A Thimbleful of Hope

by Evie Grace

  ‘Violet, where are you?’ She looked up as Ottilie and Eleanor burst into her room, wearing their matching pale blue dresses. ‘You aren’t ready? Have you any idea what time it is?’

  ‘You’ll be late.’ Ottilie drew the curtains. ‘Oh, what’s wrong?’

  ‘What if I’m making a terrible mistake?’

  ‘You can’t think about that now – the time is past,’ Eleanor said. ‘You can’t possibly change your mind on your wedding day. Think of poor Mr Brooke and our parents. You’d be letting everyone down.’

  ‘Mr Brooke’s heart is in the right place,’ Ottilie said. ‘He’s sent you those wonderful letters and chosen a lovely house which isn’t far away, so we’ll be able to see you every day. He has no vices as far as we know.’

  ‘You make him sound like the paragon of virtue,’ Violet observed.

  ‘I agree with Ottilie. His manner of dress can be a little flamboyant, but appearances don’t matter. It’s what’s inside’ – Eleanor tapped her chest to make the point – ‘that counts. Am I beginning to sway you?’

  ‘It’s normal for a bride to be nervous on her wedding day. I would be …’ Ottilie’s voice faded, and Violet’s heart went out to her, knowing that she was thinking of John, which reminded her why she had offered herself up for the marriage in the first place. Would it really make any difference? She still harboured hopes that, once she was married off to Arvin and Pa’s fortunes improved, he would relent.

  ‘Come on,’ Ottilie went on. ‘Let us help you.’

  ‘Marry in white, you’ve chosen right,’ Eleanor chanted, picking up the dress from the bed.

  ‘I’d call it ivory,’ Violet said.

  ‘Either way, you’ll look beautiful,’ Ottilie said as she and Eleanor helped Violet into her wedding gown: a concoction of silk and satin trimmed with the Chantilly lace; ruched sleeves; a full skirt over calico petticoats and a crinoline; and with a long train. They placed a coronet of orange blossom and a veil on her head and tied the ribbons on her shoes.

  ‘You have something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue and a sixpence for your shoe, for good luck,’ Eleanor said happily. ‘Look in the mirror, Violet.’

  She gazed at her reflection – she did look well, very well.

  ‘Will Mama be joining us?’ she asked.

  Ottilie shook her head. ‘She’s feeling too weak – I’ve said we’ll say goodbye. She’s in her room.’

  Disappointed, but not surprised, Violet called in on their mother who was sitting up in bed, her hair neatly brushed and set in ringlet papers. She looked up, a smile playing on her pale lips.

  ‘You have remembered what day it is,’ Violet said, walking over to kiss her on the cheek.

  ‘How could I forget? My first daughter to be married! I shall be happy and sad at the same time, thinking of the ceremony while I lie here useless in bed. I wish you the happiest day of your life, my dear Violet.’ Mama pressed her hand to her mouth to suppress a sudden sob. ‘Call on us as often as you can.’

  ‘I promise I will. Mama, you must get well soon so you can visit our new house.’

  ‘I’ll try. I don’t think the sea bathing is doing me any good.’ She sank back against her pillow. ‘Run along now.’

  ‘Hurry,’ Ottilie said. ‘The guests will be waiting, and Mr Brooke will be wondering if you’ve changed your mind.’

  Violet felt a little better at the thought of seeing him again. ‘I’ve missed him while he’s been away. That must mean something, mustn’t it?’

  When she and her sisters went down the two flights of stairs to the hall, they found the servants lined up, smiling and cheering. May ducked towards her in a clumsy curtsey and handed her the bridal bouquet – white carnations symbolising love, bound together with dark green ivy – before the family left the house. St Mary’s wasn’t far away, only a short walk from Camden Crescent via King Street, but Pa made a show of sending their wedding carriage, drawn by four white horses with silver plumes, along the promenade and back.

  When they arrived at the church, Violet gazed out of the window at the crowd which had assembled to catch a glimpse of the bride, and the wedding guests, the great and the good of Dover.

