by Beth Byers
“I didn’t think we’d run into each other again,” Jack said, shoving his gloves into his pocket.
“And yet”—she smiled merrily despite her racing heart—“we met on a random train my first full day back into the country.”
“Do you believe in fate?” His gaze was more intense than she’d been prepared for.
“Perhaps.” Violet adjusted her coat casually, as though she weren’t terribly nervous without cause. She was aware of him and herself as she’d never been aware before. His proximity, the exact color of his eyes, the shape of his jaw and the depth of his gaze were almost overwhelming her, and whatever veneer she’d put on was melting under the force of his attention.
“Perhaps?” The question was a light mockery more of himself than her. “Perhaps then you’d be willing to join me for dinner?”
She knew at that moment that her stepmother would never approve. As rich as she now was and the daughter of an earl? Never. It wasn’t that Jack Wakefield wasn’t in the class of the idle rich, but Violet was the daughter of an earl. Perhaps an impoverished daughter of an earl could sink a class beneath her, but a rich one, never. Violet also realized just how much power love could have over her.
She wasn’t in love. Yet she knew that she was on the tip of a slippery slope entirely because when Jack looked at her—he saw her. The loving niece, the attentive sister. The woman who had insisted on being educated and who worked hard in school. The business person who could handle her aunt’s investments but wasn’t in love with money. He saw the frivolous side of Vi with her love of clothes and novels. The serious side of her, which was generous and kind. She felt as though she’d been stripped bare for the first time in her life, and despite her utter lack of defenses, she wasn’t just found approved, she was found admirable.
But he’d asked a question and she’d yet to answer. Dinner. Yes. She nodded, her thoughts making her blush brilliantly. He couldn’t possibly know why, but he gently pressed her hand and they set the date for the very next evening. The arrangements were made as Victor lingered with the porter. Violet had no illusions about what her brother was doing, and it wasn’t until Jack took a step back before Victor found he was finished with the porter.
He returned to them at the opportune moment and said, “Hargreaves has sent an automobile for us, darling. Giles and the porter have arranged the baggage. Steady Beatrice has gotten Gwennie and Lila to the vehicle and they wait only for us.”
“It was lovely to see you again,” Violet told Jack, and Victor echoed her and offered a ride.
“Barnes has abandoned me,” Jack admitted. “Work doesn’t cease for the virtuous. Though I can’t claim the same attributes, and I thank you for the offer, I am required elsewhere.”
They said their goodbyes and the twins joined their friends in the automobile. They dropped Lila and Gwennie at Lila’s home before the twins made their way to their new home.
It would be the first time they entered the townhouse as denizens rather than visitors. The realization of where they were going and why changed the moment from excitement to grief.
“It makes her loss seem even more real.” Violet’s gaze was fixed out the automobile window to hide the tears threatening to fall.
“I’d almost rather go to our old rooms,” Victor said.
She could hear the same emotions in his voice, though she gave him the privacy of not looking at him.
“We should have thought it through when we sent Hargreaves to prepare the house and move our things. Our old rooms weren’t so bad.”
Now that they were free of them rather than making the best of them, she could admit they had been a step above awful.
“Cheap,” Violet sniffed.
“Shabby,” Victor admitted.
“Smelling faintly of mildew when it rained.”
They both focused on the rain through the glass of their automobile, remembering how their old rooms would smell on a day like today. Violet admitted, “The house was a gift from Aunt Agatha to you. I’m going to imagine her smiling down on our cherubic heads.”
“Cherubic?” Victor snorted. “Not for either of us, darling.”
“Cherubic heads,” Violet repeated. “I’ll just be glad that our home won’t smell of mildew, glad to know we’re snuggled up in beds that she purchased. She loved us. This is how it should be.”
“She did love us,” Victor said, swallowing thickly.
“Her love is why…” Violet lost the battle to her tears and took the handkerchief that Victor had at the ready.
“Her love made us who we are. Without her…”
Violet nodded, blinking a tear away, and then the townhouse was before them. Her brother handed her out of the Silver Ghost. The townhouse didn’t proclaim buckets of riches in the manner that Agatha had possessed. It was a grey brick house in a good neighborhood, rather nearer the portions of London that Violet and Victor frequented.
“You know,” Victor said, frowning at the house, “she sold that other house a few years ago.”
“When we told her…”.
They stared at the house. It was the exact type of place they’d have chosen should they have had the money. Nice, solid, not ostentatious.
“This is what you’d have bought,” Violet said, no longer able to hold back her tears. “She sold her old house and bought this one for you. Look at it…it was made for you. It’s secure and will protect those you care about. But it isn’t so over-the-top that you’d be uncomfortable. And close to the little Chinese food restaurant you love. ”
Victor nodded, his jaw was clenching over and over again and finally he ground out, “How well she knew us.”
“How much she loved you.”
“Us both.” He glanced at Violet and then grinned, losing the melancholy. “She knew you’d eventually give in to the old school fairytale. Love. Children. Home. Is Mr. Jack Wakefield, sometime detective inspector of Scotland Yard, the one who will drag you to the altar?”
“Kicking and screaming,” Violet told her brother, but a part of her was very much afraid she was obfuscating.
