Dark Surrender

CHAPTER ONE

April 1835, Livingstone School for Girls, Lancashire

“At the end of the week Mr. Percy Livingstone, our beloved founder’s heir, will evict us all in order to turn our philanthropic school into a profitable venture. Next Monday, he will begin converting the grounds into an exclusive sanitarium catering to the mentally unstable offspring of society’s wealthy elite.”

Miss Violet Whitechapel stared uncomprehendingly at the misty words escaping from Headmistress Parker’s mouth into the early morning fog. The heir planned to do
what?
Desperation seared the breath from Violet’s lungs. She sent a frantic glance at her colleague, Miss Belham, who appeared as shocked and devastated as the other instructors. For the first time in Violet’s memory, even the headmistress struggled to maintain her hallmark serenity.

In disbelief, Violet turned from her associates to face the long-standing campus she’d delightedly called home. Five and a half glorious years with clean water, honest work, a cot of her own in a room with a door she had no need to bar at night. She had found paradise, and she’d be damned if she lost her home to some spoiled toff more interested in lining his pockets than helping orphans.

Old Man Livingstone had been a godsend—or at the very least, the only man of Violet’s acquaintance who had actually meant the words “benefactor to underprivileged girls” without dehumanizing strings attached. He’d started this school, given ladies like Miss Parker and Miss Belham positions of some power, and when Violet had blown onto the doorstep willing to do anything—yes,
anything
—for a crust of bread and a delousing, he’d rung her a bath and a hot meal and offered her a position. And not a position like “on yer back, now, there’s a gel,” either. A respectable position. And a home.

“The new heir and his surveyor are currently perusing the property,” the headmistress continued relentlessly. “You’ll recognize them by their Town finery, I’m sure. They plan to have the sanitarium operational within a fortnight. Nonetheless, young Mr. Livingstone is providing each of us a month’s wages as a courtesy, in the hopes many will seek new environs immediately.” The headmistress began doling out tiny satchels to each instructor.

Violet’s jaw fell open. “A
courtesy?
By sending us—and the children—back to the streets? We’re supposed to be
saving
these girls from such a fate, not consigning them to it. Without the school, they’ve nowhere else to go!”

“We cannot fight the law.” A crack in Headmistress Parker’s firm voice betrayed her frustration. “Young Mr. Livingstone is the legal heir, and his changes are already in motion.”

“Well, I’ll just have to stop them.” Violet’s fists curled with rage. “For close on twenty years, I survived out there as best I could, and to speak plainly, there were many times survival wasn’t worth the sacrifices. Where is this so-called gentleman, whose only desire is to benefact his pockets?”

“‘Benefact’ is incorrect in that context,” the deportment instructor murmured.

“You quite take my meaning,” Violet snapped back, although she was more upset at her helplessness than with Miss Belham. She tried so hard to be as stoic as the headmistress, but strong emotion released the terrified street urchin she desperately tried to keep caged beneath the façade of a proper young lady.

“You cannot save everyone, Violet, no matter how fervently you may wish to.” Headmistress Parker’s ever-ramrod spine seemed to grow even straighter. “There will be no petitioning Mr. Percy Livingstone. He has already finalized his contracts and accepted pensions from families who wish to conceal . . . unfortunate situations. We must all find a new home.”

“How?” Violet fought the stinging in her eyes. Not only had she herself climbed out of the gutters, she was finally able to keep others from returning. When these girls found themselves tossed in the dirt, how was she supposed to live with herself?

How was she supposed to
live?

“I have heard enough,” she said stiffly, trying and failing to think of words of encouragement to share with her pupils later. In that moment, she’d never hated a man more than she hated Mr. Percy Livingstone. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a promising new student awaiting me for special instruction.”

She barely paused for Headmistress Parker’s nod before turning on her heel and striding across the foggy green to the art studio. If they were all to be tossed out with the bathwater, she would make the most of every moment between now and then. Oh, God, what was she to tell her students?

Children like Emma made the thought of losing the school utterly insupportable. The girl was almost fifteen, but a lifetime of malnourishment had given her the tiny frame of a twelve-year-old. When she’d arrived, Violet had gently washed off the layers of grime only to reveal a patchwork of bruises and scars. Furious at whoever had harmed a child, Violet had made Emma’s physical and mental recovery her personal mission. There’d been precious little progress these short two months, but although Emma still hadn’t spoken a single word—and refused to interact with the others—she’d been fascinated by the paintings in Violet’s studio, and was hopefully waiting there now for her first lesson in watercolor.

Candlelight blurred the morning mist as Violet drew closer to the tiny cottage. Her heart warmed. Emma
did
keep their meeting! Violet’s relieved smile faltered when a painfully familiar sound escaped from the other side of the closed wooden door. The barely audible whimpers of a terrified young girl . . . and the impatient grunting of a grown man.

Violet picked up her skirts and burst through the door.

Two expensively groomed toffs loomed inside her studio. Young Mr. Livingstone and his surveyor! Violet couldn’t begin to guess which villain was which, but it hardly mattered. One perched on the edge of a work stool, cravat awry, looking for all the world like a scoundrel chomping at the bit to take his turn.

The other had Emma—
Emma!
—bent across an art desk, petticoats to her hips. He was too busy struggling to undo the buttons of his fall to have noticed Violet’s arrival, but the blackguard upon the stool leapt to his feet at once.

“Lookit here, Livingstone, there’s one for each of us.” He headed toward Violet with wicked intent carved into his smirking countenance.

She snatched up the closest weapons she could find and hurled them at his head, one after another. The bucket of turpentine did little more than drench the man in foul smelling liquid, but the full can of paint dropped him to the ground.

