The excessiveness of my efforts is funny.
That is the whole point—hours of my life given over to an act of futility.
There was no battle to be won.
The war was canceled on account of disgust for the foe.
“Sugarloaf cabbage’s chief characteristics are a tapering shape with large, delicate leaves. It varies in color from yellowish to blue-green and is best suited for cold climes,” I continue, rising to my feet as though conducting a lecture at the Royal Horticulture Society. In all likelihood, this is my only opportunity to show off my arcane knowledge, so I am going to show off my arcane knowledge.
If only I had a podium!
I have always thought I would look well behind a podium, all serious and scholarly.
“Compare sugarloaf with savoy cabbage, which has crinkled, emerald green leaves and a loose, spherical head. It enjoys plenty of sunlight and is best suited for moderate clime. And then there is the humble red cabbage, with its tightly wound, waxy leaves in a deep violet burgundy hue. It requires well-fertilized soil and is best suited for a humid clime,” I say, adding that I could go on: white cabbage, Pontefract cabbage, Battersea cabbage, green cabbage.
Possessing as I do an intimate acquaintance withBrassica oleracea,I could hold the floor for hours, rattling off one variety after another, and I am tempted to keep going just to force Mr. Holcroft to remain there. He might be appalled by my weak-minded Delilah ways, but this is still his study, and he will not allow himself to be run off. He will listen to all the irrelevant lectures necessary to reclaim his territory.
Irrelevant indeed, I think, realizing it applies to him.
Mr. Holcroft is irrelevant.
Once he made it known that I would never earn his approval, he became irrelevant to me. The Hyde-Clares might desire approval at all cost, but we are not immune to reality. We face it staunchly, our shoulders pulled tight in expectation that it will be worse than we feared.
“I declined a visit to Vauxhall Gardens with my cousin to stay bracketed in my bedchamber with my research because I wanted to impress you,” I say, unable to believe such a thing actually transpired.
Vauxhall with all its delights.
Fireworks!
Grottoes!
Cascades!
“You,” I repeat with particular emphasis, “a pathetic little man who readily believes the lies of a murderer over his son.”
Mr. Holcroft’s rigid expression softens as he endeavors to regard me as a feeble woman who must be indulged. “Are you finished now, Miss Hyde-Clare? Or shall I have dinner moved back an hour so that you may continue venting your spleen?”
Papa growls.
An unprecedented sound, it starts low in his throat and travels upward, like a river running north, and he clenches his right hand.
“You did not thank him, Flora,” my mother says, her concerned eyes darting from me to her husband. As daring as the Hyde-Clares have been today, brawling with our host is an audacity too far. “Mr. Holcroft also called you pretty and you did not thank him. A compliment is a compliment even when it is included amid a lengthy catalogue of insults. As you know, I have always believed graciousness is next to godliness.”
Oh, Mama.
If only Bea could see her now, blending obsequiousness and obtrusiveness. My cousin would have no idea what to think.
Bowing to my mother’s superior sense of etiquette, I don my sweetest smile—the one I use at Almack’s when I am standing next to the refreshment table while a handsome man secures me a glass of lemonade—and say, “I am grateful to have earned your favorable opinion, Mr. Holcroft.”
As much as he resents the obligations of courtesy, he refuses to be outstripped by an insipid miss he cannot stand and replies with an empty gallantry.
But Sebastian does not know it.
Poor Sebastian, arriving in the room after the skirmish end and lacking all understanding of the events before his eyes. Delighted with the progress that appears to have been made in his absence, he grins with pleasure and says, “Well, there, you see, Father? I told you Miss Hyde-Clare would win you over.”
Chapter Fifteen
Before anyone can disabuse Sebastian of this wildly inaccurate notion, Mrs. Holcroft peers over his shoulder, takes note of the entire party gathered in the study, and asks why nobody is changing for dinner.
