Chapter 14 #2
Yet suddenly, the idyllic scene was secondary to the view of Violet striding to the beech and sinking to the grass against its trunk.
She kicked off her shoes and tossed her bonnet aside, revealing delicate silk stockings and a full head of golden curls.
And then, her eyes met his, as blue and clear as the sky.
“This is where I come to read,” she said tartly, the gaze lasting only an instant before she busied herself with her reticule, rummaging within and pulling out a book. “Please feel free to carry on your way.”
She located the page she sought, then held the book close to her face and quickly became absorbed in its contents. Ben, however, refused to carry on.
He set down the wriggling Achilles and cautiously approached the tree, ducking into its shade and squinting so he could make out the title on her book’s spine.
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Mary Wollstonecraft.
A particular favorite of his mother’s; he should have known Violet would esteem it, too. Clever, determined woman she was.
She grew so caught up in the text that her focus never wavered, although did she truly not notice the figure looming above her?
“Violet.” He cleared his throat, feeling large and ungainly, but he forced himself to remain where he was, arms planted stiffly at his sides. “I wonder if you would forgo your book for the time being so we can speak.”
That, at least, enticed her to look up and assess him. Were he not mistaken, a faint flash of pink spread over her cheeks, and she bit down on her lip, not saying a word.
Her chin moved, though, a slight gesture inviting him to sit on the ground beside her. After another moment, she set her book down, releasing a quiet puff of breath.
He accepted without hesitation, lowering himself onto the shaded grass while taking care not to crowd too close to her.
Maintaining a respectable distance was best, so he wouldn’t become distracted by the brush of her skirts or the sweet scent of floral perfume.
He needed to think of last night logically, without envisioning her sliding her skirts up her thighs or circling her fingertips over intimate flesh.
He squeezed his hands into fists, forcing the thought to dissipate.
Before he could start making veiled inquiries about the connecting door—without letting the discussion affect him—something else more pressing required stating.
Something there was no easy way to address, so he’d just have to come out with it.
“What I said to you about respecting our marriage vows … When I implied you did not …” He paused, watching the flicker in her eyes, a sharp pang stabbing him in the chest. “I drew the wrong conclusion. For that, I profusely apologize.”
She let a long moment of silence fall, her fingers idly sweeping over the lush blades of grass. “It’s difficult for two strangers to build trust when they scarcely communicate,” she said at last, her hands returning to her lap. Her gaze becoming pointed. “Nevertheless, I do forgive you … for that.”
Relief turned to trepidation in his gut within seconds. Not that he’d been so naive as to think that with one apology, the other issues at hand would vanish.
She forgave him for his inane assumption. That was good, very good. However, there was still the matter of his secret that wasn’t a secret. Her knowledge—how long had she harbored it?—of his literary pursuits, which left her feeling deceived and appalled.
He knew no easy way to broach this subject, either.
No way to make a confession that had implications far beyond his own person.
Yet to say nothing would be to ensure that the distance between them always remained an untraversable void.
That their marriage never progressed beyond a couple of signatures in a parish register, scrawled in haste, out of necessity.
He didn’t want that. Not for the rest of his life, not anymore.
And so, he took a breath, peering into blue eyes, at pursed lips, and refusing to look away. “May I ask where you procured the literature you quoted to me last night?”
Her fingers curled into the folds of her muslin skirt, and while another hint of color shaded her cheeks, she, too, held the gaze without faltering.
“It would seem it’s quite popular amongst the servants, as is the tale of the anonymous author’s identity and his expulsion from Cambridge for his efforts.
Or so I was told by my lady’s maid on the night before our wedding. ”
Damn. Why did gossip have to be so blasted virulent? He’d imagined this idyllic countryside, far from both Cambridge and London, would offer a haven from it. He certainly hadn’t imagined his household as being all-knowing, tittering over their new master’s licentiousness when he was out of earshot.
