Fear screams at me to run. I bite down on my lip, forcing myself forward.
The old leather-bound journals lie face-open beside the Bunsen burners once again.
I close the last few steps and snatch one off the table. It’s surprisingly dense and heavy and I huff as I flip the pages.
I try to think clearly—but panic buzzes; I shake my head, trying, trying to focus.
I dart back out the door, back into the brush, hugging the book against my chest.
I don’t have long. He will return quickly I know.
I stand terrifyingly still—my mind whirling. Where to go? Where to go?
I bound down the path deciding on the pond. After a few minutes, my chest heaves and I slow to a walk.
I search left and right to assure I am truly alone.
I walk quickly for several minutes. The trees look familiar, and there is a well-worn passage through the foliage, but the water is nowhere. I should’ve arrived by now.
The pond is no more.
I stare up at the Magnolia trees, dripping with Spanish moss and feel disoriented. “The pond was here. I know it.”
The direction in my head tells me it’s so—but there is nothing. More dirt. No silver lightning-poles.
Uncanny. The word pops in my head, alighting my neck with gooseflesh. I rub my arms, and check the woods. I am alone.
I slump to a log and crack open the book.
The handwriting in the book is pristine—nothing like Brighton’s scratchings.
My eyebrows pull together.
Jump One: Electrons. Negative spinning. The powder has disappeared.
“I don’t understand. What is..e-lectron?” I roll the word on my tongue like a foreign pill.
I turn the page and the beautiful handwriting degrades.
George. I only do this for George. His afflictions be many. The fits, the moanings—his intermittent mutism. I will persevere for him.
Jump Two: Pristine writing again; the words shaped like poetry.
I am changed. My rheumatism has fled. My joints are as supple as Brighton’s. He has noticed. He is avoiding me. He suspects, I know. I do not know if he shall join me. He is very much his mother’s son.
My eyes cast further down the parchment. I begin to flip through the journal, my fingers working as fast as my beating heart.
In the journal’s center are pages and pages of letters and numbers and equations. My eyes whisk across the lines.
They mean nothing to me.
I suspect they mean everything to others.
To Brighton.
I carefully turn the pages, skimming for more of the scrawling. The author’s desperation bleeds through his fingers onto the page.
I find one more, near the end.
Jump Five: He is gone. Lost to the storm, in a single, destructive strike. I administered too much.
Brighton is leaving, too; he cannot forgive me, no matter my intentions. He is short-sighted and a slave to his emotions, like his departed mother. His mind unable to grasp the larger implications for mankind.
“What is this?” My mind whirls like the wind around my head.
I stare up at the sky. It’s darkening, the rain threatening again. I was lost in the pages. Too long. Will Brighton have returned?
I spring from the log and barrel down the path toward the cottage, not caring to be quiet. It’s too late for quiet.
The cats bound ahead, their yellow and black ears disappearing beneath the blanket of green ferns.
Thunder crashes, so close my head and jaw vibrate. I reach the barn and hide behind it, clutching my chest.
The animal’s scrreech—wailing like newborn babes.
They sense my presence. My eyes sting with tears. Litanies of howls whine and cry; begging for freedom. My back, leaning against the barn, hums with their agony.
I peek around the barn’s side.
My eyes widen as my stomach leaps and plummets to puddle in my boots.
Two soldiers converse with Brighton. I recognize the red crest, spread-wide across their chest immediately.
They are come. They are come.
Images spiral like mental-smoke behind my eyes.
Me, locked in another opulent prison. My hand thrust into fat Lord Lumberton’s. Never to run again. Never to leave my house unchaperoned.
The choking vice of domination suffocates, pressing down on my chest, thrusting its hand through my ribcage, intent on my heart.
My mind careens on and I press myself tighter against the barn’s wall. I am panting. I must control it. They will hear me. I clap my hands over my mouth.
He will want children. Children—over whom I will have no say. Whom he might even take from me. To turn them against me. All in the name of an heir.
