Chapter 7 #3
“That’s very sad. I find it a relief,” she said, wearing a private smile.
“Like a…confirmation, you see, proof that the world is as I see it. I’m so often stuck in my head, held captive in it; sometimes painting is the only thing that can pull me out of it.
” She shook her head and closed her eyes tightly.
“My aunts tell me I am a strange person, and that the men must never find out or I will die a spinster. But Miss Bilbury supports herself with her paintings and teaching, and I could do the same. Lord, Mrs. Richmond would scream if she knew that I had just admitted all of that in front of you. Violet Arden, you strange, silly girl,” she said, pitching her voice up, mimicking Mrs. Richmond. “Close your mouth this instant!”
“But there’s little harm,” he added for her. “Given our circumstances. Our families.”
“Yes, exactly. Perhaps there is comfort in that.”
There was comfort in his arms, too, though Violet at least knew better than to say that one aloud.
“We may speak freely, then, as other men and women cannot,” he said, breathing out as if relieved, the rush of air ruffling the front of her nightgown.
“Yes. Besides the matter of our families, I have sworn off men entirely,” Violet declared.
For some reason, that made him smirk.
“Oh? Any reason in particular?”
“You can imagine the inspiration well enough,” she said quietly, coolly. “You were there for it. I will never be humiliated like that again.”
“The woman who made a spectacle of herself in your aunt’s home? I barely heard her. I was studying the art, and my attention remained fixed there.”
It was her turn to smirk. “Studying the bad art.”
“Monsieur Moncelle is not completely without talent.”
Violet sat up straighter in his grasp, twisting.
“A jest, a jest,” he assured her, chuckling, anticipating her while sneaking a look at her from the corner of his eye. “Moncelle’s art is even more insipid than yours.”
“Have you ever doled out a compliment without a knife hidden behind your back?” she asked, laughing despite herself. She inhaled deeply through her nose. “Insipid. Oh, but I like when you call him that. Were it not for our families, perhaps we could be friends after all.”
He cleared his throat.
“And there I go again, saying far too much. Close your mouth this instant.”
Mr. Kerr’s head swiveled toward her, bringing them almost nose to nose.
His breath skittered across her chin, alluring as a whispered secret.
What was coming over her? She wouldn’t allow herself to forget the terrible things he had said about her paintings.
She wouldn’t. “For whatever my opinion is worth—and I’m sure, being a Kerr, that is little indeed—I often feel the same.
Imprisoned by my thoughts, never mastering them for long before the churning begins again. ”
Violet nodded fervently. “The churning, that’s how I would describe it, too. I’ve always had it, but it became so much worse when Father died.”
Mr. Kerr flinched and looked elsewhere, falling into a despair she recognized.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no,” he said, gruff. “It is my own fault; I insisted we could speak freely.”
A door was shutting. Violet didn’t fight it, instead marking the distance he had carried her. The silence stretched on, though she wouldn’t call it unpleasant. She expected to fall back into the mire of her thoughts but instead found herself remarkably at ease.
After a while, he said, “We are to be commended, Miss Arden.”
“Oh? For what, I wonder?”
“For completing a pleasant exchange, and with not a single serious offense given. Impressive, mm?”
“You’re teasing, Mr. Kerr.” Violet swished her lips to the side. “Your celebration is premature—we have not yet reached the house, and I will not forget you complained of my so-called shrieking when it was only spirited debate.”
“Mm, too true. I hope you will not debate me when I say that it is immensely relieving to know the fire did not claim any lives. From here, I can see that the damage is minimal.”
“Yes,” said Violet as they crested the second gentle hill, passing out of the mist completely.
“We can abide no more excitement at the house. Emilia’s melancholy was more than enough of a strain.
” She felt an icy curtain descend between them at once.
It was a betrayal, she thought, to laugh with him when Freddie had treated Emilia cruelly.
“She has taken it badly. He might have disappointed her gently, but his harshness has left a wound.”
“Would it be better to let her cling to hope? Confusion is a greater unkindness.”
“And how is your brother?”
Mr. Kerr wrinkled his nose and tilted his head to one side, a nervous gesture. “He has not been at Sampson Park for many days now.”
“Curious,” Violet murmured.
“Suspicious, you mean.”
“Your words, not mine.”
Mr. Kerr snorted and widened the distance between them. “And so, you were right. My celebration was premature. I will not apologize for what transpired between my brother and Miss Graddock; he has no future with her. The matter is closed.”
Violet looked away, disgusted. Even if she agreed that Emilia could do better, it was ugly the way he said it. “You should put me down.”
“Tolerate this but a moment longer, Miss Arden. We are nearly there.”
At the top of the hill, they were now in perfect view of the house and those still mingling outside below the portico.
Here, Mr. Kerr hesitated. Violet waved toward Pressmore as Cousin Lane and Emilia broke away from the others, hurrying to where Mr. Kerr still held her in his arms. “I must ask again that you put me down, Mr. Kerr. It was good of you to bring me, but there is no need for you to go any farther.”
Before another word could be exchanged between them, Lane and Emilia arrived, both of them breathless. Lane, the left sleeve of his shirt flapping from lack of an arm, looked them up and down, his eyes finally falling on the strange way Violet was holding up her foot.
