Chapter 7
The battle lines had been drawn at dinner.
Violet and Pearl flanked Victor on either side.
Opposite Pearl sat Donovan, who had been briefed as to the role he should play.
He had been more than happy to assist in bringing Pearl’s schemes to light.
And, being the romantic he was, he was equally keen to facilitate a smooth conclusion to the brief, faltering courtship between Victor and Violet.
Beside him sat Cecilia, with Bartholomew to her left. Only Victor and Bart and their hosts had been left out of the discussion. Cece had not trusted them to believe Pearl capable of such immense subterfuge. The less they knew, the more smoothly the plan would proceed
Violet, having applied the soothing chamomile ointment again before coming downstairs, now struggled far less with the effects of poison ivy, but her emotions still played havoc with her peace of mind.
She did not like secrets. Or drama. She felt certain that Victor must sense her internal squirming at what lay ahead.
Then again, he might well assume her awkward silence was the result of his doubly-botched proposal.
Doubts crept into her already-disturbed thoughts. What if Victor defended Pearl when the truth came out? Might he be disappointed in Violet instead, because she had planned a ruse and created a scene at dinner? Such thoughts gnawed at her innards and deprived her of any appetite.
“You are pecking at your food like a little bird tonight, Violet,” commented Victor. “Are the dishes not to your liking?”
“I am not that hungry,” she replied, “but I still want to save a little room for dessert.”
She tried not to look at anyone while she said that, afraid that she might give something away in her expression. Don’t think of cake. Don’t think of cake.
“That is just as well,” Mrs. Blayne chimed in, “since Mrs. Cartwright has made your favorite apple pie.” No mention was made of cake at all.
“I am looking forward to it,” answered Violet, and waited.
Sure enough, Pearl turned to their hostess, her composure marginally askew. “Are we just having pie?” she asked. Realizing her wording must have sounded rather audacious, she quickly corrected herself. “I mean, Mrs. Cartwright usually spoils us with a variety of confections.”
“Oh, yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Blayne, “you are quite right. I believe the menu allows for plum pudding and orange-syrup cake. Quite a fruity theme, but ‘tis the season for it, after all.”
Pearl relaxed at these words, her warm smile returning and her attention to Victor resuming.
Violet let her be. There was no need to assert her own claim over him.
Besides, it really wasn’t formally concluded, was it?
Both attempts had been interrupted. She fumed inwardly.
Bother the itchy dress and bother charades!
Not to mention the show she still had to put on in front of all her friends.
Cecilia would have been more comfortable in that sort of role, but it was Violet who had to create the performance of the night.
She fidgeted in her chair as one course after the other was removed from the table.
Mr. Blayne had dozed off once again, though his wife had wisely decided to leave him to it this time.
He snored contentedly, unbothered by the chatter around him.
Even the arrival of the desserts did not disturb him.
Violet requested a small slice of each, making much of each mouthful of apple pie to please her hostess, while she felt Pearl’s eyes upon her, willing her to move on to the cake.
Cece would likely have toyed with Pearl, slowly consuming the plum pudding second, savoring each bite and delaying the next one with a long, unnecessary conversation.
But Violet’s nerves were making her so uncomfortable, she feared her mouth would be too dry to swallow anything when the time came.
So, she sank her fork into the shiny coating of orange syrup, prying away a section of cake and pretending not to notice the chopped pieces of almond or the way Pearl had frozen to watch the fork enter Violet’s mouth.
She chewed slowly, for it was, in fact, a very good cake.
“Surprisingly nutty,” she said to Victor, and gave what she hoped was an unsuspecting smile.
Violet was sorry indeed that she would not be able to finish the delicious treat.
Instead, halfway through the enticing slice, she sat back and coughed politely.
Then she coughed again, rather more forcefully, bringing her hand to her throat.
She shook her head, as if shaking a worrying thought from her mind.
“Has Mrs. Cartwright put almonds in this cake?” she asked, trying to appear alarmed.
“I don’t believe the recipe calls for them,” replied Mrs. Blayne.
“Mrs. Cartwright wouldn’t do that,” said Donovan, right on cue. “She knows you are allergic to them.”
“Violet isn’t allergic to almonds,” countered Victor. “Are you?” he asked, turning to her with a frown.
Violet’s response was to add her other hand to her throat and widen her eyes.
