Chapter 11
Stars, hide your fires;
Let not light see my black and deep desires.
A hard rain had begun to fall, the slap of the droplets against the remaining forest leaves giving the impression a hundred creatures galloped alongside them as they rode to the hollow.
It was a stroke of fortune for the burning Florizel, but less ideal for two exhausted people unprepared for such weather.
Maybe this is what it’s like to drown very fast, thought Violet, scrunching her face down into her neck and closing her eyes against the rain.
Sitting in the warm, awkward cradle of Alasdair’s saddle and lap, she was reminded of their walk across the fields, of his arms holding her as if she weighed nothing at all, and the intriguing slide of his wet shirt against her back.
“We seem doomed to odd, moist arrangements,” she muttered, flinching from the jostle of the horse and the unforgiving rain shower.
“What?” Alasdair called over the noise of the hooves and the storm.
Violet shook her head and fell silent. Surely they would be there soon; she wasn’t sure how much longer she could take.
The saddle dug into her thigh, but when she tried to hold on to the pommel, her left hand screamed with pain; the burn was worse than she wanted to admit.
But if she relied on Alasdair’s body to keep her in place, other considerations arose.
Don’t think of anything rising, don’t think about his body, or him, or what you saw coming out of that river. In fact, don’t think at all.
But that was easier said than done for one of Violet’s makeup.
She couldn’t breathe or sneeze but think and wonder.
There was no escaping the man partially wrapped around her, the insides of his arms rubbing up and down against her as he controlled the horse, the subtle but powerful way his legs flexed to urge the beast faster or slower…
He seemed completely unaware of her, which somehow made her that much more aware of him.
The rain soaked them both, strengthening the rich, dark scent from his soap, hair pomade, and sweat.
It had been hours since she ate, but that was just partially to blame for her sudden lightheadedness.
Morning-glory Hollow sat in something of a no-man’s-land between Pressmore and Clafton.
Certainly, someone somewhere knew the exact boundaries of the estates, but as children, they thought the large assortment of tumbled stones and overgrown plants felt like a world between worlds.
If the adults of either side knew about it, they never indicated as much.
It was the perfect place to stash secret treasures, to hold silly contests, and it often featured as the bandit or pirate stronghold, as needed.
None of them knew its true origin, though Violet suspected it had probably been a tiny medieval chapel that had fallen into disrepair, forgotten by humans to be reclaimed by the woods.
Somebody—Maggie, probably—had given it the name Morning-glory Hollow, for the bold purple trumpets hung like curtains over the warped, sloped entrance to the cave-like hollow.
“A lantern,” Alasdair said close to her ear. “Do you see it?”
Violet shivered and caught herself before she could lean fully against him.
She decided he did not need to keep his mouth so near to her face; why was he doing that?
Why had he charged into the Florizel after her?
He was confounding. There was the man who had insulted her paintings in London and the man cradling her gently on his horse now, and how could they be the same?
To discard the one in favor of the other felt like an abandonment of self-respect she couldn’t abide.
You must think of Emilia now and keep her from making a terrible mistake…
“I see it,” Violet said, sighing with relief as he brought the horse to a walk.
They stopped just in view of the dull glow emanating from the hollow.
The rain eased a little, and Mr. Kerr slid down from the horse, reaching up for her.
He handled her cautiously, careful not to graze her against his chest as he set her feet onto the spongy earth.
With a furrowed, shy glance, he offered his arm.
“The way is uneven,” he said. “Take care that you do not sink into the mud.”
“That is all I need,” she muttered. “Another twisted ankle.”
They moved gradually, for the hollow was not far from the stream on their right, and the ground was sodden from both the storm and proximity to the water.
A gradual hill loped down to the stream, a good number of trees protecting the place from the road behind them and to the left.
She noticed a pair of footprints running parallel to theirs and pointed.
“Oh, Freddie,” he grunted. “You damned fool.”
“You don’t think…He wouldn’t…”
Mr. Kerr said nothing but went with greater haste, tugging her along.
