by Darcy Burke
“All children yearn for parents, I imagine. No matter how expensive their toys.”
“Perhaps. In the end, it didn’t matter.” He rubbed his face with one hand. “There was never an opportunity to become a family.”
This time when he paused, Violet didn’t interrupt. She could think of nothing of value to say.
“The pain came early,” he said at last. “The contractions were too fierce, too frequent. By the time the midwife arrived, the morning sun was high in the sky and the bedclothes soaked with blood. Lillian’s head had crowned. Then came her tiny shoulders, an arm, her belly. As the sun highlighted each adorable feature, her baby-perfect skin browned and bubbled and blistered. The baby wailed in agony. Not healthy, newborn screams, mind you, but a wrenching shriek of unimaginable pain, like prisoners being tortured on the rack.”
Without thinking, Violet touched her hand to his arm. She hesitated awkwardly, not quite certain how to show her empathy through physical touch. He did not pull away. He seemed to be grateful to feel her fingers trembling against his shirtsleeve. Somehow, he understood.
“I saw what was happening,” he continued, his voice strained. “I snatched my terrified daughter from the midwife’s iron grip and swung her into the shadows. The blistering slowed, but the damage had been done. Lillian still bears the scars.”
Violet closed her eyes, and pictured Lillian’s exquisite long-sleeved gowns in a new light. The scars on her small face weren’t pockmarks after all, but rather a permanent memento of her birth.
“I dipped her limbs in cool water. Once the maids banished the sun behind thick curtains, I wrapped a cloth about Lillian’s sore flesh so I could bring her tiny face close to Marjorie’s. The baby finally stopped crying. But by then, Marjorie’s lips were blue, her skin pasty, her lungs silent. She never got to lay eyes on our child.” His shoulders twitched.
“What did you do then?” Violet asked quietly.
He stared at the candle flame. “Buried my wife. The midwife said I should bury Lillian as well, told anyone who would listen that Marjorie had died birthing the cursed spawn of Satan himself. Ridiculous, of course, but we are a small town, and most of the villagers believe in superstition, rather than science. A witch hunt was imminent.” He drew a shaky breath. “So I commissioned two gravestones and, God help me, spread word that my daughter had died as well. I am not proud of my actions, but it kept the pitchforks at bay during a time when I could barely fight my own demons.”
Violet trembled with horror. Not for what he had done, but for what he had gone through, what he had suffered. Could anything bring him comfort? Her hand slid up the warm muscle of his arm.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “You did your best.”
He was silent. She could think of nothing more to say, so she gently stroked his arm with her fingers.
“It’s not enough,” he said brokenly. “It will never be enough.”
“No.” She grasped both his forearms, their bodies now just a whisper apart. “You are a good father, Alistair Waldegrave. Anyone can see how much you love your daughter.”
He trembled, but said nothing.
“Whether you believe it or not, she loves you, too.” Violet cupped his face with her hands, her mouth inches from his. How she wished she were bold enough to close the distance between them. To show him just how passionately she meant each word.
“She doesn’t love me,” he said, his breath mingling with hers. “How could she?”
Violet’s lips curved into a smile. “How could she not?”
Rather than reply, his mouth covered hers.
Hot. Hungry. Not at all what she’d always imagined a kiss to be. Infinitely, infinitely better. Her entire body thrilled. Incredible. She wondered at her own pleasure. Why was she not recoiling from his touch? Was it because for the first time, it was she who had instigated the contact? Or was it because he had somehow managed to earn her trust?
He was a man of honor, a man of God, and a man of his word. He would never lie to her or harm her. He was a man in pain, and she could bring him pleasure.
She slid her palms from his cheeks to his hair, burying her fingers in the soft curl at his nape. Her mouth opened to his onslaught, devouring his kisses as much as he was devouring hers.