“She only developed the allergy recently,” said Donovan, casting a counterfeit concerned eye upon his sister. “But we warned Mrs. Cartwright about the severity of it. She wouldn’t have been so careless. Not when it puts my sister’s life at risk.”
“What do you mean?” asked Pearl, looking genuinely worried. “She’ll probably just come out in hives, won’t she?”
“No” said Donovan, rising from his chair and rushing around the table to his sister’s side as she pretended to gasp for air. “Her throat swells. If she has had more than even the smallest amount, she might stop breathing altogether.”
Violet promptly rolled her eyes back and fainted.
Pearl screamed and jumped to her feet. “This is all wrong! She’s not supposed to die!”
Victor grabbed Violet by the shoulders and shook her. “Violet, wake up! Breathe, Violet breathe!”
Tears were now streaming down Pearl’s cheeks. “Why would Williams lie to me? I never wanted this to happen!”
Violet opened one eye at Victor, raised a finger silently to her lips, and promptly resumed her fainting spell. It was just long enough to see his abject expression of confused relief and chide herself for causing him even a moment’s pain.
“What are you talking about, Pearl?” Donovan asked from behind Violet’s chair, appearing rather callous in his apparent disregard for his sister’s supposedly unconscious form.
But he was clearly enjoying his role as co-conspiracist and trying his best to have Pearl confess.
“What does her lady’s maid have to do with this? ”
“Never mind that,” cried Mrs. Blayne, waving her hands at him. “We must help the poor child. Victor, try and breathe some life into her!”
Victor must have hesitated because Violet could hear Bartholomew throw back his chair and rush forward, saying, “Good grief, man, what is wrong with you? Help her!” Before Victor had time to react, Bartholomew had planted his lips on Violet’s and forced a lungful of his air into Violet’s throat.
She spluttered involuntarily and lurched back into a sitting position to the relief of all present who had not been privy to the plot.
All except Mr. Blayne. His peaceful snores punctuated the silence that reigned briefly at the table before chaos erupted.
“What was that all about?” demanded Victor.
“Were you ill or not?” But his inquiry was cut short by Pearl rushing from her seat, throwing herself at Violet’s feet, and weeping into her lap.
“I am so sorry!” She sobbed. “I didn’t know the almonds could kill you.
You must believe me!” Her eyes were blurred with tears as she looked up woefully into her would-be victim’s face.
“Is somebody going to tell me what is going on?” said Victor, the pitch in his voice rising dangerously.
“I think Pearl has something she would like to share with us,” announced Cecilia, her voice hard and sharp enough to chop wood.
From where she was kneeling, Pearl stared up at the guests with horror. No doubt she dreaded the idea of declaring her schemes in front of everyone, especially Victor. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, wiping the streaks of tears from her cheeks with both hands.
“Believe me,” said Cecilia, “it would be far better coming from you. You would have a chance to explain yourself. If you do not tell the truth at once, I will do it. And I shall not be merciful.”
“I…” Pearl looked from Victor to his mother to her brother, the only people in the room whose opinions of her would matter.
All three stared at her, confused, expecting clarity.
She slid to the floor. There was no escape.
She must know Victor would never forgive her.
She had lost all hope of winning his love.
Mrs. Blayne would be unlikely to receive her as a guest again. Pearl had betrayed her trust.
Only her brother remained.
Pearl touched her fingertips to the floor and hauled herself upright.
“Bart, please accompany me to my room. I will explain everything while Finch and I pack.” Pearl looked miserably at Violet.
“I really am sorry. You were kind to me and didn’t deserve any of this.
I just needed an opportunity to make my mark on his attention.
But I realize now I never stood a chance. ”
Pearl flexed her hands, exhaled a sigh, lifted her chin, and exited the room with as much dignity as she could salvage in the chaos she had created.
Poor Bartholomew watched her departing figure, gazed around the table at the multitude of mixed expressions, and ran his fingers through his hair.
“I don’t know what to make of any of this,” he said.
“I’d better go and hear what she has to say.
But if she is determined to leave, I shall escort her home.
Whatever she has done, she is still my sister.
” He exited the room in a rather less aloof manner than his sister had mustered, and Violet pitied him for the shame he would have to bear because of Pearl.
In the heavy silence that followed, Mr. Blayne’s soft snoring continued, a strange rumble of contentment amidst a shattering end to the dinner.