Page 39 of These Violet Delights
“Splendid, because she hasn’t got any.”
A footman appeared, hoisting his chin in the air to announce the arrival of two more guests. “Miss Julianna Holzer and Mr. Elias Holzer.”
Alasdair’s blood froze in his veins. He turned, slowly, to see the woman he had once cherished gliding into the library, as luminous and angelic as an early morning cloud. Turning to Robert, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Damn you. This is an ambush.”
“Nonsense,” Robert replied out of one corner of his mouth. “It’s a favor, the second I’ve done you in short order, mm? You could use a reminder of what a lady of good manners and breeding actually looks like. Julianna’s reputation is spotless; Miss Arden’s may as well be a leopard. Lord above, man, a tryst with a French painter? Do you want to be the laughingstock of London?”
He bristled; he didn’t want to be seen at all. If he could have it his way, Alasdair would emerge from the remade Clafton only to swim and travel occasionally to attend exhibitions and auctions. He had no desire to be perceived at all, least of all by a woman who had called him cold and unfeeling, and whom he had not thought of in weeks. And yet he must be seen, his size making it impossible to blend in and diminish, and there was no escaping Julianna as she and her brother came toward them.
Washe courting Violet without meaning to? The structure of it, a thing unseen but crucial to the later image as it became whole…An underpainting. Was that what this gift really was? The beginning of something, just a wash of color, but an effort all the same…
Alasdair dropped his head. “This is unfair, Robert.”
“No, it’s what you need. I like you, Alasdair,” he went on, still in a swift undertone. “You’ve always amused me, and Iwould like to continue calling you my dear friend, but think clearly. You are quick to complain about your brother’s behavior, but where is your own better judgment? Lillian would poison my port if I insisted that she inviteMiss Ardento dine.”
He went very still, wanting to be anywhere else and wondering if perhaps Robert Daly was his friend at all. Julianna offered a shy smile as she approached, asking, “Who were we discussing?”
Slowly, Alasdair straightened up. “Nobody of consequence.”
13
Loving goes by haps;
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
Much Ado About Nothing—Act 3, Scene 1
The package’s arrival at Beadle Cottage sent the home into a frenzy of giggling speculation; the eruption could likely be heard by neighbors in every direction.
“It must be from Ann,” said Maggie, hands clasped under her chin as she watched more and more items emerge from the crate.
“Miss Bilbury seemed very alarmed when she heard about the loss of your paints at the Florizel,” Winny interjected, climbing over Maggie to get a better view. “I’d wager she sent it! Is there truly no note? Not a single indication? How mysterious!”
“Nothing,” Violet told them, clawing her way through the extra straw and, quite frankly, making a complete mess. Mrs. Arden sighed from the doorway and summoned a maid to the sitting room.
Behind her, Maggie cackled. “I do love a good intrigue.”
“Whoever it was,” said Violet, standing back to admire the new easel, “they spent a small fortune. Who would do that?”
Who would spend so much on me?
“Ann would,” Maggie answered plainly. “I will call on her this week, and we will have the matter settled. Winny has it partially—Miss Bilbury probably fretted so much that Ann felt she must make a heroic gift. She is always convinced that she can fix the world. I’m sure the ladies didn’t want you to feel burdened by the charity of it, and so it is anonymous.”
Winny nodded along, convinced. “And it has been so dreary with the clouds and rain, perhaps they knew the game of it all would cheer us!”
That did make a kind of sense; the Richmonds had always been very giving when it came to the Ardens, for though they often disagreed with Mrs. Arden’s choices, her sisters Mildred and Eliza never hesitated to help where they must. The rifts that appeared between them were usually closed swiftly, and all returned to the expected grousing between siblings.
And everyone knew Ann had a flair for extravagant gifts.
“It’s so much,” Violet breathed. “I shouldn’t accept it.”
“Well, but you must,” said Maggie, touching her lightly on the shoulder. “For whom would you return it to?”
Violet stood back and shook out her hands, flustered. The brushes and pigments were better quality even than what Miss Bilbury used on her more serious attempts. The carrying case for the paints was compact yet luxurious, lustrous mahogany, embellished with brass. The interior was lined with leather, and it included porcelain mixing pans and ample storage tins for chalks or charcoals, trays for the new brushes and crayons, and a place for scrapers, blocks of ink, and colors. The brushes, the furred tips of which were velvety-soft sable, were devisedspecifically for watercolorists, a personal touch that made her chest flutter. And she had never beheld such a handsome easel, far larger than her previous one, which had been small and designed for painting en plein air. “It almost doesn’t seem right to spoil it,” she murmured. “I’m just a novice.”
“Someone thinks you’re worthy of it,” Maggie encouraged, leaning in closer. “And isn’t that permission enough?”
The shock and excitement of the package had only just begun to wane when Emilia Graddock arrived in a sleek Pressmore carriage. Violet had not seen Emilia since that fateful night at the hollow, and judging by the flinching expression on the woman’s face, her mind lingered there. Mrs. Arden received Emilia at the door, and from the sitting room amidst the strewn-about straw, the sisters heard Emilia ask if Violet was available to visit Pressmore for the afternoon. Apparently, Miss Bilbury was concerned about Violet’s progress and wanted to make her paints and supplies available to her for use.
