Dark Surrender (7 page)

Lillian’s face flushed with anger. Good. Rage was better than self-pity. “That is
not
what I meant, and you know it.” Her chin rose. “I take it back. You know nothing.” Her lip curled. “How could you?”

This last was spoken with such derision that Violet could not control her tongue.

“How could I?” she asked archly. “Allow me to share a few things I
do
know. I know that one can always discover people in a better position than oneself. I know that if you allow bitterness to drive your life, then you will not have a life at all.” Violet gestured at the closed door. “Although you have not left this chamber, we both find ourselves at a crossroads. Although I cannot offer you the sun, I
can
teach you to read unforgettable stories, to capture your imagination on paper with a bit of charcoal, even to pluck out inappropriate melodies on the pianoforte. That is one path. Or, simply instruct your father to send me away, and you can continue as you have always been. Uneducated. Unimaginative. Lonely.” Violet took a breath. “The choice is yours.”

Lillian glared up at her with open contempt. Violet’s stomach clenched. She’d pushed too far. She wanted to help, to illustrate how she
could
help, and instead she’d alienated Lillian even further. Perhaps even planted the idea that with a mere word to her father, this irksome governess and her unpardonable presumption would disappear from her life forever. Violet fought the urge to bang her head against the closest wooden plank. Had she lost her mind?

A knock sounded in the passageway moments before the lock disengaged. She was out of time. Mr. Waldegrave swung open the door, his eyes only for his daughter. Upon viewing her expression, he speared Violet with a glare of unadulterated malice before returning a fatherly gaze to Lillian.

“Sweetling, what is it? I had thought a governess a positive addition to your life, but if it is not working out—”

“Nothing is working out,” the girl snapped, and turned her back to them both. “Nothing has ever worked out.”

Violet sighed. There it was, then. She’d gambled and lost. Her fingers brushed against the tiny lumps made by the two coins in her pocket. If she had just—

“Very well.” Mr. Waldegrave turned to Violet, his features the same cold marble as ever, his eyes hard with disappointment. “Miss Smythe . . .”

“Ready, sir.” She crossed to join him at the door, pausing only once to glance at her erstwhile charge, who stood facing the boarded windows. Violet expected Mr. Waldegrave to yank her into the corpse-lined tunnels for an immediate sacking, but as she eased out of the room, he stepped further in. When he passed by, something tugged at her sleeve, ripping a tiny hole in the tattered homespun. Thorns. He’d brought fresh roses for his daughter.

Unwilling to slink into the murky passageway without so much as a candle, she froze in place with one hand on the doorjamb and half her body already in shadow.

Paying her no mind whatsoever, Mr. Waldegrave strode across the room, cutting directly to the small escritoire rather than risk passing too close to his still-silent daughter. With a practiced motion, he upended the crystal vase over a bin. The withered stems tumbled into its black depths.

He placed three stunningly perfect roses into the vase, and arranged their enormous red blooms to best effect. After filling the vase with water from a porcelain pitcher on the nightstand, he gathered the fallen petals from the desk and upon the floor—where was the maid who tended to such menial tasks?—and deposited them into the bin atop the dead flower stems. He turned toward his daughter and waited as she climbed into bed in silence.

At last, he turned away, and caught sight of Violet trapped in the cracked doorway like a moth entangled in a spider web.

Her face heated at having been discovered spying, and she floundered for an excuse for her behavior. “I . . . ”

“Don’t,” he said abruptly. “I’m not surprised you remained behind. The tunnel is dark, and I did not think to offer you a candle.” His tone, if not the words themselves, had sounded impossibly close to an apology. He lit a taper on one of the many candelabra protruding from the looming walls. “Now we are ready.”

Because he was facing Violet and not Lillian, Mr. Waldegrave did not see his daughter spin around. He likewise missed the split-second of hunger exposed in her fragile features. Despite repeated avowals of hatred, Violet realized, despite the kicks and punches and vicious bites, Lillian desperately hoped her father would stay. Yet she gave the man no inkling.

When Mr. Waldegrave reached the door, he handed Violet the extra candle he’d procured and followed her into the blackness of the tunnel. Before he could close the door behind them, however, Lillian’s trembling voice carried through the darkness.

