Page 46 of These Violet Delights
“Derivative and silly, and for no one,” Emilia, Ann, and Cristabel finished for her in unison.
Violet stared blankly, wishing she could sink beneath the road. Her cheeks roared with hot embarrassment. Was her fixation on him so obvious? She remembered the way he had gazed down at her and touched her wrist, and her knees nearly buckled. “I haven’t…I haven’t complained about itthatmuch.”
“And why should you encourage them together when you despised Freddie?” Emilia asked, thankfully missing Violet’s blushing cheeks. “You told me his rejection was a gift!”
“Your prospects are rather grander than Violet’s, dearest, you know that,” Ann said in a strained undertone. “And the two brothers could not be more different…”
“It isn’t fair,” Emilia said with a sigh. “My dowry should mean I can do whatever I like.”
“It does and it doesn’t,” Ann told her, wrapping her arm around Emilia’s shoulders and squeezing. “What sort of sister would I be if I did not look out for your interests? Never mind what our father would have to say about it!”
“I’m sure Mr. Kerr would never marry me,” said Violet, for Emilia’s benefit; even to her own ears it sounded like a lie.
When they returned to Pressmore, Cristabel urged her back into the cool cerulean splendor of the Sapphire Library, where Violet’s new pigments awaited. A letter arrived shortly after for Cristabel, and, grunting with annoyance, the painter began reading it—first just over Violet’s shoulder, but the content must have upset or alarmed her, for soon Miss Bilburyquit the library. Violet did not see her for the rest of the afternoon. Nor did she paint, for when she looked down at the neat row of cake colors, ready to be mixed and applied to the prepared paper, it seemed a shame to even touch them. They were like royal jewels glimmering in a velvet box, precious and perfect. And when Violet lifted one of the brushes, tipped with softest Russian sable, her mind went blank except for a single image.
Alasdair Kerr.
She closed her eyes, but he was there, too. Common sense would dictate that she paint him, then, but she had vowed not to, and besides, how could she pursue him when Emilia had been denied her chance at love? She couldn’t imagine tossing aside the regard of her friends and family. When Maggie was hopelessly besotted with Mr. Darrow, she had acted much the same—distractible and lost, as if the only world that interested her was the one in her mind where she and Bridger were already together.
The canvas remained empty. The paints went untouched.
—
Alasdair’s fury had stoked itself into an inferno by the time he reached Sampson Park.
Ordinarily, the steady drumming of hammers at Clafton would raise his spirits, for the workmen had enjoyed a stretch of good weather while Alasdair was away in London, and the manor was taking shape. Gordon had requested more builders, and Alasdair obliged, reminding him that expense was of little concern when the goal of restoration was now plainly in sight. But even that, even the walls rising on the hill—jagged but decidedlythere—did not penetrate his bleak mood.
The house was persuasively silent, nothing required hisurgent attention; there was nothing before him but the horrible task of confronting Freddie. His steps grew heavier as he went up the stairs, dread settling on his chest, weighty as the earth piled high on a man buried alive. And as with that oppressive fate, the fear came, too, and the panic.
We have already lost Father. How could we lose you, too?
His mind offered a thousand improbable but tempting alternatives. They had the money; they could hurry him out of the country, send him to a new life in America. Justices of the peace were men like any other, weak in the way all men were weak, easily swayed by power, by bribes, or…Or!
No. Their father’s portrait hung in a dozen places around Sampson, and each of them seemed to turn and watch him now, casting judgment over Alasdair’s next decision.
My great duty is to make you a man of quality, Cub. We have given you an easy life, and easy lives make soft men, so I must impose what the walls of Clafton repel.
Alasdair had tried, in his way, to do the same for Freddie. Had he not made him go to Miss Graddock and refuse her in person? Had he not decreed that his brother would find a profession and better himself?
“Too little, too late,” he muttered, reaching the landing.
As he did most days now, Freddie sat at his desk poring over correspondence for Mr. Danforth. The chancellor had written, agreeing to provide a recommendation for Freddie’s turn toward an ecclesiastical life. Subsequently, he had become Danforth’s top man, shadowing him almost night and day. Alasdair did not announce himself, but rather marched to the desk in the low-lit room and tossed the monkshood flowers onto the letter Freddie was reviewing.
His brother yelped in surprise, then twisted and sprang to his feet, splattering his own shirt with ink.
“You will explain to me how you came to be behind the Florizel on the night it burned.”
Freddie stopped moving, perhaps stopped breathing, a torturously long silence stretching between them. With his eyes wide as saucers, he at last stammered, “But I…I didn’t do it.”
“Not a promising start.” Alasdair pointed at the flowers. “Explain. Now. Your coat was stained with oil, you were picking monkshood behind the theater, what other conclusions shall I draw? That you are the victim of inexplicable coincidences? By God, Freddie, my one solace is that you have no compelling motivation to do this cowardly act.”
“Because I didn’t!” Freddie wiped frantically at his shirt, succeeding only in spreading the stain around. He swore and gave up, retreating behind the chair he had just vacated. “Well, yes, very well, I was picking flowers for Emilia behind the theater—”
Alasdair fought the urge to sink down into the chair, shaking his head with despair.
“Which…I know, that sounds bad, but I don’t know where the oil came from.” Freddie grabbed his hair with both hands, yanking. Bent double, he let out a strangled sound of frustration. “Unless…unless…”
“This had better be convincing, Freddie, or I will have no choice but to drag you before the—”
