“You are horrible!” Eleanor says. “All you care about are plants and seeds. And now see what you have wrought.”
Mr. Holcroft continues to marvel that he has somehow become the villain, and Mr. Nutting assures him that the truculence of willful children is to blame. “They appreciate nothing, as this episode with the shawl demonstrates. It will be a long time before I sanction a purchase from Madame Valenaire again.”
“It will be a long time before you canafforda purchase from Madame Valenaire,” Mrs. Holcroft says with appealing malice before announcing quite firmly that we must leave the Burgesses to their privacy. She arranges for Sebastian to wait for the constable, then bundles us into the carriages. As the investigator who identified the murderer, I feel as though I should remain behind to explain my process to the constable, but I am simply too tired to protest.
The drive back to Red Oaks is subdued, with Mama periodically patting my hand and saying, “There, there,” as though the evening has been especially upsetting to me.
I allow it.
The poor dear has been put through her paces.
So many new experiences for one night.
Mr. Holcroft continues to resist the idea that he has made any missteps, from his faith in Grimston to his lack of interest in labor issues, and emerges from the carriage still grumbling about his ungrateful progeny. “I have nurtured a nest of vipers,” he mutters as his wife leaves him standing in the entryway with the butler.
“I am for bed,” Mrs. Holcroft announces as she passes through the width of the peel tower toward the wide staircase that leads to a warmer section of the home. Before she mounts the first step, she turns to my parents and congratulates them on raising an impressive daughter. “Miss Hyde-Clare is a credit to you. She is clever, composed, and commanding, which is I think the best combination.”
“You are too kind,” Mama replies modestly.
Papa echoes the sentiment.
They hold their dignified poses until our host disappears around the bend, then my mother grabs the balustrade as though she were about to swoon. “Clever, composed,andcommanding! Have you ever heard such an amiable trio of adjectives, Horace?”
My father swears he has not.
Mama laughs, reaches for me with her other hand, and squeezes my fingers so tightly I have to bite back a cry. “Flora, when you stood up, I thought we would have to slink away in the dark after all! But then you made that admirable showing. It is this place. It is Bedfordshire. You must always remain here. I vow you are not clever, composed, or commanding in London. I suppose it has something to do with the air here.”
Russell snickers.
But as no adjectives have been bestowed on him today, let alone a trio of amiable ones, I permit the snide gesture to pass without protest.
The morning will be soon enough to remind him of his inadequacy.
When Mama’s legs feel sturdy again, we proceed up the stairs to our rooms. I get a fond kiss from both my parents, and even Russell lauds my performance as “not the most mortifying experience in my life.”
Well, of course not.
Mama subjects him to worse once a week.
Still, I appreciate the sentiment and decide to wait a full day before cataloguing his many deficiencies (because I am clever, composed, commanding,andkind).
Annie is waiting, and as she helps me prepare for bed, I explain the denouement of the day’s adventure, thanking her for the pivotal information regarding the wet rug.
“It was notthedecisive factor,” I explain as she runs the brush through my hair, “but it wasadecisive factor.”
She is pleased and tells me the gossip from belowstairs, which is awhirl with the master’s refusal to condemn Grimston, who, it seems, none of the servants like. He would come to stay for weeks on end, doubling their amount of work with his demands, and never hand out tips to the staff.
Shocking!
If I were mistress of Red Oaks, I would make gratuities compulsory for all guests, mostly in a bid to earn the staff’s affection. (Oooh, I must remember to suggest that policy to Bea.) But I would also not make a habit of having corrupt solicitors walking the halls.
Except that rule would make it impossible for poor Mr. Caruthers to visit.
Amendment: murderous corrupt solicitors.
Pleased with the day’s progress—one declaration of love, one confession of murder, three apologies, a host of compliments from my host—I lay my head on the pillow and drift effortlesslyto sleep. In the morning, I wake up far later than I had intended, opening my eyes only when Annie enters the room with a tray.
Apologetically, she explains that my mother said I had done enough lazing about.
