by Erica Ridley
“Mr. Roper!” How long had he been out there, waiting for her to notice the key, standing at the ready just in case she never did? She beamed at him. “Thank you.”
He raised his brows as if he couldn’t imagine to what she referred. “Good morning, miss. May I escort you to breakfast?”
“With pleasure.”
Later that morning, two hours into Lillian’s lessons, Violet thanked her lucky stars she’d taken Mrs. Tumsen’s advice and had a fortifying meal. She’d exhausted all her energy trying to keep up with Lillian. Today, there was no inkwell in the classroom, in order to for them both to focus on the blackboard.
Lillian had drawn an almost-perfect circle on the very first attempt. The ease in which the little girl perfectly copied each stroke indicated an artistic facility far beyond anything Violet had imagined.
Violet continued drilling letters until she was convinced Lillian could not only recognize all of them on sight, but could draw each one from memory.
“You’re a quick study, Miss Lillian. It’s a shame you haven’t had a bevy of governesses.”
Lillian shrugged and kept practicing letters. “Papa likes to teach me himself. He comes to my room every day and sings made-up alphabet songs and recites all the kings and queens of England, but I plug my ears and yell La! La! La! so I can’t listen.”
Violet’s sympathy toward him deepened even further. “Every day?”
“Every. Single. Day.” Lillian rolled her eyes. “Alphabet songs in the morning. Picture books on con-ti-nents at luncheon. I cover my face with my hands, like this.” She demonstrated, sending white chalk dust flying into her black hair. “After lunch? Maths. One plus one is two. Two plus two is four. I just plug my ears again and yell La! La! La! until he goes away.”
Violet could not fathom dealing with such determined rejection, day after day. “And after maths?”
“Supper, followed by story time, once I’m tucked in bed. I cover my ears, but I don’t scream.” Lillian glanced up slyly over one shoulder. “I like story time. I just don’t want Papa to know.”
“But why on earth not? It sounds like your father loves you very much.”
“He. Does. Not. If he loved me, he wouldn’t have—” Lillian’s chalk dropped as she crossed her arms and glared at Violet. “I went outside and didn’t die. I could do it again. If he loved me, he would let me get my own flowers. Even if it hurt.”
Violet cocked her head as she gazed at her charge. “Is it possible he won’t take you outside because he does love you?”
“No,” Lillian said flatly. “He hates me. She shoved the blackboard across the table and crossed her thin arms over her narrow chest. “I thought you’d understand. I thought you were different.”
Violet’s lips pressed together as she considered how best to respond.
What did Lillian truly desire? She was blessed with more parental attention in one day than most of the pupils at the Livingstone School for Girls had ever had in their entire lives. Unable to go out-of-doors was indeed a horrible fate, but Lillian both recognized and admitted to the severity of the unfortunate condition she and her father shared. Was the rancor due to her age or to her unconventional upbringing?
“I think we’ve had enough orthography for one day,” Violet announced.
Lillian’s arms uncrossed, her expression startled. “What?”
“Come.” Violet rose from the bench, crossed to the center of the room, and sank to her knees. “Sit on the floor with me.”
Lillian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And study what?”
Violet lifted a careless shoulder. “And study what it feels like to dirty one’s backside by placing it upon a marble floor.”
Lillian burst out laughing. She was at Violet’s side within seconds, wiggling expectantly. “I knew you were different!”
The girl wasn’t just angry at her father, Violet decided as she gazed down at the nine-year-old’s infectious grin. Lillian was in want of a mother. But what exactly had happened? And how did one broach such a topic?
At last, she decided upon, “Do you remember your mother?”
Lillian’s mouth tightened. “She’s dead. I killed her.”
Violet gaped, speechless.
Was it true? How could it possibly be true? If it were true, it could explain why servants like Mrs. Tumsen considered the child a monster. But honestly, who could believe such nonsense? Life on the streets might be rough, but Lillian was sheltered… and significantly smaller than most children her age. She might scratch or bite, but she hardly posed life-threatening danger.
