Page 28 of These Violet Delights
“Mr. Lavin brought Philippe all the way from Paris to paint our scenery, but he fell painting last night and broke his arm,” said Ginny, out of breath and flustered. “Oh, but it’s only half done and looks a right shambles.”
“Let me put my paints in Mr. Lavin’s office,” Violet replied, eager. “Have you sent word to Pressmore? Perhaps Miss Bilbury and I could be of assistance? We both paint, though she is the superior talent.”
Ginny melted with relief. Mr. Lavin was notified of Violet’s desire to pitch in, and a request was dispatched to Pressmore. She could imagine her aunts’ faces when they discovered Violet had volunteered to assist a bunch of actors. “Practically prostitutes!” Aunt Eliza would say with a gasp, fainting away. Violet’s aunt on her father’s side had been an actress, shunned for it, and died recently in London, impoverished. Impoverished but not lonely, at least, for the Arden sisters had tried to care for her in the end. Beatrice Arden had been a strong woman, determined, leaving a lasting impression on Violet.
Let Aunt Eliza faint,she thought.The Florizel needs us.
Cristabel agreed. She considered the scenic challenge perfect for Violet, who was accustomed to painting at small scale. Each afternoon, Violet would meet Cristabel at the theater, and they would paint in companionable silence, bringing to life Juliet’s balcony, the interior of a chapel, and a basic piazza in Verona. Winny came along, hemming skirts and sewing on buttons when such things were needed. Ginny Thorpe’s beloved orange cat, Sailor, snoozed beside Violet while her brush swished, Cristabel gave her corrections, and the actors rehearsed their lines.
“Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?” asked Romeo, a few feet from where the ladies worked. The man playing him was hilariously old to be portraying a teen, but he gave the words the right feeling. Cristabel rolled her eyes at every romantic declaration in the play, and there were plenty.
Ginny, as Juliet, answered. “ ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy. Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face. O, be some other name belonging to a man!”
Romeo flubbed his next line, and the whole scene started over again.
“Perhaps Mr. Lavin is trying to tell you and the Kerrs something by choosing this production,” said Cristabel one afternoon, as they continued painting and rehearsals progressed. Sailor, no matter what, slept on Violet’s shawl.
“It’s a popular play,” Violet told her.
“Of course.” Her teacher fell silent for a spell, but Violet could hear the thoughtful steam hissing from her ears. Cristabel proved her right moments later. “Have you sketched him again?”
Him.Violet growled and hunched her shoulders. “No. My paints haven’t moved from Mr. Lavin’s office since we agreed to help. I hope you haven’t been pouring poison in Ann’s ears. She is terribly suggestible.”
“Why would I do that?” Cristabel laughed. “Romance is a distraction. Art is truest love. Even if you try to hide it, I can see all this cloying drivel moves you. You sigh and flutter your lashes whenever the confessions start. Ha! That ridiculous Romeo is old enough to be Juliet’s father.”
“My father loved this play, and so do I, that’s all. Maybe it is drivel, but I still have a heart. Even so, do not worry yourself—I haven’t painted or sketchedhim,and I never will.”
Despite Miss Bilbury’s teasing, each day ended with a deep sense of satisfaction. The ladies worked well together, and Mr. Lavin and the company were effusively grateful. But gradually, both women had noticed a strange phenomenon; it began with just the one irksome preacher standing outside, glaring at everyone who came and went from the Florizel, but by and by, a small army built up around him. The following morning, Emilia and Cristabel called at Beadle Cottage.
“Good morning,” Cristabel greeted them with a strained smile. Emilia clung to her side. “I thought Emilia could use the air today and brought her along.”
She could use more than air.
Violet found it hard to believe how much Emilia had shrunk in just a fortnight. The poor lady was wasting away, her usually luminous brown skin almost gray. She had seen widows with stronger color in their cheeks.
“It is so lonely without you at Pressmore,” Emilia said, leaning against Violet as they left through the cottage gate. “Ann has her child and her society now, and I am an afterthought. Did you know, there are men working at Clafton every day? I can see them from my window. It only reminds me of…”
She trailed off into bitter silence. Violet shot a wretched look at the other women, who were no help at all.
“Perhaps you should take up painting,” Violet suggested. “It has been a balm for me.”
Though I fear in this state you would struggle to lift the brush…
“Miss Bilbury said the same, but I find it hard to care about anything at all.” Emilia’s thinness through her dress and coat made Violet tense with worry. “To be unlovable and rejected, there is no greater pain.”
“Come, Emilia, I’m sure he loves you, but that does not change the material circumstances.”
Violet flinched. It had just spilled out. But how could she let Emilia suffer so? A small, surprisingly strong hand latched onto her wrist, and suddenly Emilia’s huge brown eyes were peering into hers with owlish intensity.
“Do you really think so? Oh, but you are just trying to content me…”
“Mr. Kerr himself said as much.” Another flinch. “He didn’t want me to think Freddie could be responsible for the fire at Pressmore.”
Emilia gasped.
“Then…then there is hope…”
Perhaps Mr. Kerr was right; finality is more merciful.