Violet struggled to match his stride, clinging to his arm to keep from slipping.
The trees offered some shelter, and as the storm moved on, she saw the lantern and the reddish light pouring from the mouth of the hollow with greater clarity.
There were sounds now, too, smacking and sighing, and the occasional giggle that she instantly knew belonged to Emilia.
“This may not be a sight fit for a delicate lady,” Mr. Kerr warned, holding her back.
“Please.” Violet withdrew her hand, marching toward the lantern. “There will be time for delicacy when Emilia is safely back at Pressmore.” She ducked into the hollow, interrupting Freddie’s exploration of Emilia’s bare neck and shoulders. His hand shot out from under her skirts.
“Christ!” Freddie screamed, flying back against the stone and banging his head.
“Violet!” Emilia gasped and scrambled to cover herself as Mr. Kerr stepped into view at Violet’s side. “Mr. Kerr! This is…We weren’t…That is to say…”
“Say nothing and dress now,” Violet huffed, turning around to give them some privacy. “Honestly, Emilia, everyone is in an uproar looking for you. Ann and Lane are beside themselves.”
“That’s a surprise,” Emilia murmured. Fabric rustled.
Freddie muttered to himself. Violet stared up at the slick stones of the hollow above, irritated.
“They hardly notice anything about me these days. And it was you who told me Freddie still cared, Violet. Why say such a thing if you hate the idea of our love?”
She felt rather than saw Mr. Kerr’s eyes swivel toward her.
Violet pursed her lips and crossed her arms. “You were so unbelievably miserable! I was just trying to keep you from harming yourself further!”
“Miss Arden…”
She shook her head, refusing to look up at Mr. Kerr. “What do we do?”
Mr. Kerr shifted. “Ordinarily, one would demand they marry given what they have likely accomplished here this evening…” He squeezed his face hard with one hand.
“Yet that is precisely what they want, to be married, an outcome which could put our mother into an early grave. She would not withstand the disappointment.”
“So,” said Violet, softly, “it is our secret.”
“We never saw them here,” he added.
“They were independently lost, waylaid by the storm,” Violet continued, nodding. “And we will return them home, the whole ugly business forgotten.”
Freddie joined them, still shrugging on his rain-dampened jacket. “You can’t do that! We should be forced to marry; I’ve gone and made love to—”
Mr. Kerr whirled on his brother, drawing up to his full size, his arm stiffening as if he meant to strike the words right out of Freddie’s mouth.
“You are in the presence of a lady,” he said, seething, then paused, glanced toward Emilia, and drew a calming breath, lowering his shoulders somewhat.
“You are in the presence of two ladies. Mind yourself. How many times must disaster be averted on your behalf?”
Eager to be somewhere dry, cozy, and close to a bed, Violet extended her hand toward Emilia. “Come, dearest. I will get you back to Pressmore.”
“Yes,” said Emilia miserably, dragging herself toward the mouth of the cave. “And you will tell Ann what happened, and just like Ruby, I will be shipped back to Lakhnau.”
“No, Mr. Kerr and I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone,” Violet replied.
“And we will find you—ouch! ” She hissed and shook out her hand, having forgotten its tender state.
Emilia had grabbed it hard, and pain sizzled through Violet’s entire body.
Before she could explain herself, Mr. Kerr was there, holding her wrist, offering up the wounded palm to the light of the lantern for inspection.
“This is far worse than I assumed. You should be taken to a physician at once,” he said, his solemn grimace perhaps giving away more than his measured words.
Violet hazarded a close look at her palm, where the once-peachy skin had become violently red and wrinkled, the rain and her grip on the saddle aggravating the burn.
It bubbled and oozed, and a thick curl of flesh came away, peeling back to reveal a glistening patch beneath.
“O-oh dear,” said Mr. Kerr, sounding green. She had no idea if his face matched his tone, for all at once she could not see. Exhausted. Freezing. Damp. The shock of fear hit behind the nose, blurring her vision and tightening her guts before the hollow started to spin and Violet collapsed.