  ‘You have lost your tongue,’ Pa observed. ‘You are surprised at the turnout?’

  She nodded as he went on, ‘It goes to prove that the Rayfields are still held in high esteem.’

  She nodded again.

  When she disembarked, her sisters fussed over her train before she walked into the church on her father’s arm. The organist struck up the first chords of a wedding march and rows of faces turned to stare at her. Who were all these people, she wondered, and more importantly, where was her groom?

  She caught sight of him, waiting with the vicar at the end of the aisle, half hidden by the array of ferns and flowers that her mother had chosen for decorating the church. He turned and gave her a small smile, seeming as nervous as she was.

  The Reverend Green welcomed everyone before they sang hymns and listened to the readings and address. Eventually, the ceremony began with the declarations.

  ‘The vows you are about to make are to be made in the presence of God, who is judge of all, therefore if either of you knows of any reason why you should not lawfully marry, you must declare it now.’

  Violet looked at Arvin, standing at her side in a claret frock coat and lavender doeskin trousers – there was no reason why they shouldn’t be joined together, and he was hardly the worst husband that Fate could have chosen for her.

  They made their vows and Arvin placed a ring on her finger, a plain gold band engraved with the date and their initials. It glinted from her left hand, a symbol of unending love and faithfulness, confirmation that she had done her duty. From now on, she would love and cherish him, and honour him with her body, excluding all others.

  The vicar joined their right hands together and said, ‘Those whom God hath joined together, let no one put asunder.’

  After the blessing, more prayers and another hymn, they walked side by side but several feet apart to the vestry, where she sat down beside her husband and signed the register in her maiden name of Rayfield for the very last time.

  ‘Will you not walk closer to me?’ she whispered, as they returned down the aisle, looking neither left nor right for good luck.

  ‘I’m afraid of treading on your dress. You recall what happened at the ball?’

  ‘Oh, Arvin.’ She glanced towards him and smiled. He smiled back, and from that moment on, she knew that they would be all right. They would find a way to live happily together, just like the couple remembered in the brass nearby. She wondered if they would be married for even half of the forty-nine years William Jones and his wife Katherine had spent together. How many children would they have? Not ten like they’d had, she hoped. Three or four would be plenty.

  Arvin offered her his arm and they stepped outside into the bright October sunshine. While Pa paid for the vicar’s services, Arvin having no best man, the congregation threw rice at them. It caught in Violet’s hair and her dress, making her laugh. Arvin laughed too, until neither of them knew what they were laughing about.

  Even Aunt Felicity seemed to have warmed towards him – her fox fur with its amber eyes seemed to smile when she poked at him with her stick, and said, ‘You look after my niece, or I’ll have your guts for garters.’

  ‘I will do my best, Mrs Hewitt,’ he said cheerfully.

  Pa had hired rooms at the Dover Castle Hotel where they received their guests and partook of the wedding breakfast before they cut the cake. Having changed into her travelling dress, Violet prepared to leave with Arvin, but on their way out, she noticed Ottilie looking downcast.

  ‘It will be your turn next,’ she murmured to her.

  ‘We’ll see. I wish you all the luck in the world. I hope you and Mr Brooke will be very happy.’

  ‘You know, I think we will be.’ Violet looked at her husband with pride. He had conducted himself well and see
med genuinely pleased. As for her, she was married to a prosperous gentleman of whom her father wholeheartedly approved. She was eighteen with much to look forward to, her own household among the East Cliff mansions, and the freedom to go out and about unaccompanied. On the whole, she was looking forward to married life, even though in an ideal world she might have chosen differently.

  She was excited and nervous in equal measure. They set off on the train at Dover Priory with their luggage to travel as far as London, where they would spend their first night as husband and wife.

  They dined together in style before retiring to their suite at the hotel and thence to separate beds, Arvin having changed into a linen nightshirt with lace at the neck and ruffles at the sleeves. He put a black velvet nightcap on his head and sat propped up against three pillows and within seconds he was asleep, snoring like a … did gentlemen really snore like that?