“Lillian, I’m sure you didn’t—”
“I did.” Lillian crossed her arms and looked away. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”
Well.
Violet could certainly understand not wanting to discuss the murder of one’s mother. But she couldn’t understand any other aspect of the alleged event.
“Lillian—”
“I said no.”
Violet affected an expression of deep longing. “I just wondered if you would teach me one of those songs. I never had a father to sing to me.”
Lillian swiveled to face her. “You didn’t?”
“Or a mother, either. I had to grow up by myself. I was your age before I even knew the alphabet existed. It never occurred to me to make up songs about it.”
Lillian squinted at Violet’s face for a long moment before apparently deciding that what she saw there was truth.
“All right,” she said grudgingly. “But don’t plug your ears.”
Violet crisscrossed her heart with one finger. “Promise.”
After much theatric clearing of the throat, Lillian began to sing. “A... b... c... d—”
They were still huddled together on the floor when Mr. Waldegrave came to relieve Violet, a few minutes later. The door had opened quietly enough that Lillian, with her back to the passageway, had not yet noticed her father’s arrival.
He clutched the doorjamb as if thunderstruck.
Violet was careful not to break eye contact with her charge, so that Lillian would continue “teaching” Violet the song. She felt it important that Mr. Waldegrave realize that no matter how much Lillian appeared to have resented his attempts at instruction, she had listened and remembered. And enjoyed reenacting her father’s songs with impressive dramatic flair.
When the song ended, however, he slipped back into the passageway as if he’d remembered a forgotten appointment. The door closed softly behind him. Violet blinked at the now-empty space where he had just stood.
A knock sounded. “Lillian?”
“Miss Smythe! It’s Papa!” Eyes round, Lillian leapt to her feet and tried to tug Violet to hers. “Quickly, quickly. Don’t let him see us on the floor.”
Violet allowed herself to be led back to the table. “Why not?”
Lillian stared at her as if Violet were shamefully slow for a governess. “Because if he thinks I’m not learning, he’ll send you away.”
“Ah.” Before Violet could think of a more profound rejoinder, the door reopened and Mr. Waldegrave reentered, this time with significantly more scuffle and noise.
“How was class?” he asked gruffly.
Chin high, Lillian glanced away without responding.
“Lovely, as always,” Violet answered, rising to her feet. “Miss Lillian, enjoy your luncheon. We’ll continue in two hours.”
“If we must.” Lillian stalked sullenly to her father’s side, but made no attempt to attack him with words or fists.
“Miss Smythe, if you don’t mind waiting here for me?” Something in his eyes indicated this was much more than an idle request. “I will just be a moment.”
She busied herself straightening the table. “Of course.”
By the time she’d collected all the pieces of chalk—and brushed what dust she could from her backside—Mr. Waldegrave had returned.
“Please.” He held open the door, candle in hand. “Come with me.”
Keeping her expression impassive, Violet joined him in the passageway. He made no move to continue walking. Nor did he speak. Then:
“Please accept my apologies for the outburst yesterday afternoon.” His voice was low, but sincere. “My behavior was inexcusable.”
“I owe you the greater apology,” she admitted. “Pilfering Mr. Roper’s key was not at all well done of me. Nor was browsing someone else’s belongings. I had no right to touch anything not pertaining to myself.”
His head tilted sharply. “You took Roper’s key without his knowledge?”
“I’m afraid so.” She hoped the passageway was shadowed enough to hide her blush.
He was silent for a long moment and then did the unthinkable. He laughed.
“That explains the change of heart, all right.” He gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Roper doesn’t tend to like much of anyone, but seemed to make an exception for you. You got the better of him—a feat heretofore unprecedented. He cannot help but respect that.”
She smiled back. “I’m not sure I bested him so much as he underestimated me.”
“Same thing, I’d wager. And either way, a wonderful lesson for Roper.”