But there was no use dwelling on it and little he could do to change what had come to pass. In this moment, he simply had to make a choice based on the cards he’d already been dealt: to lie, or to trust her.
The former being the safer choice, certainly. But the latter being the right one.
“I didn’t write those pamphlets.” He let the words fall before he could think better of it, their echo a heavy weight that sliced through the springtime breeze.
Violet’s body stiffened, a severe line forming at the bridge of her nose. She thought he was prevaricating, giving the false denials she’d warned him against.
Which meant he still had far more explaining to do.
“I claimed it was me,” he said, taking a key and unlocking the truth he’d so fervently guarded, forcing the story to pour from his throat. “But the real author is my brother, Alexander.”
The hand on her skirts jerked, the line between her brows deepening. “But … why would you do such a thing?”
He pressed his palms against the grass for support, weariness leaching right to his bones. Why, Ben? The question his family had also asked when he’d returned from Cambridge in disgrace, as if the answer weren’t perfectly obvious.
Violet, though, was a stranger to the intricacies of the Prescott family. What else was left but to enlighten her?
“Because.” He unclenched his jaw, blowing out a breath from too-tight lungs. “Alex needed to stay at university more than I did.”
He had to look away, then, to turn instead to the sweeping landscape beyond the tree.
Rolling hills, fertile fields. So far removed from King’s College at Cambridge, although he could imagine his brother as plain as a pikestaff, clad in his silk robe and mortarboard with the tassel forever hanging askew.
“I told him his writing would get him in trouble one day. Especially when, during his second year at Cambridge, he turned the subject of his published works to … to that.” Ben tried not to sound perturbed as he uttered the revelation.
He’d never wanted to appear scornful of Alex’s literary endeavors, despite how his brother’s ever-increasing interest in penning stories and inhabiting their parents’ printshop left a niggling sense of dread in his gut.
However, when bundles of the erotic pamphlets made their way from London to King’s College, exploding in popularity with the same fervor as gunpowder tossed on a bonfire, he couldn’t help but voice his disapproval.
He’d always envisioned the consequences, even when Alex remained immune to such worries.
“He did stop publishing for a while.” Ben shifted his rigid shoulders, recalling the faint surge of relief he’d felt.
The months when he’d tried to pretend that Alex was settling down and would be content to focus solely on his studies.
It wasn’t to last, of course. “At the beginning of this year’s Lent term, though, the pamphlets returned.
More coveted and widespread than ever after their temporary absence, which was their downfall in the end. ”
The grass rustled beside him, and he could sense Violet’s body drawing nearer, all warmth and sweetness even more aromatic than the wildflowers surrounding them.
“One day, Alex and I were summoned to the provost’s office,” he said, continuing to look into the distance at the boundless sky.
“I don’t think it was ever a mystery to our classmates where the pamphlets came from.
Alex distributed them at the start of each term, and when anyone questioned him about the anonymous author, he simply gave a roguish smile, neither confirming nor denying anything. ”
The memory of that smile hurt. So carefree and easily given, whereas Ben had always stood back with his jaw clenched, unable to shake his sense of impending danger.
“It got to such a point that the administration had had enough of the depravity. It didn’t take the skill of a private detective to trace the pamphlets back to Robinson and Clare, our mother and stepfather’s printshop in London.
Nor did it escape anyone’s notice that new issues always appeared when Alex and I returned after visits to London with our family.
” He gritted his teeth, still able to feel the walls of the provost’s office closing in on him. The weight of Dr. Thackeray’s scrutiny.
“I think I was summoned as a formality. Alex and I always traveled to and from Cambridge together, so it would be wrong to accuse him alone. The provost knew, though. He knew the truth.” Ben struggled for air, his voice cracking, intensifying.
“He knew the truth, and I lied to him. I said it was me. I insisted. I told him my brother was blameless and that I wanted Alex to leave so I could accept my punishment privately.”
“And your brother was happy to go along with this?” Violet’s words were a soft murmur. Not horrified, just somewhat incredulous.