by Darcy Burke
“More tea, Papa?” Lillian stared up at him expectantly, the undersized china pot clutched tight in her small hands.
He nodded his assent. If he had learned anything lately, it was not to assume. Else he might never have come to share this moment today, with his daughter. He raised his eyebrows appreciatively as he sipped the tepid brew, making how-delicious noises more appropriate to teatime at Buckingham Palace. Lillian beamed in response.
He couldn’t help but smile back. They’d been so lonely for so long ... As the lemon-and-honey tea slid down his oddly scratchy throat, he gazed across his teacup at his daughter in growing wonder. It wasn’t that he couldn’t recall the last time they’d spent such a pleasant morning together. On the contrary. It was that the pleasant moments began after Violet’s arrival in their lives. Whether or not his counterfeit governess had the lightest skirts in Christendom, there was no denying the very real miracles she had wrought in their lives.
And while he was being magnanimous, was Alistair himself so perfect? Far from it. He’d never claimed to be a saint, but nor had Violet ever laid claim to any proclivity toward godliness. If Alistair were being truly honest, even his beloved Marjorie, martyred in the very act of bringing life to their daughter, had not been the perfect angel he had painted her to be.
Marjorie, bless her soul, had been wholly and delightfully human. She had lived passionately, loved passionately, and fought passionately. At the time, she’d been the girl of his dreams—but that dream had long since concluded. She would forever be the woman who gave Lillian life, but perhaps he’d done his daughter a disservice by overemphasizing her mother’s goodness. In his grief, he may have constantly, if inadvertently, thrown the sharpness of his loss in his daughter’s face.
Lillian had never had a mother, had anyone to look up to, save himself.
Until Violet.
His shoulders tightened as he faced the truth. Violet had never been just a governess. She had certainly never been a mere companion to him or his daughter. Violet was the first new confidante in his life in over a decade. And she was the first friend Lillian had had in her entire life. The first mother figure his daughter had ever known.
No—not a “figure”. Not a substitute, not a mirage, not a substandard stopgap. To say anything of the sort was to devalue the very special and undeniably real relationship Violet and Lillian had built over the past several months. Violet might not be her biological mother, but there was little else to stand in the way of the title. His daughter had loved her wholly and unconditionally almost from the first.
“Papa?”
“Hmm?”
“Tomorrow can Miss Violet join us for breakfast?”
He choked on his tea. Would Violet even be here tomorrow? Could he blame her if she left them both? He had certainly done little to make her stay. He could scarce be surprised if she were even now packing her bags. And when Violet did leave them—whether to face her accuser or flee to Switzerland or live a life of freedom in London town, far away from Alistair—Lillian would be devastated. What would he do then? The loss of Violet in his daughter’s life would hit her equally as soul-deep as the premature loss of his wife had devastated Alistair in his youth. How could he possibly prepare his child for something like that? He couldn’t even promise her breakfast.
“We’ll see,” was all he said aloud. “You may invite her to dine with you whenever you wish, but please do not be ... hurt ... if there is a time when Miss Violet cannot attend.”
Lillian laughed as if he’d told a brilliant jest. “She would never say no, Papa. She loves me.”
Love. He opened his mouth to reply, but not a single word escaped. Did he even know what the word meant anymore?
Lillian twisted around in her seat. “Papa ... may I paint my room?”
“Paint anything you wish, sweetling.”
He pushed his chair back. At least Lillian would have a new love—that of art—to bring color to her life after they lost Violet. His stomach clenched. Oh, how could he let her leave? And yet he could not force her to stay. Only after she faced her past would she be able to consider her future. He and Lily would just have to carry on, as they had always done. No matter how hard it might be.
He had always prayed Lily never need experience the pain of abandonment. For the sake of Violet’s future, however ... And for the sake of Alistair’s shaken heart ...
Sighing, he rose to his feet. He was not at all certain what he wanted, and he did not know what to pray for that would provide an optimal solution for all parties. He would turn it over in his mind as he paged through the books in his study.
He rang for a maid and kissed his daughter’s cheeks before slipping quickly and silently through the darkness of the catacombs. But once he was back in the lonely safety of his office, he slumped into his chair and stared sightlessly at a tower of mundane correspondence he’d been unable to bear opening since the tidal wave of the day before. He just couldn’t face it.
Ever since returning from Shrewsbury proper, he had not studied a single essay, nor broken the seal on a single missive, nor slept a single wink. How could he? He could hardly return to his old life when his new life had been so neatly turned upside down. Before, he’d had precisely one focus, and precisely one goal.
Now he had two.
He slid a blank sheet of parchment from the stack in his secretary drawer and dipped his pen into a reservoir of ink. Violet needed help, and Alistair would provide it.
He composed a carefully worded inquiry to his solicitor, authorizing him to spend whatever coin necessary to take care of the problem as discreetly as possible, and to immediately send notice upon success or setback. There, that should do. He pulled a bit of wax and a ring bearing the Waldegrave family crest from the parchment drawer and prepared to seal the inquiry.
