Page 71 of These Violet Delights
Puck wasn’t finished with her, and Violet was forced to run away down the hillside toward the edge of the water, then follow it to the bridge at the edge of the forest. At last, Puck relented, trotting off with his prize piece of her skirt, his head held arrogantly high. As she took the narrow road north, her thoughts circled the major points she needed to make known to Alasdair. Mr. Kerr. She didn’t owe him familiarity. She had rehearsed the speech at night while she tried and failed to sleep. As the days went by, it had taken on a more vicious tone.
In these fantasies she concocted, she always came off incredibly well; Mr. Kerr listened and hung his head and had no rebuttal for her masterful enumeration of his many crimes. Also, her hair looked perfect, her skin unblemished.
Violet had whittled the speech down to a dangerously fine point by the time she took the curved road leading through the trees and up to Clafton. The terrain was too muddy and unknowable to go overland. The building site was abandoned; several carts of materials stood off to the right side, the ground churned and rutted from all the activity. She picked up her skirts (ruined, thanks to Puck) and tiptoed around the divots and puddles until she reached the front entrance. That light she had seen from afar was a single torch lit and stuck into the ground near the front doors. The unfinished mansion was otherwise dark and empty.
One door, however, was ajar, a clear invitation.
Violet plucked up her flagging courage and went inside.
She warned herself to remember her speech—it would be annoyingly difficult to keep her wits about her when Alasdair appeared.Mr. Kerr.When Mr. Kerr appeared. She insisted upon hating him, though the thought of his face, his sweet little spectacles, the blade-sharp jut of his jaw, and his quizzical brow made that a challenge. Violet tried to get her bearings inthe shadowy house, finding that a trail of candles had been left for her to follow. God, but that was romantic. No! She hated him, she told herself, carefully following the trail. She hated him, and she would not be undone by a wayward brown curl falling over his forehead just so, or—
Just don’t let him see the back of your dress; he will want to know why a goat had your skirt for dinner.
“Hello?” she called, finding her way up a curved staircase. As Alasdair had mentioned, the lower level was composed of ancient stone, the repurposed, sturdy base of a Norman castle. Her voice echoed for an eternity. She reached the second floor of the house, following the flickering lights away from the landing and to the left. They disappeared into an open door that led to what she assumed might be a small bedroom.
“Hello?” she called again. “Mr. Kerr, are you here? This is all very strange…”
Violet dipped around into the bedroom, finding it better lit and anything but empty. She registered first the profusion of lanterns scattered across the floor, then six dirty barrels lined up against the far wall beneath the window. At the back of the room, someone had haphazardly piled up an immense amount of art. She drifted toward the piles of art, bending down to see them better. Her throat tightened; some of these, if real, were priceless. What were they doing here? She tenderly righted a Bruegel, fearing that even that slight touch would somehow destroy it. “Stranger and stranger,” she whispered.
The door slammed with a bang behind her, and Violet startled to her feet. She spun to face whoever had come, finding it was not Mr. Kerr who had arrived but the vicar, Mr. Danforth.
“It is very strange,” the vicar agreed. “Strange that you should be treated so poorly by my brother and agree to meet him anyway. But—pardon my saying so—a woman in yoursituation has few options.” He was dressed not in his usual attire, but in a sweat-yellowed shirt, tattered coat, and brown breeches. Attired like this, he might have been any random porter or tradesman.
“Brother?” she asked. “Mr. Kerr is not your brother.”
“Is he not?” Danforth smiled and withdrew a pistol from the back of his breeches. He gestured with it toward a chair beneath the windows, just beside the barrels. “He did try to tell you the truth.”
Violet backed away from him, staring at the pistol, bumping into the chair with a tiny yelp. Carefully, she lowered herself down, feeling something there on the chair beneath her. She pulled it out, finding a letter. It was in many ways similar to the one she had received at Pressmore, with some significant differences. In it, Alasdair mentioned that there were several delicate family issues he needed to elaborate upon at their next meeting.Like having a secret brother, perhaps?
“My God,” she whispered. “How did you get this?”
“Everyone trusts a vicar,” Danforth said, shrugging, still aiming the weapon at her. He went and picked up one of the lit lanterns, then returned to the door. “I hope you understand, Miss Arden, that I personally have little against you. In fact, I love you in the way we should all be loved. You are one of God’s children, even if you are incredibly naïve and irritating. My part in things would never have been discovered if you hadn’t gotten involved.”
Violet shifted, holding the letter to her stomach. “The barrels, the art…What do you intend to do, Mr. Danforth?”
“I think you know, Miss Arden, for you may be naïve and irritating, but you are also clever. Cleansing fire. Cleansing fire to set my family free. Lady Edith has suffered enough.”
“Sir Jonathan had you out of wedlock.”
“Yes.”
“And the mother?”
“A maid at Pressmore.”
All the air rushed out of her. The feud. Of course. That was a great deal more serious than hedge maze envy. Now that she looked closer at Danforth, she saw the thin resemblance to Alasdair and Freddie. They had the same brow, the same curl to their hair.
“You defaced my painting,” she said, her jaw tightening.
“He did love you, intend to marry you,” Danforth replied. “Small consolation, I know. Forgive me.Forgive me.”
“I will. I’ll forgive you if you set this foolishness aside,” Violet lied. “Please. Please don’t do this.”
“It’s time. Lady Edith is not interested in pretending any longer, and I confess—I am tired, too.” Mr. Danforth went to the barrels, running his hand across the lids. “I am Sir Jonathan’s shame—all my life one man’s shame and another woman’s living reminder of it. Lady Edith did what she could for us both, but atonement comes in many forms. We tried,Itried. She took me in, doted on me; even that love was pain. Pain for us both. This way, the Kerrs will have a chance. Alasdair will marry Julianna, Freddie will take my place at the church, and Lady Edith will have peace. She has done everything for me, so now I must do everything for her, spare her the pain of her eldest son choosing to marry into the family that ruined her spirit.”
Violet shook her head, refusing to accept what the vicar proposed.
“This,” he said with a sigh, lowering his head and squeezing his eyes shut. “This is for her, to protect her from yet more pain. I always…I always removed whatever she didn’t like, whatever made her suffer. She deserves better.”
