Haunting Violet (22 page)

Once we got home I thought I'd lay in bed awake, but the next thing I knew, sunlight was falling across my eyelids and waking me up. I washed my face and wrote Elizabeth another letter, though I had no hope of her answering that one either. When a knock sounded through the house later that afternoon, I considered pretending I hadn't heard it, but morbid curiosity got the better of me. I recognized the carriage waiting on the street. Hearing Mother's lilting tones, I doubled my pace. In my haste I half slid across the wooden floors, nearly bumping into Xavier and sending us both crashing.

“Oh, excuse me,” I said. “A bit slippery there.”

He steadied me, smiling politely. He didn't remove his hat. Mother's expression glinted with a fevered triumph. I knew what she was thinking: here was the man who would save our family and take her daughter off her hands.

“Mr. Trethewey,” she said, swaying only slightly. “You are most welcome. Do come in.”

“Mrs … ah … Willoughby.” The pause was not remarked upon but it did not go unnoticed. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Miss Willoughby.”

“It ought be Lady Violet,” Mother sulked. I could all but see the fumes of sherry from where I stood. I could only hope Xavier had somehow lost his sense of smell. By the way his nose was twitching, I rather thought not. “Violet is an earl's daughter, you know.”

Xavier swallowed, quite at a loss as to how he should reply, if at all. An earl's unrecognized
bastard
daughter hardly received the same consideration as an earl's legitimate daughter. If anything, I probably ought to be going by Miss Morgan now.

“Mr. Trethewey,” I said loudly to cover her next comment, whatever it might be. “Would you care for some tea?” I led him to the parlor. His expression of relief altered to faint bewilderment as he looked around. The drawing room looked naked, bared of most of the decorative knick-knacks which had previously crowded every surface, as fashion dictated. Mother remained in the hallway, calling for Marjorie to bring the tray in an odd, sing-song voice. I tried to ignore her.

“Miss Willoughby—” He ran a finger nervously under his collar. “I've come to see if you're quite all right.”

“That's very kind of you.”

He was sitting so far away, and so proper. Just a few days ago he had stolen kisses in the dark. Now it felt as if something sat between us, all sharp edges and spikes. He stood abruptly and began to pace. It was quite unlike him to look so flustered. I narrowed my gaze.

“Miss Willoughby.” There it was again, the pointed refusal to use my first name.

“Yes?”

“I've come on urgent business.”

“I see.”

He turned, paced back. “About …”

“Yes?” My stomach dropped, even though this was hardly unexpected.

“About our engagement.”

“Yes. Shall I tell Mother you'd like to speak with her?” I don't know why I did it. I just wanted to see him squirm. I didn't know how else to hide the disappointment. Even if I knew I couldn't marry him, it would have been nice to know he stood by me regardless. I'd considered him a friend, after all. But I knew perfectly well why he had come.

“No!” he practically shouted. “That is, it's a private matter. Of some delicacy.” He swallowed convulsively. “Miss Willoughby, you must see that we cannot marry. It would be impossible.”

“Would it?” I was finding perverse pleasure in forcing him to explain every detail.

“My parents won't allow it.”

I knew for a fact that his mother must have had vapors at the thought of our families being joined. There was fame and then there was infamy. “And you?” I asked quietly.

He looked vaguely confused. “I'm sorry?”

“What do
you
think, Xavier?”

“Mother forbids it.”

“That's not what I asked, is it?”

“It would never do for me to call off the engagement, if one had indeed been formally made. I am a man of honor, after all. I am willing to let everyone believe that you were the one to cry off.”

“How very kind,” I answered dryly. He didn't even notice the sarcasm.

“I am sorry, Miss Willoughby. Truly.”

“And that's it, then?”

“You must understand. We are a respectable family and you are … well …”

“A bastard,” I supplied with vitriolic sweetness. I stood up sharply. “Good day.”

