by Jane Ashford
* * *
Violet certainly felt a degree of tension as they went out that evening. The carefree gaiety of Brighton had acquired a lurking menace with her grandmother’s arrival. And indeed when they entered the assembly room, she was there, sitting in a corner with her friend Lady Dunstaple. The dowager leaned a little forward in her chair. Once again, both hands rested on the top of her cane, and she eyed the people passing as if they were miscreants presented for judgment. Violet saw more than one veer off in another direction rather than pass close to the muttering pair.
At least she was confident that her appearance had been totally restored. Her hair was once again in its cloud of curls, and the rose-red silk gown she wore was very flattering, if not in a way Grandmamma would approve. She had refused the touch of color in her cheeks tonight. There was only so far she could dare. Just as she could not ignore her grandmother’s presence. That would look very odd, and certainly be remarked upon. Still, she was very grateful for Nathaniel’s company as they approached, and she prayed that the dowager wouldn’t create a humiliating scene. She made herself smile. “Good evening, Grandmamma.”
The old woman gazed at them over the knobby joints of her crossed hands. Her lips bowed downward; her eyes glittered with censure. Violet was reminded of an African idol she had once seen in a book. She seemed to remember that it had been cursed or it cast a curse or…
“So you allow your wife to dress like a lightskirt?” the dowager said.
Violet felt Nathaniel stiffen. She couldn’t help glancing around to make sure no one had overheard. Well, no one but the smirking Lady Dunstaple. And she also couldn’t help—though she wished otherwise—glancing down at her dress. Its neckline scooped, but not more than those of many other ladies in the room. The lines of it subtly followed her form—to flatter not to flaunt! Part of her longed to point to Lady Jersey and Adeline Lawrence, whose gowns were far more revealing. But she knew her grandmother would not be moved by comparisons.
“You go beyond the line,” replied Nathaniel.
“I? Rather, Violet has lost all sense of decorum.”
“Nonsense.”
Violet looked up at Nathaniel, full of admiration. He had said “nonsense” to her grandmother, just as she had longed to do so many times.
The dowager thumped her cane on the floor. “You are insolent, young man.”
“Only when being insulted.”
It was actually she who’d been insulted, Violet thought. Though she was terribly grateful for Nathaniel’s support. It was becoming irritating, being talked over as if she weren’t present. “I am right here, Grandmamma, Nathaniel.” Neither of them appeared to hear her.
“The consequences of this laxity will be on your head,” said her grandmother to Nathaniel. “I wash my hands—”
“Splendid. There is no need for you to stay in Brighton, then.”
The dowager looked astounded. “Do you presume to order me…?”
“I’m merely pointing out that I—and Violet—can manage our affairs perfectly well without you.” Nathaniel turned his head. “They’re playing a waltz. Shall we join in?”
“I just wish to say that”—under her grandmother’s gimlet eye, Violet quailed a little—“that I agree. We can manage.” She wished it had sounded as masterful as Nathaniel’s pronouncement. Or that it had any perceptible effect.
Nathaniel held out his hand. She took it. They offered her grandmother a small bow and curtsy and turned away.
* * *
Holding his wife in the dance, his even temper gradually restored, Nathaniel began to puzzle over the outrageous recent exchange and the dowager’s abrupt arrival in town and her visit to their lodgings. This brought up memories of events that had come before. And questions. Something didn’t quite make sense. “You have brothers, and cousins,” he said to Violet as they turned at the end of the room.
She looked startled. “Yes. Two, and five.”
“They are all Deveres,” he mused.
She nodded. “My mother had no brothers or sisters.”
“Does your grandmother take such an…intense interest in their behavior?”
“Interest?”
“As she does in yours,” Nathaniel added dryly.
“Well, the boys—”
“She holds them to a different standard,” Nathaniel said. It was the way of the world. “I don’t recall. Are all of your cousins male?”
