To Have and to Hoax

by Martha Waters

  However, the events of yesterday had proved nothing if not her husband’s unique ability to send her rage spiraling to new heights. She would have admired him for it had she not been so preoccupied by her desire to stab him with a fork in a delicate area. Repeatedly.

  Cutlery-related violence, however, could not be enacted without the presence of its victim, and by the time she had dressed and descended to breakfast, James had apparently left. It was only after discreetly inquiring of Price as she was dressing that Violet had learned that he had in fact returned home the night before. She didn’t know why she had expected this morning to be any different than usual. She frequently took breakfast in bed in order to reduce the number of times she and James must meet across a table in a given day, and even when she did come down, he often departed before her for his morning ride in Hyde Park. He liked to ride early, well before the fashionable hour at which the ton descended upon the park in hordes.

  Once upon a time, Violet had accompanied him on some of those rides—she could remember vividly the peculiar quality of the light on the trees on those mornings, and the crispness of the air cutting through the warmth of her riding habit. The strength of the horse beneath her, and the strange elation, sense of life, that came from being out and about when much of the world—or, rather, much of their world—still slumbered, recovering from the previous evening’s excesses.

  So, too, could Violet recall the precise shade of pink the wind colored her husband’s cheeks, making him look boyish and far younger than he usually did. Of course, she thought with an odd sort of pang, James had been little more than a boy when they had married. Twenty-three. Older than her own tender age of eighteen, to be sure, but only a couple of years removed from Oxford. So young to be married.

  And yet, they had been happy.

  For the most part.

  And now they were…

  Well, the truth was that Violet wasn’t quite sure what they were. She would not have said they were happy, not by a mile, and yet calling it mere unhappiness seemed an oversimplification. As if the word couldn’t quite encompass the multifaceted complexity of their existence these days. She felt, at times, in a state of suspense, waiting for their marriage to resolve itself one way or another—for them to go back to their old ways or to move on entirely, take up lovers, resign themselves to a future of politesse but never passion.

  Violet was so occupied by her thoughts that she had been spreading butter on the same piece of toast for the past few minutes; the bread in question was growing soggy. She shook her head, then took a bite.

  There was no time for lovesick musings; she cringed at the fact that she had even thought the word lovesick. Because she was certainly not that. She had read enough to know that the drippy, lovesick girls in novels were without exception frightfully dull, regardless of the fact that they were frequently the heroines of their stories. Violet refused to count herself among their ranks—particularly since doing so would bring her dangerously close to an uncomfortable admission about her feelings for her not-so-beloved husband.

  After she had picked away at her breakfast for a suitable amount of time, Violet retreated to the library, as she so frequently did when she found herself at loose ends. The library was her favorite room in the house. She had not seen it until the afternoon of her wedding; when she and James had arrived at the house after their wedding breakfast, she’d teased him that he might have saved the effort of courting her by just showing her this room.

  “It wasn’t a terrible amount of effort, courting you,” James had said, with the satisfaction of a newly married man who had experienced an exceptionally short engagement without the inconvenience of a trip to Scotland. “You were quite willing.”

  “I didn’t have much choice, did I?” Violet said, arching her brows at him. “Given that Mother was standing there observing the entire thing?” She hesitated a fraction of a second, then added, “You didn’t have much choice, either.”

  Brief as that hesitation was, James must have heard it, for the smug grin faded from his face almost instantly, replaced by a look of intense focus. He dropped her hand, which he had been holding in his own, and instead stepped closer to her, seizing her shoulders in a grip firm enough to prevent escape, but not forceful enough to hurt. “Violet.”

  Something in his tone had her eyes flicking up to meet his immediately. He dropped one of her shoulders to cup her cheek in his hand, and she turned her face into his palm, relishing the contact.

  “I would’ve made the same choice, even if your mother hadn’t caught us.” His voice was quiet, intent, and she heard the truth in every word he spoke. “Admittedly, it might have taken a bit longer”—his mouth quirked up slightly, and she answered him with a weak smile of her own—“but I have no doubt that we would still have found ourselves here, in this library, and probably having a far more interesting conversation.”

  He finished speaking, but he did not drop his hands, nor did he break his gaze. He was so very handsome, she thought, as she thought nearly every time she looked at him—tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair slightly mussed by her own fingers on the carriage ride over, his vivid green eyes staring unblinkingly into her own. And she loved him. And he had told her exactly what she needed to hear.

  “I’m glad we agree, then,” she told him, attempting to inject her usual note of airiness into her tone; whether or not she was successful, she was not entirely certain, but he pulled her into his arms all the same.

  After that, not much was said for quite a while.

  And the library got a very thorough inspection.

  Now, standing in the same room recalling that moment, Violet swallowed and pushed the thought back. Regardless of the fact that the library was now used strictly for studious pursuits, rather than amorous ones, it was still a lovely room. The walls were papered a dark green, the carpets were deep red, and it was full of settees and armchairs, none of them terribly new, which meant that they were all exceedingly comfortable. The windows along one wall were large, offering a view of the garden behind the house, but the true beauty of the room was in the books. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three of the walls and, most importantly to Violet’s mind, these books were not for show. They were worn, with cracked spines and peeling letters.