“And for me, as well.” She took a deep breath. “I am truly sorry about the gown. It was beautiful.”
“It belonged to my wife long, long ago.” He bowed his head. “She was an angel.”
Of course she was. Violet let out a soft sigh. She couldn’t compete with that. No one would ever confuse her with an angel. She’d been fed the forbidden fruit at far too young an age, and there’d been no recovering her halo after that.
“This way, if you please.” He stepped aside to fit a key into the lock of an adjoining room. “What I’d like to show you is in here.”
He swung open the door and waited for her to step inside an enormous room filled with large wooden trunks.
The next thing she noticed was the floor-to-ceiling curtains enshrouding the far wall, and the telltale sliver of light emanating from a crack between two of the boards.
“Stop!” She held out her arms to block him from entering. “I can see light.”
He frowned. “Lillian is tucked safely in her bedchamber. She will never be in this room.”
Embarrassed, Violet returned her arms to her sides. “I meant you.”
“Me.” His expression shuttered for a moment. “I come at night, when only stars are in the sky, and one can scarce make out the faintest glimmer as cloud-covered moonlight filters through.” He glanced away. “I should not allow myself even that pleasure, but when I am at wit’s end it brings me peace. The constellations are beautiful. Nighttime is so calm. And,”—his smile was self-conscious—“I love the stars.”
Her traitorous heart gave another sharp tug. Her artist’s soul could not imagine a worse fate for father and daughter than to be trapped in bodies incapable of visiting God-given nature in all its beauty. Of all the diseases she’d seen people die from over the years, perhaps living with an illness of the skin would be a worse torture still.
He stepped aside. “I am giving you this room.”
“You’re what?” She stared at him.
“It’s yours. I won’t be back.” He looked as though the decision had been painful. “Please, open the trunks. Their contents are yours as well.”
Feeling as if she were trapped in a waking dream, she slowly approached the closest trunk and tugged it open. Paint brushes. Paint brushes! She laughed in delight and fairly ran to the next. Paints! Boxes and boxes of oils and watercolors, and powders for mixing her own paints. The larger trunks were filled with canvases. The smallest, with charcoals and colored pastels. She was in heaven. This room was heaven! There were more supplies than she’d had even back at the school. Oh, she could scarcely wait to introduce Lillian to the world of art! Violet clapped her hands together in anticipation.
“Thank you ever so much,” she gushed, not caring if she sounded a complete ninny. “You cannot imagine how happy you’ve just made me, or how much joy I believe these paints and brushes will bring Lillian. This is amazing. Splendid. Marvel—”
“That’ll do,” he interrupted, a touch of pink to his cheeks. “You’ll inflate my already quite imposing ego.”
“Your ego has met its match,” she informed him with a smile. “Just wait until I start painting. I’m the most talented artist of my acquaintance, and once I turn your daughter into a child prodigy, we will be the most formidable artistic duo in three continents.”
His smile was cautious but pleased, and for the first time since her arrival, Violet felt she’d said exactly the right thing.
“Come,” he ordered with mock severity. “Allow me to escort the most talented artist of your acquaintance to luncheon while there is still time for nourishment.”
After selecting a fresh taper, she allowed him to lead her into the passageway. Before she could allow him to take his leave, however, she needed to know the truth behind Lillian’s matricidal confession.
“May I ask something personal?”
“Anything,” he answered promptly, but his eyes were now shuttered.
She could think of no subtle way to introduce her concerns, so she decided on plain speaking. “Lillian... says she killed her mother.”
He staggered backward. “She knows?”
Violet’s jaw dropped. “It’s true?”
Mr. Waldegrave shoved a hand through his hair. “Who told her?”
“What,” Violet managed to ask, “are we even talking about?”
“My wife,” he answered, his broad shoulders slumping against a dark wall. “We’re talking about Marjorie.”
