Page 35 of These Violet Delights
She had vague ideas about how she came to be in the cramped bed she shared with Winny in Beadle Cottage. The journey from Morning-glory Hollow to home returned to her in blurred bubbles of shaken memory; she had not remained unconscious the entire way, swimming in and out of reality, hearing the muted voices low with concern as the doctor arrived, then slipping into a dreamlike state after he asked her to drink something.
Her dreams were fitful. Tossing, twisting, she imagined herself in the cold, rainy hollow curtained with ivy andrain-slicked vines. Flowers bloomed impossibly in the chill. Everything around her was too bright, ice and splotches of wildflowers, and the hard stone wedged beneath her thighs. Nothing made sense until Mr. Kerr was there, and it was not Emilia draped across the flat bench of rock in the hollow but Violet herself, head thrown back, hair loose, her gown gaping open toward Alasdair as if in invitation. His big, warm hands slid across her, one up the extended length of her leg, bold and searching, his other taking hold of her sleeve and pulling until the fabric tore and her breasts were exposed to his gaze and then his lips. The kisses he placed along her neck and collarbone shivered through her, each a provocation, each widening the spread of her legs. He couldn’t be close enough to satisfy her, touch and alignment a shallow imitation of what seemed achievable in dreams. If he could be in and without her, their lips sealed, their bodies one, then maybe, maybe…
Violet tore awake, gasping for breath. She was safe in her bed, the blankets heaped so high she was practically buried alive. The milky light of early morning made the bedroom glow, and she lifted her injured left hand to find it had been bandaged. And thank God for that; she couldn’t stomach the idea of seeing her peeling, burned palm again so soon.
The dream lingered. Violet blushed and shook it off until she felt herself again. What wasthat? Perhaps she should not have allowed herself to see Emilia and Freddie in the hollow. It had planted seeds of thought she could not bear to water. Someone like Mr. Kerr would never have her, even if she wanted him; no, she would have to make her own difficult way in the world. Winny was curled up asleep beside her, Maggie half-awake with a book in her lap, seated in the rocking chair by the window. Violet’s sudden movement alerted Maggie, andher sister sat up straighter, yawning and stretching both hands over her head.
“How did I get here?” Violet asked, looking around with a somewhat dazed expression.
“There was a great commotion at the front door,” said Maggie, leaving her book on the chair to sit gently on the edge of the bed at Violet’s side. She combed Violet’s hair back from her forehead. “Mr. Kerr brought you back, with word that Emilia had been found and returned to Pressmore. What happened in the forest? Do you remember?”
Violet swallowed with difficulty and glanced away. Her feelings for Mr. Kerr were confusing and conflicting, but she knew it was wrong to lie to her sister. Still, Emilia’s reputation had to be protected; she couldn’t imagine letting another woman experience the sort of public humiliation she had suffered at her aunt’s painting exhibition. Emilia was young, and one questionable decision should not alter her life forever.
“She was there with Freddie,” Violet replied. “At the hollow. But we found them before any real mischief…”
“Violet.” Maggie’s hand stilled on her head. “Are you certain?”
“She seemed scared,” Violet assured her. “I don’t think she’ll be inclined to run off with a man again.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Maggie sighed and returned to her rocking chair and book. “The rain somewhat slowed the fire at the Florizel, but the damage is significant. Though you mustn’t worry about that now, simply rest and let your hand mend.”
Violet held up the bandaged lump of her left hand. “At least it was this one,” she murmured. “I can still paint.”
“Rest, you mean, for that is all you are supposed to be doing.”
“Yes, of course. Rest. That is what I shall do.”
But rest was not a thing Violet had ever done well or willingly; her mind didn’t allow it, and if she didn’t keep it busy with books, and chatter, and art, then it would go places she did not want it to venture, like back to the hollow, where it felt somehow that Mr. Kerr was waiting for her, his eyes burning with questions she refused to entertain.
12
Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind;
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream—Act 1, Scene 1
October
It was miserably wet and muddy at Clafton, but Alasdair insisted on visiting daily. There was real satisfaction in watching the progress: in seeing the stones change as they were shaped for placement, in listening as the mason and the bricklayers consulted one another beneath a drooping, damp tarpaulin. Gordon was growing confident that the manor could be finished by the start of February if they were lucky and the snow held. There was real momentum, and Alasdair could feel it. But that Saturday, everyone had been dismissed from the site around eleven in the morning, the rain simply too dogged, and the men were sent home to wait until sunshine brought reprieve. The weather had become Alasdair’s grim nemesis, for it seemed to constantly interrupt progress.
Gordon found him before everyone cleared out, standingbeside Alasdair to survey the rain and rumbling with laughter. “It won’t go up in a blink, no matter how hard ye wish it.”
Alasdair said nothing and nodded.
“The lads in Anstey sent over two wagonloads we won’t need,” Gordon continued, flopping a cap over his snowy fall of hair. “I’ll see to it that the bill gets adjusted, and the stone goes back.”
“Could Mr. Lavin at the Florizel use it?” Alasdair asked, pivoting to watch the man gather his things.
Gordon answered with a red-faced, flustered look. “Well…I would have to assess the state of it. But ’tis possible, yes, possible.”
“Make your assessments,” he said, fetching his own hat and smoothing out his coat. “If it’s useful to them, I’ll see that they have it.”
“Sir, that’s hundreds of pounds worth of—”
“I’ll see that they have it.”
“Very good, sir. I hear ye.”
