Page 66 of These Violet Delights
“Is that what you told Cousin Muriel when she was sent away to be forgotten?”
A muscle fluttered under Lady Edith’s left cheek. “I did not think you would remember her.”
“How could I not, when I see now that I am so like her? Yet of the two of us, she is the less cowardly, refusing to comfort you all with a mask of civility, becoming the victim of your judgment and discomfort.”
Alasdair refused to accept it. He hurried to his desk, ripping the paper in his panicked haste to begin a letter to Violet. His mind began to work quickly, spinning, spinning, spinning, churning toward the narrow margin for success he hoped existed. The most important thing was to stop Danforth, make sure Mr. Finny hadn’t given him the keys to the kingdom in London, then return him to jail. Afterward, he could make the arrangements for his marriage to Violet. His eyes filled with hot tears; all those works of art he had loved and curated, all the beautiful things he had expected to show her…
“What are you doing?” Lady Edith asked from her cold throne.
“Fixing this,” Alasdair hissed, scribbling furiously.
“He has had weeks to make his arrangements.”
“Then I will undo them in a day if I must!” Alasdair shouted, throwing the pen across the room as he finished the letter. It was short and insane, but it would have to suffice. He called for his valet—there was still so much to do, and time was unavailingly short. An hour would come later, likely on the road to London, when he could make sense of everything his mother had said. For now there was only the urgency.
As he left his bedchamber behind, he paused in the doorway, sparing a single glance at Lady Edith. “When I return, that painting will be returned. Violet Arden will be my wife, and the name John Danforth will never be spoken in this house again.”
23
Our doubts are traitors
And makes us lose the good we oft might win
By fearing to attempt.
Measure for Measure—Act 1, Scene 4
Miss Arden,
Regretfully, there is urgent business in London that requires my attention. I must ask for your patience until I return, though I do not know when that might be. Please forgive the haste and brevity of this note.
I remain yours,
A. Kerr
The letter trembled in Violet’s grasp. She read it several times before the man who had brought it from Sampson Park was at the end of the drive. It felt like Alasdair had been there mere hours ago, yet in truth a day had passed since his departure. Perhaps thinking of him every moment made him seem closer.
Someone had come up silently behind her and read the noteover her shoulder. Emilia. Violet turned and dropped the letter down to her waist. She expected smugness, maybe, or anger, but Emilia’s head drooped as she gestured to the note.
“Time passes and I become convinced you and Aunt Mildred were right,” she said. What sparkle remained in her brown eyes was sharp with fury. “Well, you were until you disregarded your own advice. I told you to be careful.”
“Mr. Kerr and his brother are nothing alike.”
“Are they not?” Emilia huffed a bitter laugh. Her black hair was swept efficiently back from her forehead, contained by a thick red velvet ribbon, her knit gray shawl as protective and concealing as a chain-mail cowl. A foreboding cold slithered through Violet’s stomach. “They make you fall in love with them, take your innocence and call it shared pleasure, then disappear to deceive the next lady.”
“Take your—” Violet shivered. She lowered her voice carefully. “Was it you who saw us that night?”
The fury in Emilia’s eyes dimmed somewhat. “No, that was Fanny, but she tells me and Ann everything. She won’t tattle to anyone else; I warned her not to.” She offered her hand, palm up. “Let us be friends again, Violet. We were led astray, but there’s strength and comfort in solidarity.”
Misery does love company, but I am not miserable yet.
Violet took the proffered hand. “I will always be your friend, Emilia, but I will wait to hear from Mr. Kerr again before seeking that kind of solidarity.”
With her other hand, Emilia touched Violet’s shoulder, and she held her chin high, that little sweep of her fingers containing the magnanimity and pity of a woman far beyond her years. “Oh, Violet. I wish it could be otherwise, but you will see. It will break my heart to watch it; that’s well enough, I’m accustomed to heartbreak now.”
A restless day became a week; a week became two. The wordsI remain yourshad never bowed or bent so as they did when buttressing Violet’s heavy hopes. Nervous to transport the painting and risk damaging it, Violet was allowed to stay at Pressmore, given her usual room, and she was subsequently watched with increasingly condoling eyes as Mr. Kerr did not return or send word. The boughs and wreaths came down on Twelfth Night, and Violet remained awake in bed until very late, reading the whole of the play by the same name.
Journeys end in lovers meeting,she read, cleaving to the phrase.
