Rose sat in front of Violet, taking the steering into her capable little gloved hands. Rose had always been slim as a reed, much thinner than Violet, but now she felt quite delicate, the bones of her shoulders fragile through her satin gown, arms like a delicate bird’s. A few curls of dark red hair escaped from her sapphire bandeau and she smelled of a rich jasmine scent. It made Violet feel rather worried suddenly.
Rose was Violet’s twin, her closest other self ever since they were born, yet she’d felt too often lately that Rose was holding something back even from her. But tonight they were as close as ever, laughing together, leaning against each other.
Harry gave their tray a great push and they were off, flying over the stairs, barely stopping in their accelerating flight. Violet and Rose shrieked with laughter; it really was like sledding down the snowy hills behind their Newport house when they were children and would go there for quiet winter treats as well as busy summers. It was wonderful! Like flying!
They landed hard on the marble floor of the entrance hall and spun around and around until Violet’s head felt giddy. She tumbled down and lay flat on her back, laughing and laughing until her whole body ached and she couldn’t stop.
Suddenly, a hand appeared above her, tanned golden, with a few fine dark hairs at the wrist, impeccably manicured with a gold signet ring on the smallest finger, steady and strong. ‘Miss Wilkins? Are you quite all right?’
Violet stared up and up into the bright green eyes of the Duke of Charteris. His brow arched as he watched her, expressionless. It made her feel suddenly sober. He had probably never had fun like that, not even when he was a child.
‘Miss Wilkins?’ he said again. ‘May I be of assistance?’
Violet slowly reached up and took his hand, almost as if a spell compelled her to, and even beneath her glove she could feel the heated life of him, the raw strength. His fingers closed around hers and he raised her to her feet, as if she was as light as swansdown. Only once he was sure she stood steady on her heeled shoes did he step back, to a safe distance. She felt suddenly chilled and wrapped her arms around her waist.
He gave her a half-smile and she could suddenly see why Thelma Parker-Parks might desire him. Even if she did not. Not even a little bit, not at all.
The lady doth protest...some little voice whispered in her ear, and she tried to laugh such disquieting things away. She couldn’t like the Duke; he would never like her back.
‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ she said. ‘It’s such fun, you should try it!’
Charteris shook his head, that hint of smile vanishing. ‘Such nursery pastimes have never held much attraction to me, I fear, Miss Wilkins. But to each their own, yes?’
Violet bristled a bit, even if he was rather correct. It was a bit nursery. But still, there was no harm in a bit of fun! Thelma was welcome to him.
Before she could say anything else, Thelma herself came to take the Duke’s arm, smiling and dimpling up at him. She really was very pretty, so golden and delicate, as Violet had never been. Perhaps the Duke would not mind so much if she did catch him.
‘Charteris,’ she cooed. ‘They are starting the last waltz before supper, and you did promise to be my partner.’
‘Of course, Miss Parker-Parks.’ He took her arm and let her lead him back into the drawing room, smiling in silence at her chatter and giggles.
Violet turned back to the stairs, where others were lined up to take their turn. Jamie was talking to Rose, his handsome, thin, scholarly face serious, but she shook her head, her chin set, and hurried away from him to Violet.
‘Everything all right, Vi darling?’ Rose asked, smoothing her hair carefully under that jewelled band. Her laughter from the ride down the stairs had faded and now she looked rather worried, though she tried to hide it behind a smile. Where Violet was all prickly angles and energy and fire, so much she often singed herself with it, Rose was like her name—sweet, fragrant, elegant, a peacemaker. Was something amiss with her now?
‘Everything is very all right, Rose, my love. You give the best soirées in London.’
‘So they say,’ Rose murmured doubtfully, and Violet kissed her cheek quickly, eager to make her sister smile again. And so she did, though it seemed wavery. Jamie had vanished again. ‘Shall we check on supper?’
Violet nodded. She glanced back to see the Duke taking his place in the dance with Thelma, so tall, so straight, so very correct. She didn’t know why she should care if he disapproved of her, but that cold disquiet in her core still shivered there. And she could still feel that touch of his hand on hers...
