by Nichole Van
Dahlia was. Past tense.
The pain of it surged in Violet’s chest. How could it be over two years on and Dahlia’s loss still feel so very present?
Violet’s eyes drifted again to her sister.
Uncle Joshua had captured Dahlia’s unquenchable spirit so thoroughly. Her sister had a charming smirk that won her many friends and admirers. She had been the prettiest of them all with dark-brown hair, delicate features, and ice-blue eyes. Some had called her a fey creature, so magical was her allure.
But to Violet, Dahlia was more than just a lively companion.
Dahlia had been her closest friend, her favorite confident.
No matter what happens, we will always have one another, Violet had always said.
No matter what, Dahlia would reply.
But death had broken that promise.
“Dahlia was . . . fire,” Violet said, her words dropping into the hush of the room. “She could illuminate any room with her presence, always ready for a laugh or a lark. I loved her dearly.”
Mr. Campbell paused his sketching, as if the weight of her pain affected him. The hold on his sketchbook relaxed slightly.
“I am sorry tae have never known her. She sounds remarkable.”
Violet’s eyes pricked and stung at the empathy thrumming through his simple words.
Was this why she had felt compelled to defend Mr. Campbell at dinner? To force others to see the gentle soul within?
“She was,” she whispered, turning her head and biting the inside of her cheek, desperate to swallow back the surge of emotion.
Silence hung.
Violet’s lip quivered, forcing her to close her eyes.
Mr. Campbell’s voice carried to her, drifting softly. “Didnae St. Paul taunt death in the New Testament? O, Death, where is thy sting? I’ve often pondered that. Perhaps death has no sting tae those that die. But it is a thousand small cuts tae those who remain. Endless wee wounds reminding us of what we have lost.”
His words hummed, vibrating strings of meaning.
Violet found herself helplessly lifting her eyes to his.
He had stopped sketching, as if the weight of her loss sat heavy upon him.
Their eyes held . . . and held.
She saw it in the quiet compassion of his expression—he knew.
He understood the endless sting of death come too soon. The kind of sorrow that never fully heals.
One simply learns to live with the pain.
His chest rose and fell in perfect synchronization with hers.
Abruptly, Violet saw that she hovered at the precipice of a very great fall. Of giving more of herself than she should to this man. She could feel it creeping closer and closer.
And yet, she could not help the words that spilled out of her.
“Dahlia was a true free spirit.” Violet smiled, tremulous and quivering. “But it was that very free-spiritedness that caused her downfall, in the end. I am confident you did not miss the undercurrent running through dinner the other evening.”
Mr. Campbell snorted, a soft puff of sound. “Lady Graham’s words were clearly pointing toward a specific incident.”
“Yes, well, it is a cautionary tale, as they say.”
He paused and then said, “I would hear the tale, if ye will tell it.”
She swallowed, her eyes drifting to his long fingers holding the charcoal pencil. The same long fingers that had effortlessly spanned her waist, snatching her out of harm’s way with astonishing, tensile strength. Her breath hitched at the remembered press of those fingers into her skin.
A cautionary tale, indeed.
Violet feared for her own emotional safety.
If nothing else, perhaps explaining Dahlia’s shame would insert a much-needed wedge between herself and Mr. Campbell. Remind them both of the folly of their current course.
She nodded. “I suppose you will inevitably learn of Dahlia’s sad story from a servant or neighbor, so you might as well hear it from me now.”
Violet took in a deep breath, eyes staring into the distance, and resisting the urge to brace her hands on her knees.
Mr. Campbell, as if wishing to give her the illusion of privacy, returned to his sketchbook, head bent over his work, allowing her to speak without the added discomfort of meeting his gaze.
Yet another example of the deep well of consideration and compassion within him.
She ran her hands down her skirts. “I’m sure you remember the Year without a Summer.”
“Aye,” he said, not lifting his head, hand sketching. “The cold felt endless. There was famine that autumn and the year that followed.”
