Chapter 5
As soon as the sunlight framed the curtains of her new room, Violet was awake and ringing for Williams.
“I need to wear something to shield me from the cold today. We are off for a walk among the ruins after breakfast,” said Violet, hardly able to contain her excitement.
Her lady’s maid, however, wore a less than encouraging expression that sent a warning chill up Violet’s spine.
“I’m afraid none of your garments are dry yet, miss,” said the hapless Williams. “Between the cold and the damp, there is little one can do about it. I have taken one of your lighter gowns and laid it over a chair in front of one of the fires, and it may well be ready by the afternoon, but it will not be suitable for the outdoors, I’m afraid. ”
“You can’t be serious! Am I to spend another day cooped up in my room?”
“I am very sorry, miss. I don’t know what else to do.”
Violet remembered Victor’s offer of his own garments and wished such a brazen idea could be implemented. The thought of being inside his linens would certainly heat her up quickly! But it was beyond propriety, even in such desperate circumstances.
“Could I borrow one of your dresses, perhaps, Williams?” asked Violet, no other solution having sprung to mind.
“Oh, no, Miss Hughes! My attire is too lowly for someone of your station. What if one of the villagers cross your path? They will assume you are a servant.”
“Rather a servant than a prisoner,” grumbled Violet, but she did not insist further. Bother the many rules a young lady had to follow!
It did not take long for the rest of the household to become aware of her situation. Violet had been eating her breakfast alone once more when Williams knocked on the door and, upon being bade to enter, did so with a woven wool garment over one arm and a coat over another.
“Your friends have come to the rescue, miss! This dress is from Miss Thompson. She says you can keep it. It is no longer a good fit for her as it is too loose about the bodice. She apologizes for not thinking of it yesterday, but the ladies made an effort this morning to search among their clothes for something you might use. Miss Isaacs sent her spare coat. It will likely be too short, but it is often fashionable to show one’s hem a little.
By tomorrow, several items from your own wardrobe should be ready.
The maids will make sure of that. Even if it means hanging the gowns in front of the kitchen fire once dinner is done. ”
Violet jumped to her feet and grabbed hold of Pearl’s dress.
It was a deep blue, better suited to its owner’s darker looks, but Violet did not mind.
It was incredibly thoughtful of Pearl to part with it at all.
Violet knew Cecilia had been wrong about her.
If Pearl had wished Violet out of the way, she would hardly have made it possible for her to join them on this walk.
Cecilia’s coat was purple, a shocking clash with its owner’s ginger hair, but then that was exactly the sort of thing Cece would want to do.
She was not afraid of standing out. As for Violet, she cared little whether the items matched.
They would only be worn for one day, and she was among friends. No one would speak an unkind word.
As it turned out, however, the shades of blue and purple were not an outright mismatch.
So little of the dress showed that it would not have mattered anyway.
Her pale gray hat and gloves had fortunately been kept in a separate box that had not been unpacked and were now whisked out by Williams, happy to dress her mistress and send her out into society again.
Violet descended the stairs as if she were arriving at a ball. There was a communal gasp of joy as she entered the drawing room where everyone awaited her. Cecilia rushed forward and drew her closer to the huddle of chairs where the rest of her friends sat smiling up at her.
“How do I look?” Violet twirled for full effect. “Ready for the ruins?”
“Definitely!” cried Victor. “May I offer you my arm as we walk?”
It was a gesture Victor had made countless times over the years. But today his broad smile and outstretched hand sent a shiver of delight and anticipation through her frame. She wrapped her gloved hand around his bicep, thrilling at the latent strength in his muscle.
The six of them, paired up and wrapped in their thick coats, set off down the drive and then turned into the lane that led to the village.
The medieval ruins were just beyond the grounds of Hamptonlea House.
A favorite spot for summer picnics. The wintry gloom, however, lent a romantic aura to the dark, neglected stones.
Her arm snugly pressed against Victor’s, Violet felt the wool of Pearl’s dress start to itch.
She ran a finger along the inside of the neckline, but the touch only seemed to make it worse.
The garment itself did not feel coarse, but perhaps the hems were, where the outer portion of the cloth folded in against her skin.
Maybe that was why her wrists now began to feel ticklish too.
The rest of the dress was held away from her skin by various layers of undergarments, for which Violet was very grateful as the urge to scratch the collar and cuff areas grew.
She tried to resist it for as long as she could, but every now and then she had to give in and rub her nails across the irritation as much as her gloves would allow.
“Are you alright?” asked Victor when she had clawed at herself again as surreptitiously as possible.
She drew her hands back to a more demure position.
“It would appear that, after one day without proper garments, I have grown unaccustomed to them. I find the cloth rough against my skin. I did not think myself such a delicate creature, but there you are.” She tried to grin playfully, but it kept reverting to a grimace as Violet was forced to scratch once again.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,” said Victor, slowing down so that the two of them fell behind the others. He stopped and turned to face her, steeped in the shadow of a battered wall overgrown with grass and ivy.
“Yes?” Violet tilted her chin up to him and tried not to think about how the collar of her dress shifted and tormented her skin. She was certain that welts had begun to form from her persistent scraping at the irritations.
“We’ve been friends a very long time.”
“Almost our entire lives,” agreed Violet, trying to imagine herself free of this dress and its perpetual discomfort.
“We have rarely argued.”
Violet nodded, then gave in to the urge to scratch her neck.
“And our families are the best of friends too.”
The itch crossed over into a sharp burning sensation. This was no longer a subtle annoyance. It was as if her body had grown allergic to the wearing of clothes, as ridiculous as that may sound. She wanted to claw them off. As such, she was barely hearing what Victor was trying to say.