As father tried to do to momma and I. But I refused; refused to eat, refused to play, refused to be his little golden goose till he once again returned me to the safety of her arms.
My lips retracting in revulsion. Angry tears well and drip from the tip of my nose, numerous as the raindrops as the desperation seeps in to set in my bones.
I think of mother. Of the water.
“Death is preferable.”
I skulk around the other side, my hands feeling the knotty barn-wood, needing to hear the conversation.
“So, you have not seen the girl then?” The older officer demands.
“I have not seen any young woman who fits the description you’ve provided, no.”
“Realize, sir, Lord Manners is determined to find his daughter.”
“I assume you’ve considered all options? Perhaps she was kidnapped?” Brighton’s voice is convincingly low and concerned.
The officer sighs. “There’s been no ransom note.”
“Well, I hope Lord Manners finds his daughter…what did you say her given name was?”
“Katherine.”
“Katherine.” He pauses. “I wish you safe journey back to England. This storm will squall, mark my words. I suggest you make your way to the mainland for your own safety.”
“We will not be departing Charleston proper without Miss Manners. Alive or dead. Good evening Mr. LeFroy.”
The soldiers cut back the short stone path then jog beneath the swaying, warning Magnolia’s. Their gnarled arms whip back and forth in the rising tempest as if trying to prevent their escape.
Resignation arrives in a single moment, leaving me limp. I slide down the side of the barn and a bolt of pain shoots through my bottom as it connects with the wet ground. My head falls forward to my knees as my muscles give up. I bite down hard on my lip, but they tremble as a whimper escapes, and the animals join in, drowning my voice.
Searingly warm fingers wrap about my forearms, gently hauling me to stand.
My chest hitches as pain stabs between my shoulder blades. Futility weighs about my neck like a millstone. “He shall find me,” I whisper and crumple in half, gripping my knees with my hands through my dress-folds, breathing hard.
“Oh, my dear.” His voice murmurs close to my ear, thick with compassion.
My head tilts back and I am rising…cradled his arms. I bury my face in his chest, propriety long-forgotten, only to weep harder.
“Shh. Shh.” His footfalls are rhythmic slapping sounds against the stones. They sound far off, as if I am dreaming.
“What if they return?”
I feel an arm muscle flex beneath my back and he chuckles ominously, “I hope they do.”
I jam my eyes shut, wishing for a home, wishing for my mother.
He kicks the door open, ducking us inside. The heat hits instantly, the roar and crackle of the hearth pushing back the damp.
Something or someone shuffles across the room, but I keep my eyes tightly closed.
“Leave us, Bartholomew.”
The crooked man. But the desire to see him is now like another’s curiosity.
Pain. The pain is what is real. My reality. I’d managed to keep it at bay all these months, believing it behind me.
That I was in control of my destiny.
He slides me into a bed. His bed. Warm, soft coverlets hold me tight as the smell of him wraps around me, wriggling into my heart, trying to take root.
“You are safe here. I will not let them take you. I will hide you, if need be.”
I nod. Hot tears leak and trail to my neck.
The hot streaks of his fingertips, rough as crushed shells, brush them away.
My ridiculous hair slips. Brighton feels beneath the wig to find my clips and carefully removes it.
He releases my hair and I feel it tumble to my shoulders. His fingers rake through my curls, straightening; fanning them out with what seems a measured, practiced hand.
I shiver at his touch.
I open my eyes as my breath intakes. His face is inches from mine. Deep blue irises flecked with brown-gold, regard me. They blink as his lips part.
I lean forward, placing mine in the space between. He moans softly, but where his chest and legs graze mine, he goes rigid, resisting.
My hands grasp in the back of his hair and I press my lips harder, allowing my tongue to dart along his lips. He trembles, and I exhale as his arms slip to pull me flush.
His mouth opens as his warm tongue grazes mine in a heated, seeking fervor and his hands slide to ball in my curls.