A part of her had wanted to kiss him from the moment she’d seen the curve of his lips and the emotion in his eyes. Perhaps what she’d truly been searching for hadn’t been an excuse to kiss him, but rather a reason for him to kiss her. Either way, it was perfect. Better than perfect. A real kiss, a real man, someone who valued her as more than a possession, someone with whom her body twined because she had done the choosing. And, oh, how divinely their bodies twined...
Without lifting his mouth from hers, he gripped her hips. The taper fell from her fingers. The flame sizzled and winked out before the candle hit the ground. Although darkness engulfed them, she did not panic. His hands were rough, yet somehow gentle—everything she wanted and was frightened to want, all tangled into one. His grip was firm enough to feel, to know, to claim. And yet he wasn’t hurting her, hadn’t forced her, hadn’t done anything but open his heart until she was the one to pull him close and tell him with her tongue and the press of her body the things that her mind could not make words for. She was safe in his arms, and her only thoughts were of his kisses.
His splayed fingers caressed her spine, her waist, her hips. She reveled in the sensation of being held, of being treasured. Of feeling safe. She abandoned her grip on his hair in order to lock her arms behind his neck, to raise herself on her toes and lean into him so that he was supporting her with his strong body, while she supported him with the emotion in her heart.
He had one hand in her hair, the other at the small of her back. Her arms hugged him tightly, her breasts rubbing against his chest, her pelvis doing much the same against his thighs. Her limbs trembled from pure sensation. She hadn’t known it could be this way. Doubted it even could be this way with anyone except this man, whose big heart had touched her soul. She had to know if there were room in his heart to feel even a fraction of that connection with her, too. If her heart could touch his, and return the favor. The caress of his tongue against hers made her tingle in all the other places she yearned to feel his touch. Was this passion? What would intimacy be like when fueled by shared passion? His kisses were hot and wet and dangerous. And with every kiss, she wanted more.
Panting, he tore his lips from hers, and God help her, she felt the loss in every pore of her body.
“I ... We can’t,” he said hoarsely, then claimed her mouth in another long kiss before breaking free once again. “I want to, but we can’t.”
He untwined her arms from about his neck and placed them at her sides. Although it was now pitch black in the passageway, she felt as though he could somehow still see her, that the darkness helped him see straight through her clothes to her core. Her flesh heated at the thought.
Still holding her hands, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Violet’s ardor cooled at the gentle touch. A kiss to the forehead was not passion. A kiss to the forehead was good-bye. Her shoulders sagged, her entire body feeling as if it might crumble into a thousand pieces and settle like dust among the shadows.
His warm breath tickling her hair, he whispered, “Thank you.”
She couldn’t even speak. And then he was gone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Even a sleepless night fraught with shamefully lurid dreams of compromising positions could not keep Violet from stumbling out of bed to greet the day. She hadn’t forgotten the gifts of the previous day. So many paints and canvases awaited that the sheer number and variety of cloths and colors was positively dizzying. She had never been visited by Father Christmas, so she couldn’t say with certainty, but she imagined children lucky enough to receive presents must feel precisely this drunk with giddy anticipation at the prospect of opening every single box.
Art brought her joy. The anticipation of art brought
her joy. And with any luck, perhaps she could share a bit of that joy with the solemn Waldegraves.
Violet smiled to herself as she shoved pins into her hair. Dawn was far too early to countenance marmalade or soft-boiled eggs, but it was perfect for art. The moment she was remotely presentable, she was out the door and down the hall. Even the shadows her meager flame cast upon the catacomb walls could do nothing to dispel her spirits. Not when there were canvases waiting!
Within minutes, she was cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a sea of colorful potential. Without any concept of the passage of time, her chignon had fallen, her borrowed dress was three shades lighter with dust, but she was happy, truly happy, for the first time she could recall since the death of Old Man Livingstone.
Wryly, she glanced over her shoulder at the soaring wall of boarded-over stained glass. If ever there was a domicile in need of some beauty, it was Waldegrave Abbey. And if ever there were a lonely child desperately in need of an escape, it was Miss Lillian.
