I cock my head, trying to make sense of it.
He laughs at my expression and turns again to go, walking briskly. An irrational panic grips my chest and I once again blurt—“What was Silas on about? Where and how does one make light from nothing?” Like a schoolgirl, unable to halter her tongue.
LeFroy whirls, his tanned face draining of color; anger screwing up his mouth. I have apparently finally exhausted his patience.
He stalks back and leans in to whisper in my ear, “Miss Teagarden. Are you familiar with the phrase, curiosity killed the cat?”
Anger suffuses my face, deepening my blush. But my eyes meet his without a blink. “Have you ever heard, curiosity is lying in wait for every secret?”
LeFroy’s face changes instantly: his mouth trembles, like a dam holding back his amusement. I hold my breath, unsure.
Suddenly he throws his head back as a deep throaty chuckle spills forth. Gooseflesh erupts from my chest to my toes with the strange, musical sound of it—a forte of breath and laughter. A strange burning sensation erupts on my chest.
He shakes his head slowly, biting the side of his mouth, his eyes intensely regarding me.
“Ralph Waldo Emerson.”
My eyebrows rise. “I confess myself shocked. You are a scholar, Mr. LeFroy? A chemist and a poet.”
“Hardly.” He gestures to his work clothes. “Don’t judge the man by his fashion.” He smirks. “Or lack thereof.”
“Squabbling, children?” Jonesy arrives, his violin case in hand, and to my surprise, Sarah bustles close behind. She stands next to him, a whole head taller.
They both seem entirely too pleased for the prospects of such a gruelingly hot work-day.
“I see you’ve already met Mr. LeFroy,” Jonesy prompts as I am apparently struck dumb.
I shake my head. “Not formally. Unless you consider his chastisements an introduction.”
LeFroy laughs again and gives a tiny bow, which looks ridiculous against his dirty work clothes. “Pardon my rudeness.”
“Miss Allegra Teagarden, may I present Mr. Brighton LeFroy.”
A barking scoff from the brass section bade us all turn. Marietta has arrived in a poofed-pink-gown, which looks every bit as bulky and uncomfortable as she does. “Stay away from him, Allegra. I told you, he’s a witch.”
LeFroy’s eyes narrow and harden to blue ice and he tips his hat. “Good day, Ms. Teagarden. I have loads of work and toil before I might return to churning my brew.” His eyebrows raise and waggle at Marietta.
“Joke all you like, Mr. LeFroy. I know you work the devil’s magic on that blasted isle,” Marietta calls to his retreating form.
“Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble,” he mutters, his words getting lost in the wind.
My eyes leap between the back of his head and the isle in the bay.
A small, desolate island rambles out of the water like a rocky fortress. Thick overgrown trees make it impossible to see past the shoreline.
He lives there? Alone?
My scalp tingles with an ominous prickle. Why is a man so obviously educated, here? Working for that beast of a man?
“Why, indeed. Why are you?” I murmur quietly. Secrets. He has secrets.
Musicians now pour into the tent, taking their respective places in the rows.
Silas parts the fluttering tent door, his eyes evaluating the situation in one fell sweep. They focus and narrow on Jonesy, still not in his seat.
“Percival Jones, I believe you are almost late.”
Jonesy’s dark eyes flash with anger, but he crams his lips together. He is a prisoner to the park as well. To Silas.
“Coming.” He takes his seat beside me in the orchestra row.
Sarah is already departing, her long-legged pace almost comical as she tries in vain to appear nonchalant.
Silas takes his place by Mr. Plimpton, the conductor—who is now self-consciously rubbing his hands over his substantial middle.
Silas possesses a talent for making people recall their flaws, which he then molds, shapes and displays for his own personal use—like some detestable potter of imperfection.
Silas raises his hands and the musicians immediately quiet.
