The Violet Hour

by Brynn Chapman

  I do not slow down till I am sure his eyes no longer sear my back.

  I pause, exhaling my vexation, as I lean on the rail of the bridge which arches over the small fish pond.

  I stare at it intently. I am fairly certain this pond is not recorded anywhere in my mother’s sketchbook.

  My fingers grip the wood and I close my eyes, raising my face to the sun.

  “Miss Teagarden?” My heart leaps at the deep rumble that is his voice

  Brighton stands beside me; I feel and smell him. Our arms touch and mine prickles with pimpled gooseflesh.

  I open my eyes and turn toward him, smiling. I think of Jonesy’s warning words, but I am…drawn to him. Like a moth to his proverbial flame; so much so, I will endure the scorching.

  He is smiling slightly at the use of my surname.

  “I have been waiting to see you, but you have been…absent…of late.”

  “Why, Mr. LeFroy? What did you need me for? The second symphony? I know we need to work on it, it is just—”

  He places a singular finger against my lips, quieting me. My eyes widen at this unexpected show of attention. He is always aloof, calculating.

  His warm, calloused hand slides over mine and my heart vaults upward, lodging in my windpipe.

  He turns my palm over and I resist the urge to close my eyes and savor every bit of his touch.

  The feel of cold metal suddenly encircles my index digit, but in the space of a blink, turns curiously warm against my skin. The band is a simple silver design.

  I cock my head, raising my hand to the sun to stare at it. “Whatever in the world is this?”

  His lips press to a thin line. “It is what is loosely referred to as a cramp ring.”

  A flicker of memory as my mind recalls my governess, proper Miss Potts, and her scoffing derision over this very issue during a history lesson.

  “From the 14th century? Was not their power to have been borne of a King’s blessing upon a ring? Mr. LeFroy, you surprise me. I would not take you for a superstitious man?”

  He slides the band around my finger in a circle and the heat intensifies and the throb in my finger…quiets. I blink repeatedly and I shiver.

  “That is not possible.” I flex my hand open and closed. Not a pinch of pain.

  “The power was not from the King’s blessing. That portion was indeed a wives’ tale. There were a finite number of rings forged, with specific metallurgical properties—”

  My eyebrows bunch and he amends, “Specific metals. Used for centuries in healing. Once known only to the Pharaohs.”

  “And this, is one such ring?” I stare at it with equal reverence and horror.

  He nods gruffly. “Cannot have that precious cello-hand lame, now can we?”

  My finger is noticeably less swollen. Mother was right about one fact, Charleston is special. Will the wonders of this place never cease?

  “Where would one acquire such a ring?”

  He ignores my question, his eyes scrutinizing my hair. “I see you used the Henna.”

  “Yes.” I playfully turned my head right and left, wiggling my eyebrows, letting him admire my handiwork. “Better?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I expect your true color is magnificent. I would very much like to see it someday.” His finger boldly strays to the dark ringlet of my wig, to ease it behind my shoulder.

  My breath catches and I remind myself to breathe.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps we might trade secrets.”

  And you could tell me about those animals, about that island. About your Samson-like strength.

  His eyes narrow and his expression turns as black as the storms he chases. He gives me a stiff tip of his hat. “Good day, Miss Teagarden.”

  Without thinking, I clutch his arm. “Allegra. Call me Allegra. And please don’t go. I’m—I’m sorry. You can keep your secrets.”

  He pauses, turning back. His mouth tightens and his words slip out through gritted teeth, “I. Don’t want to. I have to.”

  The sadness in his eyes cuts to my core. It is as deep and fathomless as the water’s where we both search for answers.

  He strides from the bridge into the cover of the giant Oak tree.

  I follow, pleading, “Please, Brighton, don’t go. Not yet.”

  He halts and spins back and leans in—so close and so quick, his breath caresses my cheek.

  The slight tremor in his voice betrays his emotion. “I would love nothing better to confide my secrets. To unload this heavy burden that weighs down my very soul. But…that would be best for me. Not you. There is safety in ignorance, Allegra.”