Chapter 2
Violet’s bedroom had always been intended for her. It was as clear as the sun in the sky once she realized the house had been a gift for Victor. The walls were papered with light gray with deeper gray stripes. The furniture was black and heavily masculine, but the touches of feminine accent throughout the room were just what Violet would have chosen.
There was even a desk that was perfect for a typewriter. Violet had to send Beatrice away so that she could explore the bedroom’s charms and let her emotions free. She ended up sitting on the edge of her bed, handkerchief in her hand, remembering moment after moment with Aunt Agatha, Victor, and even Algernon and Meredith. Obviously, much of those memories with Merry, especially, were bittersweet. But hate Meredith’s crime as much as Violet did, their childhood had been shared.
Vi and Victor had played with the little metal soldiers in the garden, gone fishing, jumped into the swimming hole, and been read to by Aunt Agatha. How many times had they enjoyed a nursery tea together with Aunt Agatha explaining life and answering their questions? She’d always treated them as capable of learning. She’d been interested in their thoughts, unlike Father and Lady Eleanor, who had preferred the children to be silent.
After Vi was through sniffling over the bedroom, she noted the two armoires certainly intended for her love of clothing. There was a red and gray Chesterfield near the window and a pair of matching armchairs near the fire. The nice chest at the end of the bed was likely intended to give Violet a place to tuck things away. Aunt Agatha had never been bothered by Vi’s need for things to be orderly and put away. The final gift was a large, three-paneled mirror.
When she finally had herself under control, she had Beatrice and a tea tray up to her room. The maid dealt with Vi’s clothes, chattering about the traveling they’d done since Beatrice came to work for Violet. While Beatrice carried on her monologue, Violet arranged her pulp novels
and magazines in the chest at the end of her bed. She’d need to buy herself a bookshelf for her room eventually, but for now, they could be arranged by title and author in her trunk or by publication name for the magazines.
She laughed at herself as she arranged things just so, but there was something about having one’s books unpacked and available that proclaimed one was home.
“Beatrice,” Violet said, “tomorrow have Mr. Giles come up here to review the furniture and then request him to find me a few bookshelves for my bedroom. I won’t be truly at home until I have them. In fact…yes…have him find bookshelves with cabinet doors.”
“Yes, miss. Mr. Giles does have such good taste. I’ve heard Lord Victor say so.”
“Better than both Victor and me, I’m afraid,” Violet laughed. “Are you ready to work in the city now? Do you wish to return home? I’m sure Mr. Davies would hire you for your old post.”
“Oh no, miss.” Beatrice shook her head a little frantically. “I love working for you, caring for your pretty things and…”
Violet realized that she’d unintentionally upset Beatrice and went about comforting her before she returned to arranging her bedroom. If she were someone else, she might have thrown herself on her bed and rested. She wouldn’t be truly comfortable, however, until her things were arranged.
It was only when she set up her desk that she realized she could have a typewriter of her own now. No longer would she and Victor have to share for their stories. She kept forgetting that she didn’t have to watch her purchases so carefully anymore.
Victor knocked on her open door. “Oh, well this room was made for you, wasn’t it?”
Violet told Victor of her plans for using his man to get new shelving and he said, “Darling, there’s a little room down the hall that can be your office and pulp novel hideaway. It’s empty. You’ll need to outfit it with whatever your heart desires.”
Her gaze narrowed on him. “It’s the office for the lady of the house, isn’t it?”
He smirked and attempted to look innocent.
“And because I am a lady, I am suddenly in charge of maids and meals?”
He begged without saying a word.
“Very well,” she said. “But I am giving it up the moment you succumb to the finer emotions.”
“Darling, you’re already succumbing to those emotions. Did you think I was unaware of the glances between you and a certain Mr. Wakefield? Sharpen your skills upon my household while you fight your fate, and your hulking investigator will thank me for it.”
She scowled at him. “Were you here just to put me to work or was there something else?”
He frowned and pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Sneaking home did us no good, darling. They’ve found us.”
Violet turned her scowl towards the envelope. It was the same thick cream paper and red seal that Lady Eleanor always used. Vi had been certain they’d have a few days to settle in, and yet here was a summons.
“What madness is this? We have only just arrived. Did you call ahead? How did they know?”
He shook his head. “Perhaps Lady Eleanor has employed a spy.”
“Find the fiend out and send them on their way,” Violet demanded, her gaze still fixed on the hated envelope. Then she sighed and admitted, “She always does outwit us when she chooses. Our problem is that we never expect her attack until it’s too late. Well…out with it. What is the sentence?”
“A dinner party. Thursday. With Isolde, the betrothed, our esteemed stepmother, and a few select guests.”
“I suppose it was inevitable, wasn’t it?”
“At least we’ll have the shield of a good cocktail.”
“Of course, dear one.” Violet smirked at him. She preferred to drink when she was happy, not to dull her senses in dealing with family, so she’d be lingering over one drink rather than drowning herself in her cups.
He scowled at her and warned, “Two can play at that game.”
“Will you be sneaking a flask into tea with Lady Eleanor? Didn’t she cut you off the last time?”
