by Jane Ashford
She looked amazed. “Y-yes.”
He nodded and said what he customarily did in such situations. “You must make your own decision, of course. Keeping your word is important. But there may be other considerations. You could seek Lady Granchester’s permission to ask for help. Be assured that I will support you, whatever you decide.”
Violet burst into tears.
This unprecedented response to his set speech threw Nathaniel for a moment. He’d never had a brother do that! Fortunately, in this case, he could take her into his arms and comfort her. “It can’t be as bad as all that,” he said into her hair, gently stroking her back. “And Lady Granchester has her family to turn to, and other friends.”
For some reason, this made her cry harder. Nathaniel hated the sound. What could her friend possibly have done to elicit such desolate weeping? He was ready to consign her and her difficulties to perdition for making Violet so unhappy. Lady Granchester hadn’t even been one of Violet’s set last season in London. He would have remembered her more clearly if she had. He didn’t think they’d seen much of each other for several years. So was this fit of weeping really sensible, necessary? But he knew that such a question would not be well received. He had to content himself with holding her, murmuring vague reassurances.
Violet clung to her husband. She never wanted to let go. She struggled to control her tears. He must be astonished at this excessive display over Marianne. Because she’d been a coward and sacrificed her friend to hide her own troubles. She was despicable. Perhaps she had inherited low tendencies from her rogue of a father. Stupid, ridiculous! Discovering her true parentage hadn’t made her a different person.
Violet caught her breath on a sob and commanded herself to stop crying. At least she hadn’t betrayed Marianne’s confidences. Though the dowager had said that people knew. Nathaniel hadn’t seemed to, however. She was dithering like a ninny. She had to stop weeping! With another deep breath and a heroic effort, she controlled her tears. Sniffing, she raised her head. “Oh dear, I’ve soaked the shoulder of your coat.”
“My shirt too, I believe.”
She couldn’t yet appreciate his rallying tone. “And I’m sure I look a perfect fright.” Violet was well aware that she was not one of those women who could cry beautifully. Her eyes grew red and puffy, while the rest of her face paled. Her nose ran.
“Perfect,” he agreed with a smile. He offered her his handkerchief.
“I know men hate weeping women,” Violet said as she made use of the square of linen.
“It depends on the woman,” her husband replied.
She nearly started crying again. “You don’t have to say that.” She almost wished he wouldn’t be kind just now. It made her feel even more venal.
“Would you rather I declare my coat utterly ruined? And bluster and swear that if you weep on my garments again I shall take to wearing a waterproof cloak indoors?”
A laugh escaped Violet. He’d actually managed to raise her spirits. Looking up at his handsome face, deep into concerned blue eyes, she was moved beyond measure. This match had been so much more than she’d dared hope. She had to find a way to hold onto this happiness. She had to! “No cloaks,” she replied. She laced her arms around his neck, twining her fingers in the slight curl of hair at the nape. A feather of desire stirred in her at the touch, and Violet marveled at it. She’d been—was—so distressed, and still she wanted him.
It was odd. The physical aspects of her marriage had turned out to be the easier part. She hadn’t foreseen that. She’d expected to suffer embarrassment, a period of awkwardness, perhaps mere acceptance in the end. But the difficulties had turned out to lie in other realms. The body had had its own plan and—with her husband’s guidance to be sure—she had embraced pleasure like a parched creature given drink. Touch was a revelation, a delight.
It was also a guaranteed diversion from uncomfortable discussions, but she didn’t think about that. She kissed him.
His response was all a wife could wish for. All a woman could wish for, Violet thought. Her worries receded with the caress of his lips, his hands on her. She could think of nothing else. She pressed closer, let his kisses sweep her away.
After a time, Nathaniel murmured into her hair, “We should go to the bedroom. I don’t intend to be caught by that housemaid again.”
Their landlady’s maid had gasped with outrage when she found them twined together on the parlor sofa. Rather as they were now. “She finds us shockingly loose,” Violet agreed.
