Chapter 13
Loving goes by haps;
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
The package’s arrival at Beadle Cottage sent the home into a frenzy of giggling speculation; the eruption could likely be heard by neighbors in every direction.
“It must be from Ann,” said Maggie, hands clasped under her chin as she watched more and more items emerge from the crate.
“Miss Bilbury seemed very alarmed when she heard about the loss of your paints at the Florizel,” Winny interjected, climbing over Maggie to get a better view. “I’d wager she sent it! Is there truly no note? Not a single indication? How mysterious!”
“Nothing,” Violet told them, clawing her way through the extra straw and, quite frankly, making a complete mess. Mrs. Arden sighed from the doorway and summoned a maid to the sitting room.
Behind her, Maggie cackled. “I do love a good intrigue.”
“Whoever it was,” said Violet, standing back to admire the new easel, “they spent a small fortune. Who would do that?”
Who would spend so much on me?
“Ann would,” Maggie answered plainly. “I will call on her this week, and we will have the matter settled. Winny has it partially—Miss Bilbury probably fretted so much that Ann felt she must make a heroic gift. She is always convinced that she can fix the world. I’m sure the ladies didn’t want you to feel burdened by the charity of it, and so it is anonymous. ”
Winny nodded along, convinced. “And it has been so dreary with the clouds and rain, perhaps they knew the game of it all would cheer us!”
That did make a kind of sense; the Richmonds had always been very giving when it came to the Ardens, for though they often disagreed with Mrs. Arden’s choices, her sisters Mildred and Eliza never hesitated to help where they must. The rifts that appeared between them were usually closed swiftly, and all returned to the expected grousing between siblings.
And everyone knew Ann had a flair for extravagant gifts.
“It’s so much,” Violet breathed. “I shouldn’t accept it.”
“Well, but you must,” said Maggie, touching her lightly on the shoulder. “For whom would you return it to?”
Violet stood back and shook out her hands, flustered.
The brushes and pigments were better quality even than what Miss Bilbury used on her more serious attempts.
The carrying case for the paints was compact yet luxurious, lustrous mahogany, embellished with brass.
The interior was lined with leather, and it included porcelain mixing pans and ample storage tins for chalks or charcoals, trays for the new brushes and crayons, and a place for scrapers, blocks of ink, and colors.
The brushes, the furred tips of which were velvety-soft sable, were devised specifically for watercolorists, a personal touch that made her chest flutter.
And she had never beheld such a handsome easel, far larger than her previous one, which had been small and designed for painting en plein air.
“It almost doesn’t seem right to spoil it,” she murmured. “I’m just a novice.”
“Someone thinks you’re worthy of it,” Maggie encouraged, leaning in closer. “And isn’t that permission enough?”
The shock and excitement of the package had only just begun to wane when Emilia Graddock arrived in a sleek Pressmore carriage.
Violet had not seen Emilia since that fateful night at the hollow, and judging by the flinching expression on the woman’s face, her mind lingered there.
Mrs. Arden received Emilia at the door, and from the sitting room amidst the strewn-about straw, the sisters heard Emilia ask if Violet was available to visit Pressmore for the afternoon.
Apparently, Miss Bilbury was concerned about Violet’s progress and wanted to make her paints and supplies available to her for use.
“I would be glad to join you at Pressmore,” said Violet, ushering Emilia into the sitting room and showing her the newly arrived gifts. “But it appears someone has decided to address her concerns.”
“But who has been so generous?” Emilia asked, gasping.
“Come now, it was your sister, was it not?” Violet prodded her in a teasing way.
“Ann? Heavens, no, she could never keep a secret so grand from me. But Cristabel will be relieved—she has done nothing but fret about your predicament.”
“Well before today, I discovered a solution,” said Violet. “There is nothing more invigorating to the artistic spirit than being confined to one’s home to heal. Without an outlet, I would have gone mad. I shall gather everything up and take it to Pressmore. We can show Miss Bilbury together.”
The servant who had accompanied Emilia to the cottage loaded the gift of paints, paper, and easel into the carriage while Violet fetched her recent paintings, bonnet, and coat.
She had not been idle while recovering from her burn, and she was eager to show Cristabel her recent studies.
Violet kissed her sisters and mother goodbye and followed Emilia up the wobbly path, hearing Maggie murmur as they went, “I still think it was Ann.”