The heir pushed back from Emma, pausing only to refasten his breeches. His mistake. Years of surviving by her wits alone had taught Violet never to hesitate. Often, the element of surprise was the only chance a girl had against men twice her size. Violet leapt across the tiny space, arms outstretched to snatch Emma away.

“Bitch!” He reared one arm back, clearly intending to slam his overlarge fist directly into Violet’s face.

Emma was faster. Her tiny fingers grappled at the clutter scattered across the wooden desktop, knocking candles to the floor. In an instant, she swung backward, a tall paintbrush firmly in her grip. The handle found its home in the eye of the blackguard who had intended to violate her.

With a choking scream, the heir slumped across the desk, the slender paintbrush protruding from his eye socket. The flames from the fallen candles ignited the spilled turpentine, roaring across the oil-painted canvases and up over the motionless men. Within a half second, the fire had eaten the curtains and engulfed the rafters above.

“Come,” Violet shouted, tugging at Emma’s icy hand. “We must go! Everything in here is violently flammable.”

Already the air was thick with greasy smoke and the stench of burning flesh.

Emma stumbled around the unnaturally still bodies, then promptly bent over and vomited. Violet’s stomach felt much the same, but there was no time for weakness, for conscience, for second-guessing.

“Come,” she repeated. The oils popped and the blackening rafters spit ash and fire as Violet dragged Emma across the tiny room with one arm around the girl’s waist. “We can’t stay here.”

No, Violet realized as a chill crept down her spine. It was much worse than that.
She was a murderess
. In saving a child, she had unintentionally slain the new benefactor and his companion. Emma would be able to rejoin the other students with no one being the wiser, but half the school had witnessed Violet stalking toward her studio with murder in her eyes. She had made no attempt to conceal her animosity toward Mr. Percy Livingstone. And now there would be no hiding what she had done.

She’d lost her position, her dreams . . . and now her future.

Smoke searing her lungs, she hobbled out of the burning cottage. Everything she owned, everything she cared about, had been in that studio. Well, not quite everything. Pulling Emma further away from the blaze, Violet touched shaking fingers to her pockets. One contained the small leather diary that never left her side. The other pocket contained her final wages. She wished she’d hidden her precious savings anywhere but the back of a drawer in her art desk . . . but this would have to be enough money to get out of Lancashire. Immediately.

She had to flee. Find shelter, obviously, but more importantly: procure a barrister capable of saving her from criminal prosecution. She touched her neck and shuddered. She would
not
go to the gallows. Not for a blackguard like Percy Livingstone. She would find a way to clear her name and keep moving forward. She was a survivor.

If she ran faster than she’d ever run before, she just might make the morning coach before anyone realized she was missing. It wasn’t much of an advantage, but she had learned to make the most of any scrap Fate chose to leave her.

But first things first—Emma. The girl was young. Traumatized, but still innocent in all senses. Not a soul would or should suspect her of anything. And this would be the last opportunity for Violet to save one of her students. There were no guarantees that the next heir in line would be any better than Mr. Livingstone, but the school was still a far safer option than dragging Emma back into the streets. As for Violet . . . she could take care of herself.

“Listen, sweetheart.” She held Emma’s trembling hands and wished the girl would make eye contact, even for a second. “You did nothing wrong. This is not your fault.” Nor was it Violet’s, but she could not help feeling sick with guilt. “No one knows you were in the studio today, and no one needs to know.” She brushed ash from the girl’s sleeve. With the heir up in flames, the plans to convert the school into a madhouse should come to an end—she hoped. “Go to Headmistress Parker. You can trust her.”

Emma nodded miserably, shoulders shaking. Violet gathered her into her arms and held her for a long moment. She had to believe this was the right thing to do. It was the only choice. She could not stay, and she could not risk endangering Emma. Sending her to the headmistress was the best hope for keeping her safe.

“This is
not
your fault,” she repeated, giving the girl a fierce hug.

Emma pulled back and looked up, her eyes hollow. The girl suddenly looked far older than her fifteen years. Violet gave her another hug, viciously pleased that Mr. Percy Livingstone was dead. She wished she
had
killed him herself. By closing down the school, he’d be sending all the girls into the clutches of other evil men just like him.

“Get cleaned up,” she instructed Emma, “and remember: you did nothing wrong.” She touched the girl’s pale cheek. “You’ll be safe now.”

With a smile full of far more confidence than she felt, Violet gave her a last hug goodbye then took off running for the Lancashire coach stop. Little time remained, but she’d learned through years of practice how to run very, very fast.

#

Not long after her coin petered out, so did Violet’s limbs.

She’d traveled via mail coach as far as her meager purse had allowed. Five long days of constantly looking over her shoulder. When the money ran out, she’d forced herself to continue over hills and through forests on foot until her blisters had blisters, and both her body and her brain grew sluggish from lack of food and water. Once again, the sun had begun its inexorable decline. If she did not find shelter soon, she would pass the night alone in the woods, hungry and defenseless.

She trailed the last rays of sunshine through a break in the trees and discovered herself at the edge of a sprawling moor. The land stretched away from her in green-brown waves, an endless sea of dense bracken disappearing into shadow along a distant horizon broken only by the silhouette of what looked to be an enormous convent or monastery.

Her legs crumpled in relief. She was saved.

An enormous cathedral loomed out of the growing darkness, its twisting gothic silhouette stark against the crimson sunset. Several similarly medieval outbuildings flanked the primary structure. The only element detracting from the beauty of the flying buttresses arching from the nave and sanctuary was the thick wooden boards covering what once must have been handcrafted stained glass windows.