“The riverboat cruise was a tremendous success. Thanks in large part to your accomplished execution of the music, and our new fireworks display. I’ve already received a flood of new reservations, and the guest house is booked through fall.” His eyebrows pull together in disdain. “The rich must have their amusements. And good thing, as it keeps us all in gold. In these tense times-people are hungry for distraction. I want suggestions on how to keep the music fresh? I’m feeling the symphonies going stale.”
Mr. Plimpton’s cheek twitches, but he holds his tongue. The man is a most excellent conductor, a maestro, and Silas is tone-deaf.
Jonesy murmurs, “He always knows best. Whatever the subject, he’s an expert.”
Silas turns sharply. Tone deaf, but with apparently sharp ears.
He barks, “Mr. Percival Jones. Might you have a suggestion on how to better the show? Perhaps adding stilts for all musicians to wear?”
A few idiots chuckle and I shoot them a death look.
Jonesy doesn’t flinch. He is a small man, but darkly handsome. He glares back at Silas with an unwavering gaze.
Silas resumes his droning and I feel Jonesy relax. But his arm, touching mine, still quivers with rage.
Jonesy suddenly interrupts, “Perhaps it’s merely time to change the music. Mr. Plimpton is excellent, but our instruments itch to play something new.”
Plimpton smiles in gratitude and nods his ascension.
Silas’s glare tunnels onto the pair of us and all else falls away.
“Thank you for that fawning review, Mr. Jones. We shall consider it. Perhaps I will choose the music.”
Not a word is spoken, but every chair in the orchestra shifts as the apprehension rolls back the rows in a collective wave as buoyant as the nearby surf.
A flash of color in the distance quickens my heart. My eyes flick, searching for the familiar red crest of the uniform, but it is merely LeFroy’s striped balloon, waving in the sea breeze.
I swallow, trying to regain composure.
I think of the soldier, sent from father. So close…too close.
I scratch under my wig, fidgeting.
Jonesy smirks and tips his head, indicating my tilted hair.
I readjust it and sigh. I doubt my disguise will conceal me much longer. My fingers stray to my singular earring, which I’d mounted as a pendant around my neck.
I lovingly trace the magnolia, a gift from my mother.
My nanny related she’d scoured the countryside for a silversmith capable of such a delicate hand.
I’d worn the set every solitary day since she passed. Since she left me.
My eyes fill. Only one earring remains. I’d lost the other in my mad-dash escape from father.
“A masquerade!” I blurt.
Every musician in front and behind turns to stare as my face threatens to burn to ash.
Silas stares. The orchestra holds its breath.
He smiles and the relief about me is palpable. I almost hear muscles relaxing.
“Yes. That is a most excellent suggestion, Miss Allegra. A masquerade. For musicians and guests alike. I like it.”
He stalks off, waving his hand, calling over his shoulder. “Carry on, Plimpton.”
Excited murmurs course through the crowd as Plimpton taps his podium for order.
Jonesy leans over. “The world might be ending.”
“What?”
“Silas uttered a compliment. You best be careful, deary. I believe that dragon fancies you.”
I shudder, thinking of the wildness of Silas’s eyes, hoping Jonesy is wrong.
But he rarely is.
* * *
A fortnight later
My stomach knots beneath my hand as I wander along the rocky shore. The sun is saying its good-byes, disappearing in a f
inal reddish-golden slip below the horizon as the crying gulls overhead seem to lament its return to bed.
“This is madness.”
The hem of my dress skims the top of the white-frothy shallows and I gather it with both hands, carelessly exposing my ankles.
“Where are you, Brighton?” I murmur quietly.
A spout of water explodes heavenward from the surf, raining down in a million tiny circles. A dolphin rises to the surface, expelling air from her blowhole. She clicks and another slices through the water beside her.
I sigh. Mr. LeFroy has been conspicuously absent. As if our teasing conversation had prompted him to avoid me.
Over the past weeks I’ve only seen him twice. Each time he was enroute across the bay to the jagged isle he apparently calls home.
I’ve taken to stalking this moonlit shore, staring at it from across the ever-choppy waves.
