It had everything to do with the Duke of Orsino, she thought, as she dabbed her paintbrush against the canvas, and then, it had nothing to do with him at all.
She could not blame the duke for the hopeless mess that she had landed herself in; any criticism lay at her own foolish door. Nor could she blame him for her attraction toward him—though it was almost rude how handsome he was.
Rude, Violet decided, as she stabbed her paintbrush with more vigour than was necessary; it was rude to be so large and strong and masculine and think that it would go unnoticed in a confined space.
He should have—he should have—
Violet sighed as her efforts to find irritation with Orsino fell flat. Did she truly expect that he should have curled up into a ball and pretended not to be a strapping, six-foot-four duke simply to appease her? It might be painful, but she had to accept that any irritation she felt should be directed at herself and her own silly actions.
For a moment, Violet allowed herself to imagine a parallel world; a world where she had not thought that imitating her brother was a sane course of action. In that world, she imagined herself floating on air, having spent the previous evening having her hand held by a duke.
Sebastian had once entertained her with the tale of how Zeus, the first God and king of Mount Olympus, had split humans in two. This was, according to Sebastian, because humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces, and Zeus feared their power. While her brother had been boyishly entranced by the idea of such a monstrous four-legged creature, Violet had been struck dumb by his flippant finishing remark, that by splitting them in two, Zeus had thusly condemned humans to spend their lives in search of their other halves.
Last night, in the theatre, with the sting of Lady Cardigan's comment still burning Violet's heart, Orsino had reached out and taken her hand. He had, she knew, also felt the burning shame of being rejected by one's own father in favour of another. And he had recognised it within her and sought to make it better.
It was far-fetched and even fanciful, but at that moment, Violet had felt as though she had found her missing half.
Well, even if you have found him, you'll have to quickly lose him, a stern voice in her head cautioned, drawing an end to Violet's fantasy.
There was no way that Violet could ever find happiness with Orsino, not when she had deceived him so. She briefly flirted with the idea of revealing to the duke what she had done, but when she imagined his reaction—hurt, humiliation, anger—her bravery faltered. The thought that Orsino might be disappointed in her caused her anguish akin to a physical blow.
Though those that are betrayed do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe.
Thanks to Sebastian, Violet could quote reams of Shakespeare, and the line from Cymbeline felt particularly apt for her particular quandary.
There was nothing for it, she thought sadly, but to embrace her cursed fate and spend the rest of her life ruing her impulsiveness.
For the rest of the morning, Violet attempted to concentrate on her current work; a portrait of Aunt Phoebe, in the style of Marguerite Gérard. The French artist was famed for depicting intimate, domestic scenes, and Violet's own painting showed Phoebe, snoozing in her chair, with Fifi by her feet.
Though Violet thought wryly, Phoebe was asleep in the painting because that was the only way Violet could get her to sit long enough to be painted. Thank heavens Fifi was inanimate, or Violet might never finish her work.
At eleven o'clock, Violet removed her apron and began to clean down her brushes and pallet, in preparation for the arrival of her friends.
Charlotte was the first to arrive, a whirligig of energy and excitement, as she loudly proclaimed that she would broker discussion of nought but Evelina.
"It's an exploration of the complex layers of society," Charlotte stated primly, "It's wonderfully satirical, and it is said that it was a significant precursor to the works of Miss Austen and Miss Edgeworth—one of whom's books we shall be reading next week. What did you think of it, Violet?"
"Eh," Violet floundered for something to say, but thankfully Julia's arrival saved her.
"What did you think of Evelina, Julia?" Charlotte called to their friend by way of greeting.
"La! You shan't distract me with talk of books, Cat," Julia answered, treading her way carefully across the room to the chaise, "I want to know exactly what happened with you and Penrith at the theatre. The papers were full of speculation about you both—it seems your plan is working."
"Pfft," Charlotte exhaled impatiently, "I have no desire to discuss Penrith. None whatsoever."
"Well, if you'd rather discuss Evelina, I'm all ears," Julia replied, flashing Violet a wink.