“Miss Willoughby—”

“You may see yourself out,” I cut him off. He had to leave before I betrayed myself with a trembling lip or damp cheek. He bowed once. I listened to his footsteps recede, the door shutting softly, the horses walking off.

Mother sailed cheerfully into the room, Marjorie trailing behind her with the tea cart. “Here we are, Mr.—” She stopped, frowning. “Where did he go?”

I lifted my chin. “He was called away.”

“When will he return?”

“He won't.”

She grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my skin even through my sleeve. “What? You let him go? Idiot girl.”

I tried to pull away but she was stronger. “He won't marry a bastard, Mother.”

CHAPTER 18

H
er eyes were slits.

“So now it's my fault, is it? There's gratitude for you.” She slapped me right across the mouth. “You're not to speak to me that way. I am your mother. You don't know what I've suffered. I demand your respect.”

I tasted blood on my lip.

“Stupid girl!” she yelled. “We need him. He was our last hope.” She slapped me again until I stumbled back against a chair. The legs scraped the floor. “Now we have nothing! Nothing!”

It was a punch this time and pain seared my eye, a bruise already blooming like a black rose. I threw my hands up to protect myself as Marjorie sobbed. One of the other chairs slid into the settee, slamming it against the wall. The table tilted and wobbled, untouched, as if some unseen medium sat there.

The spirits were gathering, and Mother didn't notice their objections to her treatment of me. The curtains flung and twisted as if a storm blew. Angry faces formed in the mirrors, in the windows, even in the milk jug on the tray.

It seemed like ages before Colin burst through the door and pulled her off me.

“Get off!” he yelled. She scratched at him and blood trickled down the side of his face. His eyes were like tarnished silver coins.

“Fine!” she screeched. “You two deserve each other!”

She flung off his restraining hand and stalked upstairs. Her bedroom door slammed hard enough to rattle the chandelier in the hall. I stayed on the floor, curled into a tight ball. Colin crouched, his breathing hard, his words forced between his clenched teeth.

“Violet, she's gone.” He reached out to stroke my hair, so gently I might have imagined it. “You're all right now, she's gone.”

Marjorie left and then returned and I still didn't move. She handed Colin a chunk of raw beef wrapped in a towel.

“For the swelling,” she whispered before leaving again. The door shut quietly behind her. It was just Colin and me and the sun setting at the window, burning lavender and orange through the gaps in the draperies. He didn't say anything, just handed me the towel and went to light a fire in the grate. The scratch of the matches, the lick of the fire against the wood were a comforting lullaby. I sat up carefully, my face aching, my arms sore. I wrinkled my nose at the red meat.

“I don't know how I feel about having supper on my face.”

“It'll help,” Colin promised, feeding more wood into the flames. He didn't turn around until I tried to stand up, and then he was at my elbow almost instantly. I tried to smile even though it wasn't terribly convincing.

“I'm all right,” I assured him.

He only grunted, but he did step back enough to let me make my own way to the chair nearest the fire. “What set her off this time?” he asked grimly.

I held the raw beefsteak gingerly against my cheek, grimacing. “Xavier came.”

“Ah.” There was a long beat of silence. “And?”

“And you can't expect a son from a respectable family to marry a bastard, can you?” I tried to ignore the flutter of ghostly movement by the door. Perhaps if I didn't pay them any mind, the spirits would grow bored with me and leave. Already a pair of disembodied eyes watched me from the doorway, and a head hovered through the glass-encased clock on the mantel.

Colin's mouth tightened. “He said that to you?”

“He may as well. It's what he meant to say between all the polite stammering.”

“Ijit.”

I tossed the beef wrap aside. “I suppose I'm better off.”

He was careful not to meet my gaze. “Did you love him, then?”

“I thought I might be able to. I guess not, though, as I'm not nearly as upset as I ought to be.”

“Good.”

“There's no escape for me now though,” I murmured. When I looked up there was a crush of spirits, all watching me intently. I shivered. Colin followed my glance, saw nothing, looked closer, and still saw only furniture and firelight.

