William nodded at her and quickly turned away. He saw an alcove of windows looking down the snow-dusted street towards the dancing school, the vista of pale green and blue and cream buildings gilded in moonlight, hazy in snowflakes, framed by dark blue velvet draperies.
Violet stood there alone, staring into the night as if she could float out into the sky, just like the Wilis. The flowers and jewels in her extraordinary hair glittered and her profile looked like that of an ancient goddess, pale and powerful, self-possessed. Free. How William longed to know her in that moment, know all of her, share all her thoughts and secrets, but he feared that for all Violet’s laughter and sense of fun she could never really be known. Not deep inside.
‘There you are,’ he said, and joined her in her little window refuge. It was cold there, the glass streaked with frost, and her shoulders were bare since she had left her stole behind. Yet she hardly seemed to notice. Her face was filled with awe as she studied the snowy scene.
‘Did Lily send you to find me?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t mean to dawdle so long. I just got so caught up in—things.’
‘Aidan did say you were probably planning to photograph the staircase,’ William tried to tease, but he was rather worried. She seemed so quiet, so pensive, not at all her usual exuberant self. She slowly reached out and traced a flowery pattern in the frosty glass with her gloved fingertip.
‘Caught up in St Petersburg’s beauty?’ he asked.
‘Of course. Who could not be? Just look at those buildings, like gilded bonbons frosted in crystal! But it must seem all old and dull and usual to you, William! You have seen so very much. Even Egypt!’
‘Egypt was astonishing indeed, as is Russia. They are amazing even to an old stick-in-the-mud like me. But it is difficult to think of two such different places as St Petersburg and Cairo.’
‘How so? One is sun and the other snow, I suppose?’
‘Of course, there is that. More that—they are two different worlds. In thinking, in practices, in their joys and sorrows.’
She glanced up at him, her eyes wide. ‘Tell me more.’
William tried to recall all he could of Egypt, of its hot suns and bright blue skies, green Nile waters, spicy scents, the cries of prayers, the silks and jingling bells and perfumes and flowery drinks and spicy food. He wished he had paid more attention to it all, every detail, just to be able to tell it to her. He could only try to convey what he did remember, which he was sure wouldn’t be enough for her artistic heart.
Violet sighed. ‘How much I would love to see it! Think of the images I could photograph there. Like Mrs Cameron does in Ceylon.’ She looked back to the night, the pastel walls and golden onion domes in the black-and-white night, the fat, diamond flakes of snow drifting down on the sleighs and carriages hurrying past in a jingle of bells. And William saw how easy it would be to love that whole world, with her beside him, seeing it with him. It was all new with Violet.
‘Not that I don’t have a plethora of subjects right here,’ she said. ‘I must learn to capture them before we leave.’
‘The Grand Duchess loves the photographs you took. She shows them to everyone. You will have more commissions than you can handle and a fine patron once she is settled in England as Duchess of Edinburgh!’
Violet laughed. ‘Crowned heads? I can’t say I’d mind a few royal portraits for my portfolio, especially one as unusual as the Grand Duchess, or as beautiful as Princess Alexandra. If an artist wants attention, such patrons are vital. Yet I don’t want to just do portraits.’
Of course, Violet wouldn’t want to just photograph finely dressed ladies and vases of flowers. She would never want to do anything the usual way. ‘What would you want to do, then? To add to your portfolio?’
Violet tapped her gloved fingertip at her chin. ‘I want to join the Photographic Society and the Solar Club! That sounds wild, I know, they take so few ladies, and I have so much to learn. But to be acknowledged as a talent, to meet and learn from such artists...’ She gave a little shiver. ‘It would be glorious. I could learn so very much from them.’
‘As I’ve already confessed, I know very little about the art form, but your photos look like art to me. They look—well, somehow they look exactly how you see the world.’
She glanced up at him with a radiant smile. How very much he would give, just to make her smile like that all the time. He would give everything. She laid her hand, the glove cool with the frost, on his wrist. ‘Your words mean so much to me, Will, truly. You are the most honest man I know and I know that I can trust you. Yet to be a part of such a group of artists...’
‘I understand,’ he said.
A frown flickered between her eyes. ‘Do you? A duke always belongs, wherever he goes. Even the eccentric ones.’
He smiled at her. ‘Do they? I once had a great-great-uncle of sorts, he was said to be so strange he was locked in the attic at Bourne for life. He thought he was a cat, you see, and only wanted to chase the mice. A terrible look in front of guests.’
Violet gave a startled laugh. ‘My heavens. My own family can boast no mousers in their ranks, I admit. But if a lady even wants to have an ordinary career, let alone one chasing mice, if she even wants to venture out of her house alone, she is considered a great menace. Yet I’ve never been able to sit still.’
‘No,’ he said gently. ‘Then you would not be Violet and that would be terrible.’
She stared up at him in the diamond-edged moonlight for a long moment, nodding finally as if she might have decided something. ‘It’s true I only know how to be myself. With my sisters, being myself has always been easy, the only thing that mattered. With my parents, though, with higher society—it’s never good enough. If I was good enough for the Solar Club, the Little Holland House set, if I could belong there...’
