Haunting Violet

  When Lord Jasper left, I distracted myself by trailing my fingers over the leather bindings, skimming over the embossed titles. It would take a large dose of control for me not to lug a great big heavy pile of books upstairs to my room. Here was Jane Austen, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Lord Byron. Here was Alice in Wonderland, Frankenstein, King Arthur—friends, every one of them.

  I didn’t realize I was no longer alone until there was the sound of a throat being cleared. Xavier stood not three steps away in a new coat, with the chain of his pocket watch hanging just so.

  “I apologize for the intrusion, but Lord Jasper said I might find you here.”

  “You know very well it is for me to apologize,” I said, returning his smile. “I’m terribly sorry. I had a ghastly headache and, well, I don’t quite know what happened.”

  I knew exactly what had happened: wretched Tabitha.

  “Think nothing of it,” he said graciously. “I trust you are quite recovered?”

  “Yes, thank you.” There was a small silence. I wasn’t certain how to fill it. Elizabeth would have made a jest of some sort and Colin would have made teasing remarks. Xavier, however, probably thought I had delicate and cultivated sensibilities.

  “The gardens are lovely this morning,” he said finally, glancing out the window. The roses were fat and still damp with dew. A butterfly floated past. “Would you like to take a stroll?”

  His smile was sincere, his blond hair brushed back from a handsome brow. A walk would be lovely, uncomplicated. And it was kind of him to ask me, even after he’d had to wash jam out of his ear. My stomach tingled nervously, pleasantly, when he held out his arm to me. I laid my gloved hand over his cuff, just above his wrist. He smelled of soap and, faintly, strawberry jam. I could get used to the way he looked at me, with admiration.

  “Thank you, Mr. Trethewey, a turn about the garden should be lovely.” And he wasn’t likely to slip earthworms down the back of my dress, as Colin had. True, that had been six years ago, but still.

  It wasn’t until we passed the window that I noticed the books Lord Jasper had recommended: The Yearbook of Spiritualism for 1871, Spirit Drawings by William M. Wilkinson, History of the Supernatural by William Howitt, as well as pamphlets from numerous psychical and Spiritualist societies.

  It made perfect sense. He would assume, given my mother’s interests and his own, that I might be interested as well.

  And yet I couldn’t account for the barest of shivers that skittered like a nervous cat over my spine.

  Xavier didn’t notice, only led me outside where the swallows were dipping and diving over the hedges. It smelled like roses and rain and we meandered slowly along the path, as if I hadn’t thrown toast at him less than an hour before. I felt a little shy and couldn’t think of anything to say, but his company was pleasant. He guided me carefully around a puddle. We stopped at a stone bench under a hedge of lilac bushes. There was a large fountain with rabbits and herons dipping their stone feet in the cold water. Lily pads drifted in the basin.

  Xavier didn’t sit too near or try to kiss me—that would have been terribly ungentlemanly, and he was nothing if not polite. But his hand on the bench was near mine, his gloved finger nearly pressing against mine. The ruffles of my hem waved in the breeze, touching his leg.

  “Miss Willoughby, say you’ll join my parents and me for tea,” he finally blurted out. “I’ve told them all about you.”

  I licked my lips, my mouth feeling suddenly dry. I wasn’t sure I was ready for this. “Of course.”

  His hand closed over mine, gently. I turned my palm up under his. He smiled down at me. I tried to smile back.

  “Xavier … that is, Mr. Trethewey …” It was horribly awkward to have to discuss this, but I had no father to do it for me and Mother would lie. And asking Colin was just too mortifying even to contemplate.

  “Yes, Violet?”

  “I feel I ought to … that is …” I sighed, irritated with myself. There was no sense in having a fit of the vapors over simple facts. “I don’t have a dowry.”

  He looked briefly taken aback, but I couldn’t be sure if it was due to what I’d just told him or merely the blunt delivery of it.

  “Perhaps you no longer wish for me to take tea with your mother?” I pressed, my spine very straight, my expression as bland and amiable as I could make it, despite the uncomfortable burning beneath my breastbone.

