The Violet Hour

by Brynn Chapman

  Brighton nods and then stares at Toby. “This will not end well. Send word if anything transpires when my father returns.” And in an undertone adds, “To this time.”

  He follows Toby into the barn and I hold Lucy closer, willing my love for her through my tight embrace. “Shuush. All will be well, my darling.”

  The hitching of her chest and her small hiccups are her only reply. Her hands clutch the folds of my dress, as if in fear we shall change our minds.

  Brighton leads two mares over and gently extracts Lucy from my arms, and he has hauled her atop the horse before I’ve managed to take two steps.

  I slide my foot into the stirrup and swing onto the saddle, reeling with emotion.

  Toby walks out of the barn and he and Brighton stare at one another, their arms bracing one another’s shoulders.

  My throat feels thick again. I’ve seen that look before. It’s goodbye.

  It was in my cousin’s face before he left for war.

  Why must life be so sad? So very difficult?

  I grip the saddle horn so tightly my fingers tingle.

  “Are you certain you can ride?” Brighton looks dubious. “Your head?”

  I swallow and try to conceal the fear. “My head is…perfect.”

  Brighton swallows a grimace and nods, understanding my meaning.

  Toby finishes securing the horse’s halter and stares. “I don’t know how much longer we can stay on at Morelands…”

  Brighton nods. “I understand. Remember what we discussed.”

  “I am not taking that money.”

  “It’s a loan. Just to get you and your family to safety. You take it, you stubborn ox. The papers I drafted will be respected by few. Keep to the swamp, travel at night. You have my contact in the North?”

  Toby nods and swallows, tapping his temple. His great Adam’s apple bobs.

  Brighton extends his hand, and Toby grasps it tightly.

  “My brother. I will find you through my solicitor as soon as I can. Godspeed to you.”

  “You bring Mr. George home and then high-tail it north. This.” Toby’s eyes flick away, over the fields. He nods to the flag above. “The days of this place are numbered. A blood-bath is comin. I feel it in my bones.”

  Brighton presses his lips together and nods. “Till we meet again. Go tonight.”

  Brighton turns to me. “Ready?”

  I nod and Lucy and I follow him into the woods, in the direction of Charleston’s Fancy.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It is near midnight as we arrive on the grounds. My cottage lies ahead, but curiously, no lights are on. Brighton quietly treads onto my porch and opens the door but no Sarah.

  “Let us check Jones’s cottage.”

  I smile as happiness and sadness mingle in a bittersweet taste in my mouth. I am thrilled if they have wed, and so very sad to have missed it. But in this life, this world, joy must be snatched and held tight when the chance arrives, as there is no telling how quickly it will end, and if or when it shall ever come again.

  Lucy’s eyes flit wildly about, trying to take in the still, quiet amusements as we pass enroute to Jonesy’s cottage.

  At last, we arrive and Brighton uses a singular knuckle to rap on the door.

  Jones is there in a flash, his white smile lighting up the night.

  “Brighton. Thank Providence.” They embrace quickly. “Sarah is asleep inside.”

  Tears well and I wipe them, feeling foolish. “So you are wed. I am so very glad for you both.”

  Jonesy’s returning smile removes years from his face. “Yes. She will be so relieved you’ve returned. But who is this?”

  Brighton moves Lucy forward to stand before him. His large hands cup her shoulders, making her look even smaller, somehow. “This is my sister, Lucy. It is a very long story Jones—”

  “It always is, Brighton.”

  They both chuckle quietly.

  “It would be safer for her to stay here tonight. I do not wish for Silas to have yet another pawn in his game. I am sorry for the imposition—”

  Jones extends a hand to her. “Do not be ridiculous. Sarah shall be thrilled. And I do miss my sisters.” He takes Lucy’s hand and leads her to the porch. He smiles gently at her, “I have three you know?”

  “But my personal effects? They are still on the island?”

  “I will take you there at first light, and leave you to collect them. In the evening we will move you here—for as long as need be,” Jones replies.

  Lucy smiles tentatively and nods.

