Fair Cyprians of London Boxset: Books 1-5: Five passionate Victorian Romances

by Beverley Oakley

  His horse had been brought round; the eager white mare flicking its ears in the drizzle as she stamped her hooves and snorted in the frosty air. He’d miss the old girl, but there would be compensations in that magical land across the sea.

  For a moment, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine the grassy African veldt that had beckoned so powerfully only weeks ago. When that didn’t materialise, he conjured up the sparking gold and diamonds that might be the result of a lucky strike in the diggings—once he got there.

  But the only gold or diamonds he could envisage were those he’d love to see adorning Violet’s creamy white throat.

  “You’ll catch your death, Max.” Mabel hugged herself and stamped her feet to ward off the cold as she stood on the top step. “Violet will understand if you don’t come to fetch her. Let her return in the carriage.” She sighed and added a little wistfully, “Though I daresay you can’t bear to be away from each other a moment longer.”

  Max nodded. “Goodbye, Mabel.” He held out his hand to his old friend and was pleased when she moved to embrace him. He wanted to know there was no bad blood between them since he didn’t know how long it would be before he saw her again.

  But her words stayed in his mind. He couldn’t bear to be away from Violet at this moment, it was true, but he couldn’t be with her, either. It would be fatal to see her again, which was why he’d had to resort to some vigorous exercise in this ridiculously inclement weather. Anything to keep himself occupied while he whiled away the time until he could board his ship.

  Without any notion of where he was going, he set off in the direction of his grandfather’s estate, though of course he had no intention of going there.

  But he had to go somewhere and so he headed west. A brisk, hour-long canter in that direction might work off his agitation and he could return later that night to a hot bath, a fortifying whiskey, and then bed where he’d spend his final night under English skies.

  He’d have all of tomorrow to make any final preparations, as long as he was at the docks by four in the afternoon.

  It was a relief to leave the traffic behind him and to at last be amidst meadowed fields and quiet woods.

  He imagined Violet readying herself for Lord Bainbridge, a thought which made him feel physically ill. He hoped the additional funds he’d deposited into her account would make her think more kindly towards him.

  Not that he feared on that score. Violet had been remarkably accepting. Some females in her position would have gone all out to stick their claws in as deeply as they could. They’d have used reproaches and pretended Max had gone back on his word.

  Violet, of course, had made it clear how much she wanted him to stay, but she’d done it so sweetly. If Max had had any intention of remaining in England, he would have stayed with her.

  She was the most beautiful…and the most beautifully natured…female he’d ever come across.

  The steady drizzle by late afternoon, and the effort it took to avoid the muddy puddles, whose depth he could not gauge, should have taken all his attention yet still his mind wandered back to Violet.

  How he wished he could think of something else. It was too dismal to dwell on her sad life and how much she’d lost.

  He passed a hovel on the outskirts of a village and a couple of scrawny, ragged children, each with a dead rabbit slung over his shoulder. Violet was lucky compared with them, he reminded himself. There were thousands of young women in her position and Max, tenderhearted though he was, couldn’t play philanthropist to them all.

  He’d reasoned this out many times.

  Yet, he did wish he could finish up with one last, fitting gesture before he left English soil. A gesture that would bring a little joy and solace to Violet. Something that came from the heart, but which suggested no weakening on his part.

  The thought presented itself to him quite suddenly when he saw the name carved into a stone with an arrow pointing in the direction he was travelling, though he was about to turn back.

  Ruislip.

  It wasn’t so great a distance further. In all likelihood, it’s where he’d intended to go from the outset, if he was prepared to admit it.

  By the time he reached the turnoff for Ruislip, Max wasn’t at all sure it was a good idea to follow his inclination to deviate via the village. What could be gained by it other than a cursory glance at the house where Violet claimed to have spent her last few years? The house of an unloving grandmother who was fast losing her mind, according to his aunt’s reports. Max certainly had nothing to say to her.

  Nevertheless, he left the main road and directed his horse towards the cluster of habitations. Other than what were obviously labourers’ dwellings, there were several fine houses on either side of the graveyard.

  This was the graveyard in which Violet’s sister had been laid to rest. The sky had darkened considerably, but he was already so wet through the weather hardly mattered.

  What did matter was executing a lovely, final gesture—laying flowers on Emily Lilywhite’s grave. He could write to Violet and describe the charm of her sister’s resting place. It would surely give her some comfort. He felt a jolt of warmth at the idea of making Violet happy, and raised his head to survey the area: a few ramshackle, ill-tended graves to his right, and a few rows of neatly tended graves stretching out towards the grey stone church that huddled bleakly amidst grey skies and dull green fields.

  He began to walk the rows, searching for the Lilywhite graves, until he found Zebediah Lilywhite—perhaps Violet’s grandfather—beneath a hawthorn tree. Beside him were the graves of his son and daughter-in-law. “Died in Cawnpore. In Memory of…” Yes, these were Violet’s parents. With their deaths having occurred in India, he’d been unsure if he’d find anything here to mark their passing.

  He was also relieved to find evidence Violet had been telling the truth. But then, that was one of the things he admired about Violet. She was honest.