There was a pause, as Charlotte visibly battled against her desire to finally discuss literature at one of their meetings, and her need to dissect her duke.
Dissection won out.
"Well," Charlotte gave a frustrated sigh, before launching into a long tale of her excursion with Penrith the night before. There was much grumbling, heaps of expressed irritation, some self-righteousness, and an awful lot of emotion; but the sub-text was quite clear to both Violet and Julia, who watched their friend in amusement.
"He really is most infuriating," Charlotte finished with a sigh, as she placed her cup of tea down upon the table.
"Yes, you've said that three times already," Julia replied, attempting to hide a smile behind her own cup.
"Actually, it's four times by my count," Violet offered, unable to disguise her own amusement at Charlotte's outrage.
It was obvious to even a casual observer, that the Duke of Penrith had wiggled his way under Charlotte's skin, and was causing her all kinds of bother. As Violet knew Charlotte so well, she could tell that her friend was struggling with her feelings for the duke—who was the antithesis of the type of man that Charlotte, a rebellious libertarian, would fall for.
Charlotte would happily have fallen head over heels for an artist, a writer, or any other egalitarian sort, but here she was, clearly smitten with a Tory.
No wonder her head was stubbornly fighting against her heart; though Violet rather thought that her heart would win out.
Charlotte flustered and blustered for a moment, but perhaps fearing that she was unable to disguise her true feelings, turned the conversation toward Violet's painting.
"Why, Violet, it's genius," Charlotte pronounced, as she took in her friend's depiction of a domestic scene, "You're well on your way to becoming the next Marguerite Gérard."
Violet, who was not certain if Charlotte truly meant what she said, or only said it because she knew that Marguerite Gérard was her favourite artist, gave a helpless shrug.
"Marguerite Gérard had residence in the Louvre, and was surrounded by artists and great masterpieces," Violet grumbled in response, "I can never hope to emulate her when all I am surrounded by are piles of books and stuffed dogs."
Violet poked poor Fifi despondently with the end of her paintbrush. The rigid terrier toppled over onto her side, her glass eyes staring up sadly at the trio of young ladies.
"You are not only surrounded by dead dogs," Julia replied bracingly, "You have two friends who think you are a marvellous painter. And you have Sebastian, a true connoisseur of the arts. Where is he? Perhaps he can offer a word of encouragement?"
Lud! Violet jumped at the mention of Sebastian's name. She might be able to hide his absence from Aunt Phoebe, but she would never be able to fool Julia and Charlotte if they began to suspect something was amiss.
"S-S-Sebastian?" Violet stuttered, in response, desperate to move away from the topic of her twin, "Why should we need to call Sebastian? The two of you have supplied me with all the encouragement I need. Come, let us forget the painting for a moment and focus on the real issue at hand; Charlotte's love for Penrith."
It was a low-blow, outing Charlotte as a dukeophile in order to distract, but thankfully her friend leapt at the bait.
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"I beg your pardon?" Charlotte squawked as Violet corralled her friends back to the table where the tea and cakes had been set out.
"It's quite obvious that you are infatuated by him," Violet replied, quashing some guilt, as she poured three fresh cups of tea, "You have talked of nothing else since you arrived."
"I have not!" Charlotte argued, taking the cup that Violet proffered.
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," Julia said with a smile, as she settled herself back onto the sofa.
"If I was bleating about His Grace, it is only because I find him so annoying," Charlotte was quick to defend herself.
The conversation soon descended into a cheerful argument which pitted a stubborn Charlotte against Julia and Violet, who were keen to point out their friend's obvious infatuation.
"La! You are both incorrigible," Charlotte finished with a cry, as she gathered her bits together to prepare to leave, "And fit for Bedlam if you think that I am interested in Penrith for anything except my own liberation. Now, next week I should like us to discuss Castle Rackrent; Miss Edgeworth intended it as a satirical take on the upper classes, much like Evelina—which you would both know, had you bothered to read it. Good day, ladies."
Charlotte bustled from the room, with an air of self-righteousness, leaving an amused Julia and Violet alone.