I feel the need in his kiss and his tongue; but his hands remain gentle, caressing my hair, my head, my cheeks. I quietly wonder how hands capable of snapping tree-trunks can manage so soft a touch.
I break the kiss, our eyes ticking back and forth searching the others.
My words fall out in a rush, “My father wants me to marry. A man thrice my age. Who cares nothing for me, wants to bed and breed me like a prized thoroughbred. My father…hates me.”
He nods, listening, worrying his bottom lip.
“My father.” My voice cracks. “Locked me away for days at a time. When my mother passed, any civility died in him. I was only a reminder of her. He’s a cruel, cunning, sharp-witted man. Not to be trifled with.”
Fear burns my chest. I have not the right to involve him. Brighton is wonderfully good, no matter other’s opinions.
And I am dragging him into a nightmare. One that could potentially snuff out his life with one puff from my father’s poison lips.
My eyes widen.
He seems to read my mind. “You are safe, Allegra.” He smiles, his heavy-lidded eyes opening wider. “Or should I say, Katherine?”
My heart stops for a moment and I blurt, “Please do not call me that. My middle name is Allegra, given by my mother. And I’ve taken my mother’s maiden name. Teagarden. That is my name. The other person, the trained-traveling-monkey, is dead to me.”
“The name suits you. It feels good to know it; to no longer have you hiding from me. I have secrets, I, too, wish to confess.” He swallows and I see a rare emotion cross his face. Fear.
“If I tell you, I shall not blame you for fleeing. But know, that my door…and truth be told, my heart, is always open to you. I have spent months trying and trying to avoid and ignore this…” his eyes cloud as he searches for the correct word. “This craving for you. I tried to put you from my mind, but found I could not continue with my goals. Unless I allowed myself to pursue you.”
My heart soars, but guilt holds it down, like an anchor to the earth.
I leap, interrupting him. “I can scarcely believe it…I too, think of you every day. I refused to allow my heart to even hope for your love. But to allow this to proceed…is selfish on my part. You—” I stop as the pain thickens my throat. My eyes involuntarily flick to the books. “Obviously have your own worries. I should not compound them with mine.”
His head whips to the journals and his eyes narrow. “I will not allow you to refuse. Our circumstances are both grim, I concede. I know this to be bold, but Allegra…will you be happier, if I do not…court you? Even if I wish to.”
The contrast of such a tentative voice from so overpowering a man is near ridiculous and I almost giggle. But then a great appreciation swells. That I may be the object of his affection.
I press my lips together to smother the laugh, allowing hope to rise.
“I shall allow it. No matter how unreasonable. And it is wholly unreasonable.”
“It is,” he nods. His thin lips twist into a heart-wrenching grin. “This was not how I had planned our outing. Unforeseen circumstances arose. But I had dinner prepared. Do you think you can eat?”
I shrug.
“One moment.” He disappears down a hallway, and I flop back into the warm blankets, listening to the howl of the wind battering the windows.
He returns, shaking me. I sit up blearily, confused. I must’ve drifted off again. “Come with me, Allegra.”
He eases me out of bed, wrapping my arm through his. His chest, warm against my side, his legs, muscles bulging through his trousers, lights a fire.
Passion explodes in my heart; my mind and body like a pulsing, living embodiment of his fireworks. Running through me, bringing me to life. Risking my good name, my only recommendation.
I turn into him, grasping his shirt in both hands, pressing my lips to his.
His hesitation melts and his hands slide under me to cup my bottom. I gasp but hop onto his front, wrapping my legs around his waist.
He stumbles, roughly placing me to teeter onto a high chest of drawers.
He leaves my lips, kissing down my neck. “Allegra,” he murmurs my name.
I stroke through his curls, savoring their texture.
Wondering at the impossibility of him, of us; but wanting nothing more than to stay right here, to keep our skin as one.
His eyes hold mine, his arched eyebrows severe.
