Chapter 17 #2
Her mother, of course, didn’t see it as anything less than the end of the world.
Her eyes continued shining with unshed tears, and she threw a hand to her chest, emphatically clutching her fichu.
“He has no shame! He has turned us all into laughingstocks.” At last, she took notice of the sherry beside her, and she drained the glass in one long swallow before drooping against the arm of the sofa.
“You married just in time, but what of Arabella? Lord Frederick has been forgiving of the gossip thus far, but his tolerance is bound to run out. Where will she be then but destitute? Alone. A spinster.”
“No. No, it will not come to that.” Violet patted her mother’s arm gently but kept her tone firm, her thoughts turning at a breakneck pace.
So many of their actions lately had been driven by a desire to please Lord Frederick.
Heavens, it was the entire reason for Violet’s marriage.
However, what if this was a sign that the union between Arabella and Frederick wasn’t meant to be?
What if a path existed in which her sister could learn to love someone other than a pompous duke’s son who kept proving himself increasingly heinous?
“Lord Frederick is not the only unwed man in the world,” she said, the idea gaining more clarity by the second.
“There are others who will recognize Arabella’s charm and not care a whit for what the gossip rags say.
I’d never wish to see her heartbroken, but she’s still so young, and if she’s only given more time to meet another suitable gentleman—”
“I beg your pardon?” Her mother straightened a little, staring at her as if she’d begun speaking in a foreign tongue. “But … but she’s decided on Lord Frederick. The son of a duke.”
“He’s a numbskull! He’s hardly the best she can do,” Violet burst out. At least, she started to before the door swung open and Mrs. Wheeler appeared with the tea tray—followed, a single step behind, by none other than Arabella herself.
“Violet! Mama!” Arabella almost skipped into the room, giving no sign she’d detected the harsh words. In fact, her cheeks glowed a charming pink, and her lips curved into a wide grin.
Their mother sniffed, casting a doleful glance at Arabella and then the approaching tea tray before deciding she had the strength for neither and slumping her head against the sofa.
Arabella, though, was unperturbed. She waltzed right up to the aggrieved viscountess with a giggle, fetching her limp hands and clasping them in her own.
“I rushed home to tell you, Mama. Only, Davis said you’d left to pay a call on Violet not ten minutes prior, so I got the pony cart and drove here as quickly as I could. I’m fairly bursting with the news.”
The viscountess snapped to attention, her eyes becoming large and intent. “What news? Tell me what? My poor nerves cannot handle you keeping me in suspense.”
“It’s wonderful!” Arabella laughed again, releasing their mother’s hands to give a little twirl. “Lord Frederick has proposed marriage.”
No. Violet had sat by silently to watch the scene unfold, and continued to do so even now, but all she could think was no.
The viscountess, however, clapped delightedly, jumping to her feet and joining Arabella in a spin.
“That’s wonderful indeed, my dear. Brilliant news.
The best news.” She reached for Violet’s untouched glass of sherry, tipping it to her lips and releasing a contented sigh.
“Two daughters successfully married. I shall have a modicum of peace at last.”
No, no, no. Violet knew she should be thankful that her mother’s fears had been assuaged. Knew she should congratulate her sister. The only idea to fill her head, though, was that nothing about this felt right.
“Violet?” Suddenly, a slender hand fell upon her shoulder, and she raised her eyes to find Arabella peering down at her, her pale brows knitting in confusion. “Aren’t you pleased?”
Violet caught the warning glance from her mother, but it did nothing to quell the bile rising inside her. She’d started imagining a future that was different, better, for her sister, so to have it snatched away so quickly, to know that detestable coxcomb would soon become a relation—
“I begin to doubt Lord Frederick’s character,” she said, the words tumbling out like a wave, impossible to keep contained.
Arabella made a startled sound, and their mother’s features darkened, her expression going from cautionary to downright murderous.
Even so, Violet was unable to hold her tongue and stop what she’d already set in motion. “He’s diverting river water, without a care for the disastrous impact upon Aldercombe’s crops and livestock, for the sole purpose of supplying his ornamental lake.”
“Goodness, girl, that’s a farming matter,” the viscountess snapped with distaste. “It’s not something over which you should trouble yourself. Whatever’s amiss, leave it to the land agents to sort.”
Violet’s body stiffened as if she’d been struck, and something simmered in her belly, hot and furious.
She was no stranger to handling her mother’s moods and nervous complaints.
She’d grown accustomed to fetching vinaigrettes and speaking platitudes in a soft voice so as not to make things worse.
