by Darcy Burke
“Not a party. A meeting of England’s finest minds.”
“From ... Town?”
“From all over.”
“All over.” Miss Smythe groaned, shook her head as if arguing internally, then reached into her pockets. When Alistair saw her removing the sovereigns she’d sequestered within, he jumped backward as if they’d been electrified.
“I will not be accepting your resignation. If you’ve no wish to join me for a few hours in my quest to help Lillian—”
“I have every wish to help Lillian!” she burst out. “I just ... ”
He leaned forward. “Just what?”
“We’ll discuss it later. I need to think.” She lowered her eyes and glanced away. “If you please.”
Alistair didn’t please at all, but he held his tongue.
Her eyes as dark and as fathomless as the night sky, she pressed the fistful of coins to her chest and turned to go.
He might have stopped her. He considered it. Wished to, in fact.
But before he could decide if reaching out for her would be unwise and going after her the most foolish act of all, she was around the corner and gone.
His shoulders thumped hollowly against the door to the catacombs. He was still a fool. With a sigh, he reached into his waistcoat for the letter. Perhaps it wasn’t a refusal after all. Perhaps another one of England’s brightest minds would be joining the conclave at Waldegrave Abbey. Lord knew, he could use some good news.
He popped the wax seal with his thumb and unfolded the parchment. A square, unsigned message stood out in stark black letters.
“We know what you’re planning and we know what godlessness you hide. Stop, or we will send your evil back to hell. You have been warned.”
The edge of the paper crumpled in Alistair’s suddenly sweaty hand.
He had suspected—nay, he had known—that the few madmen amongst the local villagers became more suspicious with each passing year, but this, this was a problem. This was a direct threat. It had reached him here, in his home. Where he was supposed to be safe. Where his daughter was supposed to be safe.
Who had sent it? What was it they thought they knew? And what lengths would they go to stop him?
He turned and rested his clammy forehead against the bleak chill of the catacomb door. God help him. All he wanted was to be a good father. To cure Lillian. To give her the world. Fourteen short days until strangers arrived at the abbey. Would he finally be helping his daughter, or was he putting her at even greater risk?
CHAPTER NINE
Violet quietly let herself into her bedchamber. For better or for worse, Mr. Waldegrave had just handed her precisely what she needed to finally act.
Funds.
She seated herself at the escritoire. Carefully, she pulled open the top drawer. Beneath the feather, the inkwell, and the dozen sheets of parchment, layers of shiny coins lined the bottom of the drawer.
Thirty pounds, ten shillings, four pence was hardly Croesian riches, but the sum was more than she would have earned in an entire year at the Livingstone School for Girls. Violet hadn’t the least idea how much a good barrister might require to take on her case, but surely this was enough to secure one’s attention.
She placed the blank white sheets to one side of the desk and unfolded a single page of now-worn parchment. Earlier that week, Mrs. Tumsen had compiled a list of London barristers at Violet’s request, no questions asked. Now that the names were in her hand and a growing pile of coin secreted in her escritoire, it was past time to solicit some answers.
First, she must introduce herself and her case as generically as possible. Although lawyers did not gossip about their clients’ business, she was not yet anyone’s client. She required a London barrister partly for the legitimacy it would bring to her case, and partly in the hopes that news from the north had not yet arrived to prejudice their minds against her. All the same, she could hardly pen a dozen written confessions and send them about Town along with her signature and current address. Miss Smythe she would continue to be, until it was time to sign a contract.
Second, she needed to know how much it would cost to secure legal services throughout the handling of her case. Third, how confident the barrister was in his ability to secure an acquittal. Fourth, when they could meet. Fifth, when they could begin. And sixth, how soon could she hope to put all of this behind her?
After finishing the last of the letters, she gathered them in a neat pile and rang the bell pull. Within minutes, Mrs. Tumsen was at the door and tucking the folded missives into a pocket for safekeeping.
“Don’t ye worry, gel. I have an afternoon free in two days. I’ll post ’em then, if that’ll do.”