Something about the isle is amiss.
My stomach tightens as a flash of heat -lightning paints the sky.
The air seems to shrink, growing close and dense, as if I am breathing in the warm shallows at my feet. The warming on my chest returns and I scratch it.
The dolphin’s issue a final chastising click and plunge beneath the waves, leaving me alone. As if they know something approaches.
As if they are far smarter than I, quickly plunging to the safety of the depths.
I hold my breath as my eyes transfix upon the stony isle.
Thunder rumbles.
The island shimmers.
Like the heat at high noon.
I blink, pressing the heel of my palms to my eyes, shaking my head.
They pop open wide and I long for a spyglass. I vow to buy one.
Heat wafts from the isle in wavering fits and starts. It blurs and solidifies. Blurs and solidifies, before my eyes.
I hear my gasp as if from another’s mouth.
I pace, splashing back and forth through the shallows; the water lapping up, over, and into my boots. My eyes transfixed upon the craggy rock.
There is more to come. I know it. Every night I come.
And every night I question my sanity. Almost a one-way ticket to Bedlam.
The island grows brighter and I freeze, and drop to the shallows, vaguely registering the pull of the waves against my knees. A warm tingle begins upon my chest.
Lights. Tiny, twinkling, myriads of lights, move in clusters like tiny fairies across the rocky isle’s shore.
My hand shoots to cover my mouth. Their movements are erratic. They are most definitely alive. But what, what could they be? Fairies?
I snort aloud. I don’t believe in make-believe creatures.
“Fireflies?” My lips twist angrily. “This is madness. I must know.”
The creatures flit in a congregation toward a tree and spiral down its trunk in a helix of white light, which blinks on and off at varying intervals. Like some ethereal natural lighthouse.
Something in the patterns of the light jar loose a memory. My father’s finger, tap-tap-tapping.
The blood in my veins goes cold as the rain, just beginning to fall.
“Is that. Is that Morse code?”
I falter upright and as if struck headlong and drop my dress back into the surf. A gull screams and scolds directly overhead as Goosebumps explode across my chest.
Cats.
A herd of them. Too close to the shore to be natural.
Their calls rise every second, carrying across the bay like a mewling nursery of newborn babes.
“Oh. My. Word.” I am rooted, awash in the surf, as the growing tap-tap-tap of rain on the top of my head increases.
The lights dart from the tree and hover directly over the cats.
One large Tom stops his caterwauling and playfully bats at the circling light. The light dips and splutters, flying crazily as if stunned.
The lights dance into a circle, and descend upon the two large felines in the center. They…
I slump back into the surf; the water sloshing over my thighs.
The creatures wrap about their necks like a collar borne of light.
My heart catapults, beating my ribs to a pulp.
I shake my head in disbelief. “This is unnatural. So unnatural.”
Out in the bay, another eruption of mist from a very large blowhole. A whale is hovering about the isle, meandering in the bay between it and my shoreline.
Are the animals drawn to him?
The thought of his beautiful blue eyes, which somehow seem both melancholy and hopeful, and the playful smile he gifted me when he forgot himself. Forgot to be sad.
“Brighton. What are you doing out there?” I whisper.
The urge to know grips my chest, tightening it.
I look left and right, searching for a dingy.
“Allegra?”
I jump at the voice, and spin to see Sarah trudging across the sand dunes toward the shore.
“Oh my stars, what are you doing in the water? You’re utterly drenched? And it’s raining. Have you gone mad?”
Yes.
Sarah’s wide eyes meet mine ad she hovers along the waterline. She hesitates; walking forward and retreating back with the tide’s rhythm like a skittish heron.
I stand as torrents of water cascade from my hemline. “I. I.”
If Sarah saw…I feel the distinct need to protect him.
The vision of pitchforks and lanterns and hanging invade my mind’s eye.
It was no longer Salem, but this level of oddness would most surely have inquiries and consequences.
