Too Wanton to Wed: Gothic Love Stories #4

by Ridley, Erica

  He gentled his voice. “So that you could experience—”

  “They’re not real! Take them away,” Lily commanded, her tone flat.

  Miss Smythe paused. Hurt and confusion lined her brow. “Oh, Lily, I had so hoped you would like—”

  “Remove them at once! All of them!”

  Miss Smythe’s gaze dropped. Her features slipped into blank expressionlessness, as if the true Miss Smythe was hidden behind an emotionless papier-mâché mask. “I meant only to please you.”

  “Well, you have not.” Lily’s voice rose in pitch and volume with each carefully enunciated word. Eyes blazing, she scrambled from her bed to glare about the room. “Why should I pretend to be like you when I can only ever be me? Why should I wish to gaze upon copies of what I will never see? I hate them. They’re awful and they’re fake. I won’t have it.”

  “Lily.” Alistair stepped between them, although whether he was sheltering his daughter from Miss Smythe or Miss Smythe from his daughter, he couldn’t say.

  “Get rid of them! I hate it all!” Lily darted past her desk and kicked over the painting with the kittens, then the one with blue jays, then the one with hyacinth. “I hate both of you for trying to make me want make-believe instead of a real life!”

  Black rain splattered across lily pads, slanting over hummingbirds and snow-white swans, sprinkling across the canvas with the rainbow as well as the one with the storm clouds before Alistair’s addled brain comprehended that the insidious black raindrops were not figments of his imagination but rather the spray of India ink from the full bottle Lily had snatched from atop her desk.

  He raced to grab her, to stop her. But even as he lifted his twisting, writhing daughter away from the paintings, she flung the contents of the inkbottle over his shoulders in poisonous arcs, destroying another row of beautiful landscapes in the process. He fumbled behind him to grab the inkwell from Lily’s hands. Blindly, she threw the bottle over his shoulder, narrowly missing the top of Miss Smythe’s head. The inkwell shattered against the brittle boards covering the sanctuary windows, raining ceramic shards and black mist over the last of the paintings.

  Miss Smythe remained where she stood. Had been as deathly still as a piece of petrified wood from the moment Lily had erupted from her bed. And now, as he was wrestling Lily onto her chair, Miss Smythe remained as stoic and unmoving as a corpse. As if she, too, was merely brushstrokes upon a canvas, and not a woman whose selfless gift of the heart had just been destroyed.

  He pinned his squirming daughter to the chair. He understood her pain, but he would not allow her to wreak any more destruction. Lily had already damaged far more than could be repaired.

  “Apologize,” he demanded.

  Lily jerked her head away.

  “There is no need for apology,” Miss Smythe interrupted. “Lily seeks the real world and all I can provide is an imitation.” Her voice was no longer warm molasses, but thin and brittle as if iron will alone was keeping it from cracking. “I am a poor substitute for what she really wants.”

  Alarmed, Lily’s arms went slack beneath his grip. Her head lifted degree by slow degree, as if the realization that she had hurt more than just the paintings was only now dawning. At last, her gaze sought out her governess.

  Making neither comment nor eye contact, Miss Smythe picked up ruined canvas after ruined canvas. The one with the kittens smudged to nothingness as it banged quietly against her hip, leaving bits of ink and specks of color along the creases of her skirt.

  Alistair’s heart clenched. A still-wet canvas could only mean Miss Smythe had been up through the night, carefully painting each stroke of the kittens’ fur for his daughter. And now their paws and playful faces were little more than muddy splotches. Miss Smythe stared at the oily mess without blinking, as if she and the ruined canvas were alone in the room.

  Lily’s shoulders trembled beneath Alistair’s fingers. He glanced down at her lest she be poised to strike again, but this time, Lily’s dark eyes were full of shock at her own handiwork.

  “M-Miss Smythe... ”

  “Lessons are canceled for today, Lily.” Miss Smythe’s voice was as devoid of life as the systematic way her tireless arms piled the carefully planned canvases atop one another. “It seems we could both use a holiday.”

  Wispy strands of black hair stuck to Lily’s wet cheeks as she desperately shook her head.

  But Miss Smythe was not watching for a reaction. Her empty eyes remained unfocused on the paintings before her, as if she were hoping to rid the room of evidence before the moment engraved itself upon her memory forever. Methodically, she staked one atop the other. Each step, each faint clatter of painting upon painting seemed to echo in the cavernous chamber until at last, the stack reached her shoulders. She gathered up as many canvases as would fit in her arms and, without taking her leave, removed both them and herself from the room. The mechanical lock clicked home behind her.

  “I didn’t mean it,” Lily shouted at the closed door. “I don’t hate you!”

  A long moment passed. The door remained closed. Miss Smythe did not return.

  Lily twisted to pin her anguished gaze up at him.

  “I don’t hate her.” Silent tears slid down her pale cheeks. “I didn’t mean it. I swear.”

  Alistair knelt before his daughter and looked her in the eyes. “She just wanted to do something nice.”

  “I know,” Lily whispered.

  “You hurt her very much,” he said gravely.

  “I know.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  Lily’s hands curled into tiny fists. “She’s trying to fix things that can’t be fixed. I can’t be fixed!”

  “I will cure you,” he said fiercely. “I will cure you or die trying.”

  “I don’t want to try. I want to be normal.” Her eyes filled. “I hate being broken.”

  Alistair pulled her into his arms and hugged her tight.

  He hated her being broken, too. He was tired of his entire family being broken, of his whole life being broken. But how could he possibly fix any of it, when the only remedy was a cure for Lily?

  His daughter clung to him for a long moment before she pushed away in sudden panic. “Will Miss Smythe come back?”

  “Not today, I think. She’s right—you both need a day of rest.” He ran the back of his knuckles down his daughter’s damp cheek.

  Lily 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,” Lily 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.”

  Lily’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 early for anyone to go anywhere, 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.” Lily dug her fingers into his arm, eyes serious. “I want her for always. Mak
e sure she never leaves us. Ever.”

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

  Chapter 17

  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 Lily’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 Lily... ” 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 Lily. “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 Lily 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.”

  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.

  “Virtually all previously church-owned property reverted back to England, but abbey churches could still be used for parish worship. Abbeys,” she repeated empha
tically. “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? All the hubbub with the stained glass renaissance, and 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.