  The cry of the animals fills my head. Could he be capable of such cruelty? But the rabbit stood up, in the end.

  I stare at him. The stark tenderness in his voice; such sincerity could not be feigned. Could it?

  He turns to leave, mistaking my far-away expression for a dismissal—but I slip my arm through his, securing it tightly. “Walk me to my rehearsal?”

  He laughs nervously, staring at our linked arms, but his eyes concede. “Fine. No harm in that, I suppose.”

  We stroll past the white swans and the workers scuttling back and forth, repairing various rides.

  “Where have you been, Mr. LeFroy? You swept in, sketched me pretty pictures, inspired a symphony, left me breathless with a chute ride and disappeared. Why, I felt like a common strumpet.”

  His face colors and he laughs loudly. His eyes dance as he regards me once again. “Oh, you, Miss Teagarden, are a truly dangerous creature.”

  “Dangerous enough to handle the likes of you.”

  My heart beats so fast I fight the swoon. I bite my lip.

  Would he think me too bold? If I confess he is and has been in my every thought since I first laid eyes upon him?

  I find the prospect of not telling him leaves a bigger hole than the gnawing fear of truth.

  I leap. I hear the gravity in my own voice. I halt, forcing him to face me.

  “Please, Brighton. Do not disappear again. I…merely wish to be in your presence. I care not if you confess anything, ever. Just. Stay with me? Allow me that?”

  His mouth opens along with his eyes. He snaps it closed and licks his lips. “I. You deserve so much better than what I am able to offer, Allegra.”

  He continues his ardent stride and I struggle to keep pace with his long-legged steps.

  I see the gazebo ahead and the occasional practice note floats to our ears.

  My heart falls and I extricate my arm. “That is to be your excuse then, to let me down easy?”

  The shake of his head is so fervent it sends his black curls falling across his forehead. “No, no, I assure you. But I’m afraid I find you much too interesting. Too consuming. I do not divide my obsessions well. I will never provide the life that all women wish for.”

  My eyebrows press down as I prickle with irritation. “You are presumptuous, sir, to assume to know the life which I desire. You know nothing of the sort. Of my desires.”

  He smiles. “Too true. Excuse my assumption. I scarcely know you.” A storm wrinkles his brow, but he battles it, and the lines soon smooth.

  “Come to the island tonight. I will prepare supper.”

  “Really?” I will my face calm, but my insides tremble.

  He nods. “I’m quite positive this idea is dreadful, but seem to be unwilling to stop myself.”

  “I’m quite glad for your lack of self-control then.”

  “I shall come to collect you at dusk.”

  He shuffles backwards a few steps, his eyes holding me captive, and then swiftly turns back toward the Inn.

  Jonesy registers my flushed face as I excuse my way down the row for rehearsal. I need not utter a word, he knows me well enough to guess.

  “Are you mad?” His dark eyes regard me seriously. “Oh, laws. This will not end well.”

  Marietta, too, watches me. “Allegra. That man is evil. You must stay away from him.”

  “I cannot believe that,�
� I whisper low enough for only Jonesy to hear. “I don’t think I can.”

  Chapter Nine

  Evening

  “Blast. He shall arrive at any moment. Hurry Jones. I should be fetching Allegra at this very moment.”

  Jones glares, but says nothing.

  I wrench back the threadbare curtains, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of him through the thick island foliage. Nothing. Just rain and green. So much green.

  My father seems to skip points in time—one moment I am alone, the next, he is breathing down my neck.

  “Brighton, you detest him. Why do you permit your father an audience?”

  My eyes steal to the journals which litter the table and I stare Jones down.

  “You know perfectly well, why.”

  I stomp to the table and snatch up the leather-bound evils, shoving them into his arms. A paper slides out—one with hieroglyphics and an Egyptian eye I’ve yet to decipher. “Hide these. Now.”

  Jonesy’s eyes cloud. His mouth pops open then shuts as he wrestles with the right words of chastisement.