His head tilts as his lips graze mine. Teasing, gentle strokes. His eyes drift shut as his breath quickens.
Want rips open my chest, leaving my heart open and unprotected. And I fall, completely and fully.
I cringe inwardly. I’ve never felt anything so terrifyingly beautiful and dangerously consuming.
“Tell me. Tell me everything. Your secrets.”
His eyes snap open, alive with the struggle. “I…don’t think I should.”
I touch his cheek and he leans into it, closing his eyes.
“I’ve confessed everything. It’s dangerous to love me. To want me.” My face flushes, realizing my presumption.
His eyes flick open. He notices my blush and grins. “I will decide what is dangerous. Not now, however. You must eat.”
He slides me down, and taking my hand, leads me to small room encased by glass. A conservatory.
A myriad of plants crawl the walls. Red, full blooms adorn the vines like flowery fingers reaching for the sky and white magnolias smile down from an inside arbor, draped across the ceiling.
Small palmettos dot every corner, providing a contrast of green against the colored pinwheel of the flowers.
It is truly magnificent; as if the beauty of the woods was bred and raised in this very room.
I stare up, and imagine it on a sunny day.
Rain lambasts the room in angry sheets, sliding down the glass to distort the view of the surrounding forest.
Flickering candles huddle in every corner. A table set in silver offers a creamed soup and thick crusty bread, and two glasses full of blood-red wine. My face flushes deeper and a scratchy tickle fills my throat. I clear it.
“For me?”
He nods, gesturing for me to sit. My hand fidgets with my necklace as he pulls out the chair when it becomes apparent I am rooted like the plants.
He takes his place across from me and ladles soup into my bowl.
Brighton snaps open a napkin, and spreads it on his lap. “We need to work on the new symphony. Silas has been breathing down my neck.”
I nod and take a small sip of the soup.
The constriction is immediate.
It tightens like a slip-knot, strangling.
My throat closes. My hands clutch at my neck. I wheeze—my m
outh gaping, sucking at the air like a fish on dry dirt. My eyes seem to enlarge and bulge with the increasing pressure in my chest.
I hear his chair clatter as my vision flickers.
“Allegra. Allegra! Whatever is wrong?”
Face flushing. Heat spreading. I see nothing, my eyes open and blinking.
I point toward the soup and croak, “Oy-oyster.”
“Merciful Father. Shellfish. You are allergic! Barty!”
My knees crumple and a sharp pain like the clanging of a bell as the back of my head strikes the chair.
Brighton’s hands catch my arms and ease me down and I feel the cold stones against my neck.
Shuffling. “Sir?”
“Fetch the powder.” His voice is stricken with panic.
“No, sir. I shall not. You said—”
“Blast it, she will die! I don’t care what I bloody-well-said. Do as I say, man!” Scrambling, beside my head. “I will do it myself.”
Footsteps receding, returning.
My lips pry open. Drops, wetting my tongue, strangely acrid and hot.
Visions instantly erupt. Blinding-white-lights, the sound of my cello. The foreground of sound, of every piece I ever played, jumbled in a distortion of deep chords and jangling notes set in the background of my sighs, my weeping.
Blackness presses. The weight of a cannonball on my chest.
“Uh!” The unseen fist squeezing my lungs eases a fraction. I gasp and pant.
The air is coming but too slowly—like water down a constricted pipe. I am drowning on the cobblestones.
Brighton pulls me to his lap, rocking me. His whole body trembling. “Please. Please. Too much horror. Do not let her pass. I beg of you.” Then quietly, as if to himself, “She is so very good. This time, take me.”
The invisible hand issues a final clench in my chest and all is blackness.
I know not how long I have been gone, but it feels as if I am flying, suspended in air. But a bumpy ride, I am being jostled every which way. I force my eyes to open a slit.
I am cradled in Brighton’s arms. He is running; the thick green of the forest rushes past on either side like a blurring whirlwind of jade.
The Violet Hour Page 10
