Page 54 of These Violet Delights
Robert’s ghoulish, spearing smile pricked the right spot. The boughs and the candles and the roar of the burning Yule log fell away. A verse came to mind, perhaps a different sort ofgift from the multitude of biblical figures pinned to the walls all around him.
And immediately there fell from his eyes as it had been scales: and he received sight forthwith…
They didn’t know her. By God, they didn’t know the first thing about her.
Alasdair saw his chance and took it. He handed Robert the painting and swiftly left the drawing room and took the stairs three at a time. In his bedchamber, he watched the snow falling for a time, trying to summon the courage to do what he had already decided upon. Just being alone was a relief; he hadn’t realized how hot and panicked he had become. But if one more unfair, unfeeling thing was said about Violet Arden, he might have put Robert’s head through that painting.
Returning to the front hall, he called for Eades, but not to find Robert’s infernal bucket. Instead, he asked for his horse to be made ready and for his gloves, overcoat, and hat. Good gloves, sturdy ones for the weather, and boots that could withstand the snow. By and by, the others in the house trickled into the front hall to see where he had gone. They had all of them gathered—Lady Edith with help from Freddie—when he grabbed his cane and ducked out the front doors.
“Alasdair! What’s come over you, old friend?” Robert called, laughing.
He paused just long enough to tell them the truth. “It’s horrid here, and I’m afraid I can’t stay. Happy Christmas to you all, but I really must go.”
Robert’s nervous laughter followed him out into the white swirl of snow blowing in playful bursts across the drive. Perhaps a foot or so of accumulation piled around the edges of the house and obscured the finer points of the garden and road. It was no matter; Alasdair knew the way.
He mounted his horse and trotted off into the snow. His family called after him, but he didn’t care; he had somewhere far more pressing to be.
19
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.
Romeo and Juliet—Act 1, Scene 5
“Please, I’m begging you, Maggie. Go look.”
“For the last time: no! I promised Bridger the next dance. Have Winny do it for you.”
Violet wrung her hands until it hurt, peering into the gallery running alongside the north wall of Pressmore. Behind them, the dancing was in full swing, partners skipping up to each other, skimming hands, sharing glances, then parting once more. The quartet and their insistence on reels, vigorous and soaring, was beginning to give her a headache. The gallery, ordinarily a place for calm reflection or an amiable conversation, had become the very nexus of fear.
“Winny is too tender, I would never make her deliver bad news,” said Violet, pleading. She clung to Maggie, who was already trying to escape from her.
“I haven’t been paying attention to the auction at all, and whywould I? I’ve no money to spend on anything, and my book isn’t popular enough to even be a prize.” Maggie relented and took Violet by both hands, squeezing her fingers through the damp silk of her gloves. Maggie was resplendent in her red gown; the new gold braid Winny had added along the neckline dazzled under the chandeliers. “Someone will place a bid, Violet, even if it must be me. I hope you are prepared to paint me for a shilling.” Maggie lifted Violet’s head with a light push under her chin.
Violet forced a smile for her sister. “It would be the most I’ve ever made.” Just as quickly, she subsided into despair. “But it would be such a waste! I’ve been so diligent this month, and for what? For a pity shilling?”
“What are we bickering about, ladies? No matter the subject, I must offer an opinion.”
Miss Regina Applethwaite materialized as if blown in on a whisper of billowy snow. Icy as the storm battering the estate, she was a wealthy, delicate beauty and once rival to Maggie. They had set aside their misgivings for each other when Regina helped publish Maggie’s novel. Regina herself was a novelist of growing renown.
“Violet is going to pieces because nobody is bidding on her portrait sitting,” said Maggie.
“I knew it! You did look at the auction.”
“I would be more than willing to place a bid, Violet,” Regina offered, graciously lowering her eyelashes. “It will be sensational! You can paint Lucia and I together.”
Regina had arrived at Pressmore with a mysterious Spanish companion, an heiress who spoke little but communicated plenty with her penetrating eyes. Miss Lucia Ramos had been immediately enchanted by the playacted vignettes dotted around the property and was likely off watching one while Regina made her rounds.
“This is a far better solution,” said Maggie, visibly relieved. “Regina can offer the sort of sum your skill deserves, and I will not have to part with a hard-earned shilling. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I should like to dance with my husband.”
Maggie twisted away from them, bounding back into the ballroom, where another song was about to begin. The estate hadn’t hosted a crowd nearly this large since Ann and Lane’s lavish masquerade wedding. Many of those in attendance were barely acquaintances to Violet, but Ann and Lane maintained a robust social calendar; it was no surprise that so many guests had leapt at the chance to spend Christmas with the Richmonds. Like at all of Ann’s parties, there would be dancing and merriment until dawn.
“Come along,” said Regina, processing into the gallery and weaving among the tables and plinths showing the various prizes on offer. Violet was beginning to wish she hadn’t worn white with shining accents, for Regina had donned the same and made it look undeniably more fashionable. Regina was a woman of five and twenty, tall and slender, with the upright bearing and sky-high chin of a person confident in their good looks. Her very straight white-blond hair was swept beneath a festive silver turban. A few of the white feathers tucked into that headdress tickled Violet’s ear as Regina led her along. They passed a display with a first edition of Regina’s wildly popular book,Sable Falls,along with a personalized letter from her. The card laid out in front of the prize already showed a number of interested bidders. Regina sighed with satisfaction at the sight of it.