‘Then take my portrait,’ he said impulsively. Possibly the most impulsive thing he had ever done.
Violet’s mouth opened on a startled ‘o’. ‘Yours? Do you really mean it?’
‘Yes. Tomorrow. If you take an image you like, it could be another one for your portfolio. Stuffy English Duke.’
She shook her head. ‘But—why?’ she said with a puzzled little laugh. ‘You’ve pretty much refused to sit for me before.’
‘Well, that was before. You have convinced me that your camera contraption is not going to explode in my face. That your work will never make me look ridiculous. What about tomorrow morning? I have no meetings until the afternoon. It might not give you very much time...’
‘Oh, no, it’s perfect!’ Violet cried, her face filled with its usual bright life and enthusiasm again. ‘You won’t be disappointed! You shall look so gloriously handsome. The Duke of Dukes!’
He laughed. ‘Not my usual gargoyle mien, then?’
She chuffed him on the shoulder. ‘You are very good-looking and you know it. You need no flash powder for that.’
‘We could do a scene like at the gallery? Nude gods swimming? Only not in the Neva, I fear.’
That made her stammer and blush, a wondrous pink he wanted to see again and again. ‘Certainly not. If I want to show off the image, it must be ducal, not scandalous! I cannot wait.’
‘Shall we meet somewhere quiet after breakfast?’ he said. ‘If there is a truly quiet place in all of the Winter Palace.’
‘Grand Duchess Maria said I could use her small sitting room at any time, as she and the Prince are to return for a few days to Tsarskoe Selo before they go to England. It has a great many windows, perfect light. Nine thirty, then?’
‘Of course.’
Violet looked as if she wanted to say something else, but she just gasped, ‘Lily will be wondering where I am! Surely the Wilis are almost done murdering by now. Until tomorrow!’ She dashed away in a flurry of ribbons and silks and auburn curls. ‘I’ll see you then, Your Grace!’
Once her footsteps fade
d away and all was silent again, William felt quite alone in the hush of the falling snow. Her perfume wafted around him like one of the ghostly Wilis.
Only Violet was much too alive to be a spirit of any sort. Too full of adventure and audacity and confidence, and if he could help it at all, she would stay just that way. Just like Violet. His Violet. Who could never really be his.
Will couldn’t quite bring himself to return to the busy theatre yet, to sit quietly beside Violet and pretend nothing had changed for him. That something profound and freeing hadn’t shifted deep inside of him, just from one glance from those eyes, one smile, one touch. One chance at a photo that would hold all their lives in it, his and hers both.
He took a cheroot from his pocket and lit it, inhaling the cherry smoke against the chilly night, thinking of Violet, her enthusiasm, her happiness, her moods, her way of looking at the world. Her energy and kindness. Everyone said she would make a terrible duchess; even she said that herself. But why would she be terrible? It seemed to him a good duchess needed all those qualities. He needed all those qualities in his own life. Plus her kisses...
Why should he not marry Violet for real? He knew of only one real, formidable obstacle. Violet herself.
Chapter Nineteen
Violet hurried from one chair to another, to a footstool covered in gold fringe, to an alabaster table piled with books, unsure what to do. The Grand Duchess had said she must arrange things just as she liked, just as was needed, but it felt very strange, just moving someone else’s furniture about.
The Grand Duchess was correct that there were many windows on all sides and the early light was exquisite. It fell in silvery, diffuse rays through the east-and west-facing windows, turning the pastel colours of the chamber to a jewel box, creating intriguing shadows. And the room was much smaller than any other Violet had seen in the palace, perfect for intimate portraits.
Yet it was clearly not an English duke’s room. It was all gilded and swagged and silked, filled with figurines and flower paintings and French sofas. And she wanted William to look absolutely in his right place. But where was that?
She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to imagine him in his proper place, his real home. An English manor? A ballroom? On top of his horse surveying his land? No. Working. William sounded as if he was always working for his people.
She opened her eyes and found a desk, a bit smaller and plainer than the others in carved English oak. She dragged it close to the window, with a wide drape of velvet behind it casting shadows, and placed a pile of books and papers at the edge of the desk. She shooed one of the Grand Duchess’s Pomeranians from under the table, as the lapdog did not exactly convey the ‘hard at work on estate business’ atmosphere. She added a potted fern to the background and nodded. Perfect.
She glanced at the ormolu clock on the alabaster mantel and gasped. Nearly nine thirty! He would be there at any moment. She rubbed her chilly palms against her apron and went to work setting up her camera to keep from being nervous. She wanted this image to be perfect.
At last, there was a knock at the door and William appeared. He wore his usual dark morning suit, pale waistcoat, cravat, his dark hair smooth and glossy, waved back from his face. He carefully smoothed his lapels, looking uncharacteristically unsure. ‘Is this all right? I wasn’t sure what to wear?’
Violet laughed. ‘Perhaps you were afraid I would want you to dress like a Roman centurion? A Byzantine emperor?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised at anything with you.’