"Well," Julia said lightly, once the door had closed behind their friend, "Now we have discussed Penrith to death, it's time to execute Orsino."
Violet, who had been munching on a French Fancy, began to choke at the mention of his name.
"Both Penrith and Charlotte command a greater degree of notoriety than you and Orsino," Julia continued, cool as a cucumber, "But don't think that I did not notice the small column which noted his attendance at the Haymarket, accompanied by none other than you, Miss Havisham."
"Did they mention me particularly?" Violet queried; she had never once been mentioned by the papers, a fact she owed to her lack of fortune. Charlotte, who had a dowry greater than the king's coffers, had long been a favourite of the gossip columns, even though she did not court their attention.
"Well, no," Julia shifted uncomfortably in her seat, "They did not name you per se—they said Lady Havisham and her niece."
"The world has not gone mad, so," Violet breathed a sigh of relief, "If I am still merely a nameless companion."
"To some you are nameless," Julia countered with a frown, "But I knew exactly whom they were speaking of. Tell me, why on earth did you not mention you accompanied Orsino to the theatre?"
"Because I did not," Violet lied, "I accompanied Aunt Phoebe, who was invited by Lady Lloyd, who was in turn, accompanied by her brother."
"So, your presence in the box with Orsino was merely coincidental?" Julia pressed.
"Yes," Violet pressed her lips together as she attempted to emulate Charlotte's famed stubbornness.
"So, you did not at all hold His Grace's hand?"
"Did the papers say that?" Violet gawped, "How on earth did they know?"
"They didn't," Julia grinned in triumph, "I made it up—but what a lucky guess! Violet, you are a dark horse. Why on earth did you keep Orsino's courtship a secret?"
"It's not a courtship," Violet, whose pride was slightly rankled at having been so easily tripped, replied, "His Grace invited me to the theatre, I attended; end of story. There is no happily ever after in store for the duke and me, Julia—you can take my word on that."
Violet knew that she had spoken far more forcefully and touchily than one should speak to a friend, and she instantly regretted her curt manner. Thankfully, Julia was the most unflappable sort of girl, and she did not immediately show any grievance. In fact, her beautiful face wore a look of concern.
"What is it, Vi?" Julia asked, leaning forward to place a slim, gloved hand upon Violet's own, "You have been out of sorts for weeks. It is not like you at all to be so jumpy and irritable. Is something troubling you? If there is, I beg you, please tell me."
Violet felt a fierce longing to unburden herself to her friend, but how on earth could she explain the madness she had landed herself in? For a moment, Violet considered telling Julia, but in the instant that she hesitated, a knock came upon the parlour-room door.
"Begging your pardon, m' lady," Maria, Julia's lady's maid, called, "But we'd best be away if we are to be on time to meet your mama."
"Lud," Julia was uncharacteristically sullen, "I had forgotten about the dress fitting. Mama will have an apoplectic fit if I am late—she had to use all her societal sway to secure an appointment with Madam Lloris so late in the season."
"Er, why exactly do you need a special dress made so late into the season?" Violet queried, her mind instantly leaping to one conclusion.
"For a masquerade," Julia gave a light laugh, as she noted Violet's suspicion, "Have no fear if I become engaged, I will let you know."
"Do you feel an engagement is an imminent possibility?" Violet pressed, wondering at Julia's cool composure. Any thoughts of Orsino left Violet feeling flustered, but here Julia was, cool as a cucumber as she discussed her possible future husband.
"Lord Pariseau is perfectly affable," Julia shrugged, her blue eyes dull, "And don't you look at me like that, Violet! I am not an artist; I have not a romantic bone in my body. Marriage, to me, is a practical arrangement—one which will ensure my future comfort and happiness. If you and Charlotte had your way, you'd have me married off to Lord Montague so we could all have an Upstart of our own."
"I don't recall anyone mentioning Lord Montague, Julia?" Violet replied, then watched in fascination, as her usually composed friend blushed—actually blushed.
"Well, it would be the sort of ridiculous thing the two of you would dream up," Julia blustered, as she picked up her reticule and pristine copy of Evelina. "Good day Violet, thank you for the tea."