  “Oh, Violet!” He clasped my hand to his chest, startling me. “You are quite ten times more beautiful than any other girl in England. Let that be your dowry!”

  I felt sure there was a compliment in there somewhere. I couldn’t say why it made me want to do something shocking, like slide down the banister or take off my shoes and itchy stockings and frolic in the fountain under the stone rabbits. I might be the one wearing the stifling corset, but Xavier would be the one to swoon if I did any such thing. He misunderstood my silence and picked a handful of roses for me with an eager smile.

  “Violet, Mother expects only a title or else some kind of fashionable coup she can lord over her friends,” he explained. Elizabeth was right about that then. “Your mother is the most famous medium in London right now,” he pointed out proudly. “And no one can deny your beauty.”

  That was the second time he mentioned my beauty. I should be flattered. A thorn pricked my thumb through my thin summer gloves.

  “Let’s go to them now,” he urged, “so you’ll know you needn’t worry. They’ll love you as I do.”

  He was earnest and dashing and I was a horrible girl. I should love him. Or I should at least feel the inclination for it. I felt only a vague sense of indulgence, as if he were a sweet boy. But maybe that was love, a soft slow feeling and not the passionate fiery melodrama of novels. Determined to make this work, I took his arm and we went back toward the house and his mother’s private sitting room.

  “Oh, my flowers!” I stopped so abruptly I nearly jerked him off his feet. His fine polished shoes must not have very good tread. He flushed under his collar. “I’ll be right back,” I promised him and turned back.

  I didn’t break into an undignified trot until after I’d gone past the hedges and was hidden from his view. The roses lay like a painted silk fan on the bench. I cradled them gently; they really were beautiful and the first I’d received from a boy. I couldn’t help a secret delighted smile as I buried my nose in them, careful to avoid the prickly thorns. They smelled like summer and perfume and sunlight. I’d have to remember to press them in a book when we got home—perhaps in my treasured copy of Jane Eyre, which I’d bought the day after we’d drugged Mrs. Gordon’s hot chocolate. I hadn’t been able to drink hot chocolate since.

  I took another deep breath of the roses, determined not to ruin the moment for myself.

  I had Colin for that, after all.

  “You’ll get a beetle up your nose,” he said. I jumped, dropping one of the roses.

  “Colin, for heaven’s sake. Were you hiding in the bushes?” Had he heard my conversation with Xavier? Did it matter?

  He dropped down from a low branch of an oak tree where he’d been lounging and looking up at the leaves. “I miss the green,” he said with a shrug. Sometimes I forgot that he hadn’t always lived in London. “And Jasper won’t thank you for stripping his gardens bare,” he pointed out, combing an oak leaf out of his dark hair. He wore his usual trousers and shirt. I’d seen him in them a hundred times before, but after so many starched collar points and cravats, the small vee of his bare throat and chest was distracting.

  “They were a gift,” I said.

  “Why would an old man—” He cut himself off, standing suddenly as straight as any duke. “Trethewey.”

  “Yes,” I replied, refusing to blush. “Aren’t they romantic?”

  His jaw clenched. “He’s in love with your pretty face and has no idea who you are, flash bastard that he is.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” I said stiffly. “Excuse me.”

  “Fin
e, then. Run after your prince.”

  I turned on my heel, grinding rose petals under my boots.

  “Violet, wait.”

  I frowned at him. “I don’t have time to bicker just now.”

  “Just be dog wise.”

  “Be careful of what?” Surely he couldn’t mean Xavier.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted, frustrated. “But I hear stories from the servants.”

  “Stories? About Xavier?” I pressed, doubtfully.

  “Aye, about this house and Jasper, even. I don’t think everything is as it seems.”

  “Lord Jasper is a kindly old gentleman, not to mention an earl. You can’t be serious.”

  “He’s a nice enough bloke, I reckon. But that doesn’t change the facts,” he insisted stubbornly. The dappled light made his blue eyes like water, mysterious and hard to read.

  I tilted my head. “You’ve never been the sort to jump at shadows.”

  “I’m not jumpy,” he grumbled. “Just cautious. And you should be too.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll be careful. I have to go.”