He bent lower, so that his face reached for hers. In a voice that Violet vaguely recognized as unusually sensual over the screaming throughout her entire body, he said, “I think we could be happy with more. Would you like more, Violet?” And he cupped her chin so that his mouth might find hers.
In a wild panic, Violet cried, “I have to go!” She broke free from his otherwise welcome touch, scratching furiously at her skin, feeling the bumps under her fingers where welts had already formed. Grabbing her skirts, she ran, stumbling and gasping, back to the house.
In the growing distance, she heard the others call after her. Only Cecilia’s nimble feet caught up with Violet’s struggling form.
“What is the matter?” she cried, drawing level with Violet as they continued to run.
“Can’t talk... Have to get this dress off... My skin is on fire!”
So little of it was visible, Cecilia was unable to see the rash that Violet could feel spreading across her wrists and collarbone.
As they approached the house, Violet tore off her coat and gloves, the icy air granting much-wanted relief from the sensory torment. Cecilia gasped as the angry red marks became visible beneath her friend’s throat.
“What has caused it?” Cecilia asked, taking the discarded items from Violet so that her hands were free once again to scratch.
“I don’t know,” answered Violet before leaping up the steps and startling the butler as she burst through the front door.
“Send for Williams. And warm water. And chamomile if you’ve got it.
” The instructions hung in the air as she tore up the next flight of steps and flew into her room, pulling the dress over her head and dropping it on the floor before even making sure the door was closed.
Cecilia followed and closed it for her before pouring some water into her handbasin.
She took a sponge and began to dab softly at the raised marks with the soothing cold water.
Violet shivered. The relief was instant but short-lived.
Williams soon appeared with a bowl of warm water and a jar of homemade chamomile ointment.
She worked quickly, washing off any irritation that may have remained on Violet’s skin before gently applying the herbal lotion.
Her efforts were gratefully received, and Violet was able to refrain from scratching at last, although the welts still sat stubbornly upon her wrists and neckline.
“I don’t want to speak out of turn, miss…” Williams said after she had tidied up after herself.
“What is it?” asked Violet. “What do you want to say?” She hoped she didn’t sound too irritable.
“It’s just that Finch, Miss Thompson’s abigail, has a similar rash on her hands.”
Violet and Cecilia exchanged glances.
“Do you have any idea why?” asked Violet.
“No, miss. But she has been keeping to herself a bit since this morning. I didn’t think anything of it until just now, when I saw how your condition is much the same.”
“Send Finch up here at once,” demanded Cecilia. “And don’t mention what you have told us.”
“Yes, miss,” answered Williams.
When the two servants returned, Finch had her hands hidden behind her back. It seemed a simple show of respect, but Cecilia knew better. She immediately took charge “Let us see your hands,” she said.
Finch’s eyes grew large. She looked at Williams, no doubt realizing she had been called for this very reason.
With a reluctance that was quite obvious, she brought her arms forward, the red marks on her hands at once recognizable as identical to Violet’s, though the latter had covered hers in a shawl.
“What did you do to get that rash?” Cecilia wanted to know.
Finch was clearly very frightened, and said in a pleading voice,” Please, miss, I didn’t think it was so wrong.”
“Explain yourself,” insisted Cece.
“They were Miss Thompson’s gloves. But she said they had been ruined, and I should throw them away or put them on the gardener’s brush fire.
I could see nothing wrong with them, so I washed them instead and thought to keep them for myself.
I didn’t see any harm in that. But soon after I had washed them, my hands grew very itchy and then these bumps came up.
It looks like poison ivy. I’ve had that happen to me before, on my arm, in the summer.
Miss Thompson must have realized she had touched the sap, which is still present in the stems even when the leaves have died back in the cold, and that’s why she wanted to throw the gloves out.
If I had known, I could have told her we could boil the gloves instead and they’d be fine.
I could still do that. But I wasn’t stealing. Honest, I wasn’t!”
“Of course not,” said Cece, and Finch sagged with relief. “But you will not mention this conversation to anyone. If Miss Thompson asks, you will say that you threw the gloves away and don’t know what has caused the hives on your hand. Understood?”
“Yes, miss,” said Finch, her demeanor greatly improved now that she was certain she had escaped any repercussions.
“Thank you. That will be all.”
Finch turned and left briskly. Williams, who had stood in obliging silence, was the first to speak.
“Miss Thompson had poison ivy on her gloves, miss, and knew it. She must have handled your dress and yet not warned you. I call that a right callous thing to do, if you don’t mind me saying, Miss Hughes.”
“Indeed,” said Violet thoughtfully. “That might not even be the full story. My guess is that Miss Thompson sought out the plant and administered it to this dress on purpose. That is why she did not tell her lady’s maid to boil the gloves.
She did not want to admit that she had come into contact with the plant that would cause this.
” Violet opened her shawl and looked down at her angry skin.
“I’m afraid you were right, Cece. She must have been behind the whole business with the fish as well.
And when that didn’t reap the desired results, she tried again.
Perhaps she thought I would be so uncomfortable and ashamed of my appearance with hives that I would confine myself to my room once more while she tried to dig her claws deeper into Victor.
Well,” she said, her voice growing stronger as she stood. “We shall see about that!”
“Hurrah!” cried Cece. “That’s the spirt! We shall beat her at her own game. It’s time we exposed Miss Pearl Thompson as the menace she is.”
“Can I help, miss?” asked Williams. “I don’t like that someone could do this to my mistress, right under my nose.”
“Do you know,” said Cece, a Machiavellian smile seeping into her features, “I believe you are the very person for the job.”