Wedding Violet (Fair Cyprians of London Book 4)

by Beverley Oakley

  Nevertheless, he left the main road and directed his horse towards the cluster of habitations. Other than what were obviously labourers’ dwellings, there were several fine houses on either side of the graveyard.

  This was the graveyard in which Violet’s sister had been laid to rest. The sky had darkened considerably, but he was already so wet through the weather hardly mattered.

  What did matter was executing a lovely, final gesture—laying flowers on Emily Lilywhite’s grave. He could write to Violet and describe the charm of her sister’s resting place. It would surely give her some comfort. He felt a jolt of warmth at the idea of making Violet happy, and raised his head to survey the area: a few ramshackle, ill-tended graves to his right, and a few rows of neatly tended graves stretching out towards the grey stone church that huddled bleakly amidst grey skies and dull green fields.

  He began to walk the rows, searching for the Lilywhite graves, until he found Zebediah Lilywhite—perhaps Violet’s grandfather—beneath a hawthorn tree. Beside him were the graves of his son and daughter-in-law. “Died in Cawnpore. In Memory of…” Yes, these were Violet’s parents. With their deaths having occurred in India, he’d been unsure if he’d find anything here to mark their passing.

  He was also relieved to find evidence Violet had been telling the truth. But then, that was one of the things he admired about Violet. She was honest.

  Honest about her feelings. Honest about her failings.

  Yet proud.

  He shook his head to clear it when he realised what he was doing—dwelling on Violet much too much when he was about to leave her. He was here to carry out a small gesture to assuage his conscience and make Violet feel better. That was all.

  He glanced down at the sorry bunch of flowers he’d picked during his journey to place on Emily’s grave.

  If he could only find it.

  Pulling up his collar against the wind and the rain, he contemplated Elizabeth and James Lilywhite’s graves. An adventurous pair, obviously. He was curious to know what had lured them to India. Was it the spoils of trade? The adventure? Had Elizabeth been as willing to leave England as her husband? How had she endured in frontier-like conditions?

  Stamping his feet to keep his blood flow going, he checked himself for thinking such things when it was too late. Violet hadn’t spoken much about her parents, but there had been little time for idle chitchat during the past three weeks. The raging physical attraction between them had taken centre stage. With more time for contemplation, Max would have liked to have quizzed Violet about her life in India in view of what he might expect in exploring new frontiers in Africa.

  A crack of lightning illuminated the old stone church with its rows of crooked headstones. The evening was advancing, and he should be returning to London for his final night there.

  Max sent another dubious look at his floral offering as he leaned over to place them on the moss covering beneath Elizabeth Lilywhite’s headstone.

  He hesitated. Despite the weather and the late hour, he really should make the effort to find Emily’s grave since he’d come so far. Hers was the grave he wanted to tell Violet he’d seen and tended. He needed to describe it to her and assure her it was well tended.

  Slowly he retraced his footsteps, scanning the names of every stone in the cemetery, but still he could not find it.

  The storm was intensifying; cracks of lightning spearing the sky with greater frequency now. It was madness for him to be delaying his return, and in weather like this it was foolish in the extreme.

  Frustrated, he returned to the graves of Violet’s parents; put the flowers on Elizabeth’s grave, and headed towards his horse which was tethered by the lych-gate.

  As he passed beneath the arch, movement caught his eye and he flinched, immediately berating himself for being twitchy in what seemed so much more ghostly only because of the weather.

  Glancing down, he realised it was a prone form, lying along the narrow bench, that had moved. He was about to pass on, assuming the huddled bundle was a vagrant or traveller seeking what little sanctuary the narrow, covered area offered from the wild weather.

  But it was not an adult, he quickly saw, and as he passed near, the child sat up, gasping, her expression full of terror when she saw him, before she regained her composure, tucking her knees up under her chin, and staring over his shoulder as if he were of no account.

  “Should you not be at home?” he asked. He’d thought the child perhaps a gypsy or beggar child, but then saw her clothes were too fine and she was clearly well nourished. A gentleman’s daughter? It was an incongruous finding and decidedly concerning to the parents who must surely have no idea she was here.

  The girl shrugged. “Maybe,” she said, dropping her eyes and tracing a pattern distractedly upon her knee.

  “Is it far to go? I can take you,” he offered, despite himself. “Your parents will be worried.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  She was so dismissive of his help Max was at a loss. How could he leave a child outside in the dark, alone, in a storm? A little girl? Well, no more than ten or eleven. His conscience wouldn’t allow it. Her parents would be wild with anxiety. He certainly would be if she were his.

  Unwilling to walk on, he cast about for something that might elicit some information from the runaway. She had to have run away, he decided.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you back to your house?” He indicated the two buildings on either side.

  She shrugged but said nothing, evading his look. In the light of the moon, her pale skin had a ghostly pallor, her eyes seeming too large for her face. Framed by strands of wet, dark hair, her forlorn appearance tugged at his heartstrings. He wondered what must have happened to have sent her into such extreme weather.

  “You look as if you can’t live too far away. Perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for the grave of Emily Lilywhite.”

  The girl’s head jerked up. “I’m Emily Lilywhite,” she said.