When the ladies were seated in the carriage across from each other, Emilia stuffed her hands into a furred hand warmer and nodded toward the leather tube on the seat beside Violet. “Then, you’ve been hard at work?”
Violet smiled wanly at the rolled-up papers concealed within the carrier.
“I asked Maggie for some of her ink, then diluted it to make different values. I made brushes from bits of fabric, straw, feathers…whatever could be found in the scrap bin or the garden. Maggie was very annoyed with me wanting to paint her all the time, but I got my way eventually.”
Looking out the window blankly, Emilia raised both brows. “You usually do.”
Violet frowned. “I’m not sure I deserved that.”
Pursing her lips, Emilia refused to glance at her or respond.
“Right. Let us have it out,” Violet said, sighing and leaning back. “If you are cross with me, be cross. If there is blame to be given, give it. I would much rather have you scream and rage than sit here wondering what is behind those eyes.”
Her lips scrunched up tighter until it looked like her face might burst. Abruptly, Emilia pressed the hand warmer against her head and shrieked. When she lowered the fur again, she looked calm. “Forgive me, I needed that.”
“Do it again if you like.”
Emilia gave a dry, coughing laugh and slid down on the bench, a rare moment of unladylike flopping.
“I want to be cross with you. I want to blame you. I want to, but I cannot. This is all my own doing, but when I think of Freddie, I’m not even myself!
It’s like I’m in a trance, and all I can think of is how good it feels to love and be loved.
And yet I know I should be grateful that it was you who found us and no one else.
If Colonel Graddock found out, he would send me away just as he did with Ruby. ”
“That was my thinking also.”
The carriage had turned onto the sloped lane leading toward the Pressmore gates, and the rocking tossed Emilia lightly against the door.
She clung to it, the cloud-softened sunlight lending her face a blue glow.
“My mind turns that night over again relentlessly, like a coin I cannot help but flip day and night. Out of the dream of it, more comes into focus, and I feel the spell of him waning.”
Violet sat up, gripping the bench cushion. “You…do? But Emilia, that’s quite encouraging!”
“No, it isn’t,” said Emilia, pressing her forehead against the window.
“Because what I remember is not good, Violet, and it frightens me.” She drew in a shaky breath, closing her eyes.
Briefly drawing one hand out of the warmer, she rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.
“When I returned to the estate that night, I found stains on my glove. They must have transferred from his coat, for I was holding his sleeve. The next morning, I heard about the terrible fire at the theater, and something…something nagged at me. Insisted. I took that pair of gloves and held them near a candle, and they all but burst into flames, Violet.”
Her hands were suddenly cold and stiff on the bench. “But you were together the whole evening. When would he have had the time to—”
“We weren’t,” Emilia replied softly, sadly.
“Together, I mean, not the entire time. He left me in the hollow for a while, he said he wanted to gather wildflowers and present me with a bouquet. ‘A pretty bride should have a pretty bouquet,’ he said. And then he was gone, but for so long that I began to worry. When he returned, he brought a few stalks of monkshood, not a bouquet, not the work of all that time away.”
“What do you think stained your gloves?” Violet breathed.
Was it possible? Was Mr. Kerr wrong after all, and his brother was capable of starting not one but two dangerous fires?
And for what reason? Freddie seemed like an impetuous sort of young man but not particularly malicious.
What did he stand to gain by burning down the Florizel?
“Oil,” said Emilia. “With how it burned, the kind meant for lanterns.”
“That is concerning. Is this why you came to fetch me?”
“Cristabel has been asking for you, but yes, this is the true reason.”
“But if you had these suspicions, why did you wait so long?”
“Ann wouldn’t let me out of her sight! The baby was unwell this morning and her attention is with him, so I was allowed to take the carriage on the condition that I went to Beadle and returned with you at once.
” Emilia glared over her shoulder, as if Daniels, the driver, would feel her ire through the layers of fabric and wood separating them.
Violet’s thoughts were already racing ahead toward solutions.
Enmity between the Richmond and Kerr families would deepen if these accusations against Freddie were made public.
Emilia’s hunch couldn’t be ignored, but nor was it absolute proof of guilt.
Her stomach twisted at the realization that this would entangle her with Mr. Kerr again.