  “My father’s library at Brook Vale Park is full of books he’s never read,” James had told her once as they sat curled up upon one of the settees. “So as soon as I bought this house, I set about filling it with all the books I read and loved, regardless of whether they made for the most impressive collection.”

  “That explains the collection of Grimm I found yesterday, then,” Violet said with a grin, nestling closer to him. “Not the most serious or literary volumes.”

  “Quite,” James said dryly, but then had said very little else for some time to follow. Violet was once particularly good at silencing him, in a number of thoroughly enjoyable ways.

  Once.

  This morning, however, Violet did not find the library to be the sanctuary it so frequently was. She felt… anxious. She couldn’t settle to one thing. It was Thursday, meaning that she had nothing on her schedule for the day until a musicale hosted by the Countess of Kilbourne much later that evening. Upon her return the previous evening, she had instructed Wooton to tell callers that she was not at home, assuming that she would be exhausted from her whirlwind travels. She was rather regretting that now—it was still early, and the empty hours seemed to stretch out endlessly before her.

  Boredom was something with which Violet had little experience, though certainly not for lack of trying on the part of good society. Any occupation more strenuous than needlework was frowned upon in well-bred ladies—and Violet, despite her best efforts to thwart her mother over the years, was certainly that. So while many of the paths that she might have enjoyed had she been a gentleman were closed to her, she had managed, thanks to a fair bit of craftiness, to keep herself well enough occupied. While her mother had despaired of the hours she
spent holed up with her books (“You’ll develop a squint! What man will marry a lady who squints?”), she would have been considerably firmer in her disapproval had she known that, in addition to the improving novels that Violet kept placed strategically, and oh so visibly, about her bedchamber and the drawing room, her daughter was also reading every scientific text and volume of poetry she could get her hands on. She would have been even more appalled to learn how much time Violet spent composing poetry of her own, and writing letters to the editors of scientific journals—under a pseudonym, of course. She was bold, but she was not insane.

  Upon her marriage, Violet had been able to engage in these activities openly within her own home, this small amount of freedom almost dizzying at first. James had been greatly amused to learn of her wide and varied interests, and had on more than one occasion offered to attempt to publish her poetry for her, but she had declined.

  “It’s not rubbish, but it’s not brilliant, either,” she had explained to him once. “I think I’m far too interested in too many things to excel at one single pursuit.”

  He had smiled at her, touching his hand to her cheek, but she could see he didn’t truly understand—he, with his brilliant mind for mathematics, could not comprehend a mind like Violet’s, built for dabbling.

  In any case, she had, on more than one occasion over the past four years, spared a moment’s gratitude for her ceaseless and wide-ranging curiosity; it was what had kept her sane in a marriage that had become so dissatisfying.

  In the first year of her marriage, of course, it hadn’t mattered much. James had been home quite frequently then, sometimes stopping by in the middle of the day for no other reason than to see her. Now, he spent much of his day out of the house—she gathered, from fragments of conversation she overheard, that he had frequent meetings with his man of business about the finances of the stables at Audley House, and she assumed he was as reluctant as he had ever been to delegate any of that responsibility. He still journeyed to Kent frequently—sometimes at a rate of once or twice a week, depending on what was afoot at the stables at a particular time of year. Once, it would have bothered her; now, of course, it scarcely made much difference, since even when he was home, he was often locked away in his study for hours on end, attending to the never-ending series of tasks that required his attention as a landowner and the holder of a fortune in horseflesh. At least, she assumed that was what he was doing. It wasn’t as though he ever told her himself.

  This thought served to reignite some of her anger of the previous afternoon, as she recalled once again the feeling of looking up as she stepped out the door of the Blue Dove to see him standing there, perfectly healthy, staring at her with an expression of shock that she was certain must have mirrored her own. It was bad enough that it hadn’t even occurred to Penvale to write to tell her of James’s improved condition—although, she was forced to admit, she had dashed off in such a hurry after receiving his first note that she likely would have missed it. But that her husband—her husband!—had seemed disgruntled that Penvale had written at all… It was… well…

  Intolerable.

  Yes, it was intolerable. And Violet wasn’t going to stand for it any longer.

  She turned to her writing desk, which was set before one of the windows, and retrieved a blank sheet of paper and a pen and ink. She scrawled a hasty note, then made a copy of it on another sheet of paper, and threw down her pen.

  Turning on her heel, she swept out of the library, startling a footman who was passing.

  “John!” she said, holding out the two missives. “See that these are delivered to Lady Templeton and Lady Emily Turner with all necessary haste.” He bowed and made as if to turn. “And John,” she added, causing him to freeze in his tracks, “see that Mrs. Willis has a particularly fine tea prepared this afternoon. We shall be three, and we shall be hungry.”

