22. Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
“O h heavens, there is so much blood!” Alice exclaimed. “I am so, so sorry. I do not know what overcame me.”
She stepped back as crimson droplets fell from Victor’s nose, beading on the emerald grass. Her stomach lurched at the sight—still not believing she had truly struck a decorated officer of His Majesty’s army.
“I shall be fine,” Victor said, his voice nasally and muffled. He prodded his nose gingerly, wincing at the touch.
“Is it broken?” she asked, hopping up and down on the balls of her feet anxiously.
Alice took a hesitant step forward, her hands hovering uncertainly in the space between them. She did not wish to touch him again, lest she cause another disaster, yet she felt wholly responsible for his condition.
“I do not believe so.” He pulled his hand away briefly, fresh blood immediately flowing down his chin. “Looks worse than it is.”
Alice barely heard his reassurance, her mind whirling with what she had done. She, who had struck no one in her life. The very thought made her feel lightheaded.
“We must call for a physician immediately,” she said, pacing back and forth. “We can return to Fairfax Hall and?—”
The words died as she looked up at the sky through the oak’s branches. The afternoon light had grown dim, the sun lower on the horizon than she had expected. How long had they been out in the wood? Time seemed to move differently in Victor’s presence—hours passing quickly. It was strange to note, as all other moments of her waking hours seemed to stretch—agonizing and endless.
“I did not even realize the time,” she said. “It shall be night before we can return.”
Victor tilted his head back, still attempting to stem the flow of blood. The sight of him—coat discarded, cravat missing, shirt spattered with crimson—made her bite her lip. If they returned to Fairfax Hall in such a state, the scandal would eclipse even her previous social missteps.
“Violet Cottage is on the way,” Victor said through his plugged nose. “We might stop there so I can make myself presentable, and they shall be none the wiser during supper.”
“My reputation already hangs by a thread merely being here with you,” she hissed. “Do you think it would improve if I were to be discovered alone with you at Violet Cottage?”
He threw up his hands in exasperation, causing fresh blood to flow. A string of sputters escaped him as he pressed his palm back to his face, fingers now sticky with red.
Alice let out an exasperated sigh and retrieved her thrown reticule, withdrawing a fresh handkerchief.
“Here,” she said, offering it to him. The delicate embroidered edges—which she had stitched herself—were about to be ruined.
His fingers brushed hers as he accepted it, sending goose pimples across her flesh. Victor pulled away and pressed the handkerchief to his nose.
“We must return to Fairfax Hall immediately,” Alice continued, wringing her hands as if that would rid her of the electric current his touch had given her. “Every moment we tarry makes this situation worse. What if someone has noticed our absence? What if they send out a search party?”
“Violet Cottage lies but a short distance from here. We need not stop for long.”
“Absolutely not.” Alice shook her head violently. “I cannot be seen anywhere near that cottage with you. Think of my reputation!”
Victor dabbed at his nose with the handkerchief. “And what of your reputation when we arrive at dinner looking as though we’ve been in a common brawl?”
“That is hardly?—”
“From my vantage,” his voice took on an edge of finality, “you have three choices: we can either walk through the doors of Fairfax Hall looking as we do now, you can traverse these woods alone, or you can wait at the entryway of Violet Cottage while I make myself presentable.”
Alice studied the darkening sky. Though she had courted death mere days ago, something within her had shifted. The thought of wandering these woods alone held no appeal. She was not ready to surrender to darkness, not when she had only just felt its grip loosening.
“I cannot show up with you in such a state,” she said, “and I cannot walk these woods at night, therefore ...”
“Excellent.” The word emerged slightly garbled as he gestured to his discarded coat and cravat. “Might you assist me then?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Alice gathered his things and approached. Her fingers trembled slightly as she helped him into his coat, doing her best to smooth the wrinkles from the fabric. When she tucked his cravat into his pocket, she realized how comfortable she had become in his presence. Their earlier altercation had changed something between them, though she could not quite say what.
“You should not have goaded me into violence,” she said, straightening his lapels with perhaps more force than necessary.
“On the contrary, I think it did you well.” Despite his bloodied state, his eyes held a hint of mischief. “Though perhaps next time we might practice with less damaging results.”
“Next time?” Alice stepped back, scandalized. “Sir, there shall not be a next time.”
“If you say so,” he said skeptically. Victor offered his arm. “Shall we?”
The forest grew darker as they walked; the path becoming treacherous in the failing light. Victor kept her close as they navigated fallen branches and exposed roots, his steady presence a comfort in the growing darkness. Though he occasionally muttered oaths when branches caught at his clothing, she found his coarse language oddly reassuring.
“Despite the unfortunate state of my nose, I would say the afternoon went rather well,” Victor said, touching the bridge where new bruising formed.
“ Well? His Grace will take one look at your face and know something is terribly amiss.”
“I shall simply tell him I got into a scrape and you valiantly came to my rescue. I can convince him all is perfectly well between us.”
Alice studied his profile in the dim light.
“Is it? Well, between us, I mean. How do you not despise me after all this?”
“My dear Lady Rose, I know despicable people, and you are not one of them.”
“You seemed quite certain I was despicable when you accused me of fortune hunting.”
Victor shrugged with nonchalance.