“H-how inappropriate are those melodies, Miss Smythe?”

Hope exploded in Violet’s chest. Momentarily forgetting proper decorum yet again, she reached around him and pushed open the heavy door in order to look into Lillian’s pale gray eyes. Violet gave her an earnest smile. “Very.”

With his brow creased in apparent confusion—and rightfully so, for Violet imagined Lillian was as new to private jokes as her father was to not being privy to them—he pivoted toward his daughter. “What’s this, Lillian?”

“I require a pianoforte,” the girl announced, her tone imperious. Shoulders back and spine straight, she exuded confidence and authority. “And art supplies. Miss Smythe will instruct me in both.”

Mr. Waldegrave glanced at Violet in openmouthed surprise before returning his dark gaze to his daughter. “Dare I hope you shall also be learning to read?”

The coldness in Lillian’s gaze was matched only by the frigidity in her tone. “I have been able to recognize my own name since I was five. How hard can it be to learn to read?”

His jaw worked silently for a brief second. Rather than find humor in his attempt to conceal what was clearly an unprecedented moment of utter bafflement, Violet’s insides once again gave a sharp turn.

She had won the skirmish with her young charge, but in doing so, had she drawn battle lines with her employer? The unfeigned astonishment in his face indicated he’d been aching to hear those words, but the immense relief in his eyes could not disguise the flicker of hurt to discover that a mere governess had gained more headway in one hour than he had in years.

Violet’s stomach chose that moment to growl its complaint.

“It is late. Of course you are starved,” he said, once again sounding perilously close to compassionate. “I should have seen you fed first. And Lillian, you shall have art supplies as soon as you master the alphabet. When you can do sums, I shall consider the pianoforte.” He narrowed his eyes at his daughter as if he still couldn’t quite fathom why his world was so off-kilter. “I will take Miss Smythe to the library in the morning so that she may select a few volumes for tomorrow’s lessons. For now, I owe her a meal and an opportunity to rest. Please bid her goodnight.”

Lillian grinned triumphantly. “Good night, Miss Smythe.”

“Good night, Miss Waldegrave,” Violet returned, as pleased to have been addressed directly as she was horrified that the child hadn’t taken her leave from her father as well. If he did not already regret hiring a governess, by now he would be well on his way to resenting her. She couldn’t help but glance up at him, but his face was unreadable. “We’ll begin tomorrow?”

He nodded his agreement before sending a last longing gaze at his child. “Good night, daughter. Sweet dreams.”

The resulting silence was thick enough to suffocate them all.

Without wasting another word, Mr. Waldegrave fairly swept Violet into the tunnel. The door latched and locked in quick succession. Holding his candle aloft, he strode past Violet and into the gloom.

More grateful than ever for the flickering taper clutched between her hands, she followed him into the darkness.

CHAPTER FIVE

Violet sank into a chair at one end of a long, elegant dining table. She felt shabbier by the second. Although Waldegrave Abbey had stood for centuries—and the silver serving dishes presumably handed down for just as long—every utensil was so shiny, every porcelain bowl so fragile, that she could not even bring herself to lift a hand to the table linen for fear of marring the silk with her mere touch.

Having the handsome Mr. Waldegrave seated across from her did little to calm her nerves. How could it? Nothing in her past had prepared her for a situation such as this.

First, he hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left Lillian’s chamber. As a father who by all signs was devoted to the wellbeing of his child, his daughter’s quick acceptance of a governess had to be both gratifying and galling.

Second—and far more unsettling than anything her employer might be thinking—were the confusing thoughts in her own head. From childhood, she had quickly learned to trust no man. All they brought was pain . . . and worse. The first and only man who had ever treated her like a real person, like a fellow human with thoughts and feelings and dreams of her own, was Old Man Livingstone. For that, Violet had loved him like . . . like a grandfather, she supposed. He was the closest thing she’d ever had to family.

Mr. Waldegrave, on the other hand, was no aging philanthropist seeking to provide the public with the use of a country manor. He was young. Handsome. A gentleman. Finely boned and finely tailored, even if he appeared plucked from a portrait of yesteryear. He was intelligent. Loving. Determined. And from the first, he had treated Violet with respect.

