Chapter 25 #2
Only when the door to the terrace creaked open and then shut again did she look up to find her mother waiting by the sofa, skirts more than a little rumpled.
“Shall I call for tea?” The viscountess brushed a stray lock of hair from her dewy brow before folding her hands primly in front of her and lowering herself back onto the sofa.
“Um, no.” Violet inched forward, walking as though the floor might disintegrate beneath her feet. It wouldn’t be the most shocking thing to transpire in this drawing room within the past five minutes.
However, she arrived before the sofa unscathed, leaving her to hover uncertainly as she stared down at her mother. So often, the woman on the sofa was pale and listless, fretting over health complaints and bemoaning her misfortunes. This woman, though, was different. This woman fairly glowed.
“I’ll just come out and say it.” The new version of the viscountess was sharp, too, meeting Violet’s gaze with her chin held high.
“You’ve gone off and married. Arabella is all but married.
Your father’s scandal has ended my days in society.
” She sniffed. “A woman cannot be expected to forgo companionship altogether.”
Violet’s lips parted, and after a beat of stunned silence, a sound rose in her throat that was nearly a laugh.
“No. No, of course not. You should do whatever best pleases you.” The viscount certainly did.
Why should the viscountess not follow his lead?
She’d resigned herself to life in the country; she had every right to take what enjoyment she could.
“Precisely.” A sly grin tugged at the corners of her mother’s mouth. “And Barker pleases me very much. He does the most delightful things with his—”
“Perhaps we should forgo discussing it in too specific of terms.” It was Violet’s turn to become crimson-cheeked. The rejuvenated viscountess was still her mother, after all, and there were certain details Violet didn’t need to know.
Besides, now that the shock of her discovery had begun to abate, she needed to regain her focus and address the reason for her interruption. “As I said, I’ve come to ask after Arabella. Is she well?”
Her mother quirked a brow. “Certainly. Why wouldn’t she be?”
“I’ve just returned from London to discover an entire tray of missives from her, all conveying an urgent need to speak. She said everything was ruined, whatever I’m to make of that.”
“Oh.” The viscountess flicked her wrist, giving a little laugh.
“She and Lord Frederick had a lover’s tiff or some such thing earlier in the week.
She didn’t reveal the cause, but it couldn’t be anything serious, as she’s gone back to Watley for dinner tonight.
The duke is there now, you know, come to welcome her as his future daughter-in-law and attend the betrothal ball. ”
Violet shifted her feet, trying to summon the veneer of a smile.
“I’m glad to hear it.” However, instead of relief, unease snaked through her belly.
Perhaps she allowed herself to be over-influenced by her loathing of Lord Frederick, but she despised the thought of him upsetting her sister, even if hurt feelings from the quarrel had already been repaired.
Because what if Arabella still carried troubles she hadn’t shared with their mother? What if she’d finally recognized a glimpse of her betrothed’s true colors and needed a confidante?
She pushed the idea aside, giving the viscountess a quick nod. “Don’t let me keep you any longer. I know I caught you while you were otherwise occupied.”
“Indeed, I was.” Her mother tugged her slanted bodice a little lower, lashes flitting like a schoolgirl’s.
“Farewell, my dear. Do come visit me again.” Her attention traveled to the terrace door, her voice taking on an airy ring.
“Although next time, I suggest you knock both louder and longer first.”
Violet made haste in departing Meadowleigh, eager to avoid witnessing the amorous moments whose recommencement seemed imminent.
Nonetheless, as she hopped back onto her mare, Vespera, in the stable yard, she found herself unable to race straight for home—and Benedict—without a second thought. Her mind kept returning to Arabella and all those dratted letters. Was everything truly well again?
Violet trotted with her horse down the drive and onto the west road, tilting her head so she could take a breath and better feel the clarifying sunshine stream upon her face. However, something was wrong. There was an acrid tang in the breeze. Smoke in the sky.
Her hand flew up to shade her eyes, and she blinked to bring the scene into focus. This wasn’t wispy chimney smoke but thick gray puffs that swelled above the trees.
Coming from the direction of Watley Hall.
