Page 68 of These Violet Delights
“The air will do me good,” she told them, and went on her way.
It was a two-mile walk to Sampson Park. Violet was hotand frothing by the time she made it there. Every part of her revolted at the idea of actually going up to the door. Confrontation on her own behalf was torture; if her sisters or friends were threatened, she would hurl herself at the problem with abandon. But this was different. It washerpride on the line.
Her broken heart. The brief surge of pride from that morning was gone; the pain had stolen that, too.
She was met with the unblinking gaze of a deeply unimpressed footman. Violet squirmed in her shoes, which had become wet and clinging from the slushy terrain.
“Is Mr. Kerr at home?” she asked. “Could you tell him Miss Arden is here to see him?”
“Mr. Kerr is not currently receiving callers.”
“I see.”
“Would you like me to relay any specific message?”
Violet squished from side to side; it was suddenly difficult to breathe. The thick sludge of mucus running down the back of her throat was choking her. She had to sniffle constantly to keep a string of unsightly goop from running out of her nostrils. The footman was coaxed aside, and Violet was saved from answering. An older woman with a fluffy white lace cap and a burgundy-colored velvet shawl shuffled into view. The house behind her was dark and oppressively hot. The warmth called seductively to Violet, whose teeth had begun to chatter.
“You must be the Arden girl,” said the woman, presumably Lady Edith. In that tone, the wordgirlsounded like an accusation.
With a curtsy, Violet forced herself to remember that she could one day be related to this person. First impressions mattered.And here I am, teeth rattling, covered in my own snot, sweating a river beneath this woolen cloak.“How do you do?”
“Poorly, child, very poorly. You have the pleasure of standingbefore Lady Edith Kerr, though of course you know that.” She heaved a tremendous sigh rich with noble exasperation and withdrew a folded note from her shawl. Presenting it to Violet, she continued, “I know why you are here. My son will not see you. His feelings, I hope, have been made abundantly clear.”
“He didn’t ruin my painting like that,” Violet replied, lifting her chin. “He wouldn’t.”
Lady Edith’s left brow twitched. “Be as stubborn as you please; it will not change the truth.”
“Iknowthe truth.”
“Do you?” Lady Edith gave a short, cold laugh. “This letter should cast aside any remaining hopes you might have. Read it now.”
Violet trembled under her cloak, taking the letter and reading it with watery, freezing eyes.
My dear Mr. Kerr,
It will be Christmas when you receive this, and I will be thinking of you fondly. Do you remember last winter in Vienna, when we strolled the Innere Stadt and I took you to my favorite fountain? There was a man with the funniest little dog, and he fell right into the waters of the Donnerbrunnen chasing it away from the edge…
Sickness surged up her throat. Her vision blurred as the tears came. The woman’s hand was unbelievably elegant, the penmanship of an angel. She finished reading. Julianna. Even her name was like delicate music.
“This could…this could mean anything,” Violet murmured.I know the truth.
“You will note the date writ down there,” said Lady Edith, satisfied. “What day is it today, child?”
“The thirteenth of January,” Violet whispered.
“He was sure to be in London before the seventh,” Lady Edith said with a smile. “Do not let it come as a great blow. I hear you have some skill with painting, and that should be a consolation. Hope is dangerous, child; hope will not serve where practicality is needed.” She waited for Violet to return the letter. Violet almost dropped it, her mind moving so fast it used up what little vigor she had left. Lady Edith tilted her head to the side, regarding Violet as if she were an urchin that had come begging for twelvepence. “You are an Arden, in my mind as good as a Richmond, a comparison I make with no respect. Forget him, as he is certain to forget you.”
The butler returned, and, without warning, the door was slammed in Violet’s face.
It was dark by the time she neared Pressmore. Her feet felt like chunks of ice in her shoes, but she couldn’t make herself move quickly. The realizations came in waves. He saw this Julianna person when he was in London buying Violet her gift of paints and the easel. With the one hand, he courted the refined Miss Julianna, and with the other, he spoiled the woman of no real reputation. The message was clear, as clear as the word slashed in red paint across her ruined self-portrait.
When she was greeted in the front hall, Ann felt her cheeks and exclaimed in fear. They needed to warm her up, and fast. Violet let them fuss; they bustled her here and there, but she was not aware of any of it.
She had lost him, and with that loss came the understanding that her aunts had been right—that a man like Mr. Kerr would never see Violet as an equal, or a viable companion.Emilia watched her from the corner while Ann scooted Violet’s feet right up to the fire. Something passed between the women then, an understanding, a bond. Violet stared into Emilia’s eyes for a long time and let the truth come.
“Could someone please remove the painting from my easel in the gallery?” Violet asked, shocked at the roughness of her own voice. “Shove it in the fire, leave it in the snow, I care not. I just never want to lay eyes on it again.”
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