He hesitated before heating the ring in a candle’s flame. Was this truly the right path? If he sent this missive, he effectively relinquished Violet to the fates of the courts. When his barrister took her as a client, the case would progress rapidly. Once cleared of all charges, why would any young woman as beautiful and as talented as she give up an entire world of inspiration and beauty for claustrophobic catacombs and windowless chambers?
She would not, he realized, his stomach sinking. No one would. He had not chosen this life—God had thrust it upon him, like it or not. His grip on the sealing ring tightened. By ensuring Violet’s freedom, he’d likely also be ensuring she take it. Elsewhere.
So be it.
He jerked his fingers back from the flame and pressed the heated ring into the soft wax before he could change his mind. It was the right thing to do. He didn’t have to like it. Wishing the entire matter out of sight, he slid the sealed missive atop a stack of open medical books and tugged forward yesterday’s pile of unopened correspondence.
He regretted that decision immediately.
Half the letters were from the great minds present at his recent conclave. The other half were from equally great minds, kindly refusing an invitation to attend a future such retreat. And every last one of them held the same message: No.
No, there was no magic tincture. There was no solution in any form. There was no hope for even finding answers to “why” or “how” without extensive in-laboratory study, and even then, no promises could be made. There was not now, nor was there likely to ever be, a cure for such a violent and deadly disease. There was nary a hint of optimism for even ameliorating the symptoms. He might as well have asked them to fly to the moon.
He slumped as if punched in the sternum. Was that it, then? The last chance for hope? It had been nearly a decade. Was it not time to face the truth? Lillian would never get better. Alistair swayed, lightheaded. The life they had now was the one they would always have. Just this, nothing more. Forever.
“Master?”
Alistair’s startled gaze snapped from the blurry letter in his hand to the manservant hovering uncertainly at the open door. In his abstracted state, Alistair had ap
parently neglected to close the door behind him. Not that it mattered. If he was wasting his time searching for a nonexistent miracle—if he had wasted the first nine years of his daughter’s life chasing an impossible dream—then it was far past time to break free from his office once and for all.
Roper’s scarred face filled with concern. “Is everything all right, master?”
“No,” Alistair answered as he rose to his feet. “Nor shall it be, so it is up to me to make of it what I will.”
“Sir?” Confusion lined his manservant’s brow. “Is there aught I could do to help?”
Alistair paused in the act of rounding his desk. Slowly, he pivoted toward the pile of open books and retrieved the thick inquiry he’d penned to his solicitor. Here it was, then. The moment of truth. Sending this missive was tantamount to sending Violet from their lives, but what else could he do?
He handed Roper the letter. “See this gets posted, please.”
“Of course, master. As you wish.”
The corner of Alistair’s mouth sagged despondently. If only he could have what he wished. None of this heartbreak would be necessary.
***
Violet arrived in the sanctuary to find her suspiciously cheerful charge had no interest in visiting the makeshift schoolroom this morning.
“No learning today,” Lily announced before Violet had even had a chance to secure the door behind her. “I am not of a mood for maths.”
“No?” Violet returned, careful to keep her expression blank. She, for one, was never of a mood for maths. “And what, pray tell, would Princess Tiger Lily prefer to be doing with her valuable time?”
Lily clapped her hands with glee. “I want to paint the walls.”
Violet frowned. “Paint them ... pink?”
“No,” Lily burst out. “I want to put pictures on them. Like in my books, but better. Color pictures. Of real things and not-real things. And I want you to help me.”
“You want to paint ... murals?” Violet asked doubtfully.
“I do if that means pictures-on-the-walls.” Lily’s eyes glimmered with mischief. “Ooh, see that? A new word! I’m learning even without maths. This will be positively educational.”
Violet suppressed a smile. “It’s certainly hard to argue with that logic. But I’m afraid I wouldn’t feel comfortable painting a single inch of these walls without consulting your father.”
“First,” Lily interrupted imperiously, “I already asked him and he said I could paint whatever I want wherever I want. Second, Papa wants me to be happy. Putting pictures on the walls will make me happy. So can we start right now instead of doing maths? Please? I promise to study sums twice as hard tomorrow.”
If Violet had found the original twisted logic too humorous to argue with, she could find no quibble whatsoever with this line of reasoning. A day without maths would hardly impact Lily’s future. And her assessment of her father’s desire to see her happy was inarguable. Whether or not he’d specifically agreed to a sanctuary covered in child-created murals was a bit more suspect, but Violet could see nothing wrong with using some of the window planks as canvases until she could clarify the rest with Alistair. After all, the sanctuary had once boasted floor-to-ceiling stained glass. Why not replace art with art?
“All right,” she agreed slowly, stepping forward to inspect the boards’ surfaces more closely. How the ancient wood would hold paint was anyone’s guess, but it would be as good a project as any. “Let’s start with this board over here. What did you have in mind?”