  “We will check on her tomorrow.”

  * * *

  “Why aren’t we going back to the isle?”

  Lucy was now in the relatively safe possession of Jones, but Brighton was leading me away from the water, toward Charleston’s Fancy.

  We walk hand in hand down the thoroughfare. He turns to me; his mouth pulls up on one side, “Trust me. Do you trust me, Allegra?”

  I hesitate. All my life I have truly only trusted women—my mother and Sarah. Never a man.

  I stare at him; his deep blue eyes pull tight, waiting.

  I nod and swallow. “Yes. I do.”

  His face breaks into a breath-halting smile. My ridiculous heart beats wildly in response.

  “Good. I’m glad to hear that. Keep that in mind.”

  My eyes trail skyward. We have arrived at the balloon. He smiles even wider. “Up you go.”

  “W-what? I am…”

  “Afraid of heights. I remember. Your face was alabaster at the top of the Shoot the Chute.”

  He works hand over hand, gripping the thick rope and with every tug the balloon gets leaves its heavenly perch, drawing closer and closer.

  He steadies the basket and flicks open the door and I take deep, cleansing breaths, trying desperately not to swoon. “In you go, Milady.”

  My legs tremble so greatly I fear they will give way as I step up and into the basket.

  Within seconds, he is beside me.

  I feel the blood trickle from my face as the balloon rises quickly into the early morning sky. It is still dark, but will not be for long.

  “Easy, my love.”

  His voice is thick and warm, and my mind is once again drawn to visions of us, intertwined. The best my imagination can conjure without any true experience.

  He eases me down to sitting and slides beside me, and we sit quietly for a few moments; the only sound in the sky the cry of the gulls as they escape off the bay.

  “Allegra.”

  He gently grasps my chin to turn it to face him. A muscle twitches below his eye and his mouth is serious. His eyes steal back and forth across my face, as if memorizing every feature.

  “I know not what the next days will bring. It is a dangerous time. I know not how I will fare. I know I have no right to ask. I am unable to provide you…” he stops, his voice shaking a little on the last word.

  He wipes his hand with his mouth in a now familiar gesture of vexation.

  I lean forward and press my lips to his to kiss away the concern.

  They instantly part; his moan is deep and guttural as the fire explodes beneath his skin, incinerating my own. The heat on my chest and at the small of my back is a raging pyre as our elements sing to one another. Attract and draw us close.

  I open my mouth and feel the velvet that is his tongue, lick my lips.

  I wish to be his in every way. My mind screams at the impropriety but I boldly launch myself, just the same, to straddle his legs. His breath comes in ragged, hitching gasps.

  His wide hands form around my waist and with a violent shudder he abruptly pulls back.

  I feel my eyes widen and lean forward to find his lips again. I do not wish to stop. I never wish to stop.

  “Allegra.” He touches his fingers gently to my lips. “I. I love you. With all of my heart, soul and person. Though I do not deserve you. Nothing as good as you should ever have come within an arm’s length of the likes of me. I wish to have you. Nay, I mus
t have you. Please, put me out of this longing and misery and consent to be my wife.”

  Something sparkles in the rising sun, sending iridescent rainbows dancing across the brown of the basket—the colors remind me of a peacock’s plume in the sun’s rays.

  My heart swells, so thick and full of joy, I fear I will swoon again. My throat is thick and tight with tears and I clear it. “I will.” And then more boldly, “When?”

  He slides the sparkling ring onto my finger and places his lips to it, trailing kisses from my ring finger to the back of my hand. He turns it palm up and kisses it again.

  I feel his heartbeat escalate beneath my other hand, resting upon his chest. Brighton stops and fumbles with his waistcoat and I stare back, confused at the sudden shift of intimacy.

  His fingers fumble in a pocket and extract a parchment. I cock my head in question.

  “I. I saw a judge, and had papers of matrimony drawn up.” His words spill out so fast then, I have to listen hard to discern them. “I was afraid something could happen at any minute—that we would never have the chance to wed. I know every girl dreams of a wedding, of white dresses and flowers and…and I imagine for you, it is all about the music…”

  The confusion begins to clear and with it an all-consuming fire…of possibility. “You mean, all have I to do is sign it…and we are wed?”

