Dark Surrender (19 page)

Lillian blinked at him as if he were being purposefully obtuse. She grabbed his arms, digging her little fingers into the muscles. “I mean, will she be
back?
Or did I chase her away forever, like . . . like Mama?”

He hesitated, shoulders tense. Was there a danger of Miss Smythe resigning her post? In her shoes, would he stay shuttered in with the mad Waldegraves? Or would he walk out of the catacombs and on out the front door without a backward glance?

“You don’t
know
,” Lillian choked out, her distress verging on hysteria. She pushed at his chest, shoved him. “Go find her! Go get her! Don’t let her leave us!”

“All right, all right. But first, listen to me.” He might be a failure at curing his daughter, but surely he could promise her this. “You didn’t chase away your mother. No, look at me. You
didn’t
. Sometimes people die, even when they shouldn’t. It’s horrible and terribly unfair, but it is nobody’s fault, least of all yours. God is the only one who can decide when our time on this earth is through.”

Lillian’s lower lip trembled. “But if Miss Smythe leaves, it
will
be my fault. I was beastly to her. I don’t want her to go.”

Alistair slowly rose to his feet. “It’s too late for anyone to go anywhere tonight, sweetling. Besides, Miss Smythe adores you. She would not leave without saying goodbye. She just wanted a moment alone, that’s all. We should at least grant her that courtesy. Tomorrow, once we’ve all had an opportunity to think and to rest, I’ll speak to her. I’ll offer whatever it takes to extend her contract. Will that do?”

“No.” Lillian dug her fingers into his arm, eyes serious.
“
I want her for always. Make sure she never leaves us.
Ever
.”

Grimly, Alistair’s fingers tightened about his keys. “Never ever.”

CHAPTER TEN

Unable to face the Waldegraves after the morning fiasco, Violet weathered the remainder of the day and all the long evening alone in her velvet-and-gilt cell.

She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sleep. She just stared up at the tester canopy, imagining Lily doing exactly the same. Day after day. Year after year. Violet might have spoken out of turn, but she’d meant what she said. No matter how hard she tried, she could never be more than a poor substitute. A copy. A fake. And very foolish for ever having dreamt of more.

After dawn the next day, she was scarcely up and dressed before a soft knock sounded upon her door. She sighed. That would be Mrs. Tumsen, ready to drag Violet down to breakfast by her ear, if need be. She hadn’t eaten the day before.

“Yes?”

“Miss Smythe? It’s me. Alistair Waldegrave.”

She shot a surprised glance at the door. Mr. Waldegrave at half-seven in the morning. Knocking at her bedchamber. She mustn’t let him catch her in the doldrums. He’d suffered enough.

She shook a few wrinkles from her morning gown and ran her hands over her hair to smooth any wayward curls—there was no time to muck about with hairpins. Inhaling deeply, she straightened her shoulders and her spine, and swung open the door.

He stood not ten inches from her. Pale. Unsmiling. Tense. His hands were gloved. His dark eyes, impenetrable. As usual, he was impeccably groomed—his cravat rigidly white, his black hair just so, his lithe body clothed in the elegant fashion of yesteryear. The juxtaposition always unsettled Violet’s nerves, as if the man she knew as Mr. Waldegrave was an impostor, a handsome predator disguised as a reclusive widower for reasons she could not begin to fathom. A shiver touched her spine.

And then he smiled. Hesitant, cautious, but soul-wrenchingly earnest. “Good morn, Miss Smythe. I hope you’ve slept well, although I can’t be at all surprised if you have not. I do beg your forgiveness.”

Just like that, the foolish sense of impending danger vanished. Violet released the door handle. She clasped her damp fingers behind her back and regarded him anew. How was it that a kind word and a few crinkles about the eyes managed to transform him from a potential threat to a gracious host? She had learned to trust her instincts long ago, but never before had her gut and her heart been so conflicted.

With what she hoped was a pleasant smile, she dipped a belated curtsy. “Good morning, Mr. Waldegrave. And please, you have done nothing which requires forgiveness.”

“You are too kind. I am on my way to breakfast.” He offered his arm. “Might you join me?”