Was that the source of her discomfort? That she mistrusted his polite behavior and expected him to become a violent, lecherous monster at any moment, thus proving himself to be just like all the rest? By all rights, that
should
be her precise fear. But it wasn’t.

Her fear was that he wasn’t acting at all. He wasn’t waiting, biding his time for the perfect time to pounce. That he was actually . . . nice. That she would want to stay. That she would want
him
. To be part of his home. To be part of a family.

She hoped he did not detect her studying him surreptitiously. Staring at the shadow of his cheekbone, the curve of his lip, the way he gazed off over his cup of tea as if the world about him had disappeared and in their place he was building a brand new future.

If only she dared dream about her own. If only the threat of a hangman’s noose was not just outside every corner. If only . . . if only she were not servant class and he, a gentleman. She could not stop herself from watching him. The hard planes in his face, the easy grace in his movements, the light, soundless way he settled a priceless teacup atop an equally fragile china plate. Those were not hands that would bring pain or violence. Those were hands that would bring a soft touch, despite their strength. Lips that would gentle as they—

Cheeks steaming hotly, she nearly choked on her tea at the direction of her thoughts. She, who suffered nightmares about the advances of men, had actually just fantasized about
kissing?

Involuntarily, her gaze flicked back toward the lines of his closed mouth. What
would
it be like? To have the heat of lips against her throat, the sensation of a mouth brushing against her own?

Violet shifted in her seat and wished for a fan to cool her face. If she was going to survive in Waldegrave Abbey, she had to think about something else.
Anything
else.

“Thank you for taking me in.” She reached for the butter with shaking hands. “Many in your position would have sent me away without a thought.”

“Thank you for agreeing to help Lillian,” he returned. Having his eyes focused directly upon her only strengthened Violet’s wayward thoughts. His gaze did not falter. “I have learnt not to raise my hopes prematurely, but this interest in art and music is unprecedented. I trust you will do all that you can to foster a love of learning.”

“Of course,” she murmured, chagrined. She had been thinking about kissing, and he had been thinking about her duties as governess. “I will do my best.”

His smile was rueful. “I suppose my daughter is not what you anticipated?”

“I’m not sure what I anticipated,” she answered diplomatically. Her fork trembled at the slight lift to his brow. Of course he would see through such an obvious platitude. “I suppose I expected a spoiled rich girl with no greater concerns than the cut of her gown. That is clearly not the case.”

He inclined his head as if he appreciated her honesty. “Lillian’s wealth is both factual and immaterial, as it cannot be used to spoil her in the ways a parent might wish. She can have any gown she desires, but no matter how many plates I buy her, she cannot comprehend the pull of ‘fashion’ without context. I shower her with playthings, so I imagine in that respect, she is somewhat spoiled. But since I cannot allow the thing she wants most, what else am I to do but give her everything I can?”

Violet chewed her bread slowly as she debated whether—and how—to respond. Clearly the last question had been rhetorical. On the other hand, being shuttered in an abbey for years on end would make a person eager for conversational partners. Lillian was not the only one suffering in solitude. Perhaps Mr. Waldegrave would come to enjoy Violet’s company as well.

Luckily for them all, she understood little girls very well indeed. “I think Lillian needs something more fulfilling to occupy her time.”

“Exactly.” He beamed at her in satisfaction. “
Books
. I have read to her for years, but it will be splendid to have someone else to champion my cause.”

She smiled back. “Books are delightful. As is art, and dance, and music. It is one thing to enjoy what others have created, and another to create something oneself. To indulge imagination as much as education.”

“Ah, yes. The paints and the inappropriate melodies. As to dancing . . . ” His eyes shuttered. The sudden heat in his gaze made her suspect brushes and sheet music were the furthest things from his mind.

Her fingers spasmed around the handle of her fork. Here it was after all, the moment when he dropped his kindly guise and . . . but no. Mr. Waldegrave didn’t look like he was plotting to ravish her. Rather, he looked as though he were . . .
appreciating
her. Analyzing her. Cataloguing every feature. And if the slight flush at his neck were any indication, he hadn’t meant to be caught at it.