“Of course.” Violet dropped a few extra coins into the older woman’s palm for her trouble. “Another visit to your sister?”
Mrs. Tumsen grinned slyly. “Can’t go too long without seein’ Ginny.”
Tsking, Violet waggled a finger in mock reproof. “Visiting Ginny” meant Mrs. Tumsen planned to spend the day warming a stool at the hotel tavern down in Shrewsbury proper.
“Sure I can’t bring back a nip or two for ye?”
Violet shook her head. “No, thank you. I like to stay on my toes.”
“You and the master,” Mrs. Tumsen said with a sigh, as if this were further proof of severe character faults. “Won’t even suffer a drop of wine with dinner, that one.”
Violet shot a sidelong glance at the clock upon the nightstand. “Is he at supper now?”
“Thinking about him, are ye?” Mrs. Tumsen gazed at her with shrewd eyes. “He’s in his office, researching. I’m heading that way myself. Shall I ask ’im to join ye?”
“No, no,” Violet blurted far too quickly. She had no wish to continue discussing her presence or lack thereof at the upcoming coterie of physicians and scientists. Besides, she enjoyed sharing the occasional meal with Lillian. Her father being in his office meant Violet wouldn’t be horning in, and she and Lily could have some girl time. “I’ll be in the sanctuary.”
“As ye like. I’ll let Cook know.” With a bob and a crooked wave, Mrs. Tumsen hobbled back into the shadows.
Violet lit a fresh taper and headed to the catacombs. Toward darkness and away from Mr. Waldegrave. What was the true reason she avoided him? She hurried faster once the answer presented itself. It was not that she did not trust him but rather, to her surprise, because she actually did.
At the end of the tunnel, she knocked soundly upon Lillian’s door. The child was seated at the edge of her bed, thumbing through a picture book.
“Come look,” she called excitedly. “Papa was here earlier. See this book? It’s got drawings of every kind of flower in the world! Did you know there are more than just regular lilies named after me? There are even tiger lilies.” Merry-eyed, she bared her teeth and swiped a claw-shaped hand through the air above the book. “Rowr! I’m a tiger lily!”
Laughing, Violet pulled the child-size chair from Lillian’s escritoire and seated herself beside the bed. “What other illustrations are in the book, Miss Tiger Lily?”
“Well, if there are lots of lilies, you cannot imagine the number of roses. Look—an entire chapter of them! Did you know England’s national flower is a rose? Papa says that’s been so ever since the Wars of the Roses four hundred years ago. Except they weren’t fighting about roses. And, look, these ones are pretty, even if they’re not roses or lilies. I’m not certain what kind of flower they are. What’s this say? Here, on top.”
“Let’s see ... ‘Hottonia palustris.’ The water-violet.”
Lillian fell backward, laughing until she hiccupped. “The water-violet! Not nearly as exciting as tiger lily. I’m the king of the jungle, and you’re all wet. Not me! Rowr!”
“Imp.” Violet rescued the picture book before it tumbled to the floor. “You knew what that said all along and just wished to tease me. Well, I’ll have you know that water can be very lovely. And besides, it’s not tigers but lions who are kings of the j
ungle.”
“That’s just jealousy talking,” Lillian countered cheerfully. She grabbed the picture book and flipped to another black-and-white drawing. “I wish we had all of these in our garden so that I could see their colors. They must be beautiful. Papa would bring in a new flower every day if he could, wouldn’t he?”
“More like every hour, if he thought it would please you.” Violet sat back with a start when she realized the words were probably true. Mr. Waldegrave wasn’t simply the “least bad” of all the men she’d ever met—he was completely and truly good. His entire being was focused on caring for someone else—a trait Violet could not help but love, in a man she could not help but respect. “Would you like me to paint one for you?”
“Yes!” Lillian smothered a giggle. “Do the water-violet, so it can be your self-portrait.”
Violet tickled her sides in response.