“I . . . Thank you.”

She curled her fingers above the crook of his elbow. The muscle buried beneath was warm and firm. The hem of her gown brushed against the black leather of his boot with every step. Although they did not otherwise touch, his body seemed too close to hers. Inches apart, side by side, as if they were two lovers recovering abed rather than two strangers en route to toast and jam.

She did not for a second believe that her bedchamber was anywhere near the route from his quarters to the main dining room. But as they traversed the sparsely lit abbey in silence, Violet felt herself growing less, rather than more, anxious. If anything, Mr. Waldegrave seemed just as tense as she. The realization that she discomfited him in equal measure was oddly empowering. His manners remained gallant and his step did not falter, but his eyes darted infrequent glances in her direction as if he half-expected
her
to spring at any moment.

In the breakfast room, it was Mr. Waldegrave, and not a footman, who held her chair and got her seated. It was also he who poured tea, and served generous helpings of scones and poached eggs—a far cry from the Livingston School’s unglamorous bubble and squeak, and further yet from the years when a “good” breakfast meant brushing dirt from a scrap of stale bread. Seated at such a fine table laid with silver and china, she could almost imagine herself a lady born, rather than a street urchin in governess’s clothing.

Perhaps therein lay the true danger.

Once Mr. Waldegrave had offered sugar cubes for her tea and discussed the advantages of marmalade to blackberry preserves, a crushing silence engulfed the room. Each soft clang of fork to plate rang with the force of a church bell. The whispering candle flames rustled like a thousand autumn leaves, the crunch of her apple deafening.

She could stand the silence no more. She sat up straight and looked him right in the eyes and said, “The apples are delicious.”

Aargh. She could’ve sworn she had aimed for something a bit more interesting on the witty banter scale.

His startled gaze met hers. No, not startled. Relieved. As if he, too, had been battling the oppressive quiet and had been praying for her to break it.

“I am glad. They are not in season, but . . . apples are Lillian’s favorite fruit.”

“Mine, too.”

There. They were speaking. Or had spoken, anyway. He had done an admirable job of keeping his end of the topic afloat, but the subject of apples and favorite fruits could not continue indefinitely. It was her turn to continue the conversation.

What else might one discuss at the breakfast table? She slowly sipped at her tea. When inspiration failed to strike, she settled for the classics. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you. I . . . ” Mr. Waldegrave shook his head and set down his silver. He gazed at her fully, his expression frank and open. “No. I didn’t. I haven’t slept well in years. I imagine you didn’t fare much better, and for that, I apologize.”

“It was nothing,” she said quickly, cursing her tongue for having led back to the one topic she most wished to avoid. “You need not apologize.”

“Someone must, and Lillian . . . ” He took a deep breath, but the pain in his eyes did not diminish. He placed his hands upon the table, his voice low but intense. “I swear to you, Miss Smythe. She did not mean it.”

“Of course she didn’t mean it.” Violet’s hackles rose. She hardly needed a translator to understand Lillian. “You think I don’t know that? Being locked up can drive anyone mad. Not to mention, she’s nine years old. A little girl. Feelings are impossible to control at that age.” Violet turned her attention to her marmalade. They needed a new topic, or she wouldn’t be able to control her own emotions. “Why are there two layers of board over all the windows? Would light be able to seep through a single layer?”

“The first layer had already half-rotted when Lillian was born. Adding a second layer was more expedient than ripping off the old before adding the new. Besides, being doubly protected cannot hurt.”

Violet kicked herself. Of course the windows had already been boarded. She’d forgotten that he suffered the same affliction as his daughter.

“Your parents boarded the windows when you were born?” she asked softly.

Brow furrowed, he shook his head. “They’ve always been boarded. Our family owned the abbey, but rarely lived in it. I moved here when I married. We’d planned to turn the abbey into a palace—knock down walls, build a home of our own. But when Marjorie picked out her chamber and we discovered the stained glass, we couldn’t bear to destroy such beauty. I can’t imagine why it was covered in the first place.”

The gears in Violet’s brain clicked into place and she stared at him in growing excitement. “
I
can. The Reformation! It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

He blinked uncomprehendingly. “The what?”