  Violet curled up beneath the eiderdown in her silk nightgown that Mama had insisted she should have for the first night of her honeymoon, relieved yet anxious. Did he not want her in the way a husband should?

  The next morning, they had breakfast of poached eggs, ham and sausages and fresh bread with coffee delivered early to their room. The waiter bowed to Arvin before placing the trays on the table, along with a newspaper.

  ‘Is there anything else, sir?’ he said, hovering.

  ‘No, thank you.’ Arvin hesitated, then sighed. ‘Ah, a tip is required.’ He stood up and searched through his luggage for a few coins which he handed over to the waiter.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Much obliged, sir.’ The waiter bowed again as Arvin waved him away with a scowl of impatience, making Violet feel rather ashamed. Her husband was lacking in manners and she wondered if she could change him.

  They sat down to eat and Violet poured the coffee into the tiny cups and saucers before serving up the breakfast on Arvin’s plate. With an aching heart, she pictured her sisters at home, eating breakfast together.

  ‘Are you quite well, Violet? You’ve hardly touched your eggs,’ Arvin said, looking over the top of the paper through a pair of half-moon spectacles, which had been another surprise to her.

  ‘I feel a little homesick, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s only to be expected.’ He put the paper down. ‘You’ll feel better when we get there – I’ve booked rooms at the best hotel with views of the loch and mountains. There’ll be plenty of walks across the moors to keep us amused.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll tire of each other’s company then?’

  ‘It’s the very nature of marriage. Eventually, my presence will grate upon you, and I will find your incessant chatter and questions wearisome.’

  ‘Really?’ She saw her expression reflected in the mirror on the wall.

  ‘I’m being sarcastic. You barely speak. Have you nothing to say for yourself?’

  Violet bit her lip, upset by his criticism.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be so forthright. I am only going on the experience of friends and acquaintances, fine fellows filled with an enthusiasm for life until their wives appeared and sucked all the joy out of them.’

  ‘That will not happen to us. I will not let it.’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘I know you’ll do your best to please me. You’re a most obliging and dutiful soul.’

  She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment.

  When they eventually reached their hotel in Scotland, Arvin dispensed with his tweed walking suit and dressed for dinner. They dined again before retiring to bed, and this time, he joined her between the sheets in his nightclothes, and the deed was as dreadful as she’d imagined.

  ‘Arvin,’ she whispered afterwards, but he answered her with a loud snore.

  At breakfast, he read the newspapers while Violet gazed out of the windows at the sheep grazing among the heather, and the thick grey clouds sweeping down over the mountains.

  ‘What shall we do today?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought we’d go out walking, but look at the weather. We’ll be washed away. Zut alors!’

  ‘We should have gone to France,’ she said reproachfully.

  ‘Are you questioning my decision?’ He arched one eyebrow, so he must be teasing. ‘I’ve told you we will visit the chateau very soon. In the meantime, we must make the most of these first days as man and wife. As it’s raining, we should return to bed.’

  ‘Now? I thought …’ She was confused. How had she imagined they would occupy the days and hours?

  ‘I’m sorry, my little ladybird. I forget what a sheltered life you have led.’ He took her hand, his fingers sticky with marmalade as he kissed her. ‘Did I not please you last night?’

  ‘Oh, Arvin.’ She didn’t know how to respond. Did one admit the truth and hurt his feelings, or did one pretend for the sake of marital harmony?

  ‘It’s all right, my dear. It’s natural for a woman not to derive pleasure from the act itself.’ He rested his hand on her arm and held it there. ‘You will learn to endure it after a while, although it would be preferable for both of us if you could demonstrate some semblance of enjoying it. It’s hard to feel passionate about a young lady who lies back with her eyes clenched shut and her body as stiff as a poker.’

  As she bit back tears, he reached across and touched her cheek. ‘I’m sorry. My poor Violet, I fear that I have rudely shocked you from your innocence.’

  ‘It is my duty as your wife,’ she stammered.