  Brighton’s eyes widen and he swallows so hard I hear the click. “Yes.”

  I take the paper from his hand and see the pen in his waistcoat. I reach for it myself. My hand is shaking.

  He notices and his voice is gruff, “I am sorry if I am too bold, too presumptive. To depart with you without arousing suspicion would be difficult if we were unwed. And I promise, when we have a different life—a beautiful party. With food and a gown and you may write the music and—”

  I sign my name with a flourish and press my finger to his lips and his trail of promises dies to silence. The only sound between is our breathing.

  We stare at one another. With awe. There are no restrictions.

  His eyes rove over me with a new boldness, and I do not drop my own. I stare back and see the utter yearning reflected in his gaze.

  He places both hand on my neck, and drags them slowly, to cover my collarbone and down to my dress.

  He whispers, almost to himself, “You are so very beautiful.”

  His fingers stray to my buttons, and shake so badly he is unable to tend them.

  He closes his eyes and his hands ball into fists. “Forgive me. I have never…wanted anything as badly as I want you. And now that the moment has arrived, I am terrified it will evaporate like so many other good things in my life.”

  I lean forward and place his hands on my face and press my mouth against his to silence his worries.

  After a few feverish, frustrating minutes, I am free of my corset and his fingers trail tenderly across my flesh and I relish the feel of the sunlight against my skin as it begins to stream into the basket.

  I wish we could stay here, in this moment, and never leave. Suspend time indefinitely.

  The next hour passes in a blur of tingling and tightening and the murmurs of my name and the feel of his hot breath.

  His blue eyes steal to the sky. He kisses my neck tenderly and whispers, “Day is coming and our time is fading.”

  And then I hear it. The sound of boots crunching through the thoroughfare stones. My heart catapults, but from fear, not desire.

  I gently shush Brighton and he stops still, listening.

  I bend forward to peer through the tiny holes in the basket’s bottom and see it. A white cane.

  Silas stops, dead still, to cock his head…listening.

  Brighton’s fingertips sear hot streaks along my back, where he continues to touch me, despite Silas’s presence. The desire all but screams. We are still as yet, uncoupled.

  Please let him leave. Please let him leave.

  I feel Brighton’s hand slide up my legs and linger in tiny, excruciating circles, as my heartbeat threatens to ravage my chest. My legs tremble in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

  Mercifully, a gull cries, breaking Silas’s trance. He shakes his head and ambles back toward the Guest House, walking as quickly as he can.

  Brighton’s body is immediately flush with mine. Our time is up.

  Brighton voice is low in my ear, “I love you, Allegra. Always remember that.”

  With every motion of his careful hands, stars pop inside my head, reminding me of his seducing fireworks. How they called to me, even then…

  And I exhale in exultation and with a shudder…as he makes me his wife.

  * * *

  The inner sanctum of Silas’s rooms smells like a funeral parlor. The flowers are meant to soothe but are instead, cloying.

  “Well, well, well. The Prodigal son and daughter return.” Silas sidles up too close to my face, and I fight to stay still. Not to cower.

  Brighton rushes forward, balling Silas’s shirt in his hands to shove him backward. The buttons pop off at the force. “I will be having none of that. You have us over a barrel—but I won’t be tolerating any more of your nonsense.”

  Silas raises a black eyebrow which seems attached—marionette-like, to his lips as one side elevates in a matching, lopsided smirk. “Something about you has changed.” His eye rove openly across my breasts and I feel a hot flush creep the length of my neck to my face.

  He tsk-tsk-tsk’s his way back, swaggering toward me. “Miss Teagarden, have you relinquished your most precious commodity?” His eyes drop suggestively.

  My face blazes, but I square my shoulders. If he dares to touch me again, I will strike him.

  “Silas,” Brighton steps forward, his entire body quaking. My heart hammers wildly—he will snap him in half.