“No, four are, but there’s…” Violet paused, as if struck by some thought, then went on more slowly. “There is my cousin Delia.”
“Yes?”
“Uncle Frederick’s daughter. He is Papa’s youngest brother.”
“And does the dowager concern herself with every detail of Delia’s conduct and dress and…er…associates?”
Violet looked out over his shoulder, her gaze suddenly gone distant. “Grandmamma always lived with us, so she never saw as much of Delia.”
It seemed to Nathaniel that his wife was working something out in her mind, so he made no reply.
“But Delia was presented this year,” she added.
“Exactly of an age, then, to be overseen and…guided.” It was a kind word for the dowager’s interference.
“Yes.” Violet looked up at him. “I didn’t notice that Grandmamma expressed any particular opinions about her dress or conduct. Not as she did with—”
“You.”
“Of course, Delia had her mother to watch over her.”
“As did you,” Nathaniel pointed out. “Is Delia ugly or evil tempered?” He had probably met her. He must have. But he didn’t remember. Each year brought a new crop of debs, and each year they seemed more alike somehow.
“No!” replied Violet with an indignant laugh. “She’s charming and quite pretty. Prettier than I…” Her voice trailed off. “Why didn’t I notice this?”
Nathaniel wondered the same. “Was she always so…harsh with you? Did anything happen to set her off? ”
“What could have happened? She began when I was ten years old.”
“Ten?” That was young to begin worrying about proprieties.
“I’ll never forget it.” Violet’s mouth trembled. “Grandmamma called me into her parlor and made me sit opposite her, and then she just stared at me until I was ready to sink. I was already a bit afraid of her. But this was…worse.”
Feeling sorry for that child, Nathaniel drew her a little closer.
“Just when I thought I couldn’t bear it any longer, she started talking about the pitfalls of society and how easy it was to destroy one’s good name forever. She described the hordes of people poised to find fault at the first wrong move, like a circle of carrion birds with wicked beaks, waiting to pounce and tear me apart.”
“She did not say that!” Nathaniel exclaimed.
“She did. I can still hear her.” Violet swallowed. “I felt as if I’d done something very wrong, but I couldn’t make out what it was.” For a moment, she looked as if she might cry. “And I’ve felt that way with Grandmamma ever since.”
He should not have initiated this discussion in the midst of a ball, Nathaniel thought. Where was his common sense? But he hadn’t realized where it would lead. “You had not,” he declared. “How could you, at ten?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, her tone forlorn.
“Violet, you have always been a model of propriety.”
“Haven’t I, though?”
That sounded sarcastic, which was better than sad. Nathaniel swung her through a final turn as the waltz ended, and he saw her red dress bell out around her. It was a perfectly acceptable gown. A bit dashing, but the dowager’s criticism was unreasonable. As he led her back to the chairs along the wall Nathaniel noticed many gentlemen casting admiring looks at Violet. The Prince Regent had arrived, and he was among them, though his expression was more of a leer.
Nathaniel felt just the ghost of a qualm. Violet’s grandmother was an unpleasant old harpy, but she had been a fixture of the fashiona
ble world for many years. She had a wide-ranging acquaintance, a circle of powerful friends. Most people would assume that she was a far better judge of what was proper for a noble lady than he.
But…no. There was nothing wrong with the dress. Violet was attracting well-deserved admiration, not censure.
* * *
For the rest of the evening, Violet kept well away from the corner where her grandmother lurked. She tried not to be conscious of her disapproving stare. Though the dowager’s presence made it far more difficult to enjoy her Brighton success, part of her wanted to flaunt it before her. Did the old woman notice that Violet had many more dance partners than when she was the mousy product of her ferocious dictates? Did she hear any of the compliments Violet received? Her expression said that, if she did, she deplored them. But that was nothing new.
Midway through the ball, Violet saw Marianne standing across the room. She’d been wondering if her friend would attend. She started toward her, noticing that Marianne looked anxious again. Before Violet reached her, Marianne slipped through a doorway and out of the ballroom.