  Her eyes were suddenly bright, her body tense as she leapt up, craning her neck to look at him. “I think you must mean you’re looking for Violet Lilywhite’s grave; then I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place, sir. Violet is buried in London.”

  Max stared for a long moment. “Who told you that?” he asked, already knowing the answer as a terrible weight of premonition weighed upon his shoulders.

  “Grandmama.” The little girl slumped back onto the bench seat. “Violet is my sister, you see, but she died last year.”

  Max cleared his throat. “Did your grandmother say…anything else?”

  Emily’s lip quivered. “Only that Violet had been wicked, and she died a horrible death because of the evil creature she was.”

  “Have you been to London to see where she’s buried?”

  The girl ran her hand across her wet cheeks and shook her head. “Grandmama only told me after the funeral, and when I wanted to go and see my sister’s resting place she said I’d be contaminated.” Dully, she returned to tracing patterns with her finger on her knee.

  Seething inside, Max managed to ask, calmly, “What else did she tell you?”

  “That not a single person went to Violet’s funeral because my sister was a witch with a soul as black as night and everybody was afraid her sin might rub off onto them.” Her voice broke. “I don’t think Violet was a witch. We didn’t see many people, living at Grandmama’s, but everyone thought Violet was beautiful. And kind.”

  “I’d describe your sister like that, too.”

  “You would?” Emily’s head jerked up and she cupped her face. She looked suddenly beautiful and very much like Violet when she was animated like this. “You knew her?”

  Max nodded, cautiously, unsure of how much to reveal. The weather was worsening by the minute, and he could hardly keep the child talking while they were both catching their deaths from cold. Torn, he glanced at the road beyond which led to London. He should be returning soon, but he w
as duty-bound to deliver this child safely to her grandmother first.

  Yet, he was duty-bound to tell her the truth.

  And then what?

  Field her cries and whimpers when she begged to see Violet, her beloved sister, and he refused?

  If he had had the time, he surely would have taken her.

  But he didn’t have time. And what could he do for Emily, besides whip up her agitation when he was in no position to do anything to actually help?

  She was looking at him expectantly. As if she were too afraid to speak and break a spell.

  Steeling himself, he said, “But first I must take you home.”

  “To Grandmama?”

  To his surprise, Emily laughed, albeit with a short bark of bitterness that seemed at odds with her sweet pretty face. A face that resembled Violet’s—painfully—with her large blue eyes and heart-shaped chin.

  He nodded, but she leaned back against the bench, gripping the lintel of the gate as if he might try to forcibly make her do her bidding.

  “Grandmama will not take kindly to receiving me or visitors,” she said, “until the angry mood has passed. I’ll go back when it’s safe.”

  “But the storm—”

  He was now having to shout to be heard above it.

  Still, the child shook her head. “I’m safer here than with Grandmama,” Emily shouted back. She pulled up the sleeve of her dress and to Max’s horror, he saw a deep gash at least three inches long weeping fresh blood along her forearm.

  “What happened?” he gasped, feeling suddenly very unsteady on his feet.

  “Grandmama flew at me with a knife. It went in a bit, but I got away in time.” Her white teeth flashed and she actually smiled. “Luckily, I managed to get the knife away from her before I ran.” She reached down by her side, and in a flash of light, Max saw illuminated the long, sharp blade she brandished for him to see.

  He was galvanised by horror, shock, and the feeling that if he didn’t act right this very moment on what, in fact, his conscience had been dictating for some time, he could never live with himself.

  And in the very immediate thought to follow, he realised how very happy such a revelation made him feel.

  “You’re a very brave girl, Emily,” he said, giving her a considering look that made her beam with pleasure. “Do you think you’d be brave enough to hunt lions in Africa?

  Chapter 15

  So, this was her new home. It was elegant indeed, and Violet should have been overjoyed to have swapped the insalubrious surroundings of her Soho residence for the leafy charm of St John’s Wood.

  A month ago, she would have been, but as she gazed from the fresh chintz curtains blowing the crisp air through the partly open windows, her heart was like a stone lodged in her chest.

  Yet, she could not behave with anything that suggested other than the greatest joy and gratitude when Lord Bainbridge visited her later in the day.

  He might not be charismatic, handsome, or even terribly charming, but it was purely through his generosity that Violet’s future had taken a marginal turn for the better.

  Not that she wouldn’t be paying for it in her own way, of course. Still, pretending was second nature, so she’d better do an adequate job she supposed of making his lordship feel he was getting the return on his investment that he expected.

  Deserved, she reminded herself. Not every gentleman of her acquaintance had been so generous.

  Max was different, of course. She tensed, trying to banish all thoughts of him, her attention diverted by the billowing of the curtains caused by a sudden gust of wind. Violet hurried to rescue a china horse from crashing from its place on the windowsill just as there was a knock on the door.

  She straightened her skirts, her heart pounding in her chest, and did a quick check in the looking glass above the mantelpiece. Lord Bainbridge was very particular about appearance and everything being orderly. Including Violet.

  The face that stared back at her had a rather haunted look. She’d tried to hide the dark smudges under her eyes from her restless last few nights, but in this light, they looked an even greater contrast with her pale, transluscent skin.

