Chapter 1 #2
Violet snatched the fan out of Maggie’s hands and attempted to cool herself.
While Winny was swept away by the grapes, Maggie loomed over Violet’s left shoulder.
Aunt Eliza entered the salon with a retinue that included her short, maudlin husband, Mr. Burton, who had always reminded Violet of a perfectly round robin.
His garish red cravat made the similarity all the more striking.
Their aunt, predominately neck and slender as a swan, luminous in her jewels, turned to address the smattering of well-dressed friends that she had gathered.
“Oh, yes,” she was saying to them, in answer to some unheard question.
“Miss Violet is quite eligible. She is the great beauty of the family, and this brief detour into daubery will be forgotten once the right proposal comes along. This is merely an announcing of her many accomplishments!”
“Ignore her,” said Maggie, bristling. “I think it’s marvelous that we have all found our art—Winny has her stitching, of course, and I have my books, and you are becoming a more accomplished painter every day.”
Violet barely heard her. The blood had risen to her ears and begun to pound, first distantly and now with the ferocity of a regiment passing through the parlor.
It felt like her toes were vibrating in her shoes.
She was aware of the guests moving around her, though all their faces had blurred away to nothingness.
“Mm,” she murmured, feeling how hoarse she was becoming. A single bead of sweat traced the line from the damp black curls at her nape to the shallow hollow at the base of her spine. She shivered. “Yes, the Arden girls never could make it easy on themselves…”
This was unbearable. She had to confess.
She had to tell someone, for Violet had never excelled at keeping her mouth shut and was even clumsier about keeping secrets.
Maggie had been so distracted by writing her follow-up to The Killbride and so concerned about Ann Richmond’s health that Violet’s obsession with Renaud had escaped even her notice.
And Winny…Well. Winny never noticed much of anything, and they loved her for it.
“What are you talking about?” Maggie asked, coming around to face Violet. She was the littlest bit taller and used that to her advantage, staring down into Violet’s periwinkle-blue eyes with sudden intensity, an edge known only to elder siblings. “Violet, you’re turning green.”
“But where is Monsieur Moncelle? You know I detest to wait upon a Frenchman.” Aunt Eliza was sighing, casting her queenly gaze into every corner of the place.
“Come to think of it, haven’t seen the man all evening,” Mr. Burton added with a winded huff.
“I—We—Oh, Maggie, I’ve been so foolish,” said Violet. It was all coming out in a rush. Every guest surged closer, as if they meant to pile on top of her.
“Will someone search throughout the house, please?” Aunt Eliza was trying to summon a footman for just this purpose.
“These artists, so prone to wandering, utterly imprisoned by their whims. I should have chained him to the punch table!” Her hot beam of a gaze fell on Violet, unblinking, as if daring the young lady to move a muscle. Stay right where you are.
But Violet couldn’t have fled, though she desperately wanted to.
“More foolish than usual, I mean,” Violet stumbled on, avoiding Maggie’s searching eyes.
“I meant to tell you and Winny before this, and Renaud was going to be here with me. I was going to tell you everything, and if he was telling the truth, then he was going to d-declare…declare that he’s seeking my hand—”
The footman had just started through the arch that led to the lofty front hall when a body collided with him, coming in haste from the opposite direction.
The footman’s wig flew off as he tumbled into one side of the arch, and a ripple of noise spread across the party, a rising tide of gasps and shrieks, as a young woman forced her way in.
“No! Oh! Corbyn, who is this person?” Mr. Burton was already on his way toward the stranger.
Somehow, Violet knew what this was before it even began. The widening pit in her stomach whispered with terrible prophecy. Two footmen stormed in from the front hall and tried to grab the young woman, but she wrenched her arms free.
“I will be heard! I will not be silenced! Where is he? Renaud! Renaud?” Her voice cracked.
Even afraid, Violet felt a pang of sympathy; she recognized herself in this person, with her jittery eyes, her pallor, the tight, sideways purse of her lips, as if they were tired of holding back secrets.
“But he should be here! I see, I see, it matters not!” She threw off the footmen again, strengthened by a desperation Violet also understood.
Maggie clutched her; Violet had begun to sway.
“You! It is you that fetched him away, stole his heart. You that made him false to a loving fiancée of three agonizing years!” Now the woman hurried toward them, toward Violet.
She pointed an accusing finger; there were marks on her ungloved hands, and the hem of her dark green frock was torn.
Even shabby as she was, there was no denying her good looks—an upturned, elfin nose, full lips, a pointed chin, and thick waves of black hair, all of it so like Violet’s own appearance.
“Look at my face!” she screamed, finally caught and held by the footmen, who gathered her close and tried to force her toward the archway.
“Do not forget it! I hope it haunts you, you…you…thief of hearts! You will never have him, Miss Arden! Whatever his promises, whatever his lies, you will not have him. Let the whole world know your secret: that you are but liars in love! Renaud Moncelle belongs to me!” She tossed and bucked against the footmen.
“Unhand me! That hurts, stop! Stop it this instant!”
But she was carried away, kicking and screaming, her final, broken shriek striking Violet like a well-aimed shot. The whispers thickened like portending clouds, her own name sizzling on a dozen tongues, flickers of lightning, Aunt Eliza’s shocked gasp the sizzle before the total unleashing.
Now everyone knew her secret.
Not like this, she thought. Not like this.
Violet managed to stay upright, shielded by the bodies of her sisters as she retreated to the one place that felt safe—her favorite painting, the one of fruits that Winny had been so enamored with.
Everything else in the vicinity turned—the wine in her own stomach churned violently, and the light from the chandeliers hanging overhead crackled, then dimmed.
“Vicious speculation! Who could take the word of a complete stranger? Well! Well! To think! That man will never be welcome in this house again!” She could hear Aunt Eliza’s voice above the crowd.
Already, she was trying to spin the evening into something less embarrassing.
If Aunt Eliza could not save face, she would invent a new one out of whole cloth.
Maggie fanned her. “Can you hear us? Violet? Violet? Oh, Winny, get her some punch, she’s faint!”
Violet perceived them just fine. Two men stood near them, insensible of or uninterested in the drama that had played out.
Violet could see only the backs of their heads; the man closest to her, just behind Maggie, was tall and imposing, adjusting a pair of spectacles and inspecting her painting at various distances with the air of a person who lived to espouse an opinion.
“This is practically that,” he muttered with utter disdain. “Derivative and silly,” he added in a cold undertone. “And for no one.”
Then, he and his companion were gone, winding through the whispering and gossiping as if impervious, upright ships slicing through a gathering storm.
Violet stared at the man, watching him go with laughter spilling out of her.
And so what if her work was just like Renaud’s?
He had taught her to love art. He had taught her to love…
And wasn’t that love? To be perfectly entangled. Indistinguishable.
“I loved him,” Violet said, hiccupping. Maggie fanned her again and then held her.
“I know, sweetling.”
“I should have told you…”
“You tried, didn’t you? We should take you away from here, Violet.”
“Yes, everyone is staring,” Violet whispered.
This was to be her debut. Her triumph. She and Renaud would show London their beautiful paintings and their love.
Maggie lifted her up, and Winny appeared, and together Violet’s sisters helped her toward the library and the stairs in the hall beyond, carrying her away from the erupting scandal.
“If only I could speak to him; there must be some reason, some…something.”
Maggie and Winny brought her to the stairs, and Violet climbed them on all fours, realizing she couldn’t feel her hands or feet.
“I don’t think that will be possible,” Maggie told her.
“No,” said Violet, heartbroken, insulted, and ill. “No, I suspect I will never speak to Renaud Moncelle again.”