  “That, is not your concern,” I retort, stepping backward, trying to put space between us, and to get Brighton away from him.

  He doesn’t need this devil’s blood on his hands.

  My flush deepens; so hot it’s as if my face has been scalded.

  “Oh, but Miss Teagarden.” Silas begins to pace, smooth and silky like a predatory cat. “THAT is not your most precious commodity, is it?”

  Fear tightens my throat like a slip-knot.

  Brighton’s eyes dart between us, confused.

  “Miss Teagarden. I have had word from that particular soldier. Your name is not Teagarden. It is Manners. Katherine Manners, not only of minor nobility, but much, much more…a musical prodigy, who has toured all of The Continent, led and leashed by a proud, proud Papa.” Silas smiles widely.

  His eyes flick to Brighton and register his perplexed expression. I should’ve told him everything, why did I not tell him everything last night?

  “As I suspected. Even you…you do not know her worth, do you?”

  Brighton’s gaze is wary and angry.

  “Avoir l’orielle absolue.”

  “Allegra?” Brighton prompts.

  “Perfect Pitch. You can play anything you’ve ever heard. You…are Miss Mary Marvel.”

  He knew I was a runaway, from a titled gentleman…but not that I was a minor celebrity. Making our situation infinitely more precarious.

  I watch the recognition spread across Brighton’s face, as he tries to work out the accusation. The posters littered Charleston—father’s endless advertising campaign always preceded our arrival—like any great Carnival. And I was the freak, to be paraded across every continent, to replace all the coin my father frittered away with his bad investments and my brothers propensity for gambling.

  I am the Golden Goose—only in my case, the Golden, freakish Songbird.

  I press my lips tight to stop the tremble. “I have no idea what you’re on about. You’re mad.”

  But Brighton sees. He knows. But he recovers in a blink. “Stop detaining us, we apparently have a new symphony and show to create to relaunch your flaming boat of Hades, don’t we?’

  The amusement drains from Silas’s face. “I shal
l prove you are Mary Marvel. And when I do, the two of you shall become permanent employees of Charleston’s Fancy. Unless you’d rather me to send word to Lord Manners?”

  Brighton stalks toward me, hauling me toward the door by the elbow. “You know where to find us. We shall be composing.”

  “And do not forget our sparkling accompaniments in the sky.” His fingers twiddle like mock fire bursts around his head. “Be very careful with my investment, Brighton, she’s merely on loan to you.”

  Brighton’s hand shakes where it grasps my elbow, but he makes no reply.

  He holds it with a mere two fingers but its force is like an iron caliper. He leads me, stomping through the halls, past the quizzical gaze of servants, his eyes ever forward.

  “Brighton. Brighton, I. I wanted to tell you. You knew I had that ability, photographic memory for music—I told you—”

  “But…Mary Marvel. Perfect pitch. You are the infamous Mary Marvel. How could you fail to tell me that? After last night…” A flicker of pain crosses his face, and is like a knife to my gut.

  His expression hardens. “It’s astounding you remained hidden. You’ve lost twenty pounds from the poster. And your idea for the masquerade…quite brilliant, really, to hide yourself.” I hear the bitter tinge lining his words. “I cannot believe I did not recognize…did not conceive…”

  “I’m sorry. I realize this puts you at a much greater risk. I should’ve told you. But you still haven’t told me everything about George, even after last night. We’re even. I heard you arguing with your father, and Lucy told me. I’ve changed since…the element. I can do even more than before. That night you found me in the tent…I can play every instrument. Every one with perfect pitch now.”

  “Be quiet, Allegra,” he chastises, looking left and right for eavesdroppers.

  I rip my elbow from his grasp and rub it to dull the ache. In his agitation, he has forgotten to curb his grip. It will no doubt bruise.

  “Answer me, Brighton!”

  “I am sorry Allegra. Katherine? Mary? Whatever I am to call you. Whoever you are. I detest deception.”

  “I am not moving till you explain,” I huff and halt in place.

  Several guests eye us curiously. He stalks back, grasping my arm again, too hard. I whimper.