Chapter Five
‘I don’t suppose I could persuade you to go shopping instead? To tea at Gunter’s?’ Lily teased as their carriage rolled along towards Pall Mall, slowly because the traffic was thick there. The buildings were beyond elegant and the ladies who strolled past were lovely in their furs and silks.
‘Not a chance of that, Lily! I’ve been counting down the hours to this ever since my dance at Rose’s,’ Violet declared. A photographic exhibition, where she could take her time to study other work. Maybe even speak to other photographers, as she had with Mrs Cameron at the ball! It made all those garden parties and Venetian breakfasts and musicales she’d endured all year seem quite worth it.
She’d been trying to stay home as much as she could, practising with her camera, studying albums, and she’d seen few people. Certainly not the Duke of Charteris, though she had watched for him when they went for rides in the park. Probably he was too busy with all his ‘important work’ for such frivolities. Maybe he was engaged to Thelma now. She shouldn’t care and she didn’t. Really. She did not.
Or maybe just the tiniest bit, when she couldn’t sleep at night and she would think she saw his emerald eyes in the shadows. It was most annoying.
Lily laughed. ‘I’m sure it will be most interesting. And your work is sure to be in the next exhibition!’
Violet wasn’t so sure about that. She still had problems with her technique, ruining more plates than she would like. It was so hard to make her visions appear before her in reality. But events like this would help her learn, and she had to stop thinking about the disapproving Duke and concentrate on that.
At last they drew up outside the pale stone mansion that once housed the Society of Female Artists. It was one of the first times such an exhibition of a new medium was being held for the public and the line out of the doors was rather long already. Violet recognised several Earls and their Countesses, wealthy art collectors and the quiet editor of Photographic News already taking notes. She practically jumped down from the carriage to hurry and join the queue.
Once inside the grand, cold marble foyer, the corridors stretched to either side, long and crowded, filled with enticing objects three deep on the blue silk walls. Lily was quickly distracted by a group of her friends, but Violet happily wandered on by herself, entranced by what she saw.
The earliest photos were displayed near the front, by Oscar Rejlander, a great pioneer of the photograph as an artistic image rather than a mere mirror. The first was rather small and faded, depicting a chubby cherub who reminded Violet of her nephew looking up with a palette and brush in his hands. Art Must Assist Photography, read the placard, 1856. But right next to it was an image that showed Rejlander must have rather changed his mind. The Infant Photography Giving the Painter an Additional Brush—a tool for art, not secondary to painting. Violet had read that Rejlander had combined four negatives together to make the image. She found the technique fascinating and wished she could work out how to do such a thing.
In the next room was a row of portraits, some of them even by ladies. Clementina Hawarden, a viscountess who had died in 1865 at forty-two, had a row of glowing images of her daughters, from toddlers to young ladies. Not stiffly posed as young noblewomen in silks and feathers, but natural girls going about their days, sitting sewing by the fireplace, brus
hing hair in a mirror, leaning against each other laughing. Like real life itself, like Violet and her sisters. Just what she wanted to create.
Mrs Cameron’s photos were very different. They were blurry, full of motion and feelings, telling a whole story.
At the end of the row were two portraits of a girl. Julia Jackson, the card said. She was beautiful, her face sharply carved and full of sadness, evoking emotion in the viewer.
‘Do you like it?’ a woman asked.
Violet, so absorbed in the images, was startled by the sound. She turned to find a lady smiling at her. She was tall and slim and elegantly dressed in a purple walking dress and flowered bonnet.
‘They’re lovely,’ Violet answered honestly. ‘I love the blurriness at the edges, the sense of motion. The life.’
The woman smiled. ‘Some critics say it lacks womanly delicacy.’