“The Reformation,” she repeated, leaning forward eagerly. “When the Church of England broke from Rome in the 1500s.”

His eyebrows lifted skeptically. “Wasn’t that because Henry VIII wanted his marriage annulled and the Catholics stood in his way?”

Violet waved this interjection off. Mostly because her knowledge of British history was limited to exactly one field: Art.

“His dissolution of the monasteries incited the destruction of stained glass images throughout the country. Virtually all previously church-owned property reverted back to England, but
abbey
churches could still be used for parish worship.
Abbeys
,” she repeated emphatically. “Waldegrave Abbey. Your ancestors must have boarded the windows when they first heard the ruling. And then counted their lucky stars when the monarchy didn’t repossess the property.”

“I doubt they counted on luck. Waldegraves prefer to put their faith in the hand of God.”

She wiggled in place, unable to contain her excitement. “Whomever one chooses to thank, do you not realize that this abbey might be England’s best kept secret? Twenty years ago, when the stained glass renaissance first began—”

“There’s a stained glass renaissance underway?”

“Are you bamming me? Glass painters are all the crack in London. Any number of surviving bits and pieces of Renaissance pictorials have been restored and made public, from Whitechapel to Dublin. Yet never once did I hear mention of an entire abbey left untouched in Shropshire.” She glanced around the shadowed room as if the very walls had been forged from gold. “Do you know what this means? You’ve got priceless centuries-old art safely hidden behind crisscrossed planks of wood. Waldegrave Abbey is a national treasure!”

Rather than come alive with the promise of such a discovery, his eyes darkened with portent. “I’m afraid my humble abode will have to remain secret a little while longer, Miss Smythe. Until a cure can be found for sunsickness, every inch of the glass must stay out of sight.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders sank. “Of course.”

Once again, she had forgotten herself. Or rather, she had forgotten to whom she spoke. Mr. Waldegrave and his daughter were imprisoned inside the most beautiful gaol they would never see. What irony that the country’s greatest exemplar of Renaissance-era religious art would surround the two people who could not enjoy it! Her initial excitement dulled. Make that three people. She wouldn’t see any of the glorious glasswork either. Didn’t it just figure? She’d always dreamed of being surrounded by art. Apparently she should have specified “visible”.

Violet slumped. Her soul yearned to bear witness to the stained glass artistry just behind the wooden boards. No doubt, any loss she felt, Lily and her father felt twice as keenly. But what was a mere window, no matter how marvelous, to someone who could not step into the morning light to see the entire world in all its splendor?

“I’m sure a cure will be found soon,” she said, infusing her voice with as much optimism as she could.

“That is my goal,” he agreed firmly. He met her gaze and held it. “Until then, my daughter has expressed her continued desire for your company.”

She frowned. The words were straightforward. So why did it feel like there was hidden meaning in each syllable? She narrowed her eyes. “What are you not saying?”

“I am stating,” he said, taking care to enunciate each word, “that I intend for you to remain her governmess.”

She tilted her head and considered the man as carefully as she considered his words. On the one hand, it was a relief to know for certain that her position and income were in no jeopardy whatsoever. On the other hand, it certainly sounded as though he was willing to employ means much more drastic than a pocketful of sovereigns to keep her there.

“And if Lily’s desire to keep me as governess hadn’t been mutual?” she asked archly.

He did not respond. He slowly swirled the dregs of his tea, gazing into the depths of the cup as if he could read their future upon the leaves within.

“I have no imminent plans to leave,” she pressed on. “But what if I did? Would you have locked me in the sanctuary alongside your daughter?”

At this, his gaze snapped unflinchingly to hers. His dark eyes held something more than torment, something other than mere determination. Her breath caught in surprise and wonder. This was a look she recognized from her youth. Mischief. His eyes were alive with
mischief
.

Lock the door and lose the key? Why, yes,
his eyes said.
I absolutely would.

And yet his deviltry was nothing short of inviting. The sight of a conspiratorial air along with unapologetic roguery was a combination she hadn’t encountered in years. Not since London. It was a look she well knew not to trust, of course, but also one she knew to be honest, for better or for worse.