Page 55 of These Violet Delights
“Now, where is your table, dear? Point the way. Shall we decide together on a sum that feels right? What would be suitably philanthropic without embarrassing you? Five pounds? Ten? You shouldn’t take the empty card personally, Violet, foreveryone expected a portrait by Bilbury, and you are not yet a known quantity.” Here, Regina paused and swept her fingertip across Violet’s nose. Violet had once found Regina’s natural condescension irritating, but it amused her now, for she knew that above all else, Regina cared about solidarity with others of her sex, and Violet admired that. Regina herself had put forward most of the funding for Maggie’s first novel. “You will appreciate, of course, that I saidyet.A shame nobody in this homespun backwater could appreciate her presence, which would have been elevating if they had the patience to see it.”
“It’s a disgrace how she was treated,” Violet muttered.
“Her paintings will endure,” said Regina, lifting the pen. “History will be the final judge.”
Maybe that was true. Maybe Cristabel’s time in Cray Arches was no more than a footnote in her life. She hadn’t written, and Violet felt silly suddenly for missing her. Perhaps Cristabel had already forgotten them. Could anyone blame her?
“A woman starts one measly fire and society throws a fit,” Regina said under her breath, still puzzling over what to bid. “If a male artist had done it, we’d be tying ourselves in knots making it part of his grand mythology rather than a career-ending scandal. God in heaven, Caravaggio killed a man in a brawl, and you don’t hear anyone whining about it.”
Before Regina could touch pen to paper, her companion, Miss Ramos, melted out from the shadows of the gallery. She was out of breath and clutching a black fan to her throat as she hurried toward them and took Regina’s hand. “There is the most delicious commotion in the front hall.” Her accent provided a slight purr on the Rs and a lisp on the sibilants in her sentences. There existed an air of the Old World about her, as though she ought to be painted with pigment and egg yolk on vellum, her exquisitely delicate, narrow face Van Eyck saintly.
“What sort of commotion?” Regina demanded.
“An unwelcome visitor,” said her companion. Her dark brown eyes sought Violet. “Your aunt does not want to let him in.”
Violet didn’t wait to hear more. Nobody except Miss Ramos seemed to care about the drama unfolding in the entry, so Violet weaved through clusters of bidders or those just standing in the gallery watching the snow gradually rise around them. The gallery ran the length of the posterior of the house, connecting to the smaller drawing room where Violet often had breakfast when she stayed. From there, it was a sharp right through the open doors leading to the front hall. There, a small number of people had gathered beneath the woodsy profusion of holly, ivy, and spruce hanging from pillar to pillar. Her aunt was present, out in front like a damask sentinel. Ann, Cousin Lane, Winny, Emilia, and several staff fanned out behind the elder Mrs. Richmond.
The grand doors were open onto the night. Violet hugged herself against the bracing cold that burst into the house with swirls of snow.
“You should have never invited him!” Mrs. Richmond was saying in a furious whisper to Ann. “Now I am forced to look ungracious before our guests. But he cannot cross this threshold! I will not allow it. Bloom, keep everyone away from here until the man is gone.”
The butler turned away to do her bidding, gently shooing guests back into the deeper rooms of the house.
Ann, arms crossed, did not seem to be backing down. “If this evening is to benefit the Florizel, then he is most welcome. It is he who provided the materials for the theater to be repaired. Mr. Lavin tells me more and more supplies arrive daily.”
“And so what? That is very kind of him, I suppose, but it has nothing to do with me,” Aunt Mildred replied.
“There must be something I can offer that would change your mind,” said Ann. She smiled her most persuasive smile, inching closer to Aunt Mildred. It was known among the family that the two women did not often see eye to eye; Mrs. Richmond considered Ann too flamboyant, too immodest, too foreign, and Ann knew her mother-in-law to be stringent, judgmental, and traditional. “Why don’t you redecorate the ballrooms this year? You can do whatever you like with them, and I will applaud all of your choices.”
Aunt Mildred’s mouth fell open in shock. Violet didn’t stay to hear her answer or entertain more bickering; she sidestepped the group and marched out into the freezing cold.
Nobody had come to assist Mr. Kerr, certainly by Aunt Mildred’s decree, and so he remained on horseback, turning in a circle while the beast grew impatient. It was almost midnight, and in the glow of that soft hour and the steadiness of the snow, he made a moving picture. Aunt Mildred called after her, insisting she return, that she would catch her death, et cetera, but Violet ignored her. It didn’t seem possible that Mr. Kerr had come. They had met like this in the early autumn, when all the natural world was beginning its change, but then she had been startled by him and frightened; now she wanted nothing more than to believe it was really him and that he had come for her, despite it all.
Violet shouted for a groom. Aunt Mildred must have been pulled back into negotiations, for she did not protest, and a boy shot out from the dancing curtain of snowflakes obscuring the drive. Mr. Kerr reined his horse around and gazed down at her, a fine sparkle of melting white flashing off of his spectacles, which were fogged.
“I can hardly see you,” he said, pulling down the heavy cowl covering his mouth.
“You can join us inside now,” she said, relieved that the groom had come and Mr. Kerr could leap down from his horse, his boots leaving immense ruts in the snow. “How long did they keep you out here?”
“Long enough,” he said with a laugh, dusting a shelf of snow from each of his shoulders.
Violet led him to the doors, where Aunt Mildred guarded the way with a tight-lipped scowl. Mr. Kerr presented himself politely, and Bloom and two servants waited in the eaves to swoop in for gloves and hat, if directed.
“My daughter-in-law seems determined to have you in our home tonight,” announced Mrs. Richmond. Violet heard the wobble where she had nearly said “my home.” “Never let it be stated that I turned a Kerr away on Christmas.”
You tried hard to do exactly that.
Nobody pointed out the hypocrisy, and, led by Ann, a cheer went up for Aunt Mildred’s heroic sacrifice. The servants came forward to collect Mr. Kerr’s things, the seas parted—or, rather, everyone returned to their dancing, drinking, and game playing—and for a strange, suspended moment, Violet was more or less alone with him in the front hall.
“I thought you would be with your family this evening,” Violet began, picking at the ends of her gloves.
Both of his thick, dark eyebrows lifted in worry. “Should I have stayed away?”
“N-no!” Violet stumbled toward him, acutely aware of his size, his scent, the smell of leather and open sky clinging to his dark red coat. There was a subtle pattern of ivy leaves woven into his yellow waistcoat; her eyes lingered there as she triedto think of what to say. “Only…You gave no indication that your mind had changed when you wrote.”
Mr. Kerr—Alasdair—flinched and shook his head, the curled ends of his hair damp from melted snow. “I regret that letter. Could we talk of more pleasant things?”
Regret? Then perhaps it had not been naïve to hope. Violet gestured vaguely toward the inner rooms of the house. “Of course, Mr. Kerr. There are many pleasant things here tonight.”
