Haunting Violet (10 page)

The planchette continued to move, toward the
O
.

“Romantic? It's going to tell us our husband's name! Or else … rotund?” She paused. “Is it calling us fat?”

W
.

“Someone's going to have a row?” She blinked, inhaling sharply. “Oh.” She met my eyes. I nodded, not looking up from the movement of the planchette.

The rest of the name was painstakingly spelled out.

Rowena.

I felt odd, light-headed and short of breath, and the spot between my eyes burned.

Elizabeth was trembling, her eyes glistening. “Truly? Rowena?”

I'd forgotten that, to Elizabeth, this was an old friend who had tragically died last summer, not just some ghost tormenting her. The planchette was moving much more quickly, like a beetle on the surface of a pond.

“
N-o-t s-a-f-e.
”

Elizabeth and I stared at the board.

“What's not safe?” she whispered, looking at me with wide eyes.

The planchette continued its eerie journey.

“
N-o-t a-l-o-n-e.
”

Both of us looked over our shoulders. My breath felt thick in my throat. I could very easily imagine someone sneaking up behind us even though there was nothing but a painted clothes cabinet behind me. Rowena must have meant herself. There was someone else with her, trying to control the board. Or else there was someone else searching out her murderer, and we weren't alone in the investigation. Or there was someone in the hallway listening to our conversation. There were so many interpretations, I felt as if we now knew less than when we'd started.

The pointer stalled. I could feel the connection wavering; the burning on my brow became a distracting pain.

“Rowena, don't go!” Elizabeth cried. “You have to tell us what's going on!”

The planchette spelled out
M-r
and then
T-r-a
.

And then it went suddenly fast as a top. It spun and spun in place and then stopped abruptly and would not move again no matter how much we concentrated or pleaded. Elizabeth looked nearly as flabbergasted as I felt.

“Bollocks,” she whispered.

I nodded mutely. But at least we knew something we hadn't known previously. There was a person of interest whose name started with “Tra,” perhaps the spirit clinging to the board with Rowena? Perhaps someone else altogether.

It wasn't much. But at least it was something.

The next morning I tried to ask if Mother knew anyone with a name starting with “T-r-a,” but she told me not to bother her while she was preparing for the ball. Without any new sightings, I managed to forget about the voices and the spirit-board for a little while. A ball is a most wonderful distraction when one concentrates hard enough. Elizabeth spent hours preparing, which mostly consisted of arguing with her mother about corset stays versus the physical need to breathe. Neither she nor I were debutantes just yet (and I never would be), but we were allowed to wear our best gowns and put our hair up with pearl-tipped pins. Should anyone ask, we were even allowed to dance. It was considered perfect practice for when we officially came out. If I felt a little like a show pony, I was proud enough of my off-the-shoulder periwinkle blue gown not to mind it terribly.

The ballroom was spectacular, as expected, lit with beeswax candles and oil lamps. Giant ferns and orange trees had been brought from the conservatory and placed in all the corners, creating shadowy and secret jungles. And, of course, there were roses everywhere—white ones hanging from the ceiling, red petals scattered over every surface: floor, table, and punch bowl. Even the orchestra was hidden behind rose-draped screens so that the music seemed to float from nowhere at all. In the room adjacent, the buffet table was piled high with cucumber sandwiches, plum cake, and soda creams. Footmen circulated with trays of lemonade and champagne. There were easily a hundred guests, as Lord Jasper had invited most of his neighbors alongside his friends and family. Couples waltzed in a large circle in the center of the room. It was beautiful.

But something wasn't right.

The ballroom was far more crowded than the guests alone could account for. Next to or behind each of them was an extra person: misty, cold, thin as glass and just as transparent.

I rubbed my eyes but the spirits remained, waltzing, walking, and singing. A few were dressed as the rest of us, some were in chitons, and one woman was in a full Renaissance gown.

A man waltzed by in the striped waistcoat of a dandy, another in a doublet and hose.

A lady in a dress such as Marie-Antoinette might have worn, with her hair piled high around a small, gilded cage complete with singing bird; a girl in a gypsy skirt; and a man who looked decidedly like a pirate. His ear hoop gleamed and he moved like smoke.

Some wept, some laughed. One appeared to be screaming into an old man's ear but he didn't so much as blink. Indeed, none of the other guests could see them, judging from the lack of fainting and shrieks.

I could see them perfectly.

And they could see me.

