Wilful Wallflowers Collection: Books 1 - 3

by Claudia Stone

  Thankfully, she had a meeting with her fellow wallflowers to look forward to, to distract her from her woes. As the clock struck eleven, Violet hastily cleaned away her sketch-pad and charcoals, as she prepared for her friends' arrival.

  "La! Violet," Charlotte cried, with forced gaiety, as she entered, "What a wondrous day."

  Outside, a rumble of thunder greeted Charlotte's words, and rain began to lash against the window, but the red-headed girl steadfastly ignored it. Her pretty face wore a determined smile, so resolutely fixed that it looked almost painful.

  In the days after Orsino's proposal to Violet, Charlotte had been "greatly disappointed" by her own duke. Penrith had, it was revealed, only courted Charlotte so that his cousin might then be able to court Charlotte's sister, Bianca. Though at first, Charlotte had been visibly heartbroken by this revelation, in the intervening days she had adopted a very English, stiff-upper-lip, and had refused to discuss the matter any further.

  Everything was perfectly, utterly, and completely fine, she had told her friends, umpteen times. Violet personally had doubts that anyone who needed to use so many emphatic adverbs was in any way fine, but Charlotte stubbornly refused to discuss the matter any further.

  Julia arrived shortly after Charlotte, apologising--as always--for being late.

  "Mama always has something urgent she needs to discuss when I am on my way to visit you both," Julia commented wryly, as she placed herself upon the chaise.

  "Do you think, perhaps, she does not approve of us?" Violet wondered, with a wink.

  The fussy Marchioness of Pembrook had made it clear from the start that she considered Violet and Charlotte a bad influence on their daughter. In her first season, Julia had been expected to find a husband, but instead, she had found friendship with the ton's two most determined spinsters, leaving her mother distraught. Though she was always the epitome of civility, when they chanced to meet, Violet was certain that Lady Cavendish would like dearly to bash Violet and Charlotte's heads together for ruining her hopes for her daughter.

  "She would never openly say she disapproved of you both, though she did rather take a shine to Charlotte, when it looked as though she might become a duchess," Julia replied, rolling her eyes at her mama's capriciousness.

  Charlotte's smile became even more fixed, as she sensed the conversation turning toward Penrith. Julia innocently levelled her friend an enquiring glance, before she gently broached the subject of the errant duke.

  "Have you heard from him at all, Cat?" Julia queried.

  Violet had to admire Julia's determination and bravery. Whilst Violet had quietly accepted Charlotte's wishes not to discuss Penrith--all while inwardly fretting for her friend--Julia refused to truckle to Charlotte's obstinate nature.

  "He has written," Charlotte waved an airy hand, "Sent flowers. Et cetera, et cetera. He has apologised, and that's all there is to it."

  "So, you forgive him?" Julia raised an eyebrow.

  "I have accepted his apology," Charlotte frowned in reply, "It's not quite the same thing, but it's as far as I can bring myself."

  "I think you still have feelings for him," Julia countered, her blue eyes knowing, "And that you are being stubborn, Miss Drew. Did you too not deceive Penrith?"

  For a moment, Charlotte took on the appearance of a kettle about to boil. Her cheeks flamed red as her hair, and Violet was not certain, but she could have sworn that steam emerged from her friend's ears.

  "That is beside the point," Charlotte eventually replied, through gritted teeth, before she re-affixed her face into a smile akin to that upon a mask of Thalia. "Now, tell me, ladies, what did you think of Castle Rackrent?"

  If Charlotte had meant her abrupt change of subject to discombobulate her friends, it worked awfully well. Violet cast a worried glance at the unopened book upon the table, and Julia, similarly, wore an abashed look.

  "Er," Violet twirled a strand of hair around her finger, "I meant to read it; honestly I did, but I--"

  Violet cast a glance around the drawing-room, hoping to sight an excuse. Her eyes landed upon her easel, where her finished portrait of Aunt Phoebe and Fifi rested.

  "I was finishing my painting," she said, adopting a pious tone as she continued, "One must work when inspiration strikes. It is the curse of the artist, Charlotte."

