by Darcy Burke
“Of course she didn’t mean it.” Violet’s hackles rose. She hardly needed a translator to understand Lillian. “You think I don’t know that? Being locked up can drive anyone mad. Not to mention, she’s nine years old. A little girl. Feelings are impossible to control at that age.” Violet turned her attention to her marmalade. They needed a new topic, or she wouldn’t be able to control her own emotions. “Why are there two layers of board over all the windows? Would light be able to seep through a single layer?”
“The first layer had already half-rotted when Lillian was born. Adding a second layer was more expedient than ripping off the old before adding the new. Besides, being doubly protected cannot hurt.”
Violet kicked herself. Of course the windows had already been boarded. She’d forgotten that he suffered the same affliction as his daughter.
“Your parents boarded the windows when you were born?” she asked softly.
Brow furrowed, he shook his head. “They’ve always been boarded. Our family owned the abbey, but rarely lived in it. I moved here when I married. We’d planned to turn the abbey into a palace—knock down walls, build a home of our own. But when Marjorie picked out her chamber and we discovered the stained glass, we couldn’t bear to destroy such beauty. I can’t imagine why it was covered in the first place.”
The gears in Violet’s brain clicked into place and she stared at him in growing excitement. “I can. The Reformation! It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
He blinked uncomprehendingly. “The what?”
“The Reformation,” she repeated, leaning forward eagerly. “When the Church of England broke from Rome in the 1500s.”
His eyebrows lifted skeptically. “Wasn’t that because Henry VIII wanted his marriage annulled and the Catholics stood in his way?”
Violet waved this interjection off. Mostly because her knowledge of British history was limited to exactly one field: Art.
“His dissolution of the monasteries incited the destruction of stained glass images throughout the country. Virtually all previously church-owned property reverted back to England, but abbey churches could still be used for parish worship. Abbeys,” she repeated emphatically. “Waldegrave Abbey. Your ancestors must have boarded the windows when they first heard the ruling. And then counted their lucky stars when the monarchy didn’t repossess the property.”
“I doubt they counted on luck. Waldegraves prefer to put their faith in the hand of God.”
She wiggled in place, unable to contain her excitement. “Whomever one chooses to thank, do you not realize that this abbey might be England’s best kept secret? Twenty years ago, when the stained glass renaissance first began—”
“There’s a stained glass renaissance underway?”
“Are you bamming me? Glass painters are all the crack in London. Any number of surviving bits and pieces of Renaissance pictorials have been restored and made public, from Whitechapel to Dublin. Yet never once did I hear mention of an entire abbey left untouched in Shropshire.” She glanced around the shadowed room as if the very walls had been forged from gold. “Do you know what this means? You’ve got priceless centuries-old art safely hidden behind crisscrossed planks of wood. Waldegrave Abbey is a national treasure!”
Rather than come alive with the promise of such a discovery, his eyes darkened with portent. “I’m afraid my humble abode will have to remain secret a little while longer, Miss Smythe. Until a cure can be found for sunsickness, every inch of the glass must stay out of sight.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders sank. “Of course.”
Once again, she had forgotten herself. Or rather, she had forgotten to whom she spoke. Mr. Waldegrave and his daughter were imprisoned inside the most beautiful gaol they would never see. What irony that the country’s greatest exemplar of Renaissance-era religious art would surround the two people who could not enjoy it! Her initial excitement dulled. Make that three people. She wouldn’t see any of the glorious glasswork either. Didn’t it just figure? She’d always dreamed of being surrounded by art. Apparently she should have specified “visible”.
Violet slumped. Her soul yearned to bear witness to the stained glass artistry just behind the wooden boards. No doubt, any loss she felt, Lily and her father felt twice as keenly. But what was a mere window, no matter how marvelous, to someone who could not step into the morning light to see the entire world in all its splendor?
“I’m sure a cure will be found soon,” she said, infusing her voice with as much optimism as she could.
