Maybe she is trying to understand how Mr. Holcroft has the unmitigated gall to speak of her daughter as though she is not in the room?
Actually, that is I.
Iam astonished by his unmitigated gall.
“Found them!” Russell says, pausing on the threshold as he calls to someone still in the hallway. “They are in here.”
Two someones: Papa and Chester.
“We have been looking everywhere for you,” my brother continues as he steps aside to make room for the others. There are two chairs available in the seating area, and he knows enough to allow our father to establish his preference. “We just got back from the stables. We thought everyone would be upstairs, changing for dinner. But here you all are, having tea. Ooh, are those lemon biscuits? I love lemon biscuits.”
Mrs. Dowell raises the plate to offer one to Russell.
She does not speak.
Nobody speaks.
Are they waiting for me to reply because I am the injured party? Do they think I have the right to first defense, or are they too timid to enter the fray?
Either way, I resent that the responsibility falls to me.
I have borne enough of the brunt.
“We are listening to the tale of how your sister narrowly escaped death in a decrepit building in a wretched part of town,” Mama says with brutal honesty, causing Russell to smile fleetingly at what he presumes to be a jest, then drops the biscuit onto the rug when he realizes it is not. “You also missed the Holcroft sisters apologizing for misjudging Flora and our kind host calling her deranged, gullible, malevolent, and deceitful.”
My mother’s ability to retain her coherence is remarkable.
By rights, she should be babbling about not wishing to give offense to her host while giving offense to her hostandchiding Russell for spilling crumbs on the rug.
Instead, she is being sarcastic.
Our kind host!
Something about having her child flagrantly maligned is akin to death for her.
Russell swivels toward Chester, as if expecting him to answer for the deeds of his father, while Papa looks at my mother with an expression of pained incredulity.
He cannot believe either the claim or my mother’s audacity in making it.
And Mr. Holcroft?
He looks smug, as though Mama’s summation of his judgment proves its accuracy, and I marvel that I ever felt awed by this petty, delusional man who loves his own opinion more than his son.
“I memorized cabbage,” I murmur.
My mother, laying a comforting hand on mine, says, “What was that, dear?”
“Cabbage,” I reply with an air of wonder, recalling the dozens of trips I made to the lending library in search of information. “In preparation for meeting Sebastian’s father, I memorized everything there was to know about cabbage because I wanted him to like me. I read books and journals and newspapers and even a farmer’s almanac.”
Mama is startled by my industriousness, which she neither noticed nor suspected.
It is hardly surprising.
Having failed to realize that I was leaving the house to conduct a murder investigation, she is hardly likely to have detected an influx of reading material.
“Sugarloaf!” I exclaim, which causes Mr. Holcroft to smirk.
Of course he is amused.