Supper arrived before they could begin, but as soon as they finished their repast, Violet excused herself to fetch the “self-portrait” supplies from her art room.
The once-empty chamber now overflowed with painted canvases, stacked atop each other and leaning against every surface. If she was lucky, tonight would be her last sleepless night, and in the morning she could finally surprise Lillian with a room covered floor-to-ceiling with the outside world.
If there were a way to surround the child with a real summer garden, Violet would gladly plant every seed herself. Instead, all she could give was art. Words had never been easy, but she hoped the emotion contained in each brushstroke would demonstrate her love, and speak directly to Lillian’s heart.
Violet had filled the largest canvases with close-up grasses and flowers and humming birds and bees. Horizon lines of heather-topped hills flowed across the medium-size canvases. The smallest of the canvases were every kind of cloud—fluffy white against bright blue skies, thick as dark wool or shot through with lightning, or wispy curls dancing about a shimmering rainbow.
Filled with nervous excitement for the morrow’s surprise, she closed the art room door and returned to Lillian’s chamber. She arranged their easels side by side, placed a blank canvas upon each one, and set a tray of watercolors on a small table beside them.
“And now,” Violet announced in her best penny-theater voice, “the world famous, award-winning, death-defying ... water-violet!”
Lillian scrambled to her feet and positioned herself before her canvas.
“First—a quick reminder of the majesty and beauty our brushes shall soon capture.” Violet dipped a feather quill into the inkwell on Lillian’s desk and quickly sketched a copy of the book illustration at the top corner of her canvas. She replaced both ink and brush, then turned to her young charge. “Ready?”
Lillian nodded eagerly.
“Splendid. I’m going to do each step very slowly. I will watch you do the same, and when you are finished, I will continue to the next step. Don’t worry about mistakes—it doesn’t have to be perfect, and I am right here to help anytime you need me.”
Lillian bit her lip, but nodded her agreement.
As promised, Violet performed each stroke, each color selection, each twist of the brush with painstakingly slow precision.
She needn’t have worried.
Lillian copied each move almost as quickly as Violet performed it, but that was not the greatest surprise. No, the true miracle was that without any assistance whatsoever, an exact replica of Violet’s painting bloomed forth on Lillian’s canvas. She had purposefully copied Violet’s every move, yes, but the result was effortlessly identical. Violet would have been hard pressed to identify which of the beautiful flowers she herself had painted, were it not for the pen-and-ink in one corner and the fact that she still stood before her canvas. She marveled at her charge. Violet could take credit in having imparted artistic technique, but no instructor could ever teach natural talent.
Lillian was truly gifted. In time, she would be far more accomplished than Violet could ever hope to be. What an indescribable tragedy for someone with an artist’s eyes and such an expressive soul to be trapped inside a dull and lifeless abbey for the whole of her life.
“What’s wrong?” Lillian’s lower lip trembled. “Did I muck it up? It’s that last petal, isn’t it, the one on the right with—”
“It’s perfect. Almost as beautiful as you are.” Violet set down her palette and brush, then knelt to be eye-level with the child. “I have an idea. Since we haven’t got a garden full of every flower in the world, why don’t you pick one from the book every day, and we’ll paint it together?”
Lillian clasped her hands to her throat. “You can show me how to paint them all?”
Violet smiled. “I don’t see why not.”
“But ... ” Lillian’s gaze fell to the open book of illustrations. “What if we don’t know what color it’s supposed to be? What will we do then?”
Violet lifted her palms. “We’ll make it up.”
Lillian glanced up sharply. “What?”
“We’ll use our imaginations,” Violet explained. “If you want orange, we’ll paint with orange. If you want blue, we’ll paint with blue. No rules in art, remember? You can paint flowers with checks and dots if you’ve a mind to, and there’s nobody to say—”
“But I don’t want flowers with checks and dots! I want real flowers, in real colors. I don’t want it to be art. I want it to be right.”
