“When I think of the terror and violence to which Miss Hyde-Clare was subjected by Grimston, it shames me to know she was further abused by us,” Mrs. Dowell says, brushing away the lone tear that spills onto her cheek. “I will have words with my father about this. You may be assured I will have many words.”
“We all will,” Sarah says, releasing her sister’s hand to refill her teacup, her own eyes not entirely dry. “And with Motheras well. She should have known better. Despite perceiving himself as a man of science and methodical reasoning, our father fired the last steward when Gettleson pointed out errors in his analysis. He is astonishingly immune to facts he finds disagreeable. On the other hand, there is Mother, who is sensible and should have made him accept Seb’s version of events.”
As if summoned by these remarks, Mr. Holcroft strides into the room and observes how unusual it is to find his study occupied in his absence.
Does he sound slightly peeved?
Yes, he does.
The study is his inner sanctum and as such should be treated with inviolability.
“But you girls will have your strange starts despite my clearly stated preferences,” he adds, smiling in a bid to hide the churlishness of the sentiment. Then he comes to an abrupt halt as he notices all three of his daughters in varying degrees of distress and coughs awkwardly. “Ah, yes, these very strange female starts. All right, then, I will be on my way. I am supposed to be changing for dinner anyway. If any of you are feeling too poorly for dinner, then you must take a tray in your room. No need to soldier through and make everything soggy.”
He turns sharply on his heels.
Swoop!
Highly discomfited by the waterworks, he cannot leave the room fast enough.
But his eldest daughter will not allow him to escape that easily.
She will have words.
He is almost at the door when she calls his name—so close—and he stops with an air of grievance. But he manages to present an agreeable expression when he says, “Is there somethingyou need that your mother or the servants cannot provide, Margaret?”
“There is, yes,” Mrs. Dowell says in an equally amiable tone. “I was hoping you could explain why you failed to mention Uncle Dudley’s attempt to kill Seb? You talk about Uncle Dudley frequently and yet somehow the fact that he lured my brother to a wretched little room with stained walls?—”
She pauses to glance at my mother for confirmation. “Is that description correct, Mrs. Hyde-Clare?”
Mama reminds her of the rotted floorboards.
“Yes, that is right: a wretched little room with stained wallsandrotted floorboards,” Mrs. Dowell says with smooth comprehension before returning her attention to her father. “All that talk of Uncle Dudley’s misfortunes and not a word about his misdeeds. Why is that?”
Mr. Holcroft is startled.
The notion that he would be called to account for any decision is clearly an alien one to him, and he seems on the verge of reprimanding his daughter for her impertinence.
But he does not.
Instead, he chastises her rudeness.
“It pains me to know you are so lacking in courtesy as to raise a subject that is sure to be uncomfortable for our guests,” Mr. Holcroft says chidingly. “But I will not oblige. We can discuss Miss Hyde-Clare’s place in the plot to destroy my oldest and dearest friend another time if you so wish. In the meanwhile, I trust you will apologize to Miss Hyde-Clare and her mother.”
And then he tries to leave.
He manages to get one foot into the corridor before Sarah says, “No, Father, we will discuss this now. You may join us in tea, if you like, or remain in the doorway—whichever suits you best.”
Mr. Holcroft shakes his head forlornly, as if saddened by the intractability of daughters, and steps far enough into the room to lean against his desk. “The problem, my dears, is there is nothing to discuss. One cannot fail to mention something that did not happen. The story Miss Hyde-Clare has told you is a fiction devised by Sir Dudley’s enemies, and if you believe it, then you are willing dupes in the plot to destroy your uncle. That might sit well with you, but I find it repugnant,” he says, softening his disdain with a smile. “I was afraid this would happen when Seb insisted on inviting Miss Hyde-Clare to Red Oaks. I do not blame the girl, who seems more troubled than malicious. Even so, I would prefer if Seb were not exposed to her ideas, especially as her odd fixation on Sir Dudley has allowed her to be manipulated by his enemies. I have tried to caution Seb against allowing his better judgment to be overcome by a pretty face, but as yet he is impervious to reason. It is my hope that exposure to her dreadful family succeeds where my arguments have failed.”
Stunned silence follows this speech.
Stunned.
Silence.
Mrs. Dowell blinks at her father in confusion, as though trying to figure out who he is, and Sarah drops her eyes to her hands, which are clenched in her lap. Eleanor reaches over to clasp them in her own, while I glance at my mother, whose expression is inscrutable. It is not blank, per se, but neither is it angry or mortified or apprehensive or even confused.
Is it curious?
