"You are not only surrounded by dead dogs," Julia replied bracingly, "You have two friends who think you are a marvellous painter. And you have Sebastian, a true connoisseur of the arts. Where is he? Perhaps he can offer a word of encouragement?"
Lud! Violet jumped at the mention of Sebastian's name. She might be able to hide his absence from Aunt Phoebe, but she would never be able to fool Julia and Charlotte if they began to suspect something was amiss.
"S-S-Sebastian?" Violet stuttered, in response, desperate to move away from the topic of her twin, "Why should we need to call Sebastian? The two of you have supplied me with all the encouragement I need. Come, let us forget the painting for a moment and focus on the real issue at hand; Charlotte's love for Penrith."
It was a low-blow, outing Charlotte as a dukeophile in order to distract, but thankfully her friend leapt at the bait.
"I beg your pardon?" Charlotte squawked as Violet corralled her friends back to the table where the tea and cakes had been set out.
"It's quite obvious that you are infatuated by him," Violet replied, quashing some guilt, as she poured three fresh cups of tea, "You have talked of nothing else since you arrived."
"I have not!" Charlotte argued, taking the cup that Violet proffered.
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," Julia said with a smile, as she settled herself back onto the sofa.
"If I was bleating about His Grace, it is only because I find him so annoying," Charlotte was quick to defend herself.
The conversation soon descended into a cheerful argument which pitted a stubborn Charlotte against Julia and Violet, who were keen to point out their friend's obvious infatuation.
"La! You are both incorrigible," Charlotte finished with a cry, as she gathered her bits together to prepare to leave, "And fit for Bedlam if you think that I am interested in Penrith for anything except my own liberation. Now, next week I should like us to discuss Castle Rackrent; Miss Edgeworth intended it as a satirical take on the upper classes, much like Evelina--which you would both know, had you bothered to read it. Good day, ladies."
Charlotte bustled from the room, with an air of self-righteousness, leaving an amused Julia and Violet alone.
"Well," Julia said lightly, once the door had closed behind their friend, "Now we have discussed Penrith to death, it's time to execute Orsino."
Violet, who had been munching on a French Fancy, began to choke at the mention of his name.
"Both Penrith and Charlotte command a greater degree of notoriety than you and Orsino," Julia continued, cool as a cucumber, "But don't think that I did not notice the small column which noted his attendance at the Haymarket, accompanied by none other than you, Miss Havisham."
"Did they mention me particularly?" Violet queried; she had never once been mentioned by the papers, a fact she owed to her lack of fortune. Charlotte, who had a dowry greater than the king's coffers, had long been a favourite of the gossip columns, even though she did not court their attention.
"Well, no," Julia shifted uncomfortably in her seat, "They did not name you per se--they said Lady Havisham and her niece."
"The world has not gone mad, so," Violet breathed a sigh of relief, "If I am still merely a nameless companion."
"To some you are nameless," Julia countered with a frown, "But I knew exactly whom they were speaking of. Tell me, why on earth did you not mention you accompanied Orsino to the theatre?"
"Because I did not," Violet lied, "I accompanied Aunt Phoebe, who was invited by Lady Lloyd, who was in turn, accompanied by her brother."
"So, your presence in the box with Orsino was merely coincidental?" Julia pressed.
"Yes," Violet pressed her lips together as she attempted to emulate Charlotte's famed stubbornness.
"So, you did not at all hold His Grace's hand?"
"Did the papers say that?" Violet gawped, "How on earth did they know?"
"They didn't," Julia grinned in triumph, "I made it up--but what a lucky guess! Violet, you are a dark horse. Why on earth did you keep Orsino's courtship a secret?"
"It's not a courtship," Violet, whose pride was slightly rankled at having been so easily tripped, replied, "His Grace invited me to the theatre, I attended; end of story. There is no happily ever after in store for the duke and me, Julia--you can take my word on that."
Violet knew that she had spoken far more forcefully and touchily than one should speak to a friend, and she instantly regretted her curt manner. Thankfully, Julia was the most unflappable sort of girl, and she did not immediately show any grievance. In fact, her beautiful face wore a look of concern.
