Page 2 of These Violet Delights
Quelle surprise.
That nobody had noticed their budding and, frankly, flagrant romance over the last six months was due in large part to her cousin, Lane Richmond, for his wife had struggled with a difficult pregnancy. All eyes, prayers, love, and care had gone to the young couple, and with mother and child now safe, only recently had anyone in their circle begun to question why Violet Arden, known to be theatrical but never diligent, had all but sprouted paintbrushes from her fingertips and devoted herself to practice.
“What chance!” cried Winny, arriving and greeting her sisters with her usual overflowing cheerfulness.
“Winny, dear, we were all invited,” Maggie pointed out.
“Yet it is always to be enjoyed, is it not? And remarked upon—when a family can reunite in health and in joyful circumstances.”
Winny, rosy-cheeked and cherubic as the sugar-paste baby that had hovered beneath Violet and Renaud’s meeting, looked as well and ample as she always did. With all her might, Violet tried to hang on to that phrase she had just used: joyful circumstances. Yes.Joyful.This was meant to be Violet’s first foray into being taken seriously as an artist, or as seriously as a female artist could be taken. Only, it was not her ascensionalone; Renaud Moncelle of Mont-de-Marsan, then Veneto, then Paris, close personal companion of a close personal companion of Hortense Haudebourt-Lescot, was meant to share in Violet’s triumph.
And, more notably, he was meant to arrive ages ago. The man of the hour was more than an hour late. More than two.
Violet knitted her hands together, nervously pressing the fabric of her gloves until the grooves between her fingers were wet with sweat. Renaud was no stranger to a saucy cup (or four) of wine before an evening’s entertainment, but he also never resisted an opportunity to be adored.
So where was he?
“Oh, just look at your darling paintings,” said Winny, drifting toward the art. One of Violet’s watercolors of a basket of fruit on a sill was positioned to the right and slightly below Renaud’s rendition of a nearly identical collection of apples. “I thought you preferred portraits, Violet.”
“I do,” she replied, stealing anxious glances at the archway behind them. “But Ren—Monsieur Moncelle insists that I am not ready, and it is better to master still lifes and landscapes first.”
“And you listened?” Winny giggled and craned her neck, her nose perilously close to the canvas. “This bauble you painted here has real charm…”
Violet stared at her sister in disbelief. “Winny, that’s a grape.”
“Oh! I knew that! I was teasing.” She was not, and rarely did. “ ’Tis…perfectly discernible, confidently a grape.”
Violet snatched the fan out of Maggie’s hands and attempted to cool herself. While Winny was swept away by the grapes, Maggie loomed over Violet’s left shoulder. Aunt Eliza entered the salon with a retinue that included her short,maudlin husband, Mr. Burton, who had always reminded Violet of a perfectly round robin. His garish red cravat made the similarity all the more striking.
Their aunt, predominately neck and slender as a swan, luminous in her jewels, turned to address the smattering of well-dressed friends that she had gathered. “Oh, yes,” she was saying to them, in answer to some unheard question. “Miss Violet is quite eligible. She is the great beauty of the family, and this brief detour into daubery will be forgotten once the right proposal comes along. This is merely an announcing of her many accomplishments!”
“Ignore her,” said Maggie, bristling. “I think it’s marvelous that we have all found our art—Winny has her stitching, of course, and I have my books, and you are becoming a more accomplished painter every day.”
Violet barely heard her. The blood had risen to her ears and begun to pound, first distantly and now with the ferocity of a regiment passing through the parlor. It felt like her toes were vibrating in her shoes. She was aware of the guests moving around her, though all their faces had blurred away to nothingness.
“Mm,” she murmured, feeling how hoarse she was becoming. A single bead of sweat traced the line from the damp black curls at her nape to the shallow hollow at the base of her spine. She shivered. “Yes, the Arden girls never could make it easy on themselves…”
This was unbearable. She had to confess. She had to tell someone, for Violet had never excelled at keeping her mouth shut and was even clumsier about keeping secrets. Maggie had been so distracted by writing her follow-up toThe Killbrideand so concerned about Ann Richmond’s health that Violet’s obsession with Renaud had escaped even her notice. And Winny…Well. Winny never noticed much of anything, and they loved her for it.
“What are you talking about?” Maggie asked, coming around to face Violet. She was the littlest bit taller and used that to her advantage, staring down into Violet’s periwinkle-blue eyes with sudden intensity, an edge known only to elder siblings. “Violet, you’re turning green.”
“But where is Monsieur Moncelle? You know I detest to wait upon a Frenchman.” Aunt Eliza was sighing, casting her queenly gaze into every corner of the place.
“Come to think of it, haven’t seen the man all evening,” Mr. Burton added with a winded huff.
“I—We—Oh, Maggie, I’ve been so foolish,” said Violet. It was all coming out in a rush. Every guest surged closer, as if they meant to pile on top of her.
“Will someone search throughout the house, please?” Aunt Eliza was trying to summon a footman for just this purpose. “These artists, so prone to wandering, utterly imprisoned by their whims. I should have chained him to the punch table!” Her hot beam of a gaze fell on Violet, unblinking, as if daring the young lady to move a muscle.Stay right where you are.
But Violet couldn’t have fled, though she desperately wanted to.
“More foolish than usual, I mean,” Violet stumbled on, avoiding Maggie’s searching eyes. “I meant to tell you and Winny before this, and Renaud was going to be here with me. I was going to tell you everything, and if he was telling the truth, then he was going to d-declare…declare that he’s seeking my hand—”
The footman had just started through the arch that led to the lofty front hall when a body collided with him, coming in haste from the opposite direction. The footman’s wig flew offas he tumbled into one side of the arch, and a ripple of noise spread across the party, a rising tide of gasps and shrieks, as a young woman forced her way in.
“No! Oh! Corbyn, who is this person?” Mr. Burton was already on his way toward the stranger.
Somehow, Violet knew what this was before it even began. The widening pit in her stomach whispered with terrible prophecy. Two footmen stormed in from the front hall and tried to grab the young woman, but she wrenched her arms free.