“And I really should remove my wet garments,” he added, indicating his sodden shoulder. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes, indeed. We wouldn’t want you to catch cold.”
Arms about each other’s waists, they moved to Violet’s bedchamber. With hands now more practiced, and more tender, they undid buttons and slid cloth aside to expose eager flesh. Every caress, every gasp, intensified Violet’s resolve. She wanted to be with him like this for years on end, through all the trials and joys of life. She wanted love to bloom and deepen between them. She wanted to hear him say that he loved her desperately. She would have this. The dowager would not take it from her. She would find a way.
“I’ll go and see Marianne tomorrow,” Violet muttered as she drifted off to sleep. She had to, in any case, to tell her what the dowager had said.
She hadn’t realized that she’d spoken aloud until Nathaniel replied, “That seems wise.”
Violet’s heavy eyes opened, to find him up on one elbow gazing down at her. Her pulse accelerated at the warmth she saw in his face. “I wish I was wise,” she blurted out. Then she might see a clear way forward.
“You are.”
“How can you say…?”
“I have observed it. You are as astute and gracious and assured as a duchess already.”
His smile seemed expectant. He was pleased with his compliment and wanted appreciation. “Thank you,” Violet managed. But how she wished he was not so prone to praise her in terms of titles and suitability.
* * *
The next morning Violet went to call on Marianne as soon as it was decent to do so. She found her rising from the breakfast table and hurried her friend into her own front parlor to repeat the dowager’s warnings. “She said that Granchester will crush you,” she finished.
“He wouldn’t bother. He doesn’t care a whit for me,” Marianne insisted.
“Perhaps you are mistak—”
“No, I am not, Violet. Didn’t I tell you he said as much? Besides, how could he do any more than he has already?”
Violet didn’t want to speculate about that. “I suppose he will not like it if people know of your affair.”
“If he is humiliated, I’m glad!” cried Marianne.
From what Violet knew of Lord Granchester, this was a dangerous sentiment.
“Oh, I wish I could run away with Daniel. He keeps asking me.” She seemed proud of this. “He swears over and over that he would do anything for me.” For a moment, her expression softened. Then she bent her head again. “But of course I cannot leave my children.” Marianne stiffened and turned to Violet with wide, angry eyes. “That is what Anthony would do. He would make sure I could never see them.”
“He couldn’t—”
“They belong to him,” her friend interrupted. “We all do, under the law.”
“But he would not care to deprive his children of their mother.”
“Care?” Marianne laughed wildly. “The very word is foreign to him.”
“But you told me that he treated his sons like little kings.”
Marianne nodded. “He does not see a weak and pathetic mother as necessary to their happiness, however.”
“I cannot believe—”
“No one does, or will! Even you, my friend, won’t take my word. You think it can’t be so bad. But you have no idea what he is capable of!”
Violet supposed that was true. And in any case, her friend did not want to hear argument. “If you were to break it
off now…”
“Am I to have nothing?” Marianne cried. “No tenderness, no passion, for the rest of my life?”
Her friend’s misery was so palpable that Violet was silenced. She couldn’t argue propriety or risks in the face of such wretchedness.
Marianne gritted her teeth as if biting back tears. “How could you know anything about it? You were fortunate in your match. So much wiser than I! You have no need to hide and regret and”—she clenched her fists—“and despise!”
Her friend had no idea, Violet thought. And she didn’t dare tell her what she had to hide. She couldn’t risk anyone knowing.
“I imagine that your grandmother forbade you to help me?”
Violet shrugged. No answer was necessary.
Marianne examined her face and didn’t seem to like what she saw there. “I thought you were finished living under her thumb,” she said bitterly.
“I am. But…”
“You do not approve of my…actions. Despite everything I have told you.”
Violet couldn’t deny it. She also had to acknowledge the dowager’s threats, though she was ashamed to admit that she feared them.