However, never had the temptation been so strong to shout her frustration at the top of her lungs.
None of them—not her mother, or Arabella, or even the land agent—had been outdoors last night in the driving rain as thunder crashed around them.
None of them had tried to drive a flock of sheep without a shepherd or dog, leaped into the mud, or clutched a frightened lamb’s wooly body to their chest—and all because of Lord Frederick’s thoughtless, asinine scheme.
“Surely, it’s a misunderstanding,” Arabella said, a slight tremble in her voice.
She worked her lip back and forth between her teeth, her eyes glittering.
Hopeful. Pleading, almost. “I realize you and Frederick have had your differences recently, but I trust him to be honorable and true. If some sort of trouble has arisen, he’ll see that it’s rectified. I’m certain of it.”
Violet did her sister the service of not retching at the declaration.
In fact, she sat painfully still, not trusting herself to do anything at all.
Arabella was so bright. So carefree and lovely and delicate.
How could Violet yell at her during the happiest moment of her sister’s life?
What was she to say when one set of eyes shot daggers at her and another stared eagerly while awaiting her response, the taintless joy in them showing the slightest sign of dimming?
“Congratulations.” The word felt like nails as Violet forced it from her throat. There was no merriment in it, no false excitement she pulled from some shallow place within her. Yet it seemed to be enough.
“Thank you, dearest.” Arabella’s smile broadened, and her slippers tapped a little dance against the carpet. “And I haven’t even told you the other marvelous news. Frederick says he’ll host a grand ball at Watley to celebrate our betrothal.”
Their mother let out an excited gasp. “A betrothal ball and then a wedding?” She grabbed her discarded reticule from the sofa, the offensive gossip rag beside it entirely forgotten. “With so much to plan, we haven’t a moment to lose.”
“Indeed. I don’t know where to begin!” Arabella pressed her palms to her flushed cheeks, another of her giggles ringing through the drawing room.
“I should do up my portion of the guest list. Oh, and do you think I could have a new gown made? My pink silk might do if we had it retrimmed, but there’s still the matter of slippers, and then what jewels I’m to wear, and—”
“Yes, we’ll return to Meadowleigh at once so we can get these things in order,” the viscountess declared, starting across the room with considerably more vigor than she’d displayed upon entering it.
“Come with us, Vi.” Arabella extended a hand toward the sofa, where Violet remained watching the intensifying flurry she was powerless to stop.
Violet accepted the proffered hand, pushing rigidly to her feet. However, she went no farther, flashing a stony look toward the doorway where her mother waited. “I cannot. I’m afraid I have more of my silly farming matters to attend to.”
Even then, Arabella’s grin was unflappable. “Well, you must come to Meadowleigh as soon as you have the time. Perhaps you can have a new gown made, too.”
Poor, naive Arabella really did mean it as a kindness. She appeared to have nothing but delight in her heart as she uttered a distracted farewell and flitted away, surely dreaming of all that awaited her.
In the end, it was the viscountess who turned back, meeting Violet’s humorless stare with one of her own. “I’m sorry you did not make the match you hoped for. Still, you mustn’t begrudge Arabella her happiness.”
Violet gaped, an invisible fist pummeling her in the chest. “It’s not—”
But the viscountess had already spun away and was out the door, leaving Violet in solitude.
“It’s not that,” she muttered, collapsing back onto the sofa as if she were the one who suffered from weakness and poor health.
She blew out a long breath, the ceiling swimming above her. What a proper mess this was. A mess she knew no easy way to fix.
Perhaps she could have prevented it weeks ago.
Perhaps if she’d refused to get married after the shepherd’s hut incident, Lord Frederick would have cried off before Arabella’s attachment to him grew even stronger, and her sister, somehow, would have found another eligible gentleman to take his place.
Perhaps someday far in the future, a gentleman would have come along who’d forgive Violet’s sins and fall in love with her, too. Except suddenly, nothing about that possibility felt right.
She put a palm to her chest, where her heart thumped with a strange rhythm. She did want Arabella to be happy and loved, would never begrudge her that. If only there was a way for it to come about that didn’t involve such a duplicitous toad.
As for her own happiness …
I’m sorry you did not make the match you hoped for.
The words cut because no, she hadn’t. She hadn’t wanted the match in the least.
Only … what if the match she’d once hoped for was wrong?
What if the things that truly mattered—loyalty, honor, goodness—came from somewhere and someone far different from what she’d expected?