  * * *

  As Violet had expected, both Diana and Emily were exceedingly prompt in their arrival that afternoon. They entered the drawing room within moments of one another with similarly inquisitive expressions.

  “Please, take a seat,” Violet said, standing to greet them. “And thank you for responding to my urgent summons.”

  “It’s not as though I had much else to do,” Diana said, honestly if not flatteringly. She smoothed the skirts of her green afternoon gown before sinking with her usual languor onto a settee.

  “I cherish your friendship as well,” Violet said sweetly. She paused as Anna, one of the maids, entered with a lavish tea service. “Thank you, Anna, that will be all—and would you be so good as to close the door on your way out?” This done, Violet leaned forward to pour.

  “Violet, what on earth is this all about?” Diana asked impatiently the moment the door snicked shut. “I am judging based on your attire that you haven’t joined me in the ranks of widows?”

  Violet shot a reproving glance at Diana, who was wont to take the idea of a dead husband rather more lightly than was perhaps proper.

  “No,” Violet said, splashing tea into the saucer of the first cup. Emily wordlessly reached over and removed the teapot from her grip. She proceeded to pour three cups. “James has apparently made a full recovery from his accident.”

  “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” Emily asked, handing around the other two teacups before taking a sip of the unadulterated contents of her own cup.

  “No,” Violet said grumpily, doling milk and sugar into the other two cups.

  “You would look lovely in black, though,” Diana said, before quailing under Emily’s glare. Emily had a glare that proved remarkably effective on the rare occasions she employed it.

  “As I was saying,” Violet said, and Diana fell silent, “I’m a bit…” She trailed off, searching for the most appropriate adjective. Selecting one at random, she continued. “… perturbed to learn that my own dear husband is irritated by the fact that his wife was alerted to his possible deathblow.”

  Diana raised one expressive eyebrow.

  “We crossed paths on the road, you see. In Kent. We happened to be at the same coaching inn. He was rather surprised, shall we say, to see me, and not terribly pleased when he learned Penvale had written to me of his injury.”

  “Men,” Diana pronounced, shaking her head.

  “Quite,” Violet said, taking a sip of her tea but barely tasting it. She wished it were socially acceptable for a lady to invite one’s friends over for an afternoon brandy instead. She didn’t even particularly like brandy, though she had partaken of it a couple of times with James in private, early in their marriage. However, she thought it likely that a splash of brandy would soothe her far more than tea at the moment.

  “My point, however,” she continued, “is that I’ve had enough.” She sat up straighter in her chair, stiffening her spine in acknowledgment of her own proclamation. “I cannot bear to live like this any longer.”

  “You can come live with me,” Diana offered at once. “I’ve an enormous house all to myself. I think the servants all find me rather pathetic.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Violet said, and Diana slumped. “But I plan to take action. If James thinks so little of my place in his life that he believes I don’t have the right to know whether he’s alive or dead, then I think it’s only fair to let him know what that feels like.”

  “What do you mean?” Emily asked, lowering her teacup.

  “I’m going to turn the tables on him,” Violet announced. She had given this plan a great deal of thought in the hours before Diana and Emily had arrived. “Let’s see how he likes it when I take ill and he doesn’t learn about it immediately.” She took a sip of tea with great satisfaction, as Diana and Emily exchanged a covert look of skepticism.

  “Violet,” said Emily slowly, clearly pondering how best to phrase whatever was to come next. “Don’t you think that you and Lord James”—Emily was always very conscious of titles—“might be overdue for a conversation?”

  “I cannot think of any
thing that sounds less appealing.” Violet avoided both her friends’ eyes under the guise of carefully selecting a scone from the tea service.

  “I agree with Emily,” Diana said unexpectedly. “It’s been four years of this nonsense, and I’ve held my tongue”—Violet snorted—“for the most part,” Diana added hastily, “but if you’ve now stooped to the level of childish tricks, then I think this has gone on quite long enough.”

  “You don’t understand—” Violet began, but Diana cut her off.

  “Of course we don’t,” she said severely. “Because you’ve never told us anything about what this foolish argument was about in the first place.”

  This was, in fact, the truth. In the days following that horrible morning, Violet had been too distraught to say much of anything to her friends. She’d been sleeping in her own bedchamber for the first time in her marriage, and she missed James’s warm presence beside her in the bed at night. She missed his surprise midday arrivals at the house, the feeling of his strong arms unexpectedly sliding around her as she sat reading or writing in the library, the scratch of stubble as he pressed a warm kiss to her neck. She missed the heat of his kisses, the feel of his bare skin sliding against her own.

  She had even missed their arguments, infuriating as they were. Marriage to James was many things, but placid was not always one of them. They had quarreled frequently during their first year of wedded bliss—so frequently she thought bitterly in those long days immediately after their separation, that she ought to have seen this coming. And yet, they had always made up—often in spectacularly enjoyable fashion. Until now.