  Honest about her feelings. Honest about her failings.

  Yet proud.

  He shook his head to clear it when he realised what he was doing—dwelling on Violet much too much when he was about to leave her. He was here to carry out a small gesture to assuage his conscience and make Violet feel better. That was all.

  He glanced down at the sorry bunch of flowers he’d picked during his journey to place on Emily’s grave.

  If he could only find it.

  Pulling up his collar against the wind and the rain, he contemplated Elizabeth and James Lilywhite’s graves. An adventurous pair, obviously. He was curious to know what had lured them to India. Was it the spoils of trade? The adventure? Had Elizabeth been as willing to leave England as her husband? How had she endured in frontier-like conditions?

  Stamping his feet to keep his blood flow going, he checked himself for thinking such things when it was too late. Violet hadn’t spoken much about her parents, but there had been little time for idle chitchat during the past three weeks. The raging physical attraction between them had taken centre stage. With more time for contemplation, Max would have liked to have quizzed Violet about her life in India in view of what he might expect in exploring new frontiers in Africa.

  A crack of lightning illuminated the old stone church with its rows of crooked headstones. The evening was advancing, and he should be returning to London for his final night there.

  Max sent another dubious look at his floral offering as he leaned over to place them on the moss covering beneath Elizabeth Lilywhite’s headstone.

  He hesitated. Despite the weather and the late hour, he really should make the effort to find Emily’s grave since he’d come so far. Hers was the grave he wanted to tell Violet he’d seen and tended. He needed to describe it to her and assure her it was well tended.

  Slowly he retraced his footsteps, scanning the names of every stone in the cemetery, but still he could not find it.

  The storm was intensifying; cracks of lightning spearing the sky with greater frequency now. It was madness
for him to be delaying his return, and in weather like this it was foolish in the extreme.

  Frustrated, he returned to the graves of Violet’s parents; put the flowers on Elizabeth’s grave, and headed towards his horse which was tethered by the lych-gate.

  As he passed beneath the arch, movement caught his eye and he flinched, immediately berating himself for being twitchy in what seemed so much more ghostly only because of the weather.

  Glancing down, he realised it was a prone form, lying along the narrow bench, that had moved. He was about to pass on, assuming the huddled bundle was a vagrant or traveller seeking what little sanctuary the narrow, covered area offered from the wild weather.

  But it was not an adult, he quickly saw, and as he passed near, the child sat up, gasping, her expression full of terror when she saw him, before she regained her composure, tucking her knees up under her chin, and staring over his shoulder as if he were of no account.

  “Should you not be at home?” he asked. He’d thought the child perhaps a gypsy or beggar child, but then saw her clothes were too fine and she was clearly well nourished. A gentleman’s daughter? It was an incongruous finding and decidedly concerning to the parents who must surely have no idea she was here.

  The girl shrugged. “Maybe,” she said, dropping her eyes and tracing a pattern distractedly upon her knee.

  “Is it far to go? I can take you,” he offered, despite himself. “Your parents will be worried.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  She was so dismissive of his help Max was at a loss. How could he leave a child outside in the dark, alone, in a storm? A little girl? Well, no more than ten or eleven. His conscience wouldn’t allow it. Her parents would be wild with anxiety. He certainly would be if she were his.

  Unwilling to walk on, he cast about for something that might elicit some information from the runaway. She had to have run away, he decided.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you back to your house?” He indicated the two buildings on either side.

  She shrugged but said nothing, evading his look. In the light of the moon, her pale skin had a ghostly pallor, her eyes seeming too large for her face. Framed by strands of wet, dark hair, her forlorn appearance tugged at his heartstrings. He wondered what must have happened to have sent her into such extreme weather.

  “You look as if you can’t live too far away. Perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for the grave of Emily Lilywhite.”

  The girl’s head jerked up. “I’m Emily Lilywhite,” she said.

  Her eyes were suddenly bright, her body tense as she leapt up, craning her neck to look at him. “I think you must mean you’re looking for Violet Lilywhite’s grave; then I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place, sir. Violet is buried in London.”

  Max stared for a long moment. “Who told you that?” he asked, already knowing the answer as a terrible weight of premonition weighed upon his shoulders.

  “Grandmama.” The little girl slumped back onto the bench seat. “Violet is my sister, you see, but she died last year.”

  Max cleared his throat. “Did your grandmother say…anything else?”

  Emily’s lip quivered. “Only that Violet had been wicked, and she died a horrible death because of the evil creature she was.”

  “Have you been to London to see where she’s buried?”

  The girl ran her hand across her wet cheeks and shook her head. “Grandmama only told me after the funeral, and when I wanted to go and see my sister’s resting place she said I’d be contaminated.” Dully, she returned to tracing patterns with her finger on her knee.

  Seething inside, Max managed to ask, calmly, “What else did she tell you?”

  “That not a single person went to Violet’s funeral because my sister was a witch with a soul as black as night and everybody was afraid her sin might rub off onto them.” Her voice broke. “I don’t think Violet was a witch. We didn’t see many people, living at Grandmama’s, but everyone thought Violet was beautiful. And kind.”