“That is my goal,” he agreed firmly. He met her gaze and held it. “Until then, my daughter has expressed her continued desire for your company.”
She frowned. The words were straightforward. So why did it feel like there was hidden meaning in each syllable? She narrowed her eyes. “What are you not saying?”
“I am stating,” he said, taking care to enunciate each word, “that I intend for you to remain her governmess.”
She tilted her head and considered the man as carefully as she considered his words. On the one hand, it was a relief to know for certain that her position and income were in no jeopardy whatsoever. On the other hand, it certainly sounded as though he was willing to employ means much more drastic than a pocketful of sovereigns to keep her there.
“And if Lily’s desire to keep me as governess hadn’t been mutual?” she asked archly.
He did not respond. He slowly swirled the dregs of his tea, gazing into the depths of the cup as if he could read their future upon the leaves within.
“I have no imminent plans to leave,” she pressed on. “But what if I did? Would you have locked me in the sanctuary alongside your daughter?”
At this, his gaze snapped unflinchingly to hers. His dark eyes held something more than torment, something other than mere determination. Her breath caught in surprise and wonder. This was a look she recognized from her youth. Mischief. His eyes were alive with mischief.
Lock the door and lose the key? Why, yes, his eyes said. I absolutely would.
And yet his deviltry was nothing short of inviting. The sight of a conspiratorial air along with unapologetic roguery was a combination she hadn’t encountered in years. Not since London. It was a look she well knew not to trust, of course, but also one she knew to be honest, for better or for worse.
Her shoulders relaxed. She nearly laughed aloud at the idea that unapologetic confirmation of roguery, of all things, would ease her fear. And yet, the cards were on the table, were they not? She knew his goals, his motives, his strategy. And could plan accordingly. He might have expected his honesty to cause less, rather than more, trust between them. But he had been honest. And it had been so long since she had last believed in someone else’s word. That alone was a boon.
She bit back a smile when she realized the first time she had ever trusted someone, he had been wearing much the same expression. She’d have been maybe seven or eight at the time. The boy in question slept in an alley not far from the workhouse, and she had just come upon him trying to jimmy his way into the larder.
You don’t intend to steal from us, do you? she’d asked with the outrage of a child whose dollop of porridge had never lasted through the night. The boy’s grimy, makeshift tools didn’t even pause. He simply grinned at her with eyes full of mischief and replied, Of course I do. If you help, I’ll give you half.
Mr. Waldegrave was offering the same bargain. He would do what he felt he must, regardless of her wishes. But if she helped, he would gladly share everything he had.
The first time Violet had taken that deal, she’d ended up with a full belly for the first time in years ... and a new friend. Perhaps it was time to take a chance again. After all, she’d already risked a kiss. She need only catch sight of his eyes or hands or lips to remember in vivid detail. Violet’s cheeks flamed as she realized she’d gone from staring at his teacup to staring at his mouth. Hoping he hadn’t caught her at it, she lifted her gaze to meet his.
His cup had gone still. His
eyes lowered to her lips, as if the memory of their tongues touching and their limbs nearly entwined had leapt from her head to his in an instant. When his gaze lifted, his eyes were filled with such heat, her body could not help but instantly respond.
She could not look at him without remembering the feel of his mouth against hers, the taste of his kisses, the warmth of his skin.
The knowledge that he, too, suffered these waking dreams of taking her in his arms again, that he refused to act upon it and yet could not stop himself from desiring her touch—his struggle to keep his distance only served to stoke the fire even hotter. He was looking at her now as if he had every intention of sweeping his hand to clear the table in order to lie with her on its surface. By the runaway quickening of her heart, she had half a mind to let him.
He leapt to his feet in such haste, his chair scraped across the polished floor. “I’m done. Are you done? I should let you get back to Lillian.”