I'd never felt the way I did in that moment, when they all turned in unison to clap their phosphorescent eyes on me. I felt light and yet heavy as stone. My stomach turned upside down, as if I was riding far too fast in a broken carriage. I felt somehow far away from my body and yet utterly trapped in it through fear and awe.

Rowena, on the other hand, barely acknowledged me, which seemed odd. She was usually far too eager to insinuate herself into my company. Instead, tonight she hovered protectively by Tabitha's side, water pooling under her feet. She wore a crown of white lilies. She looked at me, at last, as she tried to place herself between her sister and a man whose back was turned to me. I couldn't recognize him; he wore the same dark suit as every other man here, with indistinguishable brown hair cut in the current style. He could have been anyone.

And I didn't have time to wait for him to turn around.

Because the other ghosts abandoned their posts, no longer dancing with unknowing partners, watching over wallflowers, or pressing close to widowed dowagers.

They rushed at me, all at once, as if some beacon only they could see had been lit above me. Their expressions registered countless emotions: relief, excitement, anger, fear, longing.

The force of it crashed over me like icy water.

Their mouths moved but I heard no words: only something like thunder and a high-pitched screech, like metal on metal, which had me clapping my hands over my ears. The ribbons on my dress fluttered.

The rest of the party carried on, sipping lemonade, gossiping, smoking cigars outside in the still garden. I barely heard the sweeping music or the scuff of silk shoes on the floor. There was nothing but those ghostly faces, those misty bodies.

Hands reached toward me, dozens of spirit hands touching me with all the weight of winter. I'd never felt such cold in my entire life, not even the day I'd fallen into the river in February.

“Stop it!” I stumbled back a step, trying to bat them away. A prim-mouthed guest looked at me disapprovingly. I didn't know how long I'd been standing there, frozen at first and then pushing at imaginary hands.

I moaned once before a warm hand, palm comfortingly callused, closed around my upper arm and yanked me back out into the hallway. He dragged me or I stumbled after him, until he stopped in a shadowy alcove. I pressed my back against the solid wall and slid down to the floor, heedless of my new gown and the pale silk flowers sewn along the hem and trims.

CHAPTER 8

V
iolet.”

I admit I was too afraid to open my eyes. At least that awful grating sound had died away.

“Vi! You're pale as a ghost!”

He had no idea.

“Violet, for God's sake, open your eyes.”

Colin sounded worried, sharp. He was a little watery around the edges when I looked at him, wavering faintly before returning to reassuring solidity.

“What the bloody hell happened?”

“I …” I had to struggle to find my breath. He crouched down in front of me, blissfully alone. No pale face loomed behind his shoulder or whispered in his ear. I was so grateful for it that I clasped his hand. He looked briefly startled before returning the light squeeze. “I wasn't feeling quite right.”

“Evidently.”

“Did anyone else notice?”

He shrugged. “I don't think so. You just looked frightened, like you were going to swoon.”

“I never swoon,” I quipped back at him.

“It's what I like best about you.”

“How very flattering.”

He went serious for a moment. “Do you need a doctor?”

“No! No, I feel better already. Must have been the excitement.”

He didn't look particularly convinced. “There's something you're not telling me.”

I tried for a breezy smile, getting to my feet and putting my dress back to rights.

“Maybe you should lie down,” he added.

I made a face. “And miss the ball? Mother would be as furious as a bag of wet monkeys.” Actually, I had no idea if wet monkeys were known for their particular anger.

Colin's eyes seemed to close, like shutters over a window. “You'd better get back then,” he said sarcastically, “and trap your prince.”

I narrowed my gaze at him. “Stop calling him that. He's a perfectly nice gentleman.”

“So his mama liked you well enough then? Isn't that fortunate? And how long do you think he would have paid you compliments if his mother disapproved?”

I scowled. “I can't keep up with your moods, Colin Lennox. You're either kissing me or snapping at me. I wish you'd make up your bloody mind.”

I stomped off, back to the ballroom. The music was softer now, slower. It took every ounce of courage in my possession to step through the doorway. I let out a sigh when it appeared that no one spared me much of a glance. And they seemed quite alone, dancing as one did at a ball, quite unshadowed by spirits—which meant I could go back to being a girl at her first fancy ball. And though it was tempting, I managed not to shove anyone out of my way in my haste to find Elizabeth. I could just imagine the reaction if I'd knocked some old widow with pearls in her hair into the punch bowl.