  I turn away. “I have no idea what protest is forming in that mind of yours, but he is come. Please!”

  My face flushes with a surge of blood through my temples as I give the anger free reign; it has kept me breathing.

  Through battles over slaves and state’s rights and my father’s egomaniacal need to own and control and subserviate his every desire.

  Jones stalks out the door; finally taking my heed.

  I feel it. A prickle on the back of my neck like someone watches. A craving; a beaten path to my very core—my body simultaneously worships and despises it.

  I whirl, trying not to look at it.

  Sweat dots my brow and my eyes dart, looking everywhere except the table. They tick, tick toward it, like time somehow lengthens.

  A magnetic force calls to my soul from a supposedly inanimate substance.

  My father’s voice murmurs in my mind, “The Elementi.”

  Its radiating heat is a pyre beneath my skin. I shiver as the air thrums with the palpable tension. Like the ghosts of Allegra’s chords still whisper around the room.

  My reluctant eyes come to rest on the tin of blanched powder.

  A bitter taste dread fills my mouth; months and months of work to activate it—to bring it to life.

  But should I have resurrected it? Should I just move on, as Jonesy said?

  I titrated, over and over, day after day. And still I am uncertain.

  I pluck an empty vial from the shelf, carefully spooning the powder-mound inside.

  The vial shakes as my fingers fumble and I grasp it tighter against my palm, closing my eyes.

  They shoot back open and water, burning from the powder’s proximity. The smell of sulfur and rotting eggs fills my nose.

  With the tip of my finger, I lift a solitary snowflake of the crusty powder to eye-level. “You…should not exist.”

  My breath catches then pumps like a bellows. Anger and pain and loss crush my heart like a vice.

  Why must my father insist on perfection? On conquering.

  His land-lust is never satiated. He thinks nothing of trampling underfoot any and all innocents unfortunate enough to step in his path.

  My finger edges closer, as if an invisible magnet has lodged in my mouth, intent on ingesting the powder.

  My finger moves of its own accord. Moves to place the sparkling flake upon my tongue.

  “Brighton!” Jonesy shouts.

  My teeth snap shut, slicing through my bottom lip. I welcome the reorienting taste of blood as the tiny piece of destruction floats to the wooden floor.

  The orange cat leaps from the sill and swallows it before landing.

  “What are you doing? You are getting worse.” Jonesy strides to me, giving my shoulders a rough shake. “The grief—it’s eating your mind. Making you daft. Perhaps. Perhaps it’s time to let go…”

  Rage refires, flushing my neck, burning up the sorrow. “Forget? What do you know of loss? Of failure? I failed. Failed to protect him.”

  Sorrow suffocates the fire under a wave of melancholy. My muscles seem infected by the despair and I collapse weakly into the chair.

  Jonesy eases down too, his eyes careful. “George wouldn’t want you to be miserable, Brighton. To stop living because of what happened to him.”

  My lips crack a feeble smile and one long streak of wetness escapes.

  I shake my head, squeezing the bridge of my nose. “Of course not. But if there is any chance he lives. Anywhere. The other place we spoke of—”

  “He is not your concern.”

  The room turns red. My hands ball to fists.

  My father darkens the doorway, rain streaming from his hat.

  I shoot up and hear the chair clatter behind and cross the space in seconds to strike his shoulder.

  It jars backward, but his eyes never waver. Never blink. They glow softly; like the mother of pearl of a clam shell. If I do not stop, mine shall as well.

  “He should be my concern. Not yours. You care only for The Elementi. Not for people. Not for love, for family. He was like a child you disgusting—”

  “Temper, temper Brighton.” His smile is sickening. “Your brother is beyond you now. You should return with me. Continue your research. You could do much good for the confederacy.”

  “I do not prescribe to your particular brand of research? You do not wish to heal. You wish to transcend.”

  I rise to my full height, thrusting out my chest. We stare, eye to eye.

  Jonesy hovers, his hands opening and closing, unsure when to strike.