Lily squealed delightedly, then raced for the paints. “I want the outside world, but I want it all mixed together. I want to paint the garden and the moors and the forest, but I want it to look like daylight and I don’t know how that should look. I want flowers everywhere. Not just the flowers Papa brings, but every single flower from my book. Even though I know they don’t all grow in the same place at once, I like them all and I want to look at them whenever I want. In color! Lots of colors! And then I want to make birds, but I don’t have a book of those yet so I’m not sure what they look like. Oh, and ladybirds, but that’s more like a bug. I want bugs, too. All the animals. And then after that, I want—”
“Slow down, slow down,” Violet interrupted, this time not bothering to hide her laughter. “We can paint anything you wish, but not all in one day. This sort of project will take weeks. Or more. Did you know it took Michelangelo six years and several assistants to paint the Sistine Chapel?”
Wide-eyed, Lily shook her head. “That’s too long. Is he a friend of yours? Why did he paint his sister’s chapel?”
Violet coughed, then decided to skip a longwinded explanation. “We’ll cover that later. The point is, frescoes and murals are hard work. A cohesive whole takes careful planning. You have a wonderful idea and I approve wholeheartedly, but we cannot just start flinging acrylics at the walls all havey-cavey. Our imaginations provide the inspiration, but our pencils provide the framework.”
Lily stared blankly. “What?”
“I’m saying, first we draw the outlines and then we paint, starting with the background first and then adding more and more detail.”
Lily’s face fell. “No paints today?”
“Not just yet. First we plan. No, don’t look so disappointed—you get to ‘plan’ directly on the walls. Here, take this pencil and begin sketching what you want, where you want it.”
Lily wiggled excitedly. “Right on the boards?”
“Absolutely.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Sit right here and watch. I am here if you need help, but these are your walls, and you are the artist.”
Lily nodded. “I’ll pretend I’m Michael Angelo painting a chapel for my sister.”
“Am I the sister?”
“The assistant.”
“Fair enough.” Violet settled onto a small hardback chair. Her knees popped up almost high enough to graze the underside of the table. “What a lovely table and chairs. Are they new?”
“It’s a breakfast set. Papa brought it today before we had breakfast together. Would you like to join us tomorrow?”
Violet’s stomach twisted. She wasn’t sure she’d like to join Alistair, well, ever. She hadn’t seen him since he’d accused her of being a whore and she’d thrown him from her bedchamber. She doubted she could keep down so much as a slice of toast whilst seated across from him. Much less make small talk.
“I don’t think so, honey. Perhaps your papa and I can take turns breakfasting with you,” she suggested instead. “There are only two chairs, and it would be horribly impolite to force someone to sit on the floor.”
Lily sketched for a moment in silence. “You’re saying no because of the chairs?”
Violet shifted uncomfortably. “Er ... why else would I?”
“I don’t know. This morning Papa was happy until I mentioned your name, and now you’re acting just as queerly as he was. I don’t think it’s the chairs. When all I had was my too-tall table, you and I always sat on the floor for picnics. Why would you care now?”
Excellent point. Violet plucked at her skirt. “Maybe I would like your papa to see us as ladies and not heathens?”
Lily glanced over her shoulder, eyes shining. “You want Papa to see you as a lady?”
“I ... ” Violet bit her tongue, wishing she’d launched into a detailed explanation of the Italian Renaissance after all.
“I’m sure he already does. He likes you, you know.”
“Not anymore,” Violet said sourly.
“Maybe.” Lily returned to her sketching. “Do you like him?”
Violet slanted her charge a hard look. Where the devil was this line of questioning headed? “I respect your father very much,” she answered carefully.
“Do you like me?” she asked, still sketching.
“I love you, you little imp, even when I fantasize about buttoning your lips together so you stop asking so many questions.”
Lily giggled. “Would y
ou say we’re almost like a real family?”
Violet nearly choked. “Almost.”
“Me, too. I wish you were my mother. Not my dead mama—she’ll always be my first mother, plus now she’s an angel in heaven. But wouldn’t it be nice if you were my new mama?” Lily shot a concerned look over one shoulder. “Can people have second mamas?”
“I ... ” Violet shook her head, speechless. What was she to do with these questions? “I never even had one mama, so I’m no expert on the topic of motherhood.”
Lily’s eyes rounded. “You didn’t? Did she die, like mine? Did you have a papa instead?”
“I never had either one.” Violet’s chest tightened at the reminder of her childhood. “I was a very lonely little girl.”
Lily nodded. “Then you’re just like me. A girl in want of a nice family. That’s why we’d be perfect together.”
Violet hesitated. “You had a mama and you have a papa. It’s not ideal, but—”
“But we’re not a family,” Lily interrupted. “Not yet, anyway.”
“I don’t think ... ” Violet took a deep breath. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to switch the topic to the Italian Renaissance after all. “Did you know Michelangelo was an Italian painter in the sixteenth century? Three hundred years ago, Pope Julius II contracted him to paint frescoes—murals done on plaster instead of boards, like we’re doing—in the Apostolic Palace in Vatican City.”
Lily’s eyes narrowed at the abrupt change in topic, but she returned her focus to sketching without pressing further. “Where’s Vatican city?”
“Rome.” Violet counted her lucky stars for having successfully transitioned to an alternate topic. One in which there was actually something to say. Lily couldn’t imagine how badly Violet wished the three of them were a family. A wish unlikely to come true. “In Italy.”