‘They are quite wrong. Sometimes I think only a woman can see another person so deeply. Men are always in too much of a hurry to really look.’ Except for Charteris and those glowing eyes that seemed to see too much. Seemed to look too deeply. She tried to push aside thoughts of him and turned back to the photographs. ‘Though I do like Mr Dodgson’s work.’ She gestured to the opposite wall, which held a row of Mr Charles Dodgson’s work. There was a dark-curled little girl clutching her doll, looking melancholy beyond her years, and a group of people in a rowing boat, laughing in the diffused sunlight. The technical process of it all was amazing.
The woman’s smile widened. ‘Yes, indeed. Life. We must drink it in deeply wherever we can find it. That portrait is my niece, by the way. She’s such a beauty. Mrs Cameron, who has just left for Ceylon, is my sister. You may have met her? I’m Mrs Prinsep.’
‘Mrs Prinsep!’ Of course Violet had heard of her. One of the Pattle sisters, as close as Violet was to her own sisters. Her home at Little Holland House was famous as a centre of artistic life, its gardens and corridors packed with painters and writers, full of creative thought. Full of an informal, even scandalous spirit. Rose had said she had been there herself a few times, welcomed for her beauty and sweetness, and Violet longed to see it for herself some day. ‘It’s an honour to meet you. I’m Miss Violet Wilkins.’
‘Ah, yes, Rose’s sister. I’ve heard you are interested in photography yourself.’
‘I merely dabble. I was hoping to learn a great deal from today’s exhibition.’
‘Then you must join us at my house soon! Perhaps after you all return from Russia? I shall send you a card. I warn you, we are very casual there. You’ll meet all sorts of people. But Rose does seem to enjoy it. Until later, my dear!’ Mrs Prinsep waved and sailed away, making Violet laugh.
Violet also left the main gallery, turning into a small chamber, and laughed again at what she found. It was a collection of nude images, ladies posed as classical goddesses in nothing but laurel wreath headdresses. She glanced over her shoulder and found she was alone for the moment and could take a peek.
‘Why, Miss Wilkins, how very shocking,’ a wry, teasing voice said. Violet whirled around, her face growing too warm, and she found the Duke of Charteris watching her from the shadowed doorway. He leaned there lazily, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes gleaming, a panther stalking her through a thicket of scandalous photographs.
‘I—I...’ she stammered. ‘I was looking at Mrs Cameron’s portraits out there and stumbled in here by accident. Much as you yourself did, I’m sure.’ She laughed, forcing away that trace of embarrassment. ‘But perhaps there should be some photographs of men in the altogether, yes? I could correct that in my own work.’
His smile widened with a flash of humour so warm she wanted to draw closer and closer to it, bask in its beauty. It was all too rare. But maybe if he smiled too much, ladies fainted at his feet and it was a nuisance to walk past them. She was glad she had made him laugh rather than shocked him. ‘Of course. You’re in here merely by accident. And I would be interested to see your work.’
‘I’m surprised you’re here at all. I wouldn’t have imagined photography was an interest of yours.’
‘Oh, I do have some interests, Miss Wilkins. You would be quite shocked.’ He held out his arm lazily. ‘Shall we? I would quite like to see Lady Hawarden’s work.’
Violet took his arm and led him around the exhibits, talking about what she admired in a few favourites, the techniques she imagined had gone into each one. She feared she was prattling too much, but he nodded and frowned and smiled, asking a few intelligent questions, as if he was interested in what she had to say. It was quite dizzying and she found herself laughing at some of his wry jokes. She was—could it be comfortable with the dour Duke? The thought made her feel quite discombobulated and she excused herself to visit the withdrawing room at the end of the gallery.
Violet sat down at one of the little tables behind the japanned screens, glad of the moment alone to rest her feet. What a ninny the Duke must have thought her, chattering on so much about photographs! Surely he was used to ladies who were very different from her, sophisticated and well informed on many stylish topics. Maybe society women were what he really admired, fashionable and smiling and light.
Not that she wanted him to admire her. Of course not, she told herself sternly. He was not at all the sort of gentleman she was interested in, if she was at all interested in romance yet. Seeing the exhibition showed her she needed to work so much harder at her art.
