Page 51 of These Violet Delights
“You know Margaret will never make you leave, Violet. You have a safe harbor here for as long as you wish it,” her mother continued. “My sisters are always saying it, and sometimes I worry that they are right—your father and I were too permissive with you girls. But you were so happy and carefree when you were little, singing your songs and putting on your plays, and I fooled myself into thinking the world would never intrude on our little haven.”
“ ‘Are you sure that we are awake? It seems to me that yet we sleep, we dream,’ ” Violet mumbled into the pillow.
“Your ridiculous father and that play,” Mrs. Arden said with a sigh, but affectionately. “We must live in the waking world, darling, and sometimes in that waking world we must bend, lest it break us.”
Her mother stayed awhile and trailed her hand lightly up and down Violet’s back. She pretended to fall asleep, and when she was alone, she reached for the top drawer on her nightstand. It was a small room with a slanted ceiling, dried flowers and herbs hanging from the rafter scenting the space with lavender. The colorful, merry quilt on the bed had been lovingly sewed by Winny. There was a single triangular window with the rocking chair in front of it. The curtains were open, the sunlight illuminating the chair and easel where Violet had been painting. An unfinished watercolor of Winny bent over her needlework was secured to the board. With the roombeing so cramped, the sisters had a serious pact that they would never disturb each other’s dresser drawers, the one narrow slice of privacy in an otherwise overcrowded home.
Violet fetched the letter Mr. Kerr had sent and turned onto her back, unfolding it to read. She knew it by heart, even though there was nothing romantic about it. He may as well have been writing to a complete stranger. None of it made any damn sense. She was sure he had provided the expensive, anonymous gift, had very nearly confessed love or something like it to her, but then why write to her like this? Where was the warmth?
She clasped the letter to her breast and let the tears that had been building roll silently down her cheeks. To him, she was no better than a secret mistress, someone to spoil when nobody was looking, a thing to be enjoyed in the darkness. After all the suitors she had offended in London, after her public scandal with the Frenchman, no man of Mr. Kerr’s status and wealth would risk openly admiring her.
Violet turned and shoved his letter back into the drawer, slamming it shut. Let the world break her, she decided. It was better than giving in to its injustices.
The next day, Maggie’s husband returned from London. Beadle Cottage was once more overflowing, and Violet confined herself to her bedroom to paint. She had nothing against Bridger Darrow. In fact, she liked him, and especially liked how radiant Maggie became in his doting presence, but she was painfully aware of the thundercloud hanging over her own head. She seemed to darken whatever room she stepped foot in; it was better that she practice her portraiture for the benefit, and for the life Cristabel had warned her was imminent.
She yearned to paint him, to see his face again, even if lifeless and made by her own hand. But she refused to do it; shewould not be mastered by her feelings for him if he was intent on only teasing her! The chilly indifference of his letter lingered like the last hard frost of winter.
Downstairs, they discussed the garlands for Christmas Eve, listened to Bridger’s stories of London, laughed, sang songs, lit candles, and prepared for the holiday with the boisterous spirit it normally engendered. Maggie had finished her novel and kept Winny company in the drawing room while Winny embellished their old gowns for Ann’s Christmas Day benefit. There was no beef, and nobody seemed to mind, while upstairs Violet painted until her hands cramped.
If she wanted a life outside of Beadle Cottage, she would have to scratch it together herself.
18
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Hamlet—Act 1, Scene 3
“It’s fine work, Gordon, incredibly fine work.” Alasdair ran the flat of his hand along the ashlar wall, admiring the perfect seam where the cornice protruded. Standing back, squinting beneath his hat against the bright, pale gray sky, he recognized Clafton Hall. It was the place of memory itself, right down to the pieces kept from a fifteenth-century Norman castle.
“This hill looks complete now,” said Gordon. “Nearly. Close, Mr. Kerr! Very close!”
Unfinished or not, it was inevitable now. Clafton Hall rose to preside over the slopes and pond and streams again. Another month or two of work and he could start filling it with art from their storehouses in London. The limestone gleamed. Each of the three wings on the five-bay, three-story building was finished with a slate tile roof and rendered chimney stack; the entry and windows faced south toward the pond andstream that cut the border between the Richmond property and his.
Voices, low with disagreement, arrived from the other side of the build site. Just as Alasdair began assigning them to Robert and Lillian Daly, the first fat, spinning snowflakes began to fall. He stepped back from the wall, held out his hand, and watched a flake land on his glove, comically perfect, a many-pointed star with sparkling bridges and designs that soon became no more than a tiny puddle.
“I say, this is quite the climb, and I did not dress for it!” Robert exclaimed, huffing with effort as he appeared along the right wing of the house. He stabbed his cane into the ground with annoyance, resting one knuckle on his hip as he came to a stop.
“It’s refreshing to take in the air after that long carriage journey—”
“Be quiet, Lillian. I’m rumpled and without a brandy. It’s clearly your fault. Ah! There you are, old friend! We’ve quite scaled the Matterhorn to find you!” Robert crowed with laughter beneath the narrow brim of his black hat, gesturing his wife forward as they came to join Alasdair and Gordon beneath the swirling dance of snowflakes.
Alasdair took a moment to introduce Robert and Lillian to Gordon, who didn’t seem at all impressed by their London fashions and manners.
“Work to do,” Gordon said, excusing himself. “Get what we can covered before the snow gathers and send the lads home for Christmas Eve.”
“You’re just in time to see our luck run out,” said Alasdair, glowering up at the sky. “I was convinced we would finish before the first snow.”
“You must be disappointed, Mr. Kerr, how awful,” Lillianconsoled him quietly. She had been considered a magnificent beauty in her debut season, though years of marriage to Robert had tarnished her like a well-worn necklace. Still, behind that influence one could detect the sweetness of a young lady who had spent most of her youth smiling. A sharp, feline cleverness hid behind the English roses blooming in her cheeks. It appeared in flashes when she glanced at Robert and a suggestion of something more wild, more stalwart emerged.
“Awful? Don’t be silly, wife. This is precisely what you wanted—your sugared treat forest for Christmas.” Robert took a single glance at Clafton, Alasdair’s most prized achievement, and started back toward Sampson.
“I didn’t want it at the expense of your dreams, sir,” Lillian said in an undertone. Alasdair walked beside her as they returned to Sampson. “And I said I hoped we might enjoy a forest dusted with winter sugar. He never remembers a thing I say.”
“I only recall things worth remembering!” Robert called grumpily from up ahead.
