Page 20 of These Violet Delights
I know not how to tell thee who I am.
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself
Because it is an enemy to thee.
Had I it written, I would tear the word.
Romeo and Juliet—Act 2, Scene 2
Violet dreamed of smoke and screams.
She woke with a gasp, tasting ash, and turned to shake her friend awake. Emilia’s heartbreak had not abated, and she had taken to sleeping in Violet’s room, too despondent to be left alone. It eased the minds of Ann and Lane to know that Emilia had someone with her, though Miss Bilbury complained that it was too great a distraction for Violet, whose diligence had tapered off.
Emilia groaned and flopped one arm over her eyes. “It’s late,” she mumbled.
“Can you smell that?” Violet tumbled out of bed, reaching for her dressing gown and pulling it on as she hurried to the balcony doors. Her easel, returned, was set up nearby, holding an unfinished study of lilacs in a tall vase.Are all my paintings to be destroyed by acts of God? First the rain, now fire…
Throwing open the balcony doors ushered the smell inside. She coughed and batted at the air, pulling up a fistful of dressing gown to shield her mouth and nose while she went to the railing. Curling plumes of black smoke swirled against the pinkish curtain of dawn draped over the horizon. Emilia had gained her senses and joined Violet outside, then clutched her friend’s arm.
“The trees have caught there!” she shouted, pointing.
“And the pavilion,” Violet added, watching as one of the white canvas tents collapsed against the back portico, showering the house with sparks, the wooden frame of the pavilion burning steadily. “My God, we have to wake the house!”
The restlessness of the night fell away, the last vestiges of drowsiness swept off by the fear running hot through her veins. Violet took Emilia by the hand and dragged her to the door until they were both running together.
“Go to Ann and Lane, I’ll find Bloom,” Violet shouted, frantic, pushing Emilia toward the opposite wing of the large estate. Such grandeur worked against them now, as it was a long journey to the landing overlooking the foyer and then down two flights of curving stairs to the front hall. The house was locked in the silence of sleep, though now, above, she heard the first stirrings of the family as Emilia reached Ann and Lane. They had to be warned first, for the safety of their child was paramount.
That same noise must have alerted Bloom, for she nearly collided with him as he emerged from the dining room. Hot wax from the candelabra he was carrying splashed them both as he jolted to a stop.
Violet ignored the slight sting of the wax as it plopped against her neck. “Fire, Bloom! Just below my balcony—I think the house is about to catch!”
Bloom, bless him, snapped into immediate action. His expression hardened as readily as the wax cooling on Violet’s collarbone, and with a tidy pivot, he rushed back into the dining room, calling for the rest of the staff as he did so.
“Come, Miss Arden, you will please show me to the issue,” he said, resolute and efficient.
Violet led him out the back doors, onto the marble slab beneath the portico, but there was no need for her to point or say more, for the flames were rising higher on the burning tent. A footman rushed past her carrying a bucket, and Violet, realizing she was only in the way, scrambled down the steps of the veranda and into the cold, wet grass. The freezing bite of it against her feet momentarily dulled the panic. She cast her gaze upward, seeing that more windows were aglow, and soon familiar faces were pouring out of the same doors through which she had fled. Ann appeared with her son wrapped tightly in a bundle of blankets, Lane at her side. Then came Mrs. Richmond, Emilia, and several of the staff, including Ann’s maid, Fanny. They spread out across the lawn, watching as men rushed by with buckets, calling to one another as they put out the blaze.
It was a disaster narrowly avoided, and Violet couldn’t help but wonder what—or who—could have caused it. There had been sporadic rain, and the blaze seemed to have begun outside the house, not as the consequence of an errant candle left too near a curtain. And so, seeing that everyone was away from the flames and the crisis well in hand, Violet went to Emilia, who stood some distance from the house, hugging herself and shivering. She was nearly beside her friend when she noticed a dark shape moving across the lawn, just down the gentle slope of the hill that ended at the pond. A bloat of gray mist rose from the water like steam from a basin.
“Violet?” Emilia asked, noticing her sharpening gaze.
“Stay here,” she murmured.
“Wait, Violet—”
The fleeing shape was suspiciously human-shaped, the cloak covering them twisting this way and that. She had hoped it was just Puck escaping his loft again, but this creature neither moved like a goat nor shared one’s interest in fresh, dewy grass. It was decidedly a person running away from what was very nearly a deadly blaze.
What could have caused it, indeed.
Violet picked up the hem of her nightgown and began her pursuit, the curling cloths tied in her hair bouncing against her head as she trotted and then broke into a sprint. Dawn’s luminous pink beginning burned orange at the edges; if she could just get close enough to the stranger to ascertain their identity, if the sun could play conspirator and rise a bit more, light the lawn and disperse the veil of mystery…
She breathed hard, chest tingling, legs churning, allowing the momentum of the hill to carry her faster and faster. There was no muting the sound of her pounding footsteps, and the stranger took one glance over their shoulder, their face cruelly obscured by their hood as they did so. They were not expecting to be chased and redoubled their speed to evade her. There was little to remember about the person; in Violet’s opinion, they ran more like a man might, with a robust if clumsy stride, but the particulars of their garments were obscured by the cloak. With one hand, they clasped the hood to their head, cleverly concealing even the color of their hair.
But Violet refused to give up.
“Ho there!” she called, gulping down her breaths. “Have you come from Pressmore this morning? Why such haste, sir? Why the haste?”
She did not expect an answer and was given none. The hill flattened out somewhat as they reached the bottom of it, the serene pond lending the air a green, fishy scent. To their right, the forest carving the edge of the lawn reached thorny fingers toward the water’s edge. The stranger tore through a gap between pond and wood, leading Violet to assume they were making for the bridge. Instead, when Violet followed through that narrow opening, she discovered they had struck out into the trees. She pursued them with a muttered curse, twigs and branches tearing at her as she picked up her feet to avoid the fallen logs and deep, descending clumps of mounded leaves. Here it was darker, and though she could hear the snap of wood marking the stranger’s progress, it was difficult to discern them among the trunks. Everything blended together.