“Yes. My family quit our townhouse in London and returned here to help the tenants. It felt like the end of days, at times. Heavens, there was even a strong earthquake felt from Aberdeen to Inverness—”
“Och, I had nearly forgot about that.” He shot her a wry look before returning to his drawing. “The earthquake twisted the spire of the Old Kirk along the River Ness, if I recall.”
“We certainly felt it here. It rang the church bells and toppled chimney pots. But the earthquake was just one in a string of calamities that autumn. As you said, summer crops failed and disease set in. My mother was beside herself with worry over our tenants.”
Violet could still see her mother bent over her desk, hand to her forehead as she tried to find the funds to buy grain for her people. When so many landlords were abandoning their tenants to their fate—whether through famine or clearances—her mother had not. She had instead extended compassion and charity. In the end, Violet’s mother had borrowed the money—the Manna Loan—and sent for grain from Italy.
“Naturally, in the midst of this crisis, my mother was concerned for our education, wanting us girls to retain our ‘London polish,’ as she called it. Consequently, she engaged the services of a certain Mr. Martinelli to tutor myself and my sisters in dancing and music. As you might imagine, Mr. Martinelli was witty and handsome and prone to longing gazes while pushing back his mass of windswept hair. It was all rather Byronic.”
Mr. Campbell flashed her a rueful smile. “I’ve heard tales of the perils of dashing hair.”
“Well . . . Dahlia was certainly enraptured. My parents were too caught up in the struggles of the estate to see how deeply and quickly Dahlia fell in love. And to be fair, Mr. Martinelli was more than the sum of his alluring coiffure. Dahlia insisted there was a tender goodness in him that she adored.”
Violet did not add the most critical piece of the story.
She had encouraged Dahlia’s affections and attachment to Mr. Martinelli.
“You are free to choose, you see,” Violet had said. “You aren’t saddled with the earldom. You can marry whomever you would like—”
“Well, yes, but you shouldn’t give up hope, either. Lord Michael was simply one bad egg, Violet. I have faith you will find your own love in time.”
“Perhaps . . . but you? You can live now! You can find happiness with your Mr. Martinelli. You have the option to live the life that I cannot. I envy you for that.”
“But my behavior will reflect on you all. I cannot cause Mother such pain—”
“We shall find a way, Dahlia. Mother and Father will relent. They love you. Perhaps Father can find some way of furthering Mr. Martinelli’s career, particularly if it means your happiness—”
Violet clenched her jaw against the familiar flood of guilt. The horror that one small decision had wrought. If only Violet hadn’t urged her on. Would Dahlia have acted so rashly—
She pushed back the tide of memory, the endless what ifs. That way lay madness.
“The rest, as I am sure you can surmise,” she continued, “is a story as old as time itself. Mr. Martinelli and my sister began a passionate love affair. When our parents finally wised to the situation, Mr. Martinelli was sacked. My sister was forbidden to speak with him. As a deeply religious man, my father was beside himself with righteous fury over her behavior. But, of course, by th
en the damage had been done.”
Mr. Campbell lifted his head from his sketching. “Was Dahlia harmed?”
“Harmed? No. But she was increasing.” Violet mimed a hand rubbing a rounded belly. “She and Mr. Martinelli were very much in love and wished to marry. My parents absolutely refused their permission, but we live in Scotland. Dahlia did not need their permission to marry here.”
“Of course. A handfasting before witnesses is as legal as a church and a priest.”
“Precisely. You can guess the rest, I suppose. Dahlia slipped out of the house one night and eloped with her Mr. Martinelli. The scandal was immense. My parents cut Dahlia off entirely,” she said. “My father was nearly apoplectic, insisting Mr. Martinelli was not to receive a single shilling of Dahlia’s dowry. He stormed about, proclaiming that Dahlia was doomed to a life of misery and unhappiness. My mother took to her bed for several weeks, weeping incessantly. Dahlia had always been her favorite, you see—”
“Favorite? But how—”
“No, I can see that you wish to dissemble,” Violet held out a staying hand, “but you do not know my late mother. She loved me, of that I am certain. And I loved her and deeply miss her guiding influence. But our love was often a fractious thing, full of stubborn silences and disappointed hopes. I often wonder if my mother and I were too alike, in the end.