But then, he, too, seemed interested in photography, which was most surprising. Maybe he was right—maybe there was far more to him than she had first thought. He was actually rather easy to talk to, a good listener, informed on so many topics. His smile was lovely indeed, his eyes concentrating only on her, only on what she said. Such attention felt intoxicating.
Yet she could never fit into his real life, his life as a duke. This was a moment out of time. She knew that very well.
The door opened and she heard a burst of giggles, though luckily she was hidden behind her screen of silence. She sank down lower on the bench and heard someone exclaim about what a ‘bore’ photography was, what a shame it was becoming fashionable so one must pretend to like it.
‘Then why ever did you want to attend, Thelma?’ a lady said, with a rustle of muslin skirts and a clatter of bottles as she rummaged on a dressing table.
Another woman laughed and Violet realised it was that silly Thelma Parker-Parks, who was chasing Charteris so shamelessly. Just Violet’s luck to be trapped, caught listening to the girl for a second time.
‘Because it is becoming all the rage, you know, looking at photographs,’ Thelma said. ‘And you never know who you will see at fashionable artistic things!’
‘And it has quite paid off, has it not, Thelma dear?’ her friend teased.
Thelma laughed, a brittle, snappish sound. ‘Indeed. Wasn’t the Duke most charming? He said he’ll be at the little dinner-dance for Prince Alfred later.’
‘And did he ask you for the first dance?’
Thelma laughed again. ‘Oh, Bea dear, he need not dance with me. We have talked of this. I will send him a note to meet me in the garden at Marlborough House. A terrible emergency. A twisted ankle, I think. He would never leave a lady in distress.’
Violet’s thoughts whirled. This seemed like a real plan on Thelma’s part, not just the vague hopes she’d heard at Rose’s party. Poor Charteris.
‘And then what?’ her friend Bea gasped.
‘What do you think, silly? You shall then come outside to take the air and bring a group with you—maybe even the Princes! You will catch us kissing. I shall be a duchess in no time. But your timing must be just right.’
Violet pressed her hand to her mouth to hold back a gasp. It was a plan, a dashed unfair one!
‘Thelma! You wouldn’t.’
‘I would,’ Thelma said coldly, no longer at all the airy-fairy princess. ‘A lady must look afte
r herself these days. He admires me, I’m sure, and he needs a wife. I would be a darling duchess. I’m just...helping him along a bit. Poor men, such dears, stumbling about in the world, but sometimes they must be shown what they need. What they really want.’
Violet was quite sure that, of all men, Charteris was quite capable of knowing his own mind. And the minds of others, too, drat him. Stuffy he might seem, but no one deserved such a trick played on them! To be saddled with an unwanted spouse for life. What a terrible plan on Thelma’s part.
Though maybe he really did want Thelma Parker-Parks, as she seemed so convinced. Violet had seen no signs of such a thing, but romance was not really her area of expertise. What should she do?
‘No one can resist you, Thelma,’ Bea said.
‘With your help, of course, darling Bea.’
There was a rustle of skirts, a last giggle, and the door clicked shut behind them as they left the withdrawing room. Violet buried her face in her hands, her head aching as she tried to decide what to do next. Her sense of American justice wouldn’t let Thelma’s plan just come to pass, but how could she stop it? How did she help a man she wasn’t even sure she liked? But there was something about Charteris, something intelligent and all-seeing and fascinating, and he deserved so much better.
She knew she had to do something. She smoothed her hair beneath her little, tip-tilted, feathered hat and powdered her cheeks with some of the rose powder on the nearest dressing table, hoping to look less flushed and confused and more composed, until she could work out what to do. How she hated all this plotting and scheming! No wonder she preferred photographs that could be composed and arranged.
Somewhat tidier, she hurried back to the galleries, looking for her sister. Maybe Lily and Rose could help her, surely they would know what to do? They were practically English themselves these days and were successfully navigating their way through society. The corridors were less crowded now, quieter, and she didn’t see the Duke anywhere.
Playing the Duke's Fiancée--A Victorian Historical Romance Page 7