  Resigned, she turned away. Nothing would improve her looks in the seconds it would take to cross the floor, just as nothing would ease the ache in her heart.

  Not all the jewels and fine clothes Lord Bainbridge had promised to buy her to augment the beautiful necklace he’d given her two nights before. To celebrate the fact she’d agreed to be his, he’d said as he’d fastened the gold and ruby ‘token of his regard’ around her neck. As she dropped her hand from pushing back a ringlet that fell across her shoulder, a flash of the simple gold band she still wore to mark her sham wedding was not the thing to make her feel better.

  The knock came again—louder and more insistent—even though she’d hardly kept him waiting. She stiffened but checked herself. She couldn’t be angry. She’d have to ensure patience and good humour infused her objection to his impertinence, she counselled herself as she flung open the door, saying, “Goodness, but you are—”

  Shock robbed her of the words to complete the sentence. For a moment, she could only stare. She’d come face to face with an apparition. Her mind was playing tricks on her. Taunting her.

  “Dear Lord, this can’t be true,” she whispered, her legs suddenly feeling as if they had no substance.

  “Violet!”

  It was Emily. Not her ghost, for the arms that wrapped about her neck and pulled her down for a fierce hug was definitely flesh and bone.

  “You’re not dead!”

  They spoke at the same time, disbelief shocking Violet into silence while Emily simply said the same words over and over until, with a hiccupping sob, she stepped back to regard her sister with awe. “But you’re here!”

  “And would have been to see you if Grandmother had not told me that you had died.” Violet saw no need to soften the truth as she stepped back into the warmth of the house, drawing her sister with her as she glanced over Emily’s shoulder with a frown. For where was her grandmother who must surely have brought her following a crisis of conscience. Oh yes; Violet was very ready to deal with her as required.

  “Come in, before you catch your death,” she told Emily. “Have you run away?” And then, in horror, “How did you find me? Who told you to find me here?”

  A myriad of lurid scenarios suddenly swept away her joy at seeing her sister. For what if her association with Violet should taint Emily? What if this was a trick on their grandmother’s part to destroy Emily, just as she had her elder granddaughter?

  But then the joy was in the ascendant, for Emily was weeping now, and she needed all the comfort she could get, for what horrors might she have endured for her to have arrived, alone and friendless, on Violet’s doorstep?

  “Oh Violet, you look so beautiful!” Emily finally gasped when her crying had subsided and she took a step away. Her gaze raked the pink-and-cream polonaise Violet wore, its neat bustle festooned in swaths and adorned with bows at the back while the front hugged her long, shapely figure. Madame and Lord Bainbridge had helped approve this confection and…

  Oh Lord, what if her protector should arrive? He was due within the hour. She closed her eyes briefly before staring once more at her sister, realising for the first time that the young girl was dressed in all but rags.

  “Did Grandmother throw you onto the streets, Emily?” she gasped, fingering the coarse homespun smock with its inexpert darning in the many places it had simply worn right through. She knew how much Emily had loved pretty clothes and that, as the favourite, their grandmother had indulged her. “Did you walk here? Your hair is wet! Oh Emily, I thought you were dead! What terrible things have happened?”

  “Please don’t cry, Violet.” Emily reached up to cup her sister’s face. “A very nice gentleman found me in the rain and took me to an inn where he organised some dry clothes.”

  “Dear God, no! You went with a stranger!” Violet’s strangled cry was
interrupted by the closing of the door, and as she raised her face her sense of unreality grew. Max was entering the room, shaking the raindrops from his hat and removing his heavy, damp coat, for water pooled at his feet upon the floorboards.

  “No, a very nice gentleman, as your sister just told you,” repeated Max, smiling as he took a few steps forward. “I found her in your village churchyard where I’d gone to lay some flowers upon her grave in a gesture that I’d hoped would give you some pleasure.” He put his hand on Emily’s shoulder. “But instead of a grave, I found something much better, eh Emily?”

  Oh, so much better. A joyous gift and piece of magic that he’d magically spun out of the goodness of his kind, kind heart…

  Before he left her to go to Africa. Violet’s surge of joy was tempered by the reality, then chipped away further when he added, “Ruislip was hardly out of my way. A short detour only.”

  She blinked. Oh, so he’d been curious to see if she’d been telling the truth about her name and origins.

  She put her arms about Emily’s and drew her against her body, as if she might use her sister as a shield against the pain of impending loss that was growing within. She had Emily—and that was the greatest gift of all—but how would she look after her sister?

  And would her heart ever recover from the loss of losing this wonderful, bighearted man who was smiling at her as if he had no idea how devastating this was for her—and who certainly wasn’t suffering any pangs at departing from her forever.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Max,” she managed, her voice breaking before she gasped in fear as the door was flung open, and Lord Bainbridge stood framed upon the threshold; the grey clouds behind throwing him into terrible relief. For what a large man he was.

  And not known for his compassionate heart.

  Violet hugged Emily even closer and tried to hide her fear. She’d brazen this out. She had to. Even if she no longer cared what became of herself, she had Emily to care for now, and she could only do that if she had the protection of a man.