“Stop it,” I said softly but firmly. They remained and seemed only the more interested.

“
Tell Bradley I miss him
,” came a whisper.

“
Can you see us?
”

“
Where's the old enameled table that used to sit here? I carved my name on it once, when I was six.
”

I shut my eyes tightly for a few moments. Colin took my hand, his warm, callused palm against mine. When I opened my eyes again, most of the spirits had faded except for an older man standing at Colin's shoulder, cap in hands.

“
Miss, if you don't mind …
”

I smiled. “Colin, your grandfather was a gardener, wasn't he? Back in Ireland? Bushy eyebrows, big hands?”

Colin blinked at me. “Aye.”

I nodded, listening. “When you were five you dug up all of his turnips and ate them. He says you had such a bellyache, he didn't have the heart to punish you.”

Colin looked behind him. “Is he here?”

“He was,” I said as the old man vanished. “He looks out for you, I think.”

“And my mother?”

I shook my head. “I'm sorry. I could only see him.”

“Hell of a talent, Vi,” he said finally.

“I know.” I pushed my hair off my shoulders, wincing when my neck protested.

“Does it hurt?” he asked instantly. “You've got a right shiner starting already.”

My eye did feel tender and puffy but at least the sharp throbbing had subsided. My lip tingled painfully.

“You have to get out of here, Violet,” he said quietly, grimly.

“Where am I supposed to go? Lord Thornwood won't take me in, and even if he did, do you expect his family would accept me?” I snorted. “I rather doubt it.”

“I know she's your mam, but she's no good for you.”

“Can we not talk about this?” I asked, mostly because I knew he was right. “I really just want to forget this day ever happened.” I leaned my head back. The room was dark now, the sun had long since set completely in the fog. The fire was cheerful and the rest of the house so hushed it might have been deserted. Marjorie and Cook were no doubt in hiding in the back of the kitchen, and Mother always took to her bed after one of her fits, no matter the time. Even the streets outside were quiet.

“Colin?” I was suddenly very aware of his body close beside me, his legs stretched along mine, our boots resting lightly together.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

I seized the moment before I could talk myself out of it.

I kissed him because kissing Colin was like being outside during an electrical storm and refusing to go inside where it was safe. He tasted like candy and smoke. He tasted right. His hand cradled the back of my neck. My cut lip tingled slightly at the pressure but I hardly cared. We kissed as if there was nothing more important, not even air.

Finally, when we pulled apart to rest my already sore lip, we stretched out on the carpet in front of the fire. We drank cold tea and ate all the biscuits and bread and butter sandwiches and talked for hours.

“Perhaps Mother's wrong,” I said, watching the flames thoughtfully, chin propped on my hand. “I might make a good governess. I do love to read, after all.”

“You're clever enough,” Colin assured me. “But your mother's right. No one would hire you. You're too pretty.”

“Oh, honestly.”

“Wives of earls and dukes don't bring pretty sixteen-year-old girls to live with them, Violet. It'd be daft.”

I blew out a breath, ruffling a lock of hair falling over my shoulder. “That's not fair.”

He shrugged one shoulder negligently. “It never is.” He lay next to me, shoulder brushing mine. “You could be part of the black-letter gentry, like Charles Dickens and the Bell brothers you love so much, and write your own books.”

I smiled. “That sounds lovely. I suppose I could also be a teacher in one of those dreadful academies. I'd need to save enough money to advertise first. Or do they advertise?”

“I could find out,” he offered. “Are you serious about leaving?”

I touched my aching face. “Yes. But I don't know how.” It wouldn't solve my problems to get taken in by some scoundrel in my haste to run away. And even though I was brilliant at picking pockets, it was a risky way to live.

“I'd go with you,” Colin said quietly.

“Really?”

“You know I would.”

My heart rang like a silver bell in my chest. “If you could do anything, what would you do? Would you go back to Ireland?” The ringing bell tarnished a little at the thought.