The real question was what to paint first. Violet peered into the largest box of canvases. Mr. Waldegrave had surely lost his mind. With or without frames, there were enough blank canvases to paper the entire sanctuary! What on earth was he—
Her spine snapped straight. It was all she could do not to laugh aloud at the thought. Why not paper the sanctuary? Perhaps there weren’t truly enough canvases to rise all the way to the topmost rafters, but at the very least she could certainly manage eye-level. Miss Lillian might not be able to step outside, but there was no reason at all why Violet could not bring the outside in.
It would take weeks, of course, and every speck of every paint in every box—but, oh, would it be worth it!
Unable to conceal her grin, she rose to her feet. Right now she had a little girl to teach, but tonight she would paint. Tonight, and every night hence. She shook the dust from her skirts and surveyed the room one last time.
Oh, certainly it couldn’t hurt to augment today’s lesson with a bit of art. Surely that would be far more interesting than the endless screech of chalk upon the blackboard. Without wasting precious time on putting together a frame, she rolled the smallest of the unstretched canvases, selected a brush and a small tray of watercolors, and sailed out the door to collect her charge.
Two hours later, she was kneeling in the schoolroom beside a little girl so overcome with excitement that her shaking fingers flung more paint droplets upon herself and the floor than the canvas before her. The promise of watercolors had ensured Lillian acted the model student throughout maths and history, and now that she finally held a dripping paintbrush in her hand, Lillian was in danger of exploding with happiness on the spot.
Slowly, painstakingly, she drew the bristles up, over, down, until the final swish of a berry-pink “n” glistened wetly at the edge of the canvas.
“There. ‘Lillian.’” She lifted her gaze to Violet, her lower lip clenched nervously betwixt her teeth.
“Just so,” Violet agreed with an encouraging smile. “How does it feel to have created something so beautiful?”
A mischievous smile flashed across Lillian’s face. “It makes me want to take the brushes back to my bedchamber and paint every single day.”
“I knew we were two of a kind,” Violet said with a laugh. “I was your age when I nicked my first stick of chalk, and after that there was no going back.”
Lillian’s eyes widened. “You stole chalk? How?”
“I pretended to let a boy kiss me,” Violet said with a conspiratorial grin. “Distract ’em, and you can nick anything.”
Lillian giggled. “I don’t have to kiss boys. Papa can buy anything I want.”
Violet’s cheeks heated. “True enough. And if it’s paint you desire, you won’t have to work hard to convince your father. Once he sees how talented you are, he won’t deny you a thing.” She nodded toward the canvas. “I particularly like the colors you’ve chosen. I see you’ve got pink in there twice. Is pink your favorite color?”
Lillian’s eyes widened, then lowered. “I should not have done the same color twice. I mucked it up, didn’t I? I ought to have chosen red or brown or black or—or anything else. I will next time. I promise. Oh, can we do it again? Sometime, I mean. Please? I’ll use any color you wish. It doesn’t have to be pink. I—”
“Lillian.” Violet grabbed her beneath the shoulders and forced the child to meet her eyes. “The only rule in art is that there aren’t any rules in art.”
Lillian frowned at her. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Art doesn’t have to make sense. You can paint in every color of the rainbow if you so choose, or you can paint in just pink for the rest of your life.”
Lillian blinked damp lashes. “What does a rainbow look like? Is it truly beautiful?”
“Rainbows ... ” Violet took a deep breath. She needed to calm the child, not add to her pain. “Honey, what I’m trying to say is that no matter what color you pick, it’s fine. It’s better than fine—it’s you. Which makes it perfect.”
Lillian shook her head. “It’s not perfect. Nothing about me is perfect. If it’s me, then it’s ugly and awful and stupid and should be hidden away forever and ever.” She tried to twist free from Violet’s grasp and, when she could not, lashed out at the table leg with her foot. The corner of the canvas slid over the table’s edge, distorting the final stroke of the “n” into watery pink rivulets. “I wanted it to be better than me.” Lillian’s voice broke. “I wanted it to be pretty.”
