Page 13 of These Violet Delights
Alasdair glanced back at the self-portrait of Violet. Nowshe appeared to be smirking at him. “Enjoy that while you can,” he said, nodding toward the painting in Freddie’s hands. “It goes back to Pressmore tomorrow.”
“Can’t I keep it?” he whined. “It’s very good.”
“It is very good, and no, you can’t have it.”
The dinner bell chimed, summoning them. To dine at Sampson was to chew and swallow beneath the weight of a hundred painted eyes. Since the day he was finished at Cambridge, Alasdair had been dispatched to hunt down and acquire art for his mother. The fruits of that effort, as many as could fit on the walls, now stared back at him. Lady Edith had a particular affinity for chubby, cheerful depictions of Jesus as an infant, and St. Paul painted in his signature crimson cloak. With a single chandelier suspended above the table and the candles in their holders burning low, one was left with the mere suggestion of these figures clustered along the walls, and the foreboding sense of being watched by eyes hidden in shadow.
Danforth spoke through most of the meal and glowered when Alasdair requested wine. And though Alasdair sat at the position of privilege as the man of the house, Danforth was unmistakably the preferred authority. Eating but not tasting his roasted pheasant, Alasdair leaned back and observed his mother hanging on the clergyman’s every word.
It was clear to anyone with the eyes to notice, painted or otherwise, that he had been replaced.
Freddie fidgeted and moved his vegetables around his plate listlessly like a naughty child.
“To be sure, Bishop Jewel’s homilies are not of a style fashionable for today’s parishioners,” Danforth was saying. He had been lecturing aboutThe Books of Homiliessince the soup course, ecstatic sounds of agreement floating up from Lady Edith at all the correct places.I’ve been away too long.Alasdaircould imagine this exact same exchange playing out again and again, so practiced was the air. “I myself have championed the keeping of certain traditions, but we must also enliven the known sermons where appropriate, to excite even the most skeptical listener…”
At the other end of the table, across a field of candelabras, dishes, and plates, Lady Edith watched Danforth with a zeal that defied her seemingly weak constitution.
“The man I’ve hired for the build should arrive tomorrow or the day after, along with a shipment of furnishings from our warehouse in London,” Alasdair declared. Lady Edith stared as if shocked to hear him speak. “The original plans for Clafton were lost in the blaze, but I’ve discovered a number of prints from a local artist that will aid him immensely in the re-creation. Assessments of the remaining walls will be completed within a fortnight.”
“O-oh,” Lady Edith murmured. “That reminds me, Mr. Danforth and I wanted to suggest some changes to the east wing. He will need a permanent chamber there.”
“And I have drawn up a design for an enviable little chapel to be added to the grounds,” said Danforth with a broad smile. “To be sure, my artistic skills are modest, but I think the general shape and size is well communicated.”
“To be sure,” Freddie mocked in a singsong voice.
“I have no intention of changing a thing about Clafton,” Alasdair replied.
Lady Edith and Mr. Danforth exchanged an uneasy look.
“Perhaps because of your many absences, Alasdair, you are unaware of your mother’s changing desires,” the clergyman told him.
“Mymanyabsences were at the behest of the lady you claim to speak for. And you will please address me as Mr. Kerr.” Hestood, wiped his mouth, then dropped his napkin. “There will be no changes to Clafton. Regrettably, I’ve lost my appetite. Good evening.”
He didn’t bother listening to Danforth’s stammering apologies. As he returned to his rooms, Freddie chased after him.
“You can’t leave me alone with them,” Freddie cried. “It’s too dreadful.”
“Go to bed,” he commanded, wishing to do the same.
“Why? So you can be alone with your pretty little painting?”
Yes.
“Damn you, so that I might enjoy some peace and quiet.”
Freddie trailed after him for a while, then lost interest and fell behind. In fact, Alasdair did want to be alone with Miss Arden’s self-portrait. There was far more to understand of it. He’d hoped that upon returning to his room and upon returning to the painting, it would have lost some of its bewitching magic. Alas. If anything, it had only grown in power. When the valet was summoned to undress him and he was naked before the painting, he felt the urge to stand very tall and straight, then scolded himself silently.
Violet Arden would never behold him this way, nor would he ever see beneath the thin muslin of her gown, however much the idea increasingly intrigued him. It was just a bit of paint and pencil, it ought to hold no sway over him.
And yet.
Exhausted, Alasdair climbed into bed, finding that even with all the lamps extinguished, Violet’s eyes found his in the dark. It would be painful to part with it, he thought, so perhaps the answer was simply not to.
He woke early, pulled from a dream of gray storms to discover someone creeping into his bedroom. Roaring out frombeneath the blankets, he accosted the intruder in his nightshirt. Freddie.
“Mercy! Mercy!” his brother shrieked, caught by the collar of his jacket and jerked down to his knees. Alasdair breathed hard, looming over him. “I just wanted Emilia! I had a mind to return it to her, you know, an excuse to call! And…and…”
“And?” Alasdair shook him. “Out with it.”
