Chapter 21
Her passions are made of
nothing but the finest part of pure love.
The merrymakers of Pressmore woke to a blazing, sunny St. Stephen’s Day; the light blasted off the newly fallen snow, bathing the world in white fire.
Violet pulled the pillow over her head and ignored the stirring noises of the house and her sisters until Maggie hauled her out of bed by one foot, dragging her onto the carpet with a triumphant little wheeze.
“Good morning, sleepyhead. Did you go to bed in the punch bowl? I’ve never known you to doze this late.
” Maggie herself yawned and went to the window, ripping open the curtains as the final death blow to Violet’s rest. Her sister turned Violet over onto her back, prodding with her toes, then stood over her, knuckles on hips.
“Or did you fall asleep outside? What happened to your neck, dearest? It looks like you danced the night away with one of the spruce boughs.”
Violet became horribly awake. She covered her neck with both hands, feeling for herself the tiny bumps of irritation that had jumped up from Alasdair rubbing his face all over her.
Above her, Maggie’s smile turned smug. “Or did you already begin your portrait sitting with the solicitous Mr. Kerr? Tsk, tsk, Violet, you really shouldn’t try to paint someone in the dark.”
“Leave me be,” Violet moaned, turning back onto her stomach and shielding her face from the windows. More footsteps shuffled across the carpet. Winny.
“Look at her,” Maggie said with a laugh. “She went to sleep in her party dress.”
“And tore it,” Winny added with a gasp.
“How did that happen, Miss Arden?” her older sister asked, prodding her with stockinged toes.
“I…tripped,” Violet said into the carpet.
“Onto Mr. Kerr?”
Violet kicked randomly, hoping to land a blow on Maggie but merely succeeding in slamming her foot into the bedpost.
“Maggie, have mercy on her.” Sweet Winny, always the mediator, came to her aid, gently draping a shawl over Violet’s head until she could adjust to the bright light in the room. “There, there, dearest, we all had a late night.”
“Some of us later than others,” Maggie added from somewhere near the door. “I will go down to breakfast and fetch you a tonic, Violet, and see if that sets you to rights.”
It did not. After the tonic, Violet changed out of her gown and into a nightdress, slept two more hours burrowed beneath the blankets away from the seeking, wretched sun, then emerged when she felt a shade less like death warmed over a candle.
She fretted at the mirror for ages, rearranging her hair into different piles, and poked at her tired cheeks until she was forced to accept what the mirror reflected back.
Summoning a servant, she requested that her easel and paints be moved to the north gallery and Mr. Kerr found and informed that she would meet him there shortly to begin their portrait sitting.
She borrowed a frock from Ann, a day dress in a pale blue so faint it was almost white, gathered a warm shawl around her elbows, and went down to the gallery.
Ann had almost forced the dress into Violet’s possession several times, insisting it was perfect to bring out Violet’s cornflower-blue eyes.
Pressmore was surprisingly vacant; Lane had apparently roused several guests for a stroll outside now that the weather had warmed and the sun was out; Winny and a few other ladies occupied the west drawing room to sew and chat; still others remained abed, having fallen afoul of their late-night dancing and too much mulled punch.
Violet therefore encountered only a wandering soul here and there as she traveled the house, growing more and more nervous by the step.
As she wound her way through the sitting room beside the Sapphire Library, she noticed Emilia standing at the door open onto the gallery.
It was impossible to avoid her, though judging by the prim, tight expression on Emilia’s face, it was not going to be a pleasant exchange.
“Good afternoon, Emilia,” Violet greeted her, offering a questioning smile.
“I knew it” was all Emilia said, brushing by her and striding swiftly away.
Violet flinched and peered around the corner, finding Mr. Kerr waiting for her at the far end of the airy gallery hallway.
What could she say to Emilia that would be comforting or fair?
She didn’t have the heart to point out that Freddie had, indirectly, helped Danforth start the fire at the Florizel.
It was only his proximity to Mr. Kerr and the wealth of his family that insulated him from consequences.
He was no prize. Besides, their circumstances were not the same; they did not love the same man, and Emilia ought to have the pick of any gentleman she wanted.
That she had fallen in love with a wayward Merry-Andrew was not Violet’s problem, but that didn’t stop her from feeling choked with regret.