"What is it, Vi?" Julia asked, leaning forward to place a slim, gloved hand upon Violet's own, "You have been out of sorts for weeks. It is not like you at all to be so jumpy and irritable. Is something troubling you? If there is, I beg you, please tell me."
Violet felt a fierce longing to unburden herself to her friend, but how on earth could she explain the madness she had landed herself in? For a moment, Violet considered telling Julia, but in the instant that she hesitated, a knock came upon the parlour-room door.
"Begging your pardon, m' lady," Maria, Julia's lady's maid, called, "But we'd best be away if we are to be on time to meet your mama."
"Lud," Julia was uncharacteristically sullen, "I had forgotten about the dress fitting. Mama will have an apoplectic fit if I am late--she had to use all her societal sway to secure an appointment with Madam Lloris so late in the season."
"Er, why exactly do you need a special dress made so late into the season?" Violet queried, her mind instantly leaping to one conclusion.
"For a masquerade," Julia gave a light laugh, as she noted Violet's suspicion, "Have no fear if I become engaged, I will let you know."
"Do you feel an engagement is an imminent possibility?" Violet pressed, wondering at Julia's cool composure. Any thoughts of Orsino left Violet feeling flustered, but here Julia was, cool as a cucumber as she discussed her possible future husband.
"Lord Pariseau is perfectly affable," Julia shrugged, her blue eyes dull, "And don't you look at me like that, Violet! I am not an artist; I have not a romantic bone in my body. Marriage, to me, is a practical arrangement--one which will ensure my future comfort and happiness. If you and Charlotte had your way, you'd have me married off to Lord Montague so we could all have an Upstart of our own."
"I don't recall anyone mentioning Lord Montague, Julia?" Violet replied, then watched in fascination, as her usually composed friend blushed--actually blushed.
"Well, it would be the sort of ridiculous thing the two of you would dream up," Julia blustered, as she picked up her reticule and pristine copy of Evelina. "Good day Violet, thank you for the tea."
Julia swept from the room with her head held high and her posture rigidly straight, as though good comportment might distract from her slip of the tongue.
Violet stood a moment, feeling slightly perplexed by Julia's uncharacteristic outburst, before turning her attention to the cups and saucers on the table. She began to gather them together to bring them to the kitchen, when Dorothy bustled into the room.
"Ach, my wee Violet," the Scotswoman scolded, "I can do that; you get back to your painting while the light is right."
"Oh, I'm finished for the day, Dorothy," Violet argued, as she continued to pile the cups and saucers upon the tray, "I shall take this to the kitchen then come help you tidy up."
The parlour room, like the library, was filled with stacks of books upon the floor. Though it appeared rather messy to the untrained eye, Aunt Phoebe had a meticulous system--if mysterious--and thusly, only Dorothy was permitted to clean the parlour room. Unfortunately, Dorothy had quite low standards when it came to cleaning, and Violet quite often offered to share the work.
Once she had deposited the crockery with the scullery maid, Violet returned to the parlour, to find Dorothy dusting whilst humming a maudlin tune.
"Faith, Dorothy," Violet said with a laugh, "It feels almost funereal in here wit
h that tune."
"Ach," Dorothy placed her duster down, as she gazed toward the window, "Perhaps that is what this is. Poor Fifi is finally gone."
Violet glanced at the taxidermy terrier, who was still toppled on her side by Violet's easel.
"Fifi has been gone for over a decade, Dorothy," Violet offered, as she wondered if perhaps, the lady's maid and Aunt Phoebe had been brewing poitín again.
"I know that," Dorothy rolled her Skye-blue eyes, "Do you think me away with the fairies? I mean that her spirit has finally left us. Poor wee dog, perhaps she's gone ahead to sniff out a spot for myself and Lady Havisham in the great beyond. Perhaps death is nearer for us than I had seen."
Lud; Violet swallowed a curse. She had forgotten about Sebastian's fondness for moving Fifi to different parts of the house, in order to perpetuate Dorothy's belief that the dog's spirit still inhabited her body. Now, Dorothy had placed herself and Aunt Phoebe in the queue for St Peter, and it would be Violet who would have to suffer through visions of death and doom.