Violet frowned. Marjorie Waldegrave did in fact have a gravestone out behind the abbey—but so did Lillian, and she was hale and hearty. Could she trust this man to tell the truth? Afraid of his response, she forced herself to ask what happened.
At first, she thought he would ignore the question. But after a long moment, he began to speak.
“We were young,” he said, his tone faraway. “In love. Thrilled to find ourselves on the verge of parenthood, of having a child to shower with all the parental affection we believed ourselves denied.” His voice was wry when he added, “We were children of privilege, you see. We had everything money could buy, and it still wasn’t enough.”
“All children yearn for parents, I imagine. No matter how expensive their toys.”
“Perhaps. In the end, it didn’t matter.” He rubbed his face with one hand. “There was never an opportunity to become a family.”
This time when he paused, Violet didn’t interrupt. She could think of nothing of value to say.
“The pain came early,” he said at last. “The contractions were too fierce, too frequent. By the time the midwife arrived, the morning sun was high in the sky and the bedclothes soaked with blood. Lillian’s head had crowned. Then came her tiny shoulders, an arm, her belly. As the sun highlighted each adorable feature, her baby-perfect skin browned and bubbled and blistered. The baby wailed in agony. Not healthy, newborn screams, mind you, but a wrenching shriek of unimaginable pain, like prisoners being tortured on the rack.”
Without thinking, Violet touched her hand to his arm. She hesitated awkwardly, not quite certain how to show her empathy through physical touch. He did not pull away. He seemed to be grateful to feel her fingers trembling against his shirtsleeve. Somehow, he understood.
“I saw what was happening,” he continued, his voice strained. “I snatched my terrified daughter from the midwife’s iron grip and swung her into the shadows. The blistering slowed, but the damage had been done. Lillian still bears the scars.”
Violet closed her eyes, and pictured Lillian’s exquisite long-sleeved gowns in a new light. The scars on her small face weren’t pockmarks after all, but rather a permanent memento of her birth.
“I dipped her limbs in cool water. Once the maids banished the sun behind thick curtains, I wrapped a cloth about Lillian’s sore flesh so I could bring her tiny face close to M
arjorie’s. The baby finally stopped crying. But by then, Marjorie’s lips were blue, her skin pasty, her lungs silent. She never got to lay eyes on our child.” His shoulders twitched.
“What did you do then?” Violet asked quietly.
He stared at the candle flame. “Buried my wife. The midwife said I should bury Lillian as well, told anyone who would listen that Marjorie had died birthing the cursed spawn of Satan himself. Ridiculous, of course, but we are a small town, and most of the villagers believe in superstition, rather than science. A witch hunt was imminent.” He drew a shaky breath. “So I commissioned two gravestones and, God help me, spread word that my daughter had died as well. I am not proud of my actions, but it kept the pitchforks at bay during a time when I could barely fight my own demons.”
Violet trembled with horror. Not for what he had done, but for what he had gone through, what he had suffered. Could anything bring him comfort? Her hand slid up the warm muscle of his arm.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “You did your best.”
He was silent. She could think of nothing more to say, so she gently stroked his arm with her fingers.
“It’s not enough,” he said brokenly. “It will never be enough.”
“No.” She grasped both his forearms, their bodies now just a whisper apart. “You are a good father, Alistair Waldegrave. Anyone can see how much you love your daughter.”
He trembled, but said nothing.
“Whether you believe it or not, she loves you, too.” Violet cupped his face with her hands, her mouth inches from his. How she wished she were bold enough to close the distance between them. To show him just how passionately she meant each word.
“She doesn’t love me,” he said, his breath mingling with hers. “How could she?”
“How could she not?” Violet replied, and pressed her mouth to his.
His response was immediate. Hot. Hungry. Not at all what she’d imagined his kiss to be. Infinitely, infinitely better.
Her entire body thrilled. Incredible. She wondered at her own pleasure. Why was she not recoiling from his touch? Was it because he had somehow managed to earn her trust? Or because he was in pain, and she could bring him pleasure?