I finally found Elizabeth on the edge of the dance floor, near her mother, who was whispering feverishly behind her hand to a woman dripping diamonds. My lower back was still damp with perspiration. I hoped it wouldn't mark the silk. Elizabeth was very pretty in a plum gown with lilac satin trim. She wore a lovely necklace of amethyst and pearl loops. My own neck was bare. I hadn't anything appropriate for a fancy-dress ball, only a simple cameo brooch an admirer had once given my mother. She'd grown tired of it and now it was mine.

I tried to ignore the glances thrown my way as I moved through the crowd. I ought not to be unaccompanied, but I'd slipped out before Mother could notice. She'd been drinking her “medicinal” tea all afternoon, and I had no wish to catch her attention.

“Violet!” Elizabeth clasped my hands. “Oh, thank God. I was beginning to feel like a veritable ninny standing here alone all this time, and Mother wouldn't let me wander, not even for lemonade. Where have you been?” She blinked. “You're rather pale.”

“I'm sure it's the excitement, nothing more.” I smiled weakly, determined to enjoy the night and pretend I was like any other sixteen-year-old girl, one who didn't see spirits or dead girls dripping onto the carpet.

“Well, you look lovely, anyway,” she added. “Xavier won't be able to keep his eyes off you.”

We waited until the music had faded and started up again before Elizabeth took my arm. “Mother, we're going for a turn about the room.”

Lady Ashford nodded, engrossed in some tidbit of gossip we weren't allowed to hear. We circled the dancing couples, admiring handsome sideburns and pretty tucked flounces. We stopped several times so that Elizabeth could murmur politely to her mother's friends, and once for Tabitha's uncle, Sir Wentworth, with his bushy sideburns and rotund belly, to tweak her cheek and slip her a piece of chocolate wrapped in gold foil. Apparently he had been doing that since she was a child.

Elizabeth sighed in that way I knew all too well. “Do you suppose Frederic will ask me to dance?”

I followed her gaze to where he was laughing with several friends over glasses of port. It wouldn't be long before they escaped to the gaming halls. Most young men of his age considered these balls to be tiresome affairs, forever being forced into asking wealthy single girls to dance, regardless of whether or not they had horse teeth or fainted at the sight of a moth. It was worse for the debutantes: they had to dance with wealthy old men who smelled like stewed onions and stepped on their toes. I didn't think Frederic noticed us, even when we wandered with excruciating slowness past him, lingering practically under his nose.

“Elizabeth,” I whispered. “A lame donkey could walk faster than this.”

She tried not to laugh and ended up snorting instead. “Shh,” she added. We giggled and continued to make the circuit of the room. I'd never seen so many beautiful gowns in my life, or so many jewels. Everything sparkled. We accepted crystal cups of cherryade from a passing footman.

“Can you imagine? Wearing that color at her age?” We heard a woman sniff disapprovingly. She was regal in a silvery gray gown with several ruffles and flounces. Her companion wore green silk and an equally disgusted expression. The crowd parted, allowing us a view of the woman in question.

My mother.

She wore pink, from her bustle to her square rose-trimmed neckline, with darker pink for an underskirt. It was silk and she all but shimmered in it. Her dark hair was coiled on top, with long ringlets down her back. She wore garnets at her throat and was surrounded with younger men, all no doubt lavishing her with praise.

It wasn't that she didn't look very becoming in the pink dress. I'd rarely seen another color do more for her complexion, but that shade of candy pink was generally reserved for younger girls. Mother always wanted to appear much younger than she was. She was never happier than when some handsome lord mistook her for my older sister. And it was quite a dramatic departure from her widow's weeds.

“Shameful,” said the lady in green silk. “And she's a widow, is she not?”

“She's worn the black for years, as I hear it. Except for formal balls.”

“A lady of good breeding would know better. Honestly, what can Lord Jasper be thinking, parading his mistress about like that? As if we'd believe she's just some Spiritualist he's taken a scientific interest in.”

She tittered. I'd never actually heard someone titter before. Beside me, Elizabeth winced.

“He's lonely, poor old thing.”

“And rich enough not to care what the rest of us think,” came the dry reply.

They laughed together while I stood, rooted to the floor. Mother laughed as well, and it was like silver bells, but too loud. Her cheeks were flushed. I knew, even from this distance, that the sherry she'd been drinking all day had been followed by several glasses of fine champagne.

“Never mind them,” Elizabeth said. “You know how people get. They're just jealous that they already look like wrinkled old prunes.”