“Emilia!” she called out, deciding Mr. Kerr could wait a bit longer.
Her friend kept walking but slowed just enough to let Violet easily catch up.
“Please,” said Violet, pressing her palms together. “I know this must seem strange—”
“What’s strange is that you never had the courage to be honest with me,” Emilia replied, sagging against the open doorway. “You are my friend, Violet; we are meant to keep secrets together, not from each other.”
“I know,” Violet said with a sigh. “This was a secret I was keeping even from myself. I didn’t know until last night what my heart wanted.”
“After how I was treated, how could your heart be so foolish?”
Violet shook her head, withdrawing. “It isn’t that simple. Mr. Kerr isn’t like his brother. You know it was more than the old family grudges—you with your beauty and your dowry and your connections, you could have anyone.”
“Yes! And I wanted him!” she cried. “Now we are both women with stained honor, but at least you will have the man you desire.” The lady’s expression cooled until she looked no longer angry, but sad.
“Love turns the twistiest path into a straight and narrow road, doesn’t it?
I worry for you, Violet, I worry that you will lose the love of your aunt only to discover Mr. Kerr is exactly like his brother. ”
“But would I lose you?”
Emilia turned away from her, drifting through the doorway. “I don’t know, Violet. I don’t know if we could ever be as we once were.”
Violet stood alone in the empty drawing room for a long moment.
It was her turn to think the feud ridiculous and overblown.
All the advice she had given to Emilia, all the consolations and soothing words returned to haunt her.
But she was sure of two things—her heart was not lying about her feelings for Alasdair, nor was he untrustworthy.
He had left his own family home on Christmas to come to her; what further proof of his love could she require?
As Violet entered the golden patch of light Mr. Kerr had discovered at the far end of the gallery, he stifled a yawn, then he caught sight of her and bowed.
“You, too?” she asked, aware of the twin sleepless smudges beneath their eyes.
“Rest was fleeting and scarce,” Alasdair admitted, ducking his head. “We can do this another day if you—”
“N-no! No, I would like to get started.”
He smiled, and it tugged at the deepest part of her.
His eyes were questioning and patient. “I would like that, too. There is no telling when your aunt will allow me back; perhaps we should take advantage of the snow.” Gesturing to the wicker chair behind him and then the walls, he added, “How would you like me?”
Going to her easel, Violet coughed lightly into her fist, hiding her delighted smirk.
“You know what I meant,” he called, suddenly appearing around the easel.
It was like they were back in the library, smeared across each other on the sofa, his strong hands cupping the backs of her thighs, his lips searing across her throat…
Violet looked down at the small table holding her porcelain dishes and paints.
He glanced over his shoulder to verify that they were alone, then grazed the small of her back with his fingertips.
“Though I might have phrased it better.”
“You will please stand over there,” Violet murmured, hoarse. “Or we will accomplish nothing at all.”
Deliciously obstinate, he stayed long enough to lean down and brush his lips across the edge of her left ear. “Would you call last night nothing?”
“No,” she replied, turning somewhat toward him, wishing she could meld completely into his side.
There was a pronounced chill in the gallery, and his warmth would remain a temptation.
“I would call it the happiest night of my life. Now, if you please, Mr. Kerr, go and pose for your portrait before my concentration evaporates altogether.”
He wound his finger lightly through a ringlet dangling over her ear and let it spring away. “This place, being trapped here, it feels like a moment out of time; it makes me forget myself.”
“Forget yourself?”
“There are…considerations to be had. Lady Edith would naturally prefer that I find someone who isn’t related to the Richmonds,” he said. Violet’s heart began to sink. “And Freddie will see this as a slight, I’m sure, given your proximity to Miss Graddock.”
“And when you leave here, those voices will be louder.”
Alasdair flinched. “I am here now. That is what matters.”
As he left her, Violet felt a pang of sadness; he was right that this chance for them to spend time together, nearly unchaperoned, unnoticed, blissfully alone, would melt as surely as the snow had begun to outside.
Panic rose in her, a sense that she must squeeze and hold and burn into memory every minute of this day.
If the snow did not start again or this warm upshot continued, he would be gone as soon as the next morning.