Her heart lurched, the only feeling of which she had any recollection before driving Vespera into a gallop over the fields.
What on earth had that dimwitted Lord Frederick done now?
Had his drunken antics caused a fire in the stables?
Had he planned an evening bonfire for his guests that somehow went awry?
Whatever the case, she was certain this was his fault.
Yet no matter how hard she tried to focus on her disdain for the despicable lord, her mounting pangs of dread just wouldn’t cease.
In fact, the closer she drew to Watley, and the more she discerned of the scene, the deeper that terror embedded itself between her ribs, hitting her with the force of a cannonball.
This was no barn or grass fire but a blaze in the manor itself, with angry orange flames licking the roof and shooting through the top story windows.
She pushed Vespera forward with as much speed as the animal could muster until she dared take her no farther for fear of spooking her.
Then, she tethered the horse to a fencepost with trembling fingers and bolted the rest of the way down to the back garden of Watley, where a flurry of activity had broken out.
A bucket brigade, composed of servants and laborers, had assembled, drawing water from the stagnant lake and tossing it at the house, to little effect.
On the other side of the lake, huddled on the muddy bank, were the partygoers dressed in their evening finery, murmuring frantically amongst themselves.
Her eyes hastily scanned the scene, falling upon Lord Frederick’s dashing blue coat, Mr. Calthorpe’s black boots, the ivory feather in Lady Kingsland’s hair. But there was no bright, jaunty gown or golden ringlets.
There was no Arabella.
“Arabella!” she shouted, racing toward the group on aching legs, the smoke already making her lungs raw. It didn’t matter, though. None of it mattered until she laid eyes on her sister.
“Arabella!” she cried out again, her scream causing the tight cluster of Lord Frederick’s cronies to spread apart so they could assess the source of the commotion.
Her gaze flew across the group once more, meeting every set of dazed, frightened eyes that gawked back at her.
None of them were Arabella’s sunny sky blue.
It had become clear, beyond a doubt, that her sister wasn’t among them.
She ground to a halt in front of Lord Frederick, using all the restraint she possessed not to scream at him when she asked, “What’s happened? Where’s Arabella?”
He seemed not to notice her fully, his stare traveling past her face and resting on the burning house. “The fireworks display.” He sounded like a man half-asleep, uncertain what was real and what was a ghastly figment of his imagination. “I was testing it before dark. A rocket misfired.”
She knew it. She knew this disaster had happened because of the man’s bloody carelessness. But what difference did it make when he hadn’t answered her second question? “Where’s Arabella?” she demanded again, her heart on the verge of pounding out of her chest.
“She said she was going to the retiring room.” It was Lady Kingsland—Arabella’s, and formerly Violet’s, chaperone—who responded, her words infuriatingly cool. Her countenance unruffled. “When the call of fire went out, we just assumed she would make her exit as we all did.”
Violet’s knees wobbled, the air rushing from her lungs in a horrified shudder.
“And when she didn’t emerge, none of you thought to go search for her?
” She glared at Lady Kingsland, then trailed her wrathful gaze over the rest of the so-called noblemen.
None of them spoke. None of them did anything but look at her blankly or ignore her altogether.
Even that blasted Lord Frederick, for all his claims of heartfelt affection.
His solution, when his future wife was in peril, was to do nothing at all.
“Damn you,” she hissed in his face, just to make very certain he heard. She didn’t stay to gauge his reaction, though. There was simply no more time.
She rushed down the muddy bank, hauling her skirts to her knees so she could tear a piece of cotton from the hem of her shift and plunge it into the lake.
Lady Kingsland’s appalled gasp was audible even above the shouts of the bucket brigade. However, the sound left Violet’s awareness just as quickly as it entered it. Her focus had locked on one thing and one thing only: finding Arabella.
She pivoted toward the house, where fire continued blazing through the top windows and spreading across the roof. Despite the brigade’s best efforts, they were fighting a losing battle.
Violet, though, refused to lose.
Not the flames in front of her, nor the shouts behind her, could stop her from sprinting to the terrace with her makeshift facemask and dashing inside the burning building.