Page 67 of These Violet Delights
I remain yours.
In her passion for him, in her impatience, it was becoming harder and harder to believe.
“How hard is it to send one stupid letter?” she shrieked, throwingTwelfth Nightacross the room and going restlessly to put out the candles. Ann had assuaged her with various explanations. The roads were still terrible from the weather, first the snow and then the melting. Perhaps this business he had spoken of required his undivided attention. Maybe hehadsent word, but the post had been stolen or otherwise destroyed. And Emilia watched it all with the silent, gloating impassivity of an oracle.
The second week of January, a letter arrived for Violet at Pressmore. The exaltation she felt was short-lived, for it was not from Alasdair, but from Cristabel Bilbury.
“At leastsheremembers I exist,” Violet muttered, trying to be happy about receiving correspondence. She was surprised to find a few coins jangling in the flaps of the letter as she unfolded it. Ann and Emilia joined her to hear news from Cristabel, the ladies sitting in their usual sunny drawing room where they liked to peruse the post and eat their breakfast.
“Four shillings,” Violet said, counting out the money. “She says she found buyers for some of the ink studies I made while my burns were healing.”
“How marvelous!” Ann clapped with excitement. “Your first sale as an artist—Violet, you must be so proud! Though not as proud as I am. I knew it would be a stroke of genius to introduce you to Cristabel. And what a result we have achieved!”
“Marvelous, indeed,” said Emilia, still resonating with that odd, knowing peace. “It’s a sign, isn’t it? A sign you can make your own way.” Her voice darkened with significance. “Sweep aside that which doesn’t gladden your heart.”
“Ridiculous, she will never have to,” Ann chided. “You have given up on Mr. Kerr too soon, Emilia, and I will not let the flame go out.”
Violet sat dumbstruck, feeling the weight of the coins in her hand. It really was incredible.
“Beef,” she murmured.
“What, darling?” Ann asked, having taken the letter for herself to read.
Violet didn’t answer. That night, Ann organized a bonfire outside to celebrate Lohri, a festival her family had observed when they were still living in Lakhnau. The Ardens took advantage of the warm day and walked up to Pressmore to join in. Ann and Emilia sang songs about the folk hero Dulla Bhatti, and afterward, the bonfire dyeing her hair red and gold, Ann explained his story, how he had rescued girls from slave markets, and that two of those young ladies, Sundri and Mundri, were also part of the legend and the songs.
I remain yours.
Violet’s attention climbed above the bonfire to Clafton on the hill, silhouetted there like a sentinel, solemn and empty as they both waited for its master.
I’m not the waiting kind; tomorrow I will get back to painting.
She was sick of feeling pathetic. Cristabel would have choice words for Violet if she knew the young lady was wasting her time pining over a man. He had said he would send word, he had said he would return, and Violet would simply have to believe him and content herself with that belief.
The next morning, she dressed warmly and walked back to Beadle Cottage, presenting her mother with the four shillings. There was a spark of hope in Mrs. Arden’s eyes that made Violet’s heart clench. Pride. She didn’t say what she wanted to, that she had never been a lost cause, even if everyone feared she had become one.
“This is just the start,” she promised her mother, asking if they could use it to buy beef.There will be more than that, much more; Mr. Kerr will marry me, and our lives will change for the better.
When Violet returned that afternoon to Pressmore, Ann and Lane were waiting to pounce on her. They descended on her almost as soon as she made herself known in the front hall. Ann’s hands were crimson from being wrung out so persistently, and she couldn’t meet Violet’s eye. “Darling, something was delivered in the night. Perhaps it would be better if we just described it, and you did not have to see it yourself.”
“I agree,” Lane said stiffly. He was almost never this grave. “There’s no reason for you to see it.”
“See what?” Violet was still handing her bonnet and cloak off to a servant. “What are you talking about? The scarier you make it sound, the more I want to see it.”
“I should’ve considered that,” said Lane with a sigh. He gestured for Violet to follow them. They had sequestered the object in an upstairs library where Lane conducted most of his private business for the estate. Amidst bookcases, cabinets, andthe odd globe sat a painting tipped against an obliging table leg. Someone had covered it with a cloth as if to make it a grand surprise, or, given how Ann and Lane were behaving, for modesty.
“Here, darling,” said Ann, holding her hand while Lane strode forward and whisked the cloth off the painting.
It took Violet a moment to absorb what she was seeing. She recognized her self-portrait, the one she had left behind in the ruins of Clafton, the one Alasdair claimed to have taken and kept safe. But here it was, returned, yet defaced with a broad, garish smear of scarlet paint. Her eyes had been dug into with a blade, and the wordwhorewas splashed across the piece in that horrible red paint.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured, frozen.
“Come away from it,” Ann whispered, trying to guide Violet by the shoulders back to the door. But Violet wouldn’t let her. She went on staring at it, at the painting that had, by her own measure, been one of the finer examples of her skill. It felt like a dream. Her hands and feet went numb.
Alasdair had been the one to have this last. It was like icy water splashing on her face. Violet tore herself out of Ann’s grasp and rushed out into the hall.
“There’s an explanation for this,” Violet declared. “And I will have it.”
Ann and Lane tried to stop her a polite number of times, Ann even verging on the hysterical. Carriages, at last, were offered. Violet declined. She couldn’t do nothing, just sit and take this kind of insult. If she wasn’t the waiting kind, then she wasn’t a sit-and-take-it sort either.