“Maybe,” he said. “I've no family left there but I miss the green hills. I'd love to show them to you, show you Tara and the Cliffs of Moher. We could live in a thatched cottage and keep sheep.”

I grinned at him. “If
you
clean up after them.”

“What would be your perfect day then?” he asked, grinning back at me. “If you don't like my sheep?”

“Your cottage sounds nice,” I allowed. “I'd like to sleep in late and read as many books as I'd like and drink tea with lemon and eat pineapple slices for breakfast.”

“No velvet dresses and diamonds?”

I rolled my eyes, then stopped when the bruise throbbed. “Ouch. And no, of course not. I don't care about that. Only books.” I looked at him shyly. “And you.”

“That's all right then,” he said softly. He ran his fingers very gently under my aching cheekbone. “Does it hurt?”

I nodded. It hurt like the devil and I didn't care one bit. He didn't kiss me and I didn't kiss him. We just started at each other for a long, delicious moment, the fire crackling beside us. His eyes looked gray in the shifting light, more like a winter lake than a summer ocean. His black hair fell into his eyes as usual and I brushed it away.

“What's your perfect day?” I whispered.

“Getting out of London would be a start,” he said. “I can't stand the gray air. I want fields and forests and the sky wherever you look. I don't need much, maybe a small garden to grow lettuce and peas and an apple tree. My mam made a brilliant apple pie.”

We talked until my eyelids grew heavy but I didn't want to break the moment. I rolled onto my back to rest my head. I opened my mouth wide, moving my jaw.

“What on earth are you doing?” Colin grinned. “You look like a monkey.”

“Oh, that's nice. I was trying to see if my face still hurts. And it does, by the way.” I arched an eyebrow. “And that's hardly a way to speak to a lady, you know.”

“You're Violet.” He reached out and fiddled with a satin ribbon that was coming loose off the trim of my dress. “I guess, you're
not
just Violet anymore, are you?”

“I am so. Being an earl's bastard is hardly coming up in the world, Colin. Nothing's changed, not really.”

A small dark gray schnauzer dog pranced toward me. I could almost feel the rough texture of his tongue as he licked my hand, even though I could see right through him.

Well, I supposed
some
things had changed.

I scratched his ears, or the air around them at any rate, and he wagged his tail.

Colin pulled back. “
Now
what are you doing?”

“Playing with the dog.”

“Playing with …” He paused.

“Spirit dog,” I elaborated, as if that explained everything.

He just rolled his eyes. “Of course.” I loved him even more for that simple casual reaction. There was no judgment to it, no fear, no disbelief. He trusted me.

“He's rather sweet actually.”

“What's his name?”

“How should I know?” I held on to Colin's hand for a moment when the floor tilted at an odd angle. I'd have to get used to this spirit vision eventually. I couldn't get dizzy and fall over every time I saw a ghost. I'd never get anything done. “I don't speak dog.”

The little schnauzer scampered around me.

“Most people have pets others can see.”

“Pish. I think I'll call him Mr. Rochester.” I yawned, despite myself. My lip split painfully. I touched it, wincing.

“You should rest. It's nearly dawn.” He took my hand and pulled me to my feet, walking with me up the narrow stairs. “Good night, Violet,” he murmured when we reached my door. He propped one hand on the doorway, leaning in to kiss me.

“Good night,” he said again before turning down the other hallway to the back of the house. I wasn't sure how long I stood there watching him go, but the sound of his door closing had my mother's opening shortly after. The ghost of a small girl stood behind her, making faces and sticking out her tongue. Mother saw only me standing there, smiling foolishly.

“Violet. Do you know what time it is?”

“Very late.” I turned to go to bed. I tried to avoid my ghostly dog and tripped over my own foot.

“What's the matter with you?”

“I tripped over the dog,” I informed her, somewhat haughtily. I was tired enough that I felt light-headed and fuzzy. Otherwise I would have known better than to mention it at all.