Chapter 3
“It was a frog,” Violet told everyone at breakfast the next morning.
“One of Cece’s little jokes.” She grimaced.
“I am sorry if my cries alarmed you. I asked Williams to assure you all that I was fine. Just a nasty fright. Cece sometimes forgets we do not enjoy her pranks nearly as much as she does.” Violet pressed her lips together and glowered at the guilty party.
Honestly! The tension between them had barely settled.
Why would Cecilia think this a wise course of action?
The answer was, of course, that this had nothing at all to do with wisdom. Cecilia simply loved a good laugh. Violet could imagine her ensconced in her own bed, chortling into her pillow as her friend’s cry of horror belted through the house.
“He was an awfully cute specimen,” Cecilia said unapologetically. “I found him by the composting pile yesterday morning before the snow had started to fall, long before the rest of you arrived. Did you kiss him, Violet? He would have made a handsome prince.”
“I most certainly did not! Williams summarily put him out the kitchen door.”
“Oh! You didn’t throw him out into the cold, you heartless creature!” cried Cecilia.
“That is where he came from. What would you have me do? Let him live under my pillow for the duration of winter?”
“Quite so,” agreed Pearl. “I shudder to think of it. Is it not time you left such childish notions in the past, Cecilia dear?”
Cecilia, like her cousin Victor, had a fair degree of ginger in her family line.
However, whereas Victor’s rusty-brown hair was the only evidence of his heritage, Cecilia had the bright copper curls and temperament to match.
She could laugh well enough. But she could scowl something ferocious, too.
And, right now, she was treating Pearl to one of her best efforts.
“Not all of us wish to spend our time visiting one art gallery after another for months on end,” she said in a huff. “Some of us less sophisticated specimens enjoy the countryside and simple pleasures. Likewise, games and humor are an essential part of me. It’s who I am.”
“But surely you would agree…” protested Pearl, only to have her brother tap her plate with his knife.
“Have you finished with the blackberry jam?”
Pearl looked at the little jar of preserves as if it had offended her. “No, I have not.”
“Then perhaps you would like to finish spreading your toast instead of lecturing our friend so that others might enjoy some jam with their breakfast, too.”
The look of contempt shifted from the jar to her brother, but Pearl reluctantly took a spoonful and dolloped it onto her buttery toast. She pushed the glass container across the table, away from her brother, and asked, “Would you like some jam, Victor? I would not like to be seen as claiming it all for myself.”
“No, thank you,” answered Victor, to Violet’s immense satisfaction, a rejection of the offering being akin, in her eyes, to a rejection of the young woman.
“You are fond of blackberries, Cee, I assume this will not go amiss.” And he handed the now rather contentious jar to his cousin who was sitting beside him.
She at once began slathering the contents all over her toast.
“Well,” said Pearl, trying to regain her composure, “as long as someone is enjoying it.”
Violet loved Cecilia. Her unwillingness to bow to convention.
Her simple, unpretentious speech. But today, Violet was still sore about the frog.
She might have laughed it off sooner when they were younger.
Or if Cece had not already overstepped the mark quite recently.
Or if Violet had not felt humiliated by screaming like a banshee while the elegant Pearl resided under the same roof.
So, while she smiled to herself at the battle of natures between the two women, mentally taking Cece’s side, she would not be making peace with Cecilia today.
It was not the best attitude with which to head to church on Christmas morning. But her mood was greatly improved by the sermon. And the weather played along well enough for them to spend the afternoon delivering baskets to the needy souls among the tenants of the estate.
Violet had to hand it to Pearl. Despite her superior education and elegant dress, she was grace and kindness itself when handing out the parcels of food. Even the poor folk, wrapped in knitted shawls, their coats patched, their woolen socks gray with wear, took her gifts with as much awe as thanks.
It would be so easy to allow an envious heart to blacken Violet’s opinion of her.
But it would also be an injustice. Pearl might have some new views acquired during her travels that differed from those she had once shared with the rest of this group of friends, but she was not unworthy of admiration.
Nevertheless, Pearl still seemed to watch Violet anxiously whenever Victor engaged in conversation with her. No doubt she was desirous of having that attention on herself. She certainly claimed it whenever she could.
