Chapter 3
Violet handed her order, with specifications, to her maid, Liza. “Make sure the garments are delivered to Locke Hill. Father would blow like Vesuvius if he decided to be intrusive.”
With a knowing gleam in her eye, Liza bobbed a curtsy and left for the post.
Violet suppressed the urge to clap in anticipation. The latest athletic and bathing costumes might inspire a wide array of responses from the general public, but to Violet, they were a means to freer movement, less bulk, and the ability to go faster.
And Violet loved to go fast.
She pulled on her driving gloves as she searched for Mama.
Instead of holding their weekly meeting at Briarwall Manor, Lydia’s home and the adjoining estate to Kinthwaite Park, Violet was taking the Wendy League on an outing.
A much-anticipated outing. A shiver of a thrill skittered up Violet’s spine.
Striding toward the study, she reached for the door handle at the same moment she heard her father’s voice and her own name. She halted, her forward momentum nearly causing her to stumble. Heart in her throat, she leaned forward with her ear toward the door.
“I will have no daughter of mine teaching. As if she weren’t odd enough—she should be married, blast it. She could attach herself to a peer if she put forth the effort. If American heiresses are doing it, by gum, why not her?”
“Are you suggesting that a daughter of mine trade her monetary value for a title?”
“You know what I meant. This is your doing, Anne. You’ve filled her head with all of this—”
“Careful, my dear,” Mama interrupted Father. Violet’s eyes widened. Nobody interrupted Father. “All of this may come to your rescue one day.”
“Bah. I pray that day will never come.”
“Do you intend to live forever?”
“Intend? Intend? I intended to have my son by my side! And when I lost him, I intended to have a son-in-law or a grandson or, God grant me, both.”
Violet’s heart pounded hard through the following silence. They never spoke of Daniel. Ever.
Mama’s voice came low but firm. “I have no intention of Violet teaching.”
Violet gasped, then quickly covered her mouth. Nothing had been set, but she’d shared her wishes with Mama. She’d trusted her.
“I intend to give her much more control than that. She is capable, learned, and confident.” The rustle of Mama’s skirts and the soft steps of her shoes crossed the room. “You may have lost a son, but you are blind to the wonderful and rare opportunity you still have. Consider my proposal.”
“I’ll consider your proposal when she considers marrying.”
“Violet will only consider marrying for love. Real, unequivocal love.”
Violet swallowed hard. She could trust Mama with anything, of course.
“Then she is a fool,” Father mumbled.
“Hmm. With her propensity to watch and learn from other’s mistakes, I believe her quite brilliant.”
The footsteps turned toward the very door Violet stood inches from. She shuffled backward, across the hall, bumping into a bust of Nero and steadying it with both hands before it could tip over completely.
The study door clicked open, and Mama stepped through, her eyes downcast. Turning, she shut the door and leaned her forehead against it.
Her shoulders lifted and sank with a shuddering breath.
Then her back straightened, she lifted her chin, and she turned—catching Violet wide-eyed, hand clutching Nero’s face.
Mama pressed her pointing finger to her lips, then nodded toward the drawing room.
Violet righted the statue and walked as silently as she could, following Mama until the drawing room doors had shut behind them.
“Mama, I’m so sorry. I—”
Mama’s arms were around her shoulders in a heartbeat. “Hush. There is no need for you to apologize. And I’ll not apologize either. That conversation was not meant for your ears, but what’s said is said, and I will not take the words back. I only wish …”
“You wish Daniel were here.”
Mama stepped back, her hands still holding Violet’s shoulders.
They were of a height, tall and eye to eye.
Mama’s brown eyes shone with unspent tears, her alto voice rough with emotion.
“That is not what I was going to say.” She brought a hand to Violet’s cheek.
“You are right, of course, but not for the reasons racing through your head at this moment, so stop that this instant.”
Violet flickered a smile. How well this woman knew her.