  He caught my hand as I turned to go. He wasn’t wearing gloves, of course, and I’d taken mine off so I wouldn’t stain them with the tiny thorn-induced wound on my thumb. “He’s not good enough for you.”

  “What?” I stared at him incredulously. “I’d say you have that backward. He’s from a good family. I’m not.” His fingers slid away from mine. A swallow darted past us. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have to go convince his mother that I’m not a desperate fortune hunter with a liar for a mother and a disgusting talent for drugging old ladies.”

  “No.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean, no? What’s the matter with you?”

  He just stepped closer to me, right on my shadow, which had been the only thing between us. His eyes were angry and conflicted but his hands were gentle on my face, wrapping around the back of my neck. He pulled slightly and I stumbled forward. His mouth closed over mine, the kiss sending warmth shooting all the way from my belly down into my knees. His tongue was bold, sliding over mine as if I were strawberry ice cream. I felt devoured, delicious, decadent.

  He stopped abruptly, pulling back, his breath ragged.

  “I’m not good enough for you either.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Xavier waited on the patio to lead me to a table in the corner of a deserted parlor. I repeated etiquette rules to myself as we crossed the wide expanse of the room, so that I wouldn’t replay Colin’s kiss in my head. I felt warm, too warm. Had Colin really just kissed me?

  A lady does not cross her feet when seated.

  And had I kissed him back, just as eagerly?

  A lady does not shake hands at a ball.

  “Mother, Father, allow me to introduce to you Miss Violet Willoughby,” Xavier said, stepping aside to present me as if I were a particularly shiny new toy. I had to force myself to pay attention.

  “Miss Willoughby,” his father said pleasantly, lowering his newspaper. He wore gold rings and a gold pin through his elaborate cravat. “How do you do?”

  I made a small curtsy, then immediately wondered if a short bow would have been more appropriate. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  Xavier beamed proudly. “Isn’t she just as beautiful as I said?”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Or where to look. My smile didn’t fit quite properly.

  “Xavier, you’re embarrassing the young lady,” his mother admonished. “Do sit down, Miss Willoughby.”

  “Thank you.” I tried not to flop onto the couch. Women always lowered themselves so gracefully. I had no idea how they managed it while wearing a corset. I nearly toppled over but caught myself by bracing my foot around the leg of the brocade chair. Xavier sat beside me, smiling.

  “I think Miss Willoughby loves hot chocolate best of all, don’t you, darling?” he asked, nodding to the silver tray in front of us.

  I wondered if he had me confused with another girl or if he just assumed all girls preferred chocolate. And if I had to drink chocolate now, I might be sick all over his mother’s very fine silk shoes with the embroidered buttons. My fingers ached at the sight of those buttons. I felt sorry for the poor seamstress who’d had to manage those stitches by gaslight.

  I swallowed thickly. “Tea would be lovely.”

  Blast.

  Did a lady remove her gloves to take tea or only at the dinner table? I couldn’t remember.

  “Milk or lemon?” Mrs. Trethewey’s dress was yellow and matched the gold curtains. Citrine stones dangled from her ears and hung heavy around her neck. Her gloves were folded primly next to her.

  I hurried to pull mine off, nearly elbowing Xavier in the kidney. “Lemon, please.”

  This was already the longest tea in the history of tea. The cup in my hand was painted with roses and doves.

  “Xavier tells us you are from London, Miss Willoughby.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Near Wimpole Street.”

  “Is that near the park?”

  “It’s not far,” I hedged, taking a hasty swallow of tea and burning my tongue. At home I’d have eaten a spoonful of sugar to soothe the burn. I could just imagine what Xavier and his parents’ reaction would be were I to dig into the sugar bowl. I nearly snorted a laugh right there at the painted table and shocked their elegant sensibilities.

  “Your mother is very popular there, I understand,” Mr. Trethewey said. “In the Spiritualist circles?”

  I nodded. “She is accounted a good medium, sir.”

  “Better than good,” Xavier bragged lightly. “I heard tell if this sitting of Lord Jasper’s goes well, there’s a duke who’s interested!”