"And so from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe. And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot. And thereby hangs a tale," Dorothy added, with a sigh so sad that the flowers in their vase near wilted and died from the sorrow of it.
La! Violet bit down on her lip to keep from growling in frustration. Instead, she picked up the broom and began to--carefully--sweep under the chaise, whose missing leg had been replaced by a stack of books.
Violet remained silent as she continued to clean, whilst Dorothy sang sad songs from the islands and made a half-hearted attempt at dusting.
Nearly a half-hour had passed, when Aunt Phoebe bustled in, wearing a turban with a plume of pheasant feathers, and her customary fox-fur stole.
"Dorothy," she called, "I wish to visit Ackermann's. I have it on good authority that they have featured me in one of their fashion plates, and I wish to ensure they have correctly captured my likeness."
Violet blinked in surprise at this statement; Aunt Phoebe's fashion sense was more abattoir than à la mode, and she was an unlikely candidate for one the Repository's fashion plates.
"A fashion plate, Aunt?" Violet queried, trying to keep the note of panic from her tone.
"Yes," Phoebe grinned, "Apparently I am modelling a coat made from a bear, and its head is the hood. It seems rather unpractical to me, but then what do I know of fashion?"
For a moment, Violet was not certain if her aunt was serious in her belief that she actually featured in a fashion plate, and not one of the repository's satirical prints, but then Phoebe offered Violet a wink, and she relaxed. Aunt Phoebe might be a curmudgeon at times, but she knew how to laugh at herself. Violet would not put it past Lady Havisham to buy said print and have it framed, for all her guests to admire.
"Perhaps we shall call in on Sebastian," Aunt Phoebe continued, directing her words to Dorothy, and not Violet, whose smile faltered at this suggestion. "I wish to upbraid him for not calling on me. Insolent boy; I could be dead in a week. Dorothy has foreseen a terrible accident, Violet, did I tell you?"
"Er, no," Violet replied to her aunt's mild remark on her imminent death, "You did not tell me. But there is no need to call on Sebastian. He called yesterday."
"I did not see him," Phoebe frowned.
"You were out," Violet lied, then sensing that her aunt needed more persuasion to stay away from Sebastian's empty rooms, she fibbed even further. "Though he did mention that he would be attending Lord and Lady Jacob's ball tomorrow evening. No need to go out of your way, when you will see him there."
"Very well," Phoebe sighed, "Anyway, he is probably still abed. He is like a bear with a sore head when woken too early for his liking--and then there might be a risk that I become confused and attempt to have him fashioned into a coat."
On that note, Phoebe took her leave, followed by Dorothy, who was all too happy to abandon her work.
As the door closed behind them, Violet threw herself down on the chaise with a sigh. Helping her brother chase his dream was a far more complicated task than she had first imagined, she thought, as she nervously wondered how the next evening would fare. She would have to spend the night pretending to Aunt Phoebe that Sebastian had just stepped out, all while trying to avoid the Duke of Orsino--though she did not feel truly committed to her second task. Unconsciously, Violet cradled the hand that the duke had held against her heart, as she pondered the coming ball.
Lord and Lady Jacob had invited half of London to their ball, Violet surmised the next evening. The grand ballroom, whose cathedral-height ceiling was supported by a dozen marble columns, was filled with the bodies of the ton.
Beneath the three, glittering chandeliers, the great and good of the aristocracy mingled together, laughing, dancing, and drinking, and taking up lots of space.
Violet, who detested a crush, instantly felt herself freeze as she was confronted by the mass of people.
"La," Aunt Phoebe sighed, as she too took in the sight of the crowd, "How uncouth of Honoria to invite so many people. Has she no respect for my corns? I shan't find a seat out here, Violet; I shall repair to the card-room."
Violet, who had been bracing herself for a faux-search for Sebastian, held back a sigh of relief, though this relief was short-lived.
"Send Sebastian into me, once you find him," Phoebe instructed, before squaring her shoulders and disappearing into the crowd.
Although diminutive, Violet was able to follow her aunt's progress through the room thanks to the plume of feathers on her turban, which added nearly a foot to the five she could lay claim to. Once Aunt Phoebe had safely reached the card room, Violet began to scan the room for somewhere she might hide.