“Tiger Lily, listen to me. It truly doesn’t matter what’s real or not. There’s no such thing as right. If you’ve seen it in your imagination, if you’ve captured the images in your mind’s eye onto paper or canvas, then you’ve made it real, even if it didn’t exist until you thought of it.”
“But how can I use my imagination if I haven’t got one?” Lillian’s eyes welled with tears. “I can only paint what I’ve seen, and the only thing I ever see is this room! What shall I paint a picture of? A wall? A chair? And use my ‘imagination’ to make it green with dots instead of ugly and gray? That’s not art. That’s stupid. I want real flowers! I want the real world! I want—”
With a choking sob, she broke off and tossed the picture book to the floor. She ran to her bed, climbed up on the mattress and, before Violet could halt her, had jerked the thick curtains shut in order to enshroud herself within. Only a faint sniffle could be heard from beneath the heavy tester.
Violet crossed quickly to the bed. “Lillian—”
“Go away,” she choked out. “Go outside and walk in the garden and then come tell me some more about how none of it matters.”
Violet placed her palm against the closed curtains. “Honey, that’s not what I meant. I just—”
“Well, I meant ‘go away’ and I’ll say it again. Good-bye.”
With a soft sigh, Violet lowered her hand back to her side. There was nothing she wanted more than to whisk the curtains aside and envelop Lillian in the biggest hug of her life. But Violet was no stranger to the sensation of helplessness and despair. Sometimes, particularly when one was a child, having one’s every stated wish thwarted by an adult only made one feel smaller and more insignificant. No matter how well meaning, Violet had no desire to add to Lillian’s frustration.
“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “Sleep well, and I will be back in the morning after breakfast.”
“I’ll be here,” came Lillian’s small, resentful voice. “Whether I like it or not.”
Violet’s heart broke for her. “Tomorrow will be a much better day. I promise.”
She would make sure of it.
***
Alistair awoke before dawn.
Possibly because he’d fallen asleep at his desk and the bent frames of his pince-nez had dug craters into his face. Again. He tossed the spectacles aside and scrubbed his face with his hands, wincing as his fingers stretched the worn grooves left by the pince-nez. Hopefully the marks would fade before he was required to address any members of his staff.
He laid a ribbon along the spine of the open tome and squinted
at the clock. Hours yet before the kitchen would be ready for breakfast. Plenty of time for more research, if he could but stay awake. He pushed himself to his feet. Perhaps there was a less sleep-inducing volume on acute hypersensitivity research in the library.
He moved quickly through the familiar tunnels, deep within the bowels of the catacombs He neared Miss Smythe’s art room only to be struck spellbound at a flickering mirage in the shadows just ahead.
Grass.
The walls of the crumbling passageway were lined with thick, knee-high grass so green and so life-like that the guttering of a distant candle lent the illusion of a slight breeze. He could almost smell the heather and wildflowers sprinkled among the lush greenery.
As he stepped closer, he lifted his own taper to better light the way. Rectangular shadows danced behind the patches of grass and flowers. He was looking at paintings. Brushstrokes on canvas. But even the awareness that what he was seeing was several pounds worth of oils in the hands of a skilled artist did not subtract from the unreality of finding himself in a springtime meadow instead of a warren of ancient crypts.
Miss Smythe emerged from the open doorway. She froze at the sight of him. Her slender arms were wrapped about three more paintings, the tallest of which rose past the bridge of her nose, leaving only her eyes visible above the canvases. She did not move.
“You did this.” He stared at her in wonder.
She hesitated before blurting nervously, “For Lily.”
He blinked in surprise. “Lillian asked you to paint these?”
“She doesn’t have the words to ask. She doesn’t know ‘daisy’ or ‘greenfinch’ or ‘rainbow.’ And she feels that loss deeply.” Miss Smythe’s eyes smiled sadly. “When I was her age, I would have given anything to have a little beauty in my life. Years later, when I saw my first painting, I was not only stunned, I was inspired. Art ... transformed my world. I’m hoping it can bring life to Lily’s.”