“It is pretty. You’re pretty.” Violet tried to envelop her in a hug, but Lillian held herself stiff and unyielding. After a moment, Violet changed her mind and gently let go. “Here. Watch this.”
She rescued the half-fallen canvas and repositioned it in the center of the table. She slid the tip of the brush through a spot of pink in the tray, and began to paint along the border of the canvas. Broad strokes. Delicate strokes. And every one of them in varying shades of pink.
At first Lillian held back, staring suspiciously at the canvas through narrowed eyes. Once she saw the images take shape, however, she stood so close that Violet could barely reach around her to keep painting.
“They’re flowers,” Lillian breathed. “Pink ones. Pretty pink ones. They’re not red, like the ones Papa brings. They’re not like Papa’s flowers at all. They’re—they’re—”
“They’re lilies,” Violet supplied, without pausing the steady strokes of her brush. “This beautiful pink flower is called ‘lily.’ Like you.”
Her breath caught. “They’re real?”
“Absolutely real. Some lilies are pink, and all of them are pretty. But none is as beautiful as you.”
Lillian stared, her eyes wide with wonder.
Violet pretended not to notice, focusing instead on completing the flowery border surrounding Lillian’s name.
“Lilies,” she repeated softly, her eyes transfixed on the canvas. “Like me.”
At last, the final petal was sketched. Violet laid down the brush. “Now what do you think, Miss Lily? Do you like them?”
Lillian choked out a hiccupy laugh and threw her arms around Violet’s waist. “I adore them,” she said into the folds of Violet’s dress. “Thank you.”
“I adore you,” Violet replied quietly, unsurprised to realize it was true. She placed a soft kiss atop Lillian’s dark head. “And you’re welcome. If you concentrate very hard on your sums this week, perhaps I shall even teach you to paint lilies yourself.”
Lillian jerked her tear-stained face away from Violet’s skirt enough to stare up at her in disbelief. “Are you bribing me?”
“Absolutely,” Violet answered with a cheerful grin. “Is it working?”
Lillian giggled and gave her another squeeze. “Absolutely.”
At that moment, a knock sounded upon the schoolroom door.
“Papa.” Lillian ran color-stained fingers over her hair and attempted to straighten her paint-splattered dress. “Do you think he’ll like the pa
inting?”
“I’m certain of it,” Violet reassured her, praying Mr. Waldegrave would not inadvertently crush Lillian’s obvious wish to please. “Come in!”
The door swung open and Mr. Waldegrave strode through, the trio of fresh-cut roses in his hand undoubtedly meant for his daughter’s chamber. “Ladies, I—”
He stopped short at the expression on his daughter’s face. He glanced questioningly at Violet, then followed her pointed gaze to the canvas upon the table. When he turned to smile at Lillian, the pleasure in his eyes was unfeigned. “What a lovely painting, daughter. Did you do this?”
Lillian nodded double-time, then blushed and glanced up at Violet. “That is to say, I painted my name—I picked the colors and everything, and I even picked pink two times, because there’s no rules in art. And then Miss Smythe helped with the other flowers. You will never guess what they’re called!”
His eyes crinkled in amusement, but he paused to consider the canvas as if lost in deep thought. “If I’m not mistaken,” he said after a long moment, “I would have to say they look just like lilies.”
“They are lilies!” Lillian crowed, then turned round eyes up at Violet. “They are real!”
“Of course they’re real, Miss Lily,” Violet answered briskly, busying herself with the cleaning of brushes to distract herself from the strange joy-sorrow tangling in her stomach. “I believe they may even be my favorite flower.”
“They’re my favorite color and my favorite flower! May I keep it? Please? Oh, Papa, may I have it in my room?”
Mr. Waldegrave’s eyes widened. Whether he was more shocked at being personally addressed or at hearing the word “please” fall unbidden from his daughter’s lips, Violet could not say.
“I suppose we ought to let it dry first,” he said with a smile, “and then I don’t see why not. You did a wonderful job, Lillian, and the painting will look splendid in your bedchamber.”