“I’m done,” Violet agreed quickly, tossing her linen aside her plate. She must have managed to catch her gown beneath the legs of the chair, for when she rose to her feet the chair tumbled backward with a clatter. “Oh! I’m sorry. I—”
“I’ll get it.” He was suddenly before her, leaning down to lift the chair exactly at the moment she bent to retrieve it.
They froze, their shocked faces arrested mere centimeters apart. His breath was loud in her ears, or perhaps those were her own lungs, breathing so erratically.
She couldn’t move. If she bent any further, her mouth would surely connect with his. And if he continued forward, the same. She should back up. Why hadn’t she backed up? Why hadn’t he backed up?
If this farce of a standoff continued much longer, she’d press her lips to his just to put paid to the infernal anticipation. She thrilled at the thought. And then what? Did she truly think one kiss would smooth the tension? Or would it simply put flame to the wick?
“Leave it be,” he commanded hoarsely, gesturing at the floor.
Violet nodded. She pulled herself upright, expecting him to right the chair.
He did not. He straightened slowly, his eyes locked upon her ungloved hands, her bodice, her face. He tore his gaze away. He drew breath and stepped around the fallen chair. Once again, he offered her his arm. This time, however, his movements were more careful. Slower. As if he wasn’t quite certain what would happen if her fingertips touched his sleeve. “To Lillian?”
Not trusting herself to speak, Violet simply nodded and nestled her fingers against his arm for the second time that morning. He seemed even closer than before. Bigger, somehow. Stronger, warmer, as if everything about him had amplified a thousandfold. And from the way his muscles tensed every time her gown slid across his leg or a stray curl brushed against his arm, he was experiencing the same phenomenon.
He guided her faster and faster through the corridors and the catacombs as if he could scarcely wait to lock her in the sanctuary and have done with temptation. But when they finally reached Lily’s door, he made no move to open it. Instead, he turned to her and paused.
The light from the single candle cast strange shadows and an orange glow over his face. A chill permeated the air. The flame flickered, sputtered, and went out.
At first, neither of them moved.
After what seemed an eternity, he shifted in the darkness. Her fingers fell from his elbow. His strong hands closed gently around hers, then released at once.
A second later, his key sounded in the lock and the moment was gone.
Violet blinked into the comparative brightness of Lily’s bedchamber. After the full darkness of the catacombs, the light from a dozen candelabra was blinding. All too quickly, however, the room snapped into focus.
The rest of the unwanted paintings remained where she’d left them, stacked unevenly against a wall. Somehow she’d forgotten them during the walk here, and seeing them piled so starkly before her came as a shock to her stomach. She had felt horrible yesterday. She had tried so hard for so many nights to do something good for Lily, and all she’d succeeded in doing was making the child feel worse. Now there would be awkwardness where there had once been trust, and the illusion of understanding.
It wasn’t until Violet summoned the courage to cross the threshold that a slight warmth disappeared from the small of her back. Mr. Waldegrave had rested his hand there, as if he sought to lend her some of his strength. Violet flashed him a grateful smile. She could use all the strength she could muster.
Not all the canvases were in the asymmetrical heap. She’d disposed of several herself, when she’d first left the room. One lone canvas stood propped on one of the easels. Lily stood right behind it, wearing a paint-splattered smock and a guilty expression.
Violet stepped forward. “Good morning, Lily.”
Lily’s gaze darted from Violet, to her father, back to Violet. A pink-tipped paintbrush trembled in her hand.
“Are you painting?” Violet asked softly. She took another step closer.
Lily stared at the easel before her as if it had popped up from nowhere and caught her unawares.
Brow furrowed, Violet crossed the room in order to peek at whatever was on the canvas that had her charge so on edge.
“I messed them all up,” Lily blurted as Violet got closer. “I got ink all over everything and I wanted to fix it and I couldn’t because I don’t know what anything’s supposed to look like ’cause I’ve never seen it like that and so ... and so I painted the only thing I know. Over the ink. It’s stupid. I’m sorry.”