“I meant to say that I wish I could get through to that man in the study. He wasn’t always this hard—this stone-headed.”
Violet lifted a brow.
“Well, all right, yes, he was, but he was also … softer.” Her gaze drifted beyond Violet’s shoulder.
“Our marriage might have been a business deal, but in the beginning—I had thought—” She blinked and drew a steadying breath, dashing a fingertip at the corner of her eye.
“Well, I have no intention of folding for his archaic ideas, and neither should you. I may have an overactive inclination to see potential in others—”
“Is that what you saw in Father? In the beginning? Potential?”
Mama’s face softened into a smile. “Of course, my darling, perceptive daughter. And I see it in you. I always have.”
“I’ll not let you down,” Violet whispered.
“Oh, hush. Do not reach for your potential for me.” She held Violet’s face in her soft hands. “Or for him. I’ve observed you time and time again trying to prove your worth to your father. You’ve nothing to prove to anyone. Reach for your potential because you want a life well lived.”
“Is that what you’ve done, Mama? Is that what I see you doing?”
Mama sighed, shaking her head. “Every minute.” She smirked. “And I’m only just beginning.”
Violet released a quiet laugh, and Mama joined her.
“Now,” she said, pulling back and straightening herself out. “Why aren’t you gone with your friends? You’ve an outing today, correct?”
“Yes. I was coming to find you, before, to ask if you needed me to address anything while I was out.”
“No, I don’t believe so. Just give me a report when you get back. I’m eager to hear your observations.” The sparkle had returned to Mama’s eyes, and Violet felt a great measure of relief. “And try not to worry about your father.”
“That is like asking the farmer not to worry about a frost.”
Mama pressed her lips together tightly, her eyes large. “Oh dear.” She fought to hide her smile, Violet knew.
She shrugged, knowing the lighthearted jab would do her mother’s heart good. “I call a fig a fig, Mama.”
“You do it well, my darling. Strong will be the heart that keeps up with yours.”
“You’ve done it, all these years.”
Mama laughed. “Oh, and what a delightful challenge it has been. Now, go on with you. Give the girls my love.”
Y
Violet’s motorcar, a Rover she called Edwin, hummed beneath her, speeding her body away from her father’s study, but not her thoughts.
Unbidden, her father’s words bounced around in her head. “As if she weren’t odd enough. She should be married, blast it.”
“I have friends, for Hook’s sake,” she muttered as she pulled onto the lane to Briarwall Manor.
“I visit and dine and dance, and I am liked.” Of course, she knew she wasn’t the average woman of her age, but what did that signify?
To be different—well, weren’t all human beings different from one another?
At least, they started out that way. It had confused her, when she’d entered society, that the mothers would list their own daughters’ achievements, what made each a standout amongst the other young ladies, and at the same time push those daughters to wear the same styles of the moment, converse on the same dull topics, play the same instruments, compete for the same handful of men with similar social standing.
And the men who had seemed interested in her—well, they had seemed interested to a point.
It went something like this: The men would approach, begging for introductions.
Then, after several days or minutes, their attentions fizzled and were drawn elsewhere.
It was not a great mystery. Violet had opinions she could not help but express, intelligence she refused to hide, and a competitiveness she could not help but indulge.
It had been a humiliating, baffling lesson to learn, that the male ego was seldom tolerant of a woman who possessed more brains, wit, or courage than they.
But that was years ago, and she’d learned that trying to change who she was for a man brought her more misery than being alone ever would.
She’d not given up hoping for love but had also accepted the idea that she might perhaps end up the wittiest, boldest, happiest spinster ever.
Violet honked the horn at a flock of geese settling on the road, the birds swirling up in a flutter to get out of the way.
Odd. She’d looked up the word once, the first time her father had used it in reference to his only daughter. She’d read the definition: Different from what is usual or expected.
And she’d smiled.