  Charlotte's response was a sardonic lift of her eyebrow, but Julia leapt to Violet's aid by leaping from the chaise--which wobbled precariously--and rushing to inspect the portrait.

  "Inspired," Julia decided, as she appraised the painting.

  "Aunt Phoebe wishes it to hang in Havisham Hall," Violet replied, tickled with pride at the memory, "Alongside the portraits of other holders of the title."

  Havisham Hall was the seat of the baronetcy, and its long gallery was filled with portraits of all the men who had once borne the title of Baron of Hebrides. As Aunt Phoebe had decided that it was Violet's portrait that she wished to hang there, it meant that somewhere in the wide world, one of her works would hang forevermore.

  "Oh, how wonderful," Julia beamed, "And not only have you immortalised Lady Havisham but Fifi too. Where is the little monster?"

  Violet frowned, as she glanced around the room. She could have sworn that she had left Fifi, glass-eyed and lying on her side, by her easel, but the taxidermy dog had now disappeared.

  "Perhaps one of the maids cleared her away," she mused, for Hannah, the downstairs-maid, had been sneaking in of late to dust the spots which Dorothy missed--which were numerous.

  Violet began to scour the room for the dog, poking through the potted ficus, and checking behind the ancient terrestrial globe, so old that it was missing two continents. Fifi, she finally decided, could not be found.

  Whilst Charlotte too had joined the search for the missing dog, Julia had become distracted by something near Violet's easel. As she spotted what it was her friend was looking at, Violet gave a yelp, and Julia hastily closed the sketchbook she had been examining.

  "I fear poor Fifi is lost," Charlotte called, as she wiggled out from underneath the chaise, her dress smeared with dust. "Perhaps Dorothy is correct, and her trapped spirit inspires her to wander the house."

  Something prodded Violet at the mention of Phoebe's wandering spirit, but before she could examine it, Charlotte spoke again, distracting her completely.

  "There is to be a boat race, on Wednesday in Hyde Park," she said, very matter-of-factly, "I feel it would behove us to attend."

  "You do?" Violet raised an eyebrow at Charlotte's pious tone.

  "Yes," she replied, her cheeks flushing pink, "Lord Horace and Lord Lucas have both bet an unseemly amount of money on whose toy-boat will be the first to reach the far side of Miller's Pond. I feel it would behove us to attend and demonstrate our disapproval for such a frivolous waste of money when London is filled with so much poverty and suffering."

  Well. Violet was not so certain about staging a moral-protest at an event that was sure to be filled with the braying young-bloods of the ton, but it was nice to see Charlotte return to something of her zealous self.

  "And afterwards, we might visit Gunter's," Charlotte added, as she sensed her friends' hesitation, "Bianca says that they have a new Gruyere flavour, which is to die for."

  "I think I shall stick to my lavender," Violet replied, wrinkling her nose at the memory of the Parmesan ice she had once tried.

  "But you will come?" Charlotte looked hopeful.

  "Of course we will," Julia smiled, "I can't remember the last time we made an attempt at being paragons of virtue."

  "The ballad singer at Speaker's Corner, last year," Violet remembered, before falling silent as she recalled how that particular endeavour had fared.

  Charlotte had wished to object against a travelling folk-singer, who had taken up residence on the corner of Hyde Park, and was making a pretty penny with the performance of a very lusty folk-song. She had corralled Violet and Julia into staging an objection to his lewdness, which involved them standing with th
eir backs turned to the offensive performance. Unfortunately, their protest had failed spectacularly and had actually resulted in a larger audience for the singer, as well as the composition of a new ballad, which while very catchy, also included some rather thinly veiled insults about Charlotte.

  "Er, yes," Julia replied, closing her eyes against the memory, as Violet valiantly struggled against the urge to hum a few lines of "The Uppity Shrew of Mayfair". "That went...that went...Well, it went somewhere."

  Charlotte, who had skin as thick as Aunt Phoebe, gave both her friends an encouraging smile--natural this time, and not forced.

  "That's the spirit, ladies," she beamed, "It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves. We can change the world if we but try."

  On that happier note, Charlotte took her leave, promising that she would have a book selected for next week's meeting by the morrow.