‘Perhaps later. Today, I need an image of The English Duke. Here, sit down beside this desk, make yourself comfortable, as if this was your office and you are merely working. Ignore the Pomeranian.’
As he sat down in the chair, settling his coat around him, his legs casually crossed, Violet finished setting up her camera tripod, the bowls of water nearby, the fixed plates waiting. She opened the windows partway, despite the frigid day, to let out some of the chemical smell of the prepared plates. As she fussed with the plates and the lenses, arranged and rearranged William in his seat to be best in the light, she felt herself fall deep into that other world. That world of images and stories and ideas, where that was all that mattered.
‘When did you take your first photographs?’ William asked quietly, letting her arrange his arm along the edge of the desk.
‘Oh, ages ago! I persuaded my father to buy me a camera, a heavy old thing. One of our neighbours was an amateur photographer and showed me the basics of it all, and then I read about it and studied whenever I could. I ruined so many plates at first! But then, once I got better, I made albums for my mother and sisters one Christmas and they quite liked them. They showed them off to their friends and everyone wanted a photo of themselves. It was the first thing I ever felt good at.’
‘I’m sure that can’t be true.’
‘Oh, it is! I can’t play the piano, can’t speak German, can’t embroider worth a fig. I can sketch and paint all right, but I like this better.’
‘And why is that?’
Violet considered this for a moment. ‘Because it’s one moment that lasts forever. The subject and photographer, all mixed up together in this instant. It feels like magic, but I am in charge of it all, where to place the camera, how to focus and frame the image, who and what to photograph. Using scientific skills to make sure it all comes out just right. I love it and I know I am good at it. I must just keep fighting until everyone else sees it, too.’
‘Fighting for what we want through every adversity, because it is a part of ourselves, that must feel good,’ he murmured.
‘Yes,’ she said, surprised he, a man, a duke, could see that. She glanced at him to find him watching her intently, and quickly turned away to adjust her camera. ‘Now, Will, just turn your chin slightly to the left and down, towards the light. Rest your hand on the books, as if you are working. Oh, you blasted dog, quit growling! Now, just one tiny smile. You enjoy the work, but you are serious about it! And keep very still. One. Two. Three.’
She ducked behind the camera to release the plate, holding her breath as she always did until it seemed as if all would come out, the image would hold. And she could tell by peeking through the viewfinder that it would be a fine portrait indeed, every handsome angle of William’s face there forever. And she had made it so.
‘And—done,’ she said finally, letting that breath out. She took out the plate, ready for it to go into a bath of pyrogallic acid and fixed with hyposulphite.
William rose from his chair and hurried towards her. ‘Can I see?’
Violet laughed. ‘So impatient! No, I have a great deal of developing to do now. I will show it to you as soon as I can.’
She tucked it away and he pretended to grab for it, making her laugh. ‘I did hear all dukes were spoiled and impetuous! They must have everything now.’
‘You should have gone with the Byzantine emperor costume, then,’ he said with a wry smile. He was very close to her. His hand reached up, as if he could not help it, just as she could not move away, and his fingertips toyed with the lace of her sleeve. A light touch, yet it burned as if with the glow of life itself.
‘You should push me away, Violet,’ he whispered. ‘For both of us.’
‘I...’ she whispered. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Heaven help me, but neither can I.’ His hand trailed over her arm to her waist, his touch warm and gentle through her velvet skirt, her muslin blouse. It made her want so much more, to feel the intimacy of taking a photograph come to life, of bare skin on bare skin, that deep connection.
She pressed her hand over his and held him closer. His other hand, cool with the winter’s day, reached up to caress her cheek, and she kissed his palm. He smelled of smoke and tea and snow, and it made her head whirl. There was only here and William, there in their eternal photograph.
She closed the small space between them,
touching his lips with hers. The merest brush, but she felt the whisper and heat of their breath meeting and mingling, holding them close.
William groaned and deepened the kiss, giving her what she craved so much. His tongue tasted the curve of her lower lip, light, teasing, until she parted her lips in eager welcome and leaned hard into him. And her ghosts fell free, tumbling down over some precipice, wild with need.
She broke away from him, suddenly frightened. Of him, herself, she didn’t know. ‘I—I have to go and develop this or it shall be ruined,’ she gasped. Before she whirled away, she saw him run his hand through his hair, leaving the dark strands ragged, and she glimpsed her own uncertainty deep in his eyes.
Chapter Twenty
Violet stared unseeingly into the mirror as the maid finished curling her hair, pinning it up carefully and fastening it with diamond stars, a sparkling array that matched the gold constellations embroidered on her white satin skirts. It was to be another lavish night, a dinner for three hundred people in the Hermitage wing of the palace. She would usually be jumping about with excitement to see such art close up. But now she felt only distracted, confused—and sad.
She fiddled with the silver-topped perfume bottles on the tulle-draped dressing table, remembering William at the theatre, William’s photo. That morning had felt so right, so perfect, but like an image itself it was only fleeting. It wasn’t the truth. She knew what a man like William needed in a wife. In a duchess.
Playing the Duke's Fiancée--A Victorian Historical Romance Page 19