“It doesn’t matter.” Marianne rose, indicating that their visit was over. “I got along on my own before. I can do so again. I understand that I am alone.”
“Marianne.”
Her friend waited, gazing at her.
“I wish there was something I could…”
“Wishes.” Marianne’s tone was acid. “We all have wishes. But they so seldom actually come true. Or, if they do, we find that they were foolish beyond measure.”
Sixteen
“You’re going out with Rochford again?” Violet asked her husband two days later, watching him pull on his driving gloves.
“Yes, we’re set to try a lane he knows with a particularly tricky gate.” He smiled at her. “I am to learn what ‘driving to an inch’ really means.”
“Must he always accompany you?” Violet couldn’t forget the malice of the ladies at the charity tea. Not that she distrusted Nathaniel. It was Rochford she doubted, and his known penchant for mischief.
“Well, he is lending me his team, Violet. Which no man does lightly. It is a great mark of confidence. You can’t blame him for wanting to make sure I can handle them.” Nathaniel donned his high-crowned beaver hat. “And his advice is invaluable. How often can one get driving tips from a leading member of the Four Horse Club?”
Violet fidgeted with a figurine on the mantelpiece. She couldn’t seem to sit still these days. Some part of her was always braced for doom, ready to fight it. “But wouldn’t you prefer to drive your own horses?”
“Of course. But I have only pairs for carriage work. And you can’t simply harness two pairs in line and expect them to work together without training. I haven’t the time for that before the race, and I’m not certain yet whether I wish to buy a four-horse team.” He paused in the doorway, a trace of impatience in his face, then came back. “Was there something you wanted me to do today?”
“No.” She didn’t want to keep him from a pastime he clearly enjoyed. She simply didn’t trust Rochford’s motives in this game. The man wasn’t known for kindly impulses. Quite the opposite. “Perhaps Rochford expects to win a lot of money betting on you?”
Nathaniel laughed. “Training me up as a dark horse and springing me on the competition? He’s hardly in need of money.” He shook his head. “No, I think I am a project to demonstrate his mastery.” When Violet cocked her head, he added, “To show the world that he can sculpt a mere tyro into a winner of races.”
“Sculpt.” She didn’t like the idea of Nathaniel being shaped by Rochford. Her husband was so much the better man. “You don’t mind that?”
He started to speak, shrugged a bit sheepishly, then said, “When we were at Eton together, Rochford was quite the figure, you know. I did well enough. I had plenty of friends and even won a few prizes, but he was the…the beau ideal of our school years. Superb at anything he tried. Positively idolized.” He shrugged again. His eyes twinkled with self-mockery. “I suppose something of that lingers, even after all this time.”
His words and manner called up a twelve-year-old Nathaniel, so clearly Violet could almost see him before her. A handsome boy, charming in his way, but perhaps a little serious for schoolboy tastes. Respected more than adored. Trusted, counted upon, but not elevated to the status of youthful hero. And secretly just a little envious of the careless, daring Rochford. The picture was so touching that she couldn’t protest further, though she still wished his companion was anyone but Rochford. “Go and tool through your narrow gate,” she said. “Mind you don’t scrape the paint on your shiny new carriage.”
He grinned like a boy indeed. With a small salute, he went out.
At least his preoccupation with this race kept him away from the dowager, Violet thought. The old woman wouldn’t go near the jostle and raillery of the crowd of men preparing for the event. She would expect to see Violet obeying her commands, however. How long would she give her before carrying out her threats?
“I forgot to inquire about your friend Lady Granchester.”
Violet jumped like a startled hare. Nathaniel had reappeared in the doorway. “Inquire?” she said in a high voice. Had he heard something about Marianne?
“You were going to ask if you might share the nature of her difficulties.”