  As the door shut behind her, Violet cast Julia a mischievous smile.

  "Gosh, she is somewhat back to her old self. I feel almost bad that I am only attending for the ice-cream aspect of the afternoon and not the world-changing part."

  "I don't think even Charlotte stands a chance of saving Lords Horace and Lucas from their own stupidity," Julia grinned in response, "Though at least we will get to witness a little fun. Now, tell me, sweet Violet, what on earth is going on with you and the Duke of Orsino?"

  Violet began to protest that there was nothing going on between her and the duke, but then she recalled that Julia had seen her sketchbook, and she flushed.

  "I am nothing if not tenacious, Violet," Julia said, as she sat back down on the chaise, "And as well as tenacious, I am without any plans for the afternoon. Now, you will tell me what's going on."

  "I would like to tell you," Violet replied glumly, as she took a seat upon the Queen Anne, "Really, I would. It is just--"

  "Has he compromised you?" Julia looked ready to do battle, "If he has, mark my words, I will run him through with a sword."

  It was heartening for Violet to know that her friend would defend her against any egregious aristocrats, though Julia's outrage was more than a little misplaced. Orsino was not the villain in this tale, that role belonged to her.

  "No, he hasn't," Violet said firmly, "But thank you for offering to murder him on my behalf. It would be no small task, given the size of him."

  "Then what is it?" Julia pressed, not deviating from her purpose one bit, "You can tell me, Violet. I am your friend; nothing you can say will ever make that not so."

  Violet hesitated, but the urge to share her burden was too great. In hushed tones, accompanied by numerous glances over her shoulder to the door, to ensure that it had not opened, Violet told her tale.

  "...So you see," she completed, once she had adequately described her predicament, "I cannot possibly accept Orsino's marriage proposal."

  Violet finished speaking and waited expectantly for Julia's reply.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  After three minutes--according to the clock above the mantelpiece--Julia finally found her voice.

  "Well," she exhaled, as she ran a nervous hand over her hair, "I really wasn't expecting that."

  "You think me mad," Violet sighed, reaching for a French Fancy and morosely munching upon it.

  "No, not mad," Julia argued, "Well, not that mad. Oh, if only Orsino had tried to steal a kiss, it would be far easier for us to deal with than this."

  "You said that you would run him through with a sword if he had tried to compromise me," Violet countered, "I cannot see how a dead duke would be easier to manage than this."

  "It might have some advantages in comparison," Julia was dry as the desert, "Though you're right. If we have to pick one scenario, we should choose the one with a live duke. Whatever will you do, Violet?"

  Violet had nothing to say in response to her friend's query, for she had been hoping that Julia might supply the answer to that very question. If even the cool and unflappable Lady Julia could not remedy Violet's predicament, then perhaps all hope was lost.

  "Just carry on, I suppose," Violet waved a hand miserably around the room, "Keep painting and hope that someday I might get to Venice."

  And that someday I might forget Orsino, she added silently to herself.

  "But don't you," Julia hesitated a little, before ploughing on, "Don't you want to fall in love? I can see it in your eyes that you love Orsino. If he loves you too, nothing else should matter. Nothing else at all. Perhaps if you tell him the truth--?"

  "--He will have me sent to Bedlam?" Violet finished for her, though she frowned at Julia's newfound belief in the power of love. "Since when did you believe in love, Julia? I thought that you viewed marriage as merely a practical arrangement?"

  "Look at the time," Julia cried, without glancing at the clock, "I'd best be away. Sit tight for the next while, Violet, and don't do anything rash. Well, anything more rash. We shall think of a way for you to fix things with Orsino, just you wait and see."

  Violet blinked, in response to Julia's sudden decision to depart; she appeared to have ignited a fire within her friend.

  "Is it Lord Pariseau who has changed your mind?" she queried, as she followed Julia toward the door. Something niggled at Violet's memory, and as she recalled what it was, she clicked her fingers--a most unladylike act.

  "It's Lord Montague," she guessed, and all the answer that she needed was writ across Julia's face.