Julia swept from the room with her head held high and her posture rigidly straight, as though good comportment might distract from her slip of the tongue.
Violet stood a moment, feeling slightly perplexed by Julia's uncharacteristic outburst, before turning her attention to the cups and saucers on the table. She began to gather them together to bring them to the kitchen, when Dorothy bustled into the room.
"Ach, my wee Violet," the Scotswoman scolded, "I can do that; you get back to your painting while the light is right."
"Oh, I'm finished for the day, Dorothy," Violet argued, as she continued to pile the cups and saucers upon the tray, "I shall take this to the kitchen then come help you tidy up."
The parlour room, like the library, was filled with stacks of books upon the floor. Though it appeared rather messy to the untrained eye, Aunt Phoebe had a meticulous system—if mysterious—and thusly, only Dorothy was permitted to clean the parlour room. Unfortunately, Dorothy had quite low standards when it came to cleaning, and Violet quite often offered to share the work.
Once she had deposited the crockery with the scullery maid, Violet returned to the parlour, to find Dorothy dusting whilst humming a maudlin tune.
"Faith, Dorothy," Violet said with a laugh, "It feels almost funereal in here with that tune."
"Ach," Dorothy placed her duster down, as she gazed toward the window, "Perhaps that is what this is. Poor Fifi is finally gone."
Violet glanced at the taxidermy terrier, who was still toppled on her side by Violet's easel.
"Fifi has been gone for over a decade, Dorothy," Violet offered, as she wondered if perhaps, the lady's maid and Aunt Phoebe had been brewing poitín again.
"I know that," Dorothy rolled her Skye-blue eyes, "Do you think me away with the fairies? I mean that her spirit has finally left us. Poor wee dog, perhaps she's gone ahead to sniff out a spot for myself and Lady Havisham in the great beyond. Perhaps death is nearer for us than I had seen."
Lud; Violet swallowed a curse. She had forgotten about Sebastian's fondness for moving Fifi to different parts of the house, in order to perpetuate Dorothy's belief that the dog's spirit
still inhabited her body. Now, Dorothy had placed herself and Aunt Phoebe in the queue for St Peter, and it would be Violet who would have to suffer through visions of death and doom.
"And so from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe. And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot. And thereby hangs a tale," Dorothy added, with a sigh so sad that the flowers in their vase near wilted and died from the sorrow of it.
La! Violet bit down on her lip to keep from growling in frustration. Instead, she picked up the broom and began to—carefully—sweep under the chaise, whose missing leg had been replaced by a stack of books.
Violet remained silent as she continued to clean, whilst Dorothy sang sad songs from the islands and made a half-hearted attempt at dusting.
Nearly a half-hour had passed, when Aunt Phoebe bustled in, wearing a turban with a plume of pheasant feathers, and her customary fox-fur stole.
"Dorothy," she called, "I wish to visit Ackermann's. I have it on good authority that they have featured me in one of their fashion plates, and I wish to ensure they have correctly captured my likeness."
Violet blinked in surprise at this statement; Aunt Phoebe's fashion sense was more abattoir than à la mode, and she was an unlikely candidate for one the Repository's fashion plates.
"A fashion plate, Aunt?" Violet queried, trying to keep the note of panic from her tone.
"Yes," Phoebe grinned, "Apparently I am modelling a coat made from a bear, and its head is the hood. It seems rather unpractical to me, but then what do I know of fashion?"
For a moment, Violet was not certain if her aunt was serious in her belief that she actually featured in a fashion plate, and not one of the repository's satirical prints, but then Phoebe offered Violet a wink, and she relaxed. Aunt Phoebe might be a curmudgeon at times, but she knew how to laugh at herself. Violet would not put it past Lady Havisham to buy said print and have it framed, for all her guests to admire.
"Perhaps we shall call in on Sebastian," Aunt Phoebe continued, directing her words to Dorothy, and not Violet, whose smile faltered at this suggestion. "I wish to upbraid him for not calling on me. Insolent boy; I could be dead in a week. Dorothy has foreseen a terrible accident, Violet, did I tell you?"
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