  ‘We will go back to bed,’ he said, and she turned away to watch the mist rolling across the moor. ‘It will be better the second time, I promise.’

  The honeymoon passed slowly. Arvin was often out – he was negotiating for a blend of old Scotch that would add to his and her father’s enterprise – and Violet grew restless. She asked for stationery and began writing to her sisters but changed her mind. What would it look like, a newly-wed sending letters during her honeymoon? She didn’t want to make Ottilie feel guilty about her sacrifice when it had been her decision to marry Arvin. Having put down her pen for the hundredth time, she took luncheon in the dining room, then returned to their rooms to bathe and change into evening wear, before watching the shadows lengthen as the hours slowly unwound.

  She let her mind wander back to William, his broad shoulders, dark curls and blue eyes, and most of all his smile. Her conscience pricked as she wondered what might have been, because it wasn’t fair on her husband to compare him with another. She blamed her unsettling thoughts on the tedium of Arvin’s absences. She couldn’t wait to get back to Dover.

  Chapter Nine

  While the Cat’s Away, the Mice Will Play

  They went back to the house Arvin had rented for them at East Cliff, not far from Camden Crescent. It was a large residence, furnished with the minimum necessary, and Violet felt lost in the empty, echoing rooms as he showed her around. There was a canvas floorcloth and an odd smell of gas and linseed oil in the dining room. The previous occupant had also left a collection of stuffed birds: owls, gulls and guillemots. She looked out of the long windows towards the sea. Would it ever feel like home?

  At least she had May with her, and Arvin had taken on staff – Mrs Davis, a housekeeper with responsibility for cooking duties, whom an agency had recommended, and a man he’d brought with him from France.

  After dinner, May helped Violet put her belongings away in her room which adjoined Arvin’s.

  ‘I’m very glad to see you, miss. I mean, Mrs Brooke. Married life seems to be suiting you,’ May said, more as a question than a statement of fact.

  ‘Ah, there you are. It’s time we retired to bed. It’s been a long day.’ Violet turned to find Arvin beside her. ‘Goodnight,’ he added, addressing the maid who quickly retreated.

  For the next three days, she kept busy, supervising the unpacking of the belongings Arvin had had shipped from France, as well as a few of her own from home. Her aunt had given her a present of Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management.

  ‘It will be useful,’ she’d said.
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  ‘For the servants?’ Violet had responded, and her aunt had smiled and said, ‘For you. You’ll be able to look everything up and impress them with your knowledge. It’s important not to show any sign of weakness, or they’ll immediately take advantage.’

  She placed the book on a shelf in the library, unsure if she should arrange them alphabetically or by subject. She would ask Arvin when he came back from work, she decided, picking up another book from one of the boxes. She flicked through the pages of Mr Alistair Trent’s manual of letter writing. Some of the words seemed oddly familiar, as if she had read them before. She had read them before!

  She tackled Arvin about it at dinner that evening.

  ‘I found a book that contains the very words you wrote in your letters to me,’ she said.

  ‘That can’t be right,’ he said, frowning.

  ‘I have caught you out in a lie.’

  ‘Dear Violet, one expression of love is very much like another. Those words of affection must have been repeated oftentimes. There is no original thought when it comes to affairs of the heart.’

  ‘I believed you had written those words especially for me, from the depths of your heart, not from Mr Trent’s pen.’

  She had kept Arvin’s letters in a drawer in her room, bound together with pink satin ribbon, just as by writing those sweet words in his absence, he had bound himself into her affections. Now she discovered that it had been rather a sham. She tried to be generous – he had communicated with the best of intentions – but she couldn’t help thinking that he’d been lazy in the way he had copied from the book.

  ‘Believe me when I say that it’s pure coincidence,’ Arvin said.

  ‘I wish that I could.’

  ‘Well, all right. I’ll be straight with you – when I sat down to write to you, I couldn’t find the words to express the depth of my affection. I turned to the book for guidance. There you go – I used it with the best of intentions. Now, I have had a long day and I’d appreciate some peace and quiet, not the Spanish Inquisition.’