  I’d hadn’t heard that rumor yet, and I sincerely hoped my mother never did.

  “And you’re from a good family, aren’t you?” Mrs. Trethewey asked, stirring her tea carefully so that the spoon never made a whisper of sound against the cup. I couldn’t recall if my spoon had clattered. Probably. “Who are your people?”

  The illustrious Willoughbys were confined to a series of portraits in the stairway at home, all lined up in a row to watch over us. Mother told people they were her husband’s ancestors, but the truth was, she’d found them behind a stall in Covent Garden one morning. My favorite was the old woman with her cocker spaniel, which was dressed ignominiously in a lacy white christening gown with a ridiculous pink bow on each floppy ear. I wasn’t sure Mrs. Trethewey would take to her.

  “Yes, my father died when I was very young,” I replied, not quite answering either question. Telling someone your father had died usually ended that particular train of conversation.

  “Oh dear, I’m very sorry,” Mrs. Trethewey said. “Have some more tea.”

  “And what do you do for pleasure?” Xavier’s father asked. “Horseback riding? Collect seashells? You’re not one of those rarefied girls afraid of a little exertion, are you?”

  I was the best pickpocket this side of London Bridge, I made an excellent plum pudding, and I knew how to string flowers on thread so they looked as if they were floating. And, apparently, I now saw ghosts and heard voices.

  I didn’t think those would count as pleasurable pursuits.

  “I am very fond of reading,” I said.

  Mrs. Trethewey set her cup down. “Reading.”

  Xavier winced.

  “And seashells,” I hastened to add. “I love making seashell lamps.” I’d never made a seashell lamp in my life, but I’d read all about them in a ladies’ periodical. They’d been touted as a dignified pastime. “And I assist my mother,” I said, hating myself a little for playing the game. “She did a reading for Lady Charleston just recently.” Lady Charleston was considered a very fine lady and arbiter of all things fashionable.

  Mrs. Trethewey’s eyes lit up, my suspicious reading habits instantly forgotten. “You don’t say!”

  Xavier nodded, and the two of them proceeded to discuss the new fashion for silk flowers, calling cards with
silk borders, and a new shop on Bond Street I’d never heard of. I drank tea and smiled and nodded and drank more tea. Finally, Xavier stood.

  “I ought to return Miss Willoughby to her mother, I suppose, so they may change for the picnic.”

  “I suppose so,” I agreed, rising reluctantly. I had every intention of slipping into some dark corner with a book and no intention whatsoever of spending the afternoon with my mother. Plus, I didn’t have an extra dress to change into. “Thank you for the tea.”

  “I am very much looking forward to your mother’s demonstrations,” Mrs. Trethewey said. “She is quite famous. Quite famous indeed, if she has sat for Lady Charleston.”

  “You really are uncommonly pretty,” Mr. Trethewey said, smiling jovially. “I understand what my son sees in you.”

  I smiled weakly.

  The picnic was chaperoned by Lord Jasper’s more amiable sister Lady Octavia. Some of the neighboring families attended and so Tabitha was there as well. I refused to let her glower ruin the afternoon. My mother elected to stay behind, not being fond of the outdoors, and I felt very nearly free despite my precarious position and imminent ghost-madness. The sky was as blue and delicate as a porcelain teacup, and the hills rolled gently in all directions, intersected occasionally with the silver ribbon of a river. Robins sang in the beech trees.

  Tables waited for us on a hilltop, set with white cloths and ceramic pitchers filled with lemonade. There was cold ham and pigeon pie and bowls of blackberries and custard. I wondered if Colin had been pressed into helping the footmen move all of the food and if he’d noticed the very fine cutlery. It would have been so easy to slip one of those silver spoons into the slit in the hem of my skirt. I might have sold it back in London and got enough money to buy food for the week. We might even have been able to afford beef. I clasped my hands behind my back to avoid the temptation.

  “Violet, you simply must try one of these tartlets!” Elizabeth brushed crumbs off her hands. There were pearl beads on her gloves. “On second thought, perhaps you should stick to the sweets. It wouldn’t do to eat leek tarts now when Xavier might kiss you!”