She sighted a shadowy corner, behind one of the marble columns, and had begun to push her way toward it, when a hand reached out and tapped her shoulder.
"Miss Havisham," a voice called, and Violet turned to find that it was Lady Olivia who had greeted her.
"How lovely to see you," the young woman said, and Violet had no choice but to offer similar sentiments.
Once that was done, an awkward pause fell, during which both girls eyed each other warily.
"Ah," Lady Olivia eventually began, rather awkwardly for one so assured, "Is your brother in attendance?"
"Yes," Violet nodded, wishing to escape, "I think he said that he was headed for the terrace, to smoke a cheroot."
"Wonderful," Lady Olivia beamed, her smile so bright and warm that Violet felt a stab of guilt for her deception, "Ah, must dash. Terribly nice to meet you again."
Lady Olivia departed immediately, no doubt headed in the direction of the terrace, where she might "bump" into Sebastian.
Violet, who hoped that the girl would not spend the entire evening on a fruitless search, continued on her path to the alcove. Once there, and when safely hidden in the shadows cast by the marble column, Violet leaned her back against the wall, and let out a sigh of despair.
She was not certain that she had the skills to keep up her deception for the whole night--not when it seemed that the whole world was keen to sight her missing twin. She was just pondering whether she might somehow fashion a Sebastian from straw--like the effigies of Guy Fawkes, which were burned on bonfires on Gunpowder Treason Day--when an interloper arrived at her hiding place.
"Violet," Charlotte smiled as she spotted her hiding in the shadows, "Fancy meeting you here."
"I thrive in the shade, not the light," Violet replied, in reference to their preference for playing the wallflower.
Charlotte grinned, before making enquiries after Aunt Phoebe, and finally Sebastian.
"Pfft," Violet sighed irritably in response to her second question, "All I ever hear are questions as to Sebastian's whereabouts. I am not his keeper, I'll have you know. I don't note his every step. How should I know where he is?"
She had, Violet realised too late, spoken rudely to her friend. A cascade of guilt washed over her as she realised that she had taken her irritation with herself out on Charlotte, a p
erfectly innocent party.
"I do beg your forgiveness," Violet said, her gaze meeting Charlotte's, "I am afraid that Sebastian has been causing me quite the headache these days and I find that even the mention of his name sets me off like a cannon. Can you pardon my ugly outburst?"
The wonderful thing about Charlotte was that she was not one to take offence.
"There's nothing to pardon," Charlotte gave her a smile, "I know something of frustrating siblings."
Talk then turned to Penrith, and after some attempt at feigning indifference, Charlotte finally admitted to having fallen in love with the man.
As Charlotte despaired over her deception of Penrith, Violet thought on her own deception. At least Charlotte had presented herself as the right sex to her duke--her cause was hindered, but not lost completely.
"Most affairs begin under false pretences," Violet soothed, as she attempted to rally her friend's spirits. "In fact, most social interactions are entirely false and contrived. Do men not seek to be seen as affable when they are first introduced? Do women not strive to give the appearance of a winsome coquette when presented with an eligible gentleman? I think you'll find that most everyone is wearing a mask, and the fact that you wish to remove yours and reveal your true self to Penrith before he is bound to you by duty and law is admirable."
Far more admirable, and far braver than Violet, who was trapped behind the mask she had made for herself, hoping not to be caught out in a lie.
"What type of trouble has Sebastian made for you?" Charlotte queried, seemingly suspicious of Violet's uncharacteristic loquaciousness.
"Oh, nothing untoward," Violet replied, pasting a smile onto her face, "I am lucky that he is not like most young-bloods, and that he is not making a fool of himself at the gaming tables. He is simply being Sebastian; nothing more, nothing less. Come, let us forget our troubles and go to save Julia--I have just spotted her in Lord Horace's greasy clutches."
Violet linked arms with Charlotte and escorted her through the crowds toward Julia, who was battling against yet another would-be suitor. As well as being legendary for his dull conversational skills, Lord Horace also infamously suffered from halitosis so bad that it almost warranted a formal invitation to events.
Wilful Wallflowers Collection: Books 1 - 3 Page 29
