by Darcy Burke
“Yes, master. I will do my best.” Roper bowed once more, then took his leave.
Feeling both exhausted and horribly empty, Alistair stared at the bandaged hand in his lap. He wished he’d apologized to Miss Smythe immediately, for he certainly couldn’t face her now. Not after ripping his dead wife’s gown from her hands.
With a sigh, he dragged himself over to the stack of science and anatomy tomes piled atop his nightstand, and opened the first to the ribbon he’d placed between chapters that same morning. He’d work, that’s what he’d do. If he couldn’t help himself, at least he could help Lillian. Spend all night studying, memorizing, taking notes, just as he’d done the night before, and the night before that. He slipped on his pince-nez and began to read.
When his team of scientists arrived, he’d be ready.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Gel, didn’t I tell ye not to bargain with the devil?”
Violet shook her groggy head and swung the door open enough to allow Mrs. Tumsen entry. The old woman may have been right about making bargains, but she was wrong about which Waldegrave was the devil. He had been a madman when he found Violet in his wife’s bedchamber. She sighed and shook her head. A madman who had just lost his last tie to a past he could never regain.
“Here.” The old woman shoved a pile of threadbare brown cloth forward. “I brought ye this. Hasn’t been fashionable since ... well, ever, but Charles tells me ye might find it useful.”
Violet accepted the folded parcel in confusion. “Er ... Charles?”
“Memory loss, have ye now? He’s the one that brought ye back to your room yesterday, if ye can’t recall. Although, to be fair, he did say ye were in a bit of a state, and rightly so, I imagine.”
Now she was certain she was still asleep. “Charles” was Mr. Roper, the surly manservant? True, he’d come to collect her from the bedchamber of Mr. Waldegrave’s dead wife, and true, Mr. Roper had immediately apologized for his role in the events of the afternoon. Regardless of any perceived slight, she should never have touched those gowns. Violet had been certain she’d be sacked, and wasn’t quite convinced whether she felt relieved to still retain her post.
She shook out the folds and held the garment out before her. Threadbare, perhaps, but serviceable, clean, and about as old as—
“Mrs. Tumsen, does this dress belong to you?” Violet asked as she realized the truth.
“Once upon a time, but if ye think it’d fit me now, yer eyes are as bad as yer memory.” Mrs. Tumsen turned toward the door. “Don’t dally, now. Ought to break yer fast before ye enter the cave of horrors.”
With that, Mrs. Tumsen quit the room.
Violet laid the dress on her bed and went to the sideboard to splash water on her face. Blessedly, her ankle was much improved. She tested her foot. No more hobbling.
She wasn’t sure if Mrs. Tumsen’s “cave of horrors” referred to the catacombs or Lillian’s sanctuary or the entire abbey grounds, but now that Violet was awake, breakfast sounded just the thing.
Within fifteen minutes, she was dressed and ready. Another fifteen passed. No one came to fetch her. She frowned. Now that food had been mentioned, her stomach was growling at every interval. Sighing, she leaned against a bedpost to await Roper’s knock.
It was not forthcoming.
Hunger eventually turned into frustration at having been so easily forgotten. Again. She shoved her hands into her dress pockets and stalked toward the bell pull.
Her fingertips brushed cold metal.
She paused midstride as her fingers curled around a slender brass key. She withdrew her hand from the pocket, unable to hide the smile from her face. Clever. “Charles” had given her the perfect peace offering. He would never know that what she appreciated most was not the key itself, but the gift of his trust. She was not at all accustomed to being trusted.
Smiling, she crossed to the door and slid the key into the lock. She swung open the door and found herself face to face with the scarred manservant himself.
“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 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. “If he loved me, he would let me go outside. 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 was it Lillian truly desired? 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 primarily due to her age?
“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 a to
pic she had no business exploring?
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?
“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, particularly how a child of Lillian’s age and size could possibly be culpable.
“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 acrylics. 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—”
“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.”