Violet hesitated. Nathaniel would be along in a moment to claim her for the country-dance before supper, which they planned to take together. But she hated to see her friend looking so distressed. So she followed.
Marianne was past the parlor reserved for cards, and then another where those not wishing to dance could retreat. Violet wondered where she could be going. The retiring rooms were in the other direction, as was the front door of the inn.
Marianne moved down a corridor to the inn’s back premises. Violet called her name, but her friend didn’t hear. She seemed intensely focused on some mission. Marianne paused to peer around a half-open door, then hurried through it.
Violet was only a few steps behind Marianne by then. She heard a low exclamation, a murmur of voices, and then she was at the open threshold, her friend’s name again on her lips.
Beyond was a small room, one of the private parlors the inn offered its guests. Marianne stood in the middle of it, crushed in the embrace of a young man Violet had never seen before. Even as she looked, they kissed passionately.
Violet froze. She hadn’t expected anything like this. And Marianne was… What was Marianne thinking? Even as Violet gaped, her brain cataloged the scene. The man was very handsome—tall and athletic, with unruly black hair and chiseled features. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes, but she imagined they were a deep, melting brown. His clothes were of good quality without being particularly fashionable.
The kiss ended in whispered endearments. Marianne drew back a little. As the man clung to Marianne, Violet heard the word “tomorrow” spoken as if his life depended on it. Marianne nodded, turned, and saw Violet looking on.
Violet jerked back, her cheeks flaming. She hadn’t been spying; she hadn’t known there was anything to spy on. If she had… She took a step away from the door, then another, and turned to go.
Marianne hurried out of the parlor, closing the door carefully behind her. She stood before Violet, her head held high, arms crossed over her chest, defiant.
“I didn’t mean… I saw you leave the ballroom, and I wanted to speak… I never thought…” Violet stammered to a halt.
“I suppose you are shocked,” Marianne said, her gaze pure challenge.
“It’s not my place… But, Marianne, what are you doing?”
“Snatching a moment—a bare moment—with the man I love!”
“Love?”
“Desperately, totally!”
Violet stared at her.
“Are you going to go all prudish on me?” Here, suddenly, was a different Marianne, a wild, fierce interrogator. “Like your grandmother?”
The comparison silenced Violet. The last thing she wished was to preach proprieties like Grandmamma. But although she had eagerly anticipated the wider freedoms granted married women, Violet found she was not prepared for this. “Anthony?”
“My husband has no interest in what I do.” Marianne said the word “husband” with open contempt.
“This, he might,” Violet had to point out.
“He has a mistress. He has had one or another since three months after we were married.”
“Are you sure?” Violet tried to hide her shock. Their marriage had been sighed over as a great romance. Was this the reality of the tale she’d secretly envied?
“He never made the least effort to hide it from me,” replied Marianne bitterly. “None! Or from anyone else. All society is aware. And indifferent. Or…not that. The gossips love it. It is like a game to them—keeping track of his amorous adventures. My aunt wonders why I expected anything else. My parents…” She made an angry gesture.
Which just showed the limitations of her own knowledge, Violet thought. This piece of gossip had never reached her. “Isn’t it different for us?” she couldn’t help asking. “For women, I mean.” This bit of unfairness had been pounded into her by her grandmother. She realized that she felt afraid for her friend.
“I’ve fulfilled my duty, all Anthony wanted me for,” said Marianne harshly. “I’ve produced the heir and the spare. Now I can do as I please, as long as I’m discreet.”
Violet had understood that some of society took this attitude. Now she found there was a goodly distance between theoretical and actual knowledge. Did Nathaniel share this view? The question so shook her that she shoved it out of her consciousness. She looked around. Was it discreet to sneak away from a public ball to meet a…lover? And Marianne hadn’t even closed the door properly. Anyone might have found them. She almost said so, but bit off the words when she imagined her friend’s angry reaction. Instead, she asked, “Who is he?”