“I may have changed my mind on that score. I would not have spoken to His Grace on your behalf if that was still my belief.”
The knowledge that he had defended her to Elias sent an unexpected warmth through her chest. They walked in silence for several moments before Victor spoke again.
“What is it you admire about His Grace?”
Alice’s breath caught at the directness of the question and she had to take a few moments to think it over.
“He is unfailingly kind,” she said carefully. “And I daresay handsome—but he always conducts himself as a true gentleman should. When he enters a room, all the energy seems to flow toward him, as though he carries sunlight with him wherever he goes.”
Victor looked off into the shadows of the woods, his expression difficult to discern in the growing darkness.
“It is true. He is all those things.”
“What do you like the most about him?” asked Alice. “He is your dearest friend, after all.”
“... I think his greatest skill is his ability to mend broken things.”
“Broken things?”
“People, mostly.” His voice had grown distant, as though he spoke from somewhere far away. Then suddenly he turned to her, his gaze sharp even in the dim light. “He is one of the few men I know who has been lucky enough to be untouched by the world and all its cruelties. And while some might call him na?ve for it, I think that is something to treasure.”
Alice’s heart constricted painfully in her chest. Why would such a man—one with such purity of heart—give her shriveled, damaged soul a moment’s consideration? She was utterly unworthy of such goodness, such light.
She managed a small nod, which seemed to satisfy Victor. He returned his attention to guiding them through the darkening woods, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
When they emerged from the woods, stars appeared in the sky. Fairfax Hall glowed in the distance across the lake, its windows reflecting in the water like a vanity mirror. However, their destination lay closer—Violet Cottage, a two-story residence behind carefully trimmed hedges. The building, despite its name, bore no trace of violet coloring. Instead, ivy crept across its stone walls.
Victor led her through an iron gate that creaked loudly, the sound making Alice jump.
“Calm,” he said, as if trying to steady a horse. “This gate always protests. One of many things that need attending to. This house hasn’t been lived in for quite some time.”
They followed a stone path to the entrance, light spilling from within—someone had lit fires and candles to prepare for Victor’s return. Alice’s heart fluttered wildly as she crossed the threshold. This was entirely improper—to be alone in a gentleman’s private residence, without chaperone or pretense. The mere thought sent thrills of mingled fear and excitement racing through her veins. No respectable lady would dare enter such a situation, yet here she was, following Victor deeper into his domain.
The interior was well-appointed yet austere, clearly a residence meant for the distinguished, though currently it seemed to house only Victor. The intimacy of being in his personal space made her breath catch.
“You should have seen it when I first arrived,” he said, gesturing at the drawing room. “Dust covers everywhere. Took me half a day just to make it habitable while the staff were busy in Fairfax Hall.”
“What is this place?” Alice asked, her voice echoing in the quiet space.
“It was meant to be the dower house. But she does not use it at present, and so it rots.” His voice trailed off as he exhaled heavily, looking worse than ever with the dried blood cracking across his face.
“You look positively frightful,” Alice said, surprising herself with her boldness.
Victor clicked his tongue, wagging a finger between them.
“Not very kind of you, Lady Rose,” he said, though his eyes showed amusement, then he nodded to the room before them, leaning against the doorframe as he entered the drawing room.
Alice inspected the space. The furniture was of good quality though somewhat dated, and signs of Victor’s residence were scattered about—a book left open on a side table, a half-empty glass of wine, a black coat draped carelessly over a chair.
But it was a small portrait that drew her attention—she recognized it as nearly identical to the one she’d seen in the dowager’s chambers. The subject was a striking woman with dark, wavy hair and wire-rimmed spectacles holding a small green book. Despite the unusual choice to be painted wearing spectacles, she appeared entirely confident in her unconventional decision.
Alice studied the woman’s face, noting the slight curl at the corner of her mouth, as if she privately found something amusing. The artist had captured an intelligence in her expression that made Alice wonder about the woman’s identity.
“I saw a similar image at Fairfax Hall,” she said as Victor watched her from the doorframe. “Who is?—”
She broke off at his expression. His entire body had gone rigid, his face carefully controlled in a way that frightened her more than any display of anger. Without a word, he crossed to the table and turned the portrait face-down with deliberate care.
“I will not be very long,” he said flatly, then left the room.
As Victor disappeared deeper into the house, Alice stared after him, certain she had stumbled upon something prickly. Her eyes fell to the small green book lying beside the overturned portrait—the same volume the woman held in the painting. The coincidence seemed too obvious to ignore.
She glanced toward the door, listening for Victor’s return. When she heard only silence, she carefully lifted the worn tome. The binding was well-loved; the corners softened from frequent handling. She opened it with utmost care, not wishing to damage something so clearly precious to its owner.
The poetry inside was lovely but melancholy, speaking of love and loss in equal measure. Small notes marked many passages in the margins, as though someone had repeatedly revisited them, discovering new meaning each time. Some pages showed signs of water damage, though whether from rain or tears, Alice could not say.
Her heart beat faster as she turned to the front of the book. An inscription made her breath catch:
To my beloved Violet,
Whose heart contains more poetry than all these pages combined.
Forever yours, Victor
The words were written with obvious care and tender-heartedness. But it was the facing page that made her hands tremble. There, written in elegant feminine script, was a name.
This book belongs to: Violet Lacey