She smiled now as she pulled up to Briarwall, the climbing roses greening and budding out against the stone walls. Lydia exited the house and strode to the Rover as a doorman hurried to help her get in.
“Hello.” Lydia settled, a little breathless, her deep brown eyes smiling. Her russet-brown hair forever looked as if it were about to escape its pins.
“Tell me,” Violet said. “Why would I want to marry a man who wanted to marry a woman who molded herself to be like any other woman?”
Lydia blinked. “You wouldn’t.”
“And would you describe me as different from what is usual or expected?”
“Absolutely and wonderfully.”
“Just so,” Violet said with a nod and put the car in gear.
As she sped off, Lydia fell back against her seat, and the sound of their laughter followed them up the lane.
Y
12 and nearly 16
Violet ripped off her cage mask, her breath coming fast. “You’re cheating.”
Cyril straightened and lowered his epee, his white fencing uniform pristine. “How am I cheating?” At least he seemed out of breath as well.
“Your arms are longer than mine.”
He removed his own mask. “That isn’t cheating. It’s just … age difference.” He looked to their master, Mr. Leopold, who was already rubbing his temples, eyes closed.
“Perhaps, Miss Violet,” Mr. Leopold said, “we should give you a longer epee.” He looked her up and down. “And a pair of stilts while we’re at it.”
Violet placed her hands at her hips, her dueling sword quivering at her side. “That would give me no advantage whatsoever.”
Cyril shrugged. “Do you think it an advantage to duel a pixie?”
“A pixie? I’m taller than Clara Montrose, and she is a year older than I am.” She stepped toward him. “If I’m a pixie, then you’re … you’re …”
“About to trounce you,” he said, replacing his mask. “En garde.”
“En garde,” Mr. Leopold repeated. “And, Miss Violet, try not to rip off your mask during a bout. It has a purpose.”
Scowling, Violet replaced her mask and took her stance. “A plus that I can’t see your smug face,” she muttered at her opponent.
“A bonus that I can’t see your sour one,” Cyril countered.
“Allez,” Mr. Leopold said, the command to begin.
“How does it feel?” Violet continued. Their repartee didn’t stop as they feinted, lunged, parried, advanced, and avoided. “To be beaten by a pixie, then?”
She sensed more than heard Cyril growl. “I. Wouldn’t. Know.” He disengaged ever so briefly. Then, with a shift of his stance, Violet gulped.
With that subtle movement, he became more hunter and she more prey.
He attacked.
Never had he dueled with her like this. “You’ve been going easy on me,” she said with some accusation as she parried his lunge.
“No,” he said, “I’m simply applying what I’ve been learning all these years.”
“Just now?” she asked, beating his epee to the right and following with a straight thrust.
He parried and advanced in a progressive attack she struggled to counter. “Why not?” he asked. “Pixies can be dangerous. Not a fear in them. Have you any?”
She stopped his hit at close quarters. “Any what?” She found herself wishing she could see his face to read him better.
“Fears.”
They stood, weapons pressed together even in their unequal heights.
He knew she did. She had many fears.
“Fight them,” he whispered. “Fight them right now.”
As she hesitated, he reassembled. “En garde.”
She reprised, gathering her emotions like horse-chestnut conkers ready to be thrown. She raised her epee with a steadying breath. “En garde.”
They advanced, and in the clash that followed, she rose to meet her opponent, Mr. Leopold calling out critique and encouragement as she and Cyril dueled.
Violet gave as good as she got, the power of coordination, timing, and courage coursing through her until she was grinning, blinking away perspiration, both their chests heaving with every breath.
Amidst all the balance and push and fight—a thrill of a dance building inside her—a laugh burst forward.
A wonder-filled, fear-shedding, delighted laugh.
She disengaged—to Cyril’s obvious surprise—lowering her epee, standing in her knee skirt and fencing jacket, ripping off her mask in unaccounted-for triumph. And she laughed without reserve.
She was tall for a pixie.