Marianne gave her a sidelong look. “Does that matter?” Her tone was still belligerent.
Violet didn’t know. The young man had obviously been a gentleman. Was it any of her business? What was she supposed to do? Perhaps simply walk away. She drew in a deep breath.
“You’ve been a good friend to me, Violet,” Marianne said. “In the past.”
“I hope I have.”
“I deserve some joy, some happiness,” her friend declared.
This echo of a thought that Violet had had about herself unsettled her further. The strains of a country-dance drifted down the corridor. Nathaniel would be wondering where she was. “We should go back.”
“You will not betray me.”
It wasn’t a question. And Violet realized that it wasn’t a possibility, either. What would she do? Run tattling to…who? Anthony? Seeing how little he cared about Marianne’s doings, she hadn’t liked him much. And anyway, that would be…low. To picture herself piously reporting to anyone… She shook her head. The vision was repugnant. But that didn’t mean she thought Marianne was right. Violet shook her head again. The new freedom that she’d so anticipated was more complicated than she’d imagined.
Misunderstanding the gesture, Marianne squeezed Violet’s hand, making her feel even more like an unwilling conspirator. Together, they slipped back along the corridor toward the dancing.
And just as they passed the archway to the card room, the portly, overdressed figure of the Prince Regent emerged. His round face was set in peevish lines. He looked like a spoiled child who had been deprived of some promised treat. But when his eyes lit on Violet, he smiled. “My Lady Hightower. How delightful to see you again.”
Both women sketched curtsies. The Regent came closer, all his attention concentrated on Violet. To her consternation, Marianne edged away.
He came closer, too close for polite company. His bulky figure blocked her escape. Violet pressed back against the wall of the corridor. She couldn’t see where Marianne had gotten to. Had she abandoned her? “You are looking particularly…toothsome tonight,” said the Regent. He shifted closer still and looked down the front of her dress.
Two men came out of the card room and passed behind him. Their smirks showed Violet that they were not potential rescuers. Did some tinge of Marianne’s exp
loit cling to her? Where had her friend gone? The pungent scent of the Regent’s cologne was making her dizzy. It enveloped her in a cloying cloud. He must drench himself in it. He also smelled strongly of drink.
“What say we toddle along to the pavilion?” the Regent suggested. “I could give you a private tour, show you things only my special friends get to see.” His smile suggested all manner of things that made Violet wince. His substantial stomach pressed against her arm.
You couldn’t shove a prince, she thought. Not in public. Or in private, she supposed. Wasn’t it illegal? Even treason? Well, probably not treason. But what if she pushed him away and he fell? That would be very bad. The Regent lying at her feet, flailing about, most likely unable to get up again. He didn’t look steady on his feet. She had to do something, though, say something clever to get him to move away. “I…I wouldn’t presume to call myself a special—”
“Oh, but you could,” he interrupted, leaning closer still.
His whiskey-laded breath puffed across Violet’s cheek. It felt as if a small building was about to fall upon her. She was going to have to shove him off, Violet decided, whatever the consequences. She simply couldn’t think what else to do.
“There you are, Violet,” said an urbane voice from somewhere beyond the Regent’s plump shoulder. “The country-dance has begun. We were going to join in.”
The Regent stepped back, and there was Nathaniel, like the answer to a prayer. His expression looked perfectly pleasant, yet also somehow implacable.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Of course.” With her back tight against the wall, she edged around the Regent and gladly took her husband’s hand.
“Hightower,” grumbled the Regent.
Nathaniel gave him a minimal bow. “Your Grace.”
“Can’t say you’re wanted just now,” the older man complained. He made a small shooing gesture. “Why not have a hand of cards, eh?”
Violet knew that some men allowed—even encouraged—their mates to form connections with the Regent, for the influence it might bring them. Those whispers had reached even her.