Violet reached her side just as Lily was finishing this speech. Bracing herself, Violet turned to view the canvas. Her jaw dropped.
Water-violets. Lily had covered the ink spatter with water-violets. In the grass, in the clouds, across the sun—water-violets. Everywhere.
Violet did not have to be an expert in youthful intellect to understand that this was Lily’s way of apologizing, of showing she cared, just as Violet had only been attempting to show how much she cared. She also didn’t need to be an art teacher to see that the water-violets themselves were incredible. They were exact reproductions of the water-violet she’d painted for Lily the other day. Over and over again. Violet wasn’t even certain she could paint two flowers so perfectly identical, let alone replicate a cornucopia of identical blooms across an entire canvas.
“I just wanted to fix it,” came the small voice at her elbow. “But it’s still ruined.”
“It’s perfect.” Violet turned to the little girl and dropped to her knees to be on eye level. “It’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”
Lily’s lower lip trembled. “It’s not stupid?”
“It’s cracking good, honey. It truly is. And you know what else?” Violet took Lily’s hands in hers. “I’m proud of you.”
“You are?” she asked in amazement.
“Absolutely. You tried to do a good thing and ended up doing a great thing. How many people can say that?” Violet gave Lily’s hands a squeeze. “Art speaks to me, it always has. Your piece knows me by name.”
Lily giggled. “I don’t hear anything. What does it say?”
“It says, ‘Viiiolet, Viiiiiiolet .... Miss Tiger Lily Waldegrave likes you.’ And do you know what’s marvelous about that? It so happens that I’m quite fond of Miss Tiger Lily Waldegrave, too. In fact, I think she’s just about perfect. Anyone would be proud to be her friend.”
To Violet’s horror, her words did not bring a smile to Lily’s face. Instead, the child burst into tears and threw herself headlong in Violet’s arms.
Startled, Violet shot her gaze at Mr. Waldegrave, who had immediately abandoned his vigil by the door upon sight of his daughter’s tears. He looked just as perplexed as Violet felt.
She gave the girl a long hug, then ran her fingers through the soft tangles at the back of Lily’s head until she stopped crying. “What is it, Tiger Lily? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Sniffing, Lily pulled back in order to look up into Violet
’s eyes. “I think I’m happy. I never made anybody proud before.”
From the corner of her eye, Violet saw Mr. Waldegrave halt suddenly, as if he’d just taken an unexpected punch to the gut. Violet could scarce imagine how he must be feeling. Neither had any idea how much the other one loved them. He would sacrifice his own limbs if he thought it would help his child. He wanted nothing more than her happiness. To hear his daughter say she had never made him proud must have struck him right through the heart.
Violet kissed Lily’s forehead, then rose to her feet to address him. “Come look at this lovely painting!”
Hesitantly, as if he feared more traps lay just ahead, he stepped closer.
“I wish I had thought about putting water-violets on from the start,” Violet continued, careful to keep her voice light. “They make everything better, don’t you think?”
“Water violets?” He reached her side and smiled when he saw the painting. “Why, so they are. And beautiful ones, at that. Very imaginative, daughter. How amusing to see them on land instead of on water!”
Lily drew back from the canvas with a horrified gasp. “I told you they were wrong!”
“No, no, no,” Violet assured her quickly. “Remember, art is never wrong.”
Mr. Waldegrave’s expression was stricken anew. “The water-violets are wonderful. I only meant—”
“You only meant, ‘It’s wrong,’ just like everything I ever do, just like everything I am! Why can’t—why can’t you like me?” Lily grabbed the palette of bright-colored oils and slapped it paint-first onto the canvas, smearing her masterpiece into nothingness. “Why is everything I ever do always wrong?”
“Lillian. Sweetling.” Mr. Waldegrave dropped to his knees and folded his daughter into his arms.
She kicked him. When he failed to release her, she twisted her head to stare up at Violet with swollen, red-rimmed eyes and a wobbly chin. “I won’t speak to him.”