  "I am late," Julia said primly, sidestepping both the question and Violet in her dash for the door, "Try to heed my advice, Vi. Don't do anything silly until we think of a plan."

  Of course, as good advice as this was when a letter arrived from Orsino later that afternoon, addressed to Sebastian, Violet realised that while she might not wish to do anything silly, she did not have a choice in the matter.

  The messenger has brought your father's reply, he wrote, I request but a moment of your time this evening, to ascertain what it is he knows, if anything. All going well, I shall be able to release you from your duties once done.

  Violet willed herself to be strong, as she folded Orsino's missive in half. She would have one last outing as Sebastian, and then, she decided, she would commit herself to a life of regret for having tried to fool the duke who had captured her heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was after ten o'clock when Jack knocked upon the front door of Havisham House. Dusk had given way to night, and the ladies of the house--Jack hoped--would be well on their way to whatever ball or event it was they were attending.

  Had Jack called at nine, there might have been a chance of sighting Violet, but pride had--reluctantly, Jack had to admit--forbidden him from calling any earlier.

  Miss Havisham had made clear that she did not wish to see him, and Jack knew that he must respect her wishes, no matter how much his heart protested.

  As per protocol, it was Sebastian who answered the door to Jack's knock, dressed in the same clothes he always wore. Jack frowned a little as he noted this; thanks to Johnson, he had a whole room full of clothes, but then he was a duke, with endless funds at his disposal for such fripperies.

  "Your Grace," Havisham croaked, in a voice that sounded as though he had recently been crying, "Do come in."

  As Jack stepped inside to the darkened hallway, Havisham turned on the heel of his Hobby-boot, intent on leading Jack to the library. But on a whim, Jack bid him stop.

  "The drawing-room shall suffice," Jack called, with a wave of his hand to the drawing-room door, "We shan't be long."

  "Of course, your Grace," Sebastian nodded, though his brow creased into a frown, "Would your Grace like anything to drink?"

  Jack shook his head to the question, for a drink would necessitate a trip to the library. Tonight, Jack could forgo his brandy, if it meant that he might sneak a peek into Violet's secret lair.

  The drawing-room, much like the library, was filled with stacks of books. Unlike the library, however, there were hints of Violet everywher
e. A colourful shawl draped over the back of the chair, an unopened copy of Castle Rackrent upon the coffee table, and--Jack held his breath--an easel placed by the window.

  "Might I?" Jack queried, waving a gloved hand at the easel.

  He did not wait for Havisham's permission. Instead, he tread gingerly across the cluttered floor to inspect Violet's work.

  It was, Jack realised as he took in the portrait of Lady Havisham, a very fine piece of art. The portrait depicted the irascible baroness asleep in her chair, with a taxidermy dog by her feet. It was a marvellous depiction of Lady Havisham, somehow conveying both her defiant spirit--after all, what peer would snooze through a portrait?--and her vulnerability, all at once.

  "It's wonderful," Jack admitted, both awed and dismayed at Violet's talent. He had secretly hoped to find an asinine picture of kittens, so nondescript that his conscience might feel comfortable with trying to persuade Miss Havisham away from the dream of being an artist which was holding her back from him.

  Instead, he had found talent; pure, raw, undeniable talent, which needed nurturing and feeding by the greats.

  "It rather puts one to mind of--" Jack paused, as he racked his brains for the name of the artist whom Violet's work reminded him of, "Marguerite Gérard, that's who. Though your sister has not copied her style, she has interpreted it as her own. She is a very talented woman, Mr Havisham; look after her."

  Sebastian made a sound almost akin to a whimper, as Jack finished speaking.

  "I stubbed my toe," the lad explained, at Jack's questioning look.

  "La! I do not blame you fidgeting when I am harping on like a fool," Jack grinned, "After all, I am here not to discuss art, but treason. Come; let us see what your father has to say."

  Jack handed Havisham the message from Waldo and placed himself on the chaise longue to wait for him to translate it. The chair wobbled precariously under Jack's weight, and Havisham gave a yelp.

  "Perhaps your Grace might prefer the Queen Anne," he said, waving to the overstuffed armchair opposite, "It is a little sturdier."