  “I’d describe your sister like that, too.”

  “You would?” Emily’s head jerked up and she cupped her face. She looked suddenly beautiful and very much like Violet when she was animated like this. “You knew her?”

  Max nodded, cautiously, unsure of how much to reveal. The weather was worsening by the minute, and he could hardly keep the child talking while they were both catching their deaths from cold. Torn, he glanced at the road beyond which led to London. He should be returning soon, but he was duty-bound to deliver this child safely to her grandmother first.

  Yet, he was duty-bound to tell her the truth.

  And then what?

  Field her cries and whimpers when she begged to see Violet, her beloved sister, and he refused?

  If he had had the time, he surely would have taken her.

  But he didn’t have time. And what could he do for Emily, besides whip up her agitation when he was in no position to do anything to actually help?

  She was looking at him expectantly. As if she were too afraid to speak and break a spell.

  Steeling himself, he said, “But first I must take you home.”

  “To Grandmama?”

  To his surprise, Emily laughed, albeit with a short bark of bitterness that seemed at odds with her sweet pretty face. A face that resembled Violet’s—painfully—with her large blue eyes and heart-shaped chin.

  He nodded, but she leaned back against the bench, gripping the lintel of the gate as if he might try to forcibly make her do her bidding.

  “Grandmama will not take kindly to receiving me or visitors,” she said, “until the angry mood has passed. I’ll go back when it’s safe.”

  “But the storm—”

  He was now having to shout to be heard above it.

  Still, the child shook her head. “I’m safer here than with Grandmama,” Emily shouted back. She pulled up the sleeve of her dress and to Max’s horror, he saw a deep gash at least three inches long weeping fresh blood along her forearm.

  “What happened?” he gasped, feeling suddenly very unsteady on his feet.

  “Grandmama flew at me with a knife. It went in a bit, but I got away in time.” Her white teeth flashed and she actually smiled. “Luckily, I managed to get the knife away from her before I ran.” She reached down by her side, and in a flash of light, Max saw illuminated the long, sharp blade she brandished for him to see.

  He was galvanised by horror, shock, and the feeling that if he didn’t act right this very moment on what, in fact, his conscience had been dictating for some time, he could never live with himself.

  And in the very immediate thought to follow, he realised how very happy such a revelation made him feel.

  “You’re a very brave girl, Emily,” he said, giving her a considering look that made her beam with pleasure. “Do you think you’d be brave enough to hunt lions in Africa?

  Chapter 15

  So, this was her new home. It was elegant indeed, and Violet should have been overjoyed to have swapped the insalubrious surroundings of her Soho residence for the leafy charm of St John’s Wood.

  A month ago, she would have been, but as she gazed from the fresh chintz curtains blowing the crisp air through the partly open windows, her heart was like a stone lodged in her chest.

  Yet, she could not behave with anything that suggested other than the greatest joy and gratitude when Lord Bainbridge visited her later in the day.

  He might not be charismatic, handsome, or even terribly charming, but it was purely through his generosity that Violet’s future had taken a marginal turn for the better.

  Not that she wouldn’t be paying for it in her own way, of course. Still, pretending was second nature, so she’d better do an adequate job she supposed of making his lordship feel he was getting the return on his investment that he expected.

  Deserved, she reminded herself. Not every gentleman of her acquaintance had been so generous.

  Max was
different, of course. She tensed, trying to banish all thoughts of him, her attention diverted by the billowing of the curtains caused by a sudden gust of wind. Violet hurried to rescue a china horse from crashing from its place on the windowsill just as there was a knock on the door.

  She straightened her skirts, her heart pounding in her chest, and did a quick check in the looking glass above the mantelpiece. Lord Bainbridge was very particular about appearance and everything being orderly. Including Violet.

  The face that stared back at her had a rather haunted look. She’d tried to hide the dark smudges under her eyes from her restless last few nights, but in this light, they looked an even greater contrast with her pale, translucent skin.

  Resigned, she turned away. Nothing would improve her looks in the seconds it would take to cross the floor, just as nothing would ease the ache in her heart.

  Not all the jewels and fine clothes Lord Bainbridge had promised to buy her to augment the beautiful necklace he’d given her two nights before. To celebrate the fact she’d agreed to be his, he’d said as he’d fastened the gold and ruby ‘token of his regard’ around her neck. As she dropped her hand from pushing back a ringlet that fell across her shoulder, a flash of the simple gold band she still wore to mark her sham wedding was not the thing to make her feel better.

  The knock came again—louder and more insistent—even though she’d hardly kept him waiting. She stiffened but checked herself. She couldn’t be angry. She’d have to ensure patience and good humour infused her objection to his impertinence, she counselled herself as she flung open the door, saying, “Goodness, but you are—”

  Shock robbed her of the words to complete the sentence. For a moment, she could only stare. She’d come face to face with an apparition. Her mind was playing tricks on her. Taunting her.

  “Dear Lord, this can’t be true,” she whispered, her legs suddenly feeling as if they had no substance.

  “Violet!”