He laughed. “Picture her face.”
“Oh I am,” Violet countered, raising a thin brow. “Finding you guzzling from a flask during her dinner party will have Father on our doorstep.”
“Perhaps the flask only in the automobile.”
“Wiser, but I think you’d better save it for after, darling. You’ll need all of your defenses.”
Violet set Beatrice to freshen the dress for the dinner party and another for her date, and then took the typewriter from Victor and dropped herself into a story. She was flying through a tale of a haunted house, a young ingénue, and her lover with a dark past. The hours passed until Victor came to her room.
“Dear one, give me your pages and go to bed. You’ll need your wits tomorrow to enchant Jack and then to deal with Lady Eleanor.”
Violet shook herself from the specter scene she’d been writing. “Is it so late?” She stretched and yawned and realized it was deep into the night. “It’s like visiting an old friend. I forget how much writing makes you visit different parts of your head. I feel as though there were cobwebs up there after all of our time being good-for-nothings.”
“Parts of your head?” He laughed at her and gathered up the stack of pages. “Bed, dear one.”
“Perhaps it has been too long,” Violet said, gesturing to the pages, “and it’s all a jumble of words and nonsense. Pulp stories have nothing redeemable about them but fun, and I’m not sure I delivered even that much.”
“Certainly nothing but fun,” he agreed.
“What do you think Lady Eleanor would say if she knew how we’d kept ourselves in eggs and sardines before the influx of the ready money?” Their secret writing career and the pseudonym for the duo of V.V. Twinnings was a secret that only their closest friends knew.
“She’d turn over in her grave and scream down the house, darling. Our secret must never get out.”
Violet laughed as she turned in her chair and then glanced down at herself. She still wore her traveling clothes and hadn’t done much more than slide off her shoes. She picked them up and put them away while Victor said, “Shall I call for a warm milk?”
“I’ll have a bath and be fine. No need to wake Beatrice or Hargreaves to coddle me.”
Victor nodded as she grabbed one of her books, winking at him, and left him stealing the pages of what she’d written while she made her way to her private bath. She hadn’t noted the taps on the bath before, but the Asian style dragon that poured water from its mouth made her smile. Yet again, Aunt Agatha reflecting her love for Violet through the little details.
If there was anything that being independent did, it was to give you the freedom to indulge harmless vices without reproach. She started her bath with rose-scented pink salts and then sank into the hot water and the newest Tarzan novel without another thought.
The next morning, Violet donned a new dress she’d purchased in Paris. It was a very light pink, almost nude in color, with lace edging and simple lines. She had a matching cloche hat and a drawstring bag. She finished dressing with a pair of small pearl ear bobs, a long strand of pearls, and some barely there color on her lips.
“Am I presentable?” she asked her brother as she went down the stairs.
He nodded and they went to the business offices.
“Lord Carlyle,” the clerk said as they walked in, and then a moment later, “Lady Carlyle.”
They hadn’t made an appointment, but considering that Violet owned these offices, she smiled brightly and said, “Lovely day, isn’t it? We’ll be seeing Fredericks.”
The clerk sort of started. “Well yes, of course, my lady. Did you want tea?”
Violet shook her head and glanced at Victor, making a passing comment on the office furniture.
“Did my lady wish to wait out here?”
Victor cleared his throat, mouth twitching as Violet turned and asked, “Why would I want to do that?”
“Ah…
”
Violet’s tone had been bright and charming, but the clerk seemed to sense the trap as the door behind him opened.
“Well…I just hoped to avoid your boredom?”
“Because my pretty little head cannot possibly understand business.”
“Well…ah….”
Hamilton Fredericks scowled at his clerk. “Jones, you fool. Lady Carlyle, Lord Carlyle, please this way.”
After a conversation about the state of the business and Violet signing a few papers, Vi leaned back and said, “Thank you for being good at what you do.”
“Thank you for actually reading the reports I send you. I know that others aren’t so lucky as I. Too often business deals are made among folks over dinner or a polo match, ignoring the advice of fellows such as myself.”
Violet glanced at Victor who knew it was as true as she did. “Well…I promise not to dis-employ you, should the day arrive you feel the need to call me to account.”
Fredericks grinned for a moment. “I have little doubt that I will never need to, my lady. I…” He glanced a little anxiously between the twins. “I hesitate to--”
“Out with it, man,” Victor said as he sipped the coffee he’d accepted from the clerk.
“It’s not my place. I know that.”
“You’re forgiven in advance, Mr. Fredericks. Please tell us what is on your mind.”
Mr. Fredericks pushed back his glasses and pulled out a register. “Your sister, Lady Isolde?”
“Yes,” Violet said, feeling a hint of trepidation.
“Her betrothed came here and wished me to place some money into his investment scheme. He alluded, rather forcefully, that you were behind this plan.”
Violet paused, a flash of rage rushing through her though nothing reflected on her face. Her brother reached out and touched her wrist. A lodestone to help keep her anger in check.
“And?”
“My lady, Italy is not so far and I had not heard from you. I know you give me rather a lot of latitude to follow my instincts in business. Ultimately, I told a little…well…a…a fabrication…”