Violet was touched that he’d remembered, when she’d forgotten that part of it herself. Eager to go, he’d bothered to come back and inquire. Was there any other man so generous? She felt like a worm for having misled him. “She…she did not wish to, no.” Which was perfectly true. “There are some troubles in her marriage…”
“Ah.” Nathaniel took a step back. “Indeed. Well, then…”
Men didn’t care to know such things. Violet had noticed it before. He was happy to be waved off to his driving and forget all about the Granchesters’ marital woes. She didn’t blame him.
Left alone, Violet couldn’t settle. No book held her attention. Needlework was out of the question. Yet she was reluctant to go out and perhaps encounter the dowager in the streets of Brighton. Her hands closed into fists at the idea. She had never been so angry at anyone in her life, or felt so trapped.
Finally, she walked downstairs to tell their landlady that Nathaniel would not be in for dinner. Movement was more satisfying than ringing for the maid and giving her the message. It felt more like doing something. At the foot of the staircase, though, she heard a familiar voice from the parlor where Mrs. Jenkins customarily sat, a voice that had no place in this setting. “Oh, Mr. Cates always has to be sniping at someone,” it said. “He’s that sort of man. Takes real pleasure in it, he does. He tattles to his master, too. Points out every little lapse in the other servants. I suppose he thinks it makes him look superior. Which just shows you what a fool he is.”
Violet stepped forward and looked through the open doorway. There, indeed, was Renshaw, sitting at the round table by the front window with the landlady and Furness. Her former maid wore black, as always, and perched in her chair as grim and angular as a crow at a feast. Violet marched into the room. “What are you doing here?”
Mrs. Jenkins started, and Furness quickly stood, but Renshaw merely gave her an insolent stare. “Visiting with a friend,” she said, nodding at Mrs. Jenkins.
“Who just happens to have let rooms to me?”
Renshaw shrugged. Furness took a step away from the table as if wishing to disassociate herself from the conversation.
“You have nothing to say about where I go,” Renshaw added. “I take my orders from Lady Moreley. She is my mistress now.”
“And always has been!” declared Violet. “You never had any loyalty to me.”
“I’m loyal to those as deserve it,” her former maid said, obviously relishing the opportunity to be impudent.
“And does Cates deserve the things you said about him just now?”
Renshaw frowne
d and looked away.
Here was the root of the strife between Furness and Cates, Violet realized. Renshaw had stirred up the trouble, out of sheer spite. “Get out,” she said.
“I believe this room belongs to Mrs. Jenkins,” Renshaw replied. “It’s her right to say who sits here. I’m sure she can choose her own friends.”
The landlady shifted uneasily. Clearly she was torn between agreeing with this statement and alienating a profitable lodger. Her expression showed acute discomfort with the conversation.
Violet didn’t bother to argue. “Certainly she can,” she said. “Furness, I need you.” She turned and walked out, confident that her dresser would follow.
She did. In fact, she was right on her heels as Violet entered the upper parlor. “Find Cates and ask him to join us here,” Violet commanded. When it looked as if Furness might speak, she added, “Now, please, Furness.”
The maid went out. In the minutes she was gone, Violet marshaled her seething thoughts. Blame should stay squarely on the true culprit in this tangle. She must set aside her feelings about Renshaw and see to the harmony of her own household.
Furness and Cates appeared in the doorway. There was a subtle tussle over who would enter first. Then her husband’s valet stepped back and waved Furness in, as if giving her permission. Furness bridled at the implication. For a moment, they stood there, frozen by issues of precedence. Finally, Furness raised her chin and sailed through.
Cates followed. He gave Violet a sketch of a bow. “You wished to see me, my lady?” He acted as if Furness was not there.
“To talk to you both,” she answered. “Because I have just discovered something of importance to all of us.”
This got their attention. The sidelong glares ceased.
“We have spoken before about various…incidents that have caused friction between you. And found no satisfactory explanation. I now believe that Miss Renshaw was behind them.”
Both servants looked surprised.