“Looks like you’ve missed your chance,” said Donovan to his sister at the dinner table, between mouthfuls of savory mince pie.
He tilted his head toward the two friends in question, who had now been seated next to each other, Pearl daintily slicing her roast goose into tiny bite-sizes to be nibbled discreetly, and Victor holding his glass of red wine for a small eternity, too enraptured by their conversation to take a sip.
Violet tried to shrug it off. “It would be poor show if this particular group of friends did not enjoy each other’s company. Let them be.”
“It’s not too late, you know.” Her brother pressed on.
“At present, she is fascinating merely because she brings talk of new adventures. When that novelty wears off, she will become like the rest of us. But if she endears herself to him in these early days, he will never realize how ordinary she is.”
Violet’s mouth fell open. “You think she is ordinary? Come now, Donovan, Pearl is so much more than that. Her beauty, the way she carries herself…”
“Are all learned,” he finished for her. “Do you think a man cares for these things when looking for a wife?”
“Why, certainly I do! You show me a man for whom beauty and poise are not attractive elements. I shall not believe it unless I see it with my own eyes.”
“Elements, yes, dear sister, but not the essence of what he looks for. If Pearl had remained here with us, she would have nothing to offer him now. You and Victor, on the other hand, have always been kindred spirits. Take your love of riding, for example. The two of you are like centaurs, at one with your steeds. I cannot imagine Victor happy with a wife who is unable to ride with the same passion he does.”
Violet fell silent at these words. There was so much of her kinship with Victor that she had simply taken for granted.
It had formed organically over their entire lives, and she had never questioned it.
Their closeness just was. She hadn’t really considered how enviably comfortable they were with each other.
It would certainly be a sound foundation for a life together.
Goodness, some marriages never reached such solid connection, only enduring years of dull co-existence.
What had she been thinking, handing it all over politely to Pearl Thompson as if she had no claim of her own?
She wouldn’t just be losing the chance to be with Victor.
She would lose the freedom they had to ride like two spirits unleashed.
No more walking on his arm in the garden, talking of constellations, or lying side-by-side on the lawn, watching as clouds drifted by and trying to outdo each other for the most obscure image the floating shapes conjured up.
If he married someone else, he would have to be respectable. The dynamic in the group would shift. Their friendship would become a shadow-version of its former self.
Fear gripped Violet’s heart with fingers that squeezed until she gasped aloud.
“Are you alright?” her brother asked.
“I… I don’t know,” she answered truthfully.
Donovan considered her in silence. Then, as if reaching a conclusion, he nodded his head slowly and smiled with satisfaction. “You understand at last. Good. Now, what are you going to do about it?”
Violet turned to Mrs. Blayne, who sat to her right, beaming at the collection of happy faces that graced her table.
“Do we know if tomorrow promises weather much like today? It would be splendid to go riding together. I feel some rigorous exercise is in order after the feast we have enjoyed this evening.”
“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Blayne, “they haven’t even brought out the Christmas pudding yet!”
“All the more reason,” said Violet. “I am sure your horses would enjoy some freedom from the stables, too.”
“Mr. Thompson,” their hostess called as politely as possible across the table. “You are a man of practical talents. What do you make of the weather? Will it be good for riding tomorrow?”
Bartholomew pondered the question briefly before giving answer.
“There is no suggestion that it will snow tomorrow. Neither should it rain, which is often a more dangerous consideration, since the ground may become icy. As for the cold, riding attire is a good deterrent, and exercise will do the rest. I should say it is an excellent suggestion, Mrs. Blayne.”
“Oh,” their hostess answered, “the suggestion was not mine, but Miss Hughes’. She is more at home in a saddle than I have ever been.”
“That is very true.” Victor turned excitedly to Pearl. “Do you still ride? I do not remember you being as enthusiastic a horsewoman as Violet, but then few people are.” His smile widened, and he offered it to Violet.
And there it was. The quickening of her heart. The giddy sensation of being noticed. The thrill of a compliment. And all of it occurring because the originator was Victor.