Sarah’s eyes steal to the isle and mine follow. I open my mouth, ready to explain away LeFroy’s damnation.
But it is dark. No cats. No lights. Nothing but a glowering crag in the water.
Her eyes turn away, satisfied.
“Silas has come with a surprise. Hurry. You are a mess!”
I walk, and drip, toward Sarah, still reeling.
As I follow her up the path through the sand dunes, one repeating thought echoes, Is he a witch? Am I smitten with a witch?
Chapter Four
“Allegra, you must try it on.” Sarah’s face pinches with awe and concern.
Silas looks like the cat that has eaten an aviary of canaries. “Yes. I spared no expense. For either of you.” He is utterly pleased with himself.
I lift the masquerade gown to hold it gingerly against my chest. It is truly magnificent. The bodice is an imperial violet, overlaid by black lace, gathered to the hip by a sunburst yellow bow.
I kick out my leg, admiring the damasked colors of alternating black-grape and Tuscan-red about a full white center.
I am no stranger to gifts, and know they always come with a price. Father showered me with presents from my very first touring recital about Europe.
My tiny self, however, soon learned these fancies were as transient as an English sky.
Father was just as likely to cast them into the fire as he was to give them.
Silas thrusts out his hand. “The finishing touch.” The sequined masquerade mask is adorned with matching colored feathers, which grow like wings from the sides.
I nearly clap in delight. Sarah beams back, misreading my joy.
I will be virtually unrecognizable.
“I…haven’t the words to thank you.”
“Nor I.” Sarah clutches her equally fantastic gown of candlelit ivory. Its V waist and scalloped gathers remind one of a cross between a wedding gown and a regal princess. Irony spreads my lips into an eager smile. Sarah could be the titled one.
“Oh, I am sure I shall think of something.”
Something in his voice conjures a shiver.
Silas turns to open and step through the door, leaving a gust of night air in his wake which blows the temporary happiness from the room.
Sarah’s anxious eyes meet mine and we both dress in silence.
* * *
The night is utter perfection. To accent the white flowered house, Silas, ever the showman, arranged
for a thick flock of swans to be released into the black waters the moment our riverboat leaves the dock.
Some now skate across the lake, whilst others skitter about as white ghosts along the bay shore.
‘Oohs and Ahhs,’ lilt behind me in a myriad of ladies voices. The riverboat is brimming with all of Charleston’s high society.
Silas stands on the dock, staring at the vessel like a lover. It is his salvation…at least monetarily.
I smooth my new dress and Jonesy gives me an approving nod.
I lean to whisper, “It’s perfect. He shall never recognize me now.”
Two well-to-do men nod and smile as they pass. One dressed as an obvious dragon, the other an ambiguous…toad?
Jonesy’s raises a thick brow. “Really? You might not be recognized as you. But that costume, I’m afraid, makes you stand out like a gazelle among goats.”
My face burns and my fingers flit nervously about the hem like frantic birds. “You mean the costume will draw attention?”
Jonesy laughs. “You, my dear, will draw attention no matter how you try to blend in. You’re utterly breathtaking.”
His eyes skate across my face. “But you really don’t know that, do you?”
Sarah swishes to his side. His eyes instantly leave me and see nothing else but her face. His hand strays, clandestine, to her side, to gently smooth her fingertips and I am struck with revelation.
They are in love.
A wave of gratefulness sweeps through my chest. Sarah so deserves to be loved. And by just such a man. Fear and longing pushes the sentiment out, leaving a hollow space in my chest.
I wish to be loved. But not just any love.
For what I’ve seen, to be alone is better than to be yoked in lovelessness.
“Allegra?” Sarah searches my face. She always knows, can instantly read my distress.
“I am fine. You best get along. The guests will complain without a proper waitress.”
She nods to us both and disappears into the ever-thickening crowd of multi-colored masks.
The boat shudders away from the port and Silas leaps dramatically aboard at the last possible moment. His booming voice cutting across the murmuring throng.
The Violet Hour Page 3