She had vague ideas about how she came to be in the cramped bed she shared with Winny in Beadle Cottage.
The journey from Morning-glory Hollow to home returned to her in blurred bubbles of shaken memory; she had not remained unconscious the entire way, swimming in and out of reality, hearing the muted voices low with concern as the doctor arrived, then slipping into a dreamlike state after he asked her to drink something.
Her dreams were fitful. Tossing, twisting, she imagined herself in the cold, rainy hollow curtained with ivy and rain-slicked vines.
Flowers bloomed impossibly in the chill.
Everything around her was too bright, ice and splotches of wildflowers, and the hard stone wedged beneath her thighs.
Nothing made sense until Mr. Kerr was there, and it was not Emilia draped across the flat bench of rock in the hollow but Violet herself, head thrown back, hair loose, her gown gaping open toward Alasdair as if in invitation.
His big, warm hands slid across her, one up the extended length of her leg, bold and searching, his other taking hold of her sleeve and pulling until the fabric tore and her breasts were exposed to his gaze and then his lips.
The kisses he placed along her neck and collarbone shivered through her, each a provocation, each widening the spread of her legs.
He couldn’t be close enough to satisfy her, touch and alignment a shallow imitation of what seemed achievable in dreams. If he could be in and without her, their lips sealed, their bodies one, then maybe, maybe…
Violet tore awake, gasping for breath. She was safe in her bed, the blankets heaped so high she was practically buried alive.
The milky light of early morning made the bedroom glow, and she lifted her injured left hand to find it had been bandaged.
And thank God for that; she couldn’t stomach the idea of seeing her peeling, burned palm again so soon.
The dream lingered. Violet blushed and shook it off until she felt herself again.
What was that? Perhaps she should not have allowed herself to see Emilia and Freddie in the hollow.
It had planted seeds of thought she could not bear to water.
Someone like Mr. Kerr would never have her, even if she wanted him; no, she would have to make her own difficult way in the world.
Winny was curled up asleep beside her, Maggie half-awake with a book in her lap, seated in the rocking chair by the window.
Violet’s sudden movement alerted Maggie, and her sister sat up straighter, yawning and stretching both hands over her head.
“How did I get here?” Violet asked, looking around with a somewhat dazed expression.
“There was a great commotion at the front door,” said Maggie, leaving her book on the chair to sit gently on the edge of the bed at Violet’s side.
She combed Violet’s hair back from her forehead.
“Mr. Kerr brought you back, with word that Emilia had been found and returned to Pressmore. What happened in the forest? Do you remember?”
Violet swallowed with difficulty and glanced away.
Her feelings for Mr. Kerr were confusing and conflicting, but she knew it was wrong to lie to her sister.
Still, Emilia’s reputation had to be protected; she couldn’t imagine letting another woman experience the sort of public humiliation she had suffered at her aunt’s painting exhibition.
Emilia was young, and one questionable decision should not alter her life forever.
“She was there with Freddie,” Violet replied. “At the hollow. But we found them before any real mischief…”
“Violet.” Maggie’s hand stilled on her head. “Are you certain?”
“She seemed scared,” Violet assured her. “I don’t think she’ll be inclined to run off with a man again.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Maggie sighed and returned to her rocking chair and book. “The rain somewhat slowed the fire at the Florizel, but the damage is significant. Though you mustn’t worry about that now, simply rest and let your hand mend.”
Violet held up the bandaged lump of her left hand. “At least it was this one,” she murmured. “I can still paint.”
“Rest, you mean, for that is all you are supposed to be doing.”
“Yes, of course. Rest. That is what I shall do.”
But rest was not a thing Violet had ever done well or willingly; her mind didn’t allow it, and if she didn’t keep it busy with books, and chatter, and art, then it would go places she did not want it to venture, like back to the hollow, where it felt somehow that Mr. Kerr was waiting for her, his eyes burning with questions she refused to entertain.