her generosity. “I do not know if I could display the same tolerance if the situations were reversed. When I think of what Uncle Dudley…er, Grimston…did to your daughter…I…I… “
She does not have the words.
Water gathers in the corners of her eyes as she struggles to find the words.