  My father’s nostrils flare, his eyes narrow. “You have tasted the powder. I see it in your eyes. Why you almost glow.” His smile spreads wider.

  The shaking spreads from my hand to my entire person. “I am not like you. I know it to be an aberration. Knowledge we are not fit to possess.”

  “Humbug.”

  “Greed. And vanity. And power. That is what you seek.” A bit of my spittle strikes his cheek.

  He wipes it away without blinking. “Nay, that is what I shall have. With or without you. Once we succeed—things will change. We can be more than kings. We can be Gods.”

  Jonesy’s breath intakes sharply. I know his thoughts. Blasphemy.

  I nod. “Aye, you’ll have it, no matter the casualties. I’ll end up like George. The powder’s a cheat. One must battle to use their life for good—reward without earning makes…someone like you.” I thrust my finger toward the storm. “Do not return.”

  My father swaggers back toward the door, unflinching. “You will return home; your people draw you. They ask for you.” He shrugs. “You need me to perfect the formula. You have seen him, haven’t you? In your little pond. In the water.”

  I will my face calm. But I know he sees inside me, my motives. He sees everything, like some perverted, omniscient devil.

  “Even if you found a reservoir. You know it will not open.”

  It shall.

  “Go.” I fling open the door. The wind catches it, banging it off the cottage. Torrents of rain stream from the porch roof like a waterfall garden.

  My father steps from the porch, staring straight ahead. I slam the door and Jonesy throws the bolt behind him.

  Jonesy’s chest heaves. “Brighton. Have you seen him?”

  I drop to the chair and cradle my head in my hands.

  And nod.

  Chapter Ten

  Allegra

  My behavior is highly improper. When a gentleman does not show for an engagement, a lady does not chase him down—let alone become a voyeur.

  Yet, here I am, spying like a common criminal. Hunkered down in the grass beside his cottage. I might as well live on the isle for the amount of time I spending hiding on it.

  I smile, basking in the horror it would cause my tight-laced, propriety-obsessed father.

  When Brighton did not appear to collect me for our outing…no amount of Sarah’s screaming and
ranting could hold me in the bungalow.

  The cats have returned, naturally. With my first footstep from boat to isle, they find me—purring and darting in and out of the surf in their hurry to get to me. I am some odd, feline magnet.

  I stare down at the yellow winding about my legs and shiver. “Apparently you don’t agree with the lights. That I should stay away.”

  I dart through the ferns, heading directly for the cottage and grounds.

  Fear is a heavy, tight ball in my stomach. But the desire to know Brighton’s secrets overrides the anxiety; a constant ebb and flow of unanswered questions drowns my mind.

  The front door opens and Brighton leaves the laboratory, walking briskly toward the shore.

  My heart beats wild. Will he discover my dingy on the north shore?

  I hold perfectly still, peek through the ferns, holding my breath.

  He turns, heading south, away from the boat and my breath exhales in a whoosh. The world tilts as I wait for my heart to calm; hand over my mouth, as I fight to master the panic.

  The cats wind and wind around my calves, under my skirt.

  I wait until he is a speck on the horizon, and bolt toward the lab.

  What are you looking for? Shouldn’t you let him confess his secrets? When he trusts you?

  “I…cannot.”

  It’s the lights. And the horrible contradictions.

  Brighton haunts my every thought and I dream…of staying with him.

  I have never met a man such as him. I hate to be so bold, even in my thoughts, but when I am near, he seems to see naught but me. I have never known such kindness, such caring from a man. And despite the Sampson-like strength he possesses, his every touch laid upon my skin, is so very careful—as if I am a delicate vase. I swallow.

  But the lights, the cats, these abnormalities—they ruin any possibility of a future with him.

  “They bloody tell me to run.”

  I must know. I must banish all doubt before relinquishing the tiny, remaining bit of heart that hides from him.

  I reach the lab and steal inside, my eyes sweeping. The crooked man. Oh, my word, I forgot the crooked man. What if he is here inside?