Page 58 of These Violet Delights
“Well, Mr. Kerr, I suppose that somewhat lessens the sting of what you said about my work,” Violet said, clearing the husk out of her voice with an awkward cough. “Thank you. I’m…surprised and flattered and humbled, which is a lot of things to be all at once.”
She could kiss him for his gallantry. Shewouldkiss him, she decided, for more reasons than that.
—
Not long after the auction concluded, it became evident to the staff at Pressmore, and then the guests, that the roads had become quite impossible. Indeed, impassable. Several feet of snow had fallen, and until the deluge stopped, or something could be done about it, it was unsafe for anyone to chance their journeys home. Accommodations would be made, naturally, and everyone comfortably housed for the night.
Many of the guests took that as permission to continue the drinking and dancing until dawn, for now that they were all hostages of the snow—musicians included—what could be done? Violet and her sisters accepted this unspoken invitation to excess, dancing themselves to the point of exhaustion, roses shining in their cheeks as the rules of partnership broke down, tipsy precepts taking precedent. With no desire to dance, Alasdair watched the ladies from the edge of the ballroom, glad to help finish off the last of the punch while Margaret Darrow’shusband walked him through the ins and outs of their publishing ventures.
Darrow was an all-right fellow, if a bit long-winded, but Alasdair was content to sip and listen, though his eye wandered often to the left, where Violet swung arm in arm with her sisters and friends. Even Emilia allowed herself to be taken by the spirit of the holiday. Looking around, at the guests slumped sleepy and satisfied in chairs, at Ann still soliciting donations even as dawn approached, at Mr. Lavin shaking every available hand, at Mrs. Richmond, who had resigned herself to ignoring him (fair enough), and at Violet—the unexpected toast of the night with her triumphant auction—he was filled with…sadness. Sadness that he had been lied to about these people. Sadness that he had been kept from this place, a font of warmth and hospitality.
Sadness that his mother had taken their boat away one summer’s day, long ago, and deprived Alasdair of what might have been the defining friendship of his life.
At last, Violet noticed him watching her. She detached from her sisters and hurried over, her skin glowing from the exercise.
“Now, now, Bridger. You mustn’t talk Mr. Kerr’s ears off until I have a chance to paint them,” said Violet, beaming at them. “I’ve left her without a partner, you should go to her rescue.”
Bridger Darrow ran both hands through his thick, dark hair, squared his shoulders, and marched off to do just that.
The quality of the music was deteriorating as the musicians tired themselves out, and Alasdair wished to be elsewhere. Somewhere quiet. Private. He left his punch cup on a table and moved to Violet’s side, casting his gaze around the ballroom. “Ithought you might show me your favorite painting in the house.”
“Absolutely I would!” she cried, sounding genuinely as if nothing in the world would make her happier.
“You…already have one in mind?”
“Of course I do.” Turning on her heel, she led him back out to the front hall, then toward a set of doors that presided over a library. The interior was every imaginable shade of blue; even the sconces pulsed like witch fire, the cool, serene embrace of all that blue giving the impression one was somehow underwater, in a mermaid’s hidden den filled with books, globes, and art. Ahead, a curved bay pushed out toward the lawn, the designs in the window glass throwing the crisp moonlight across the rug in unpredictable shards.
Violet went to stand beside a tall, worn cupboard, the space between it and a bookcase to the left occupied by a small framed sketch. The paper was yellowed and the figure drawn upon it inexpertly rendered. Yet it appealed in its simplicity and in the love for the subject.
“It’s me in the hedge maze as a girl,” Violet explained. “My father drew it and gave it to Mr. Richmond before he died. Well, before they both died. Obviously. Maybe it’s vain that I love it so much. Papa wasn’t much of an artist, but I could look at it for hours. I must seem sentimental, to choose this over the portraits and landscapes by far more accomplished artists, but none of them touch my heart the way this does.”
“His affection for you is obvious,” Alasdair replied, not finding it overly sentimental at all. She could be so headstrong; to see the softness beneath her bold exterior was a welcome change. Reaching over her head, he pointed to a curling line swooshing over her ear. “This mark, the way the curve of thehair accentuates your cheek…perhaps he was not a studied artist, but that demonstrates an instinctual skill.”
Violet nodded along to his words. “I often wonder if he would be proud of us. Our lives were thrown into disarray when he died. I hope he would understand we’ve all done the best we can. I…I think he would, I don’t know.” She turned toward him, still in that gently wondering aspect, her eyes bright as she tilted her head to the side. “What was Sir Jonathan like?”
“I once heard him described as a circus bear who got into the port.” Alasdair chuckled fondly. “He could make even the most miserable devil crack a smile. He filled every room he walked into, always drawing an audience for his stories. Yet I know there were sides to him we never saw. He was knighted for his services during the war, and a man can’t walk away from something like that without incurring a few scars.”
“He would be proud, Alasdair. You’re everything a gentleman should be.”
He smiled faintly. “That may be so, but it takes a toll to wear a mask, to never show your true self to anyone. Until lately, of course.”
“Lately?” She pressed her hand to her throat. “Me?”
Taking her by the waist, Alasdair led her to the sofa curved along the bend of the windows. When she was sitting, he reached down and carefully cupped the elegant line of her jaw. “Who else?”
Alasdair nestled beside her, drawing her into him, stroking his thumb along her lower lip before raising her face to meet his kiss. Her breath fogged his spectacles, and they both laughed before Violet’s eyes snapped wide open.
“Oh no,” she whispered, wrenching her head from his grasp.
“Violet? Was that…Have I misjudged—”
“No! No. I just realized I can’t paint you!” she groaned.
“Why not?”
“I promised myself I wouldn’t do exactly that, or paint any man, really, but that does make this auction business very awkward.” She sighed and shook her head. “I didn’t consider I might one day come to like your company.”
He leaned back on the sofa and scrubbed his face with one hand. “That is grave, indeed.”