“I twisted my ankle badly by the water,” she said, hurrying to assuage their fears.
“Mr. Kerr was…out for a morning walk and was good enough to carry me here. The person I was chasing escaped on horseback, but I believe they were riding for the village. If we send someone now, we might be able to catch them.”
Neither of them commented on his curiously damp state.
“I’ll go at once.” Lane bowed curtly to Mr. Kerr. “Can you make it to the house, cousin, or shall I call for Bloom?”
“I’ll manage,” said Violet.
“We can reconvene in the front hall, Violet, and you can tell me all about our quarry.”
Mr. Kerr lowered Violet to the ground, yet there was no way to do so without also sliding her somewhat down the sticking front of his shirt and breeches. It would have been bad enough alone, but with Emilia standing there gawking, it was enough to make her feverish with embarrassment.
Backing away slowly, his gaze searching along the grass at her feet, Mr. Kerr struggled through his goodbye. “I would ask that you extend my good wishes and condolences to Mrs. Richmond, but given…well…”
“Yes,” Violet whispered. “Yes, given it all…”
“Precisely.” Mr. Kerr made it three strides away from her before spinning back around.
He looked between the women, though Emilia was stupefied, by either his implausible presence, his wetness, or both.
Mr. Kerr lowered his voice, speaking exclusively to Violet.
“Freddie didn’t do this. I know…my brother is many things—unserious, selfish, lacking in both discipline and tact—but he is not the sort of man to retaliate in this manner.
For all his faults, he did love Miss Graddock and would not put her life at risk. ”
Violet felt the cool air settle around her.
She wanted to believe him, but Clafton had burned and now this, and it was hard to ignore the miasma of misfortune swirling around the Kerrs.
His eyes were no longer burning along her cheek and jaw but imploring, gently seeking.
A dozen versions of his sketched face hid behind scraps she had repurposed for plein air studies and paintings of fruit.
She hadn’t managed to capture him to her satisfaction, and now, seeing this new softness in his eyes, she wondered if she would ever be able to render such contradictions in paint.
“I have heard you,” she said, plain. “Good morning, Mr. Kerr.”
He went away, back down the hill toward the water, and Violet accepted Emilia’s offered hand to go back into the house.
They waited in the front hall for Lane only briefly, for he was soon dressed and with them, a look of hard determination etched across his normally boyish face.
Lane was copper-haired and prone to wide grins, and Violet had a difficult time seeing her cousin as anything but an immovably jolly fellow.
Now, however, with Pressmore set aflame, he brooded and paced.
Violet offered a description of the horse and rider, Lane called for his own conveyance to Cray Arches, and the women idled in the front hall wearing twin expressions of exhausted confusion. It was still quite early. Violet’s ankle seethed and throbbed with pain.
“I want to go home,” she said, at last. “I want to be with my sisters.”
Arrangements were made for a carriage to take her to Beadle Cottage.
Miss Bilbury made it clear that such an absence from Pressmore would not keep her from Violet and promised, or maybe threatened, to visit frequently to watch her progress.
And so, Violet’s easel and paints were packed along with her garments, and a tearful Emilia saw her off.
They would not be parted long, but Emilia still took it to heart.
Almost as soon as the carriage stopped at the end of the cottage path, Winny was there to greet her, and at once, Violet felt better about her life.
In Winny’s warm glow, it was nearly impossible to stay glum; even the burden of her ankle lightened.
And how much more welcome was Violet when she brought with her a veritable feast of news to be shared with Winny, Maggie, and their mother!
Beadle Cottage was nothing extraordinary, small and compact, but was charmingly drowning in honeysuckles.
A winsome little black fence and gate did not guard but rather outlined the property, sitting before the sloped, cobbled path that wandered to the green front door.
Moss grew between every crack. The shutters were also painted green, and Mrs. Arden had taken great pains to bolster the garden with all the flowers that made her daughters sigh and smile.
Violet liked to call it a “homey home,” or, on the days it rained and the tiled roof sprung a leak, a “homely home.” It was not situated very well among the hills that rose around it, and there were other quirks—a crooked chimney, an awkward layout, the aforementioned naughty roof—that Violet considered endearing but that those with grand tastes would find irritating and shabby.
It had two sitting rooms, one office, and three bedrooms, which was not enough for them all, but do was made because it must be.
“The house is terribly dirty,” Winny warned her, watching as the carriage driver helped Violet down and across the path, then to the sitting room on the left side of the house. “Why did nobody send word you were coming?”
“It was all extremely sudden,” Violet told her, and then additionally Maggie and Mamma as they appeared, roused by the noise.
“There was a fire at Pressmore this morning,” she added to a chorus of gasps.
She told the whole long story but carefully excised the part where Mr. Kerr appeared like a soggy Adonis cloaked in mist on the water’s edge.
That, she decided silently, was just for her.
Her older sister, Maggie, stood apart, absorbing everything from near the hearth, watching her with strangely bright eyes.
Maggie, who had been unceremoniously bludgeoned by Love, and who was the wisest and most worldly of the sisters, seemed to have recognized something in Violet, and the thought of it made her quake.