I just nodded, feeling even more awful because I agreed with what they'd said about my mother. She always behaved this way when there were wealthy men around, whatever their age. The man smiling at her just now was barely older than I was, which didn't seem to bother her one whit. She glanced at him through her lashes. For all that she craved respectability, Mother was a consummate flirt. Even though I knew it would do no good, I went over to her.

“Mother.”

She pouted. She didn't want me to remind her admirers of her age.

“Impossible!” one of them cried out. “You couldn't have a grown daughter.”

She smiled demurely and tapped his chest with the tip of her folded fan. “You flatter me, sir.”

“And such a beautiful daughter,” Lord Marshall murmured. I shifted uncomfortably.

“Mother, perhaps one of these gentlemen could fetch you some lemonade. You must be thirsty.”

She just giggled. “I don't want lemonade,” she said. “But a kiss to the first one to bring me champagne.”

Half a dozen men trampled off like wild buffalo. There were squeaks of protest from women who didn't flirt nearly as well as my mother and therefore had to all but leap out of the way. Lord Marshall remained at her side, kissing the palm of her hand in a most indiscrete manner.

“Mother,” I groaned, mortified. She shot me a look that made me fall back a step.

“Don't be tiresome, Violet. I knew you were too young yet to attend a ball. I should send you to your room.”

I bit back tears even though I wasn't sure why they stung my eyes. She'd certainly said worse to me. It was just something about the way she'd looked at me. If I hadn't known better, if she hadn't been my own mother, I would have thought I'd seen resentment, even a touch of hatred. I didn't know what to do.

“Come on, Vi,” Elizabeth whispered. “Let's take another turn.”

“Yes, do run along, children,” Lord Marshall murmured.

Mother giggled again, and Elizabeth and I left to stroll the circuit, arm in arm. Suddenly the ball was less exciting, less magical.

“Excuse me,” I said, when we passed the double doors to the hall.

Elizabeth looked concerned. “Shall I come with you?”

“I'm fine, only a little overheated.” I forced a smile for her benefit. She didn't believe me, of course, but she didn't follow me.

The hall was deserted and it was a relief to leave behind the hot, scented air of the ballroom. I wandered down toward the conservatory, pausing to admire a massive bronze urn on a marble table. It was large enough to house what looked like an entire rosebush, with space left for peacock feathers, fern fronds, and stalks of white lilies. I circled it, using its bulk to conceal myself—but only for a moment. I wouldn't give either my mother or the other ladies the satisfaction of running away to hide in my room. I'd be perfectly fine in a moment. My throat felt less constricted already. And if my mother wasn't going to be embarrassed about her own behavior, why should I? If nothing else, I had to keep her away from Mrs. Trethewey.

I lifted my chin and prepared to pretend I was a sheltered girl without a clue as to what was going on. I was determined to salvage what was left of the evening. Even muffled through the closed doors, the music was beautiful, haunting.

And then all I knew was the sound of bronze against marble, an odd screeching scrape, and the shadow of the urn toppling toward me. I stared at it uncomprehending, even as a small part of me realized I was about to be crushed. I didn't have time to decide whether I should steel myself for impact or try to leap to safety.

The decision was made for me. A hand closed over my arm, digging painfully as it yanked me out of the way. The urn tipped to the floor with a resounding
crash
, spilling water and lily petals. My breath was still caught in my throat, like a lump of dry bread, when I recognized the man towering over me.

“Have a care, Miss Willoughby,” he murmured, his silver cravat pin gleaming. I stumbled back out of his hold, trembling. I recognized the cravat pin from the gardens.

Several footmen raced toward us. “What happened? Are you hurt, miss?”

I shook my head, trying to find my voice. “The urn fell.”

“You ought to be more careful,” the man with the pin said to me in a way that made me think he was actually saying something else. In the shadows of the hallway, he looked gaunt. His suit may as well have hung on a scarecrow. He finally looked at one of the footmen. “This urn ought to be better secured. Lord Jasper will need to be informed. One would assume he doesn't plan to have his guests flattened.” His gaze swung back to me. “Do you wish for us to summon your mother?”

“No!” I could just imagine her response should she be taken away from her admirers. “I'm perfectly well, thank you. My friend is waiting for me.” I swallowed, my heart still racing inside my chest. My corset felt tighter than usual. Even though he made me uncomfortable with his staring, he had saved me from injury. I curtsied. He bowed and left.

I stopped the footman. “Who was that man?” I asked him.

“Mr. Travis, miss. Right kind fellow he is too, but tormented. Paces the halls all night and doesn't sleep.”