“But Dahlia was my mother’s opposite. Their love was complementary, and my mother doted upon her. And so when Dahlia eloped with a lowly dancing master, forcing my mother to cut her off in order to salvage the reputations and prospects of her other three daughters . . .” Violet drifted off.
“Dahlia broke your mother’s heart,” Mr. Campbell supplied.
Not just Dahlia, Violet thought. I broke my mother’s heart by encouraging and supporting Dahlia in her rebellion. By not informing them of what she intended to do.
Violet did not add that bit.
If Violet had not been such a staunch ally, would Dahlia have acted as she had?
Violet would never know.
Instead, she nodded, taking a moment before continuing. “We did not return to London and our life there. My mother and father felt the storm of scandal was better weathered far away from the ton. Initially, my parents forbade me from writing Dahlia, but I disobeyed them at every turn. I would not cease contact with my beloved sister. I could not. I sent her my pin money . . . anything to help her know that I still loved and supported her.” Violet was compelled to take responsibility for her part in Dahlia’s behavior. “Given the infamy of her elopement in this corner of the world, Dahlia and Mr. Martinelli relocated to Edinburgh. He took on students there to provide for them. My sister’s letters gave every appearance of being cheerful and happy, but who knows . . .”
“Aye. Was she truly happy, your Dahlia? Or did she merely put on a good face tae justify her choices?”
“Precisely my own questions.” Violet let out a slow breath. That was almost the worst part. That Violet had fostered Dahlia’s decisions, and her sister had ended up miserable in the end. “Regardless, Dahlia was delivered of a baby boy six months after her marriage. I was overjoyed for her. Her letters continued to be joyful and cheery, though she did occasionally request funds of me. Their finances were quite a tangle.”
“As are most of the newly married, I would hazard,” Mr. Campbell said, his hand ceasing sketching.
“Yes, I suppose you are correct. All seemed well enough, but then, when the baby was eight months old, he was taken ill. A putrid sore throat, the doctor said. He died within a fortnight.” Violet paused and then forced out the next words. “Dahlia soon followed.”
Mr. Campbell’s shoulders slumped at her words, as if the death of Dahlia and her son were an abrupt weight on his shoulders.
“Both of them? So quickly?” He shook his head. “And yourself, so far away.”
“Their deaths came as a terrible shock to us all. My father retrieved their bodies—Dahlia and her son—from Edinburgh to have them buried in the family plot here in Kilmeny.”
Violet did not add that her father was kinder to Dahlia in death than he had been in life. Aster insisted that their father’s anger and grief over Dahlia was indicative of the depth of his love. Violet wanted to believe her.
“The loss of Dahlia and her baby sent my mother into a steep decline of spirits.” Violet swallowed. “She passed away eight months after Dahlia.”
Violet finished by spreading her arms wide, as if to say, And here we are now.
“So many shocks, piled one atop the other.” Mr. Campbell braced his forearms on his sketchbook, wrists dangling loose over the edge. “Ye scarcely had time tae catch your breath before another was upon ye.”
She nodded. So much calamity and scandal and death packed into too little time.
As with his words earlier, he did not flinch from the emotion swirling in the room. Instead, he faced it, joining her in bearing the stinging cuts of grief. A sailor braced into the wind, allowing it to buffet and assail him.
Only someone who had faced a similar storm would behave so.
She hadn’t realized how much she needed a witness to her pain and guilt until this moment. Someone to look into her soul and say, I understand. I have stood in this place, too.
Violet turned back at the large painting hanging beside her, noting the twinkle in Dahlia’s eye, captured just as it had sparkled in life. Her mother’s gaze looked out at her, soft yet stern . . . also accurate.
“You asked me earlier how I feel about this painting?” She nodded toward it. “I find it painful . . . bittersweet. A melancholy reminder of a happier time, when cares and life were simpler and those I loved best were yet living.”
His shoulders sagged. “It is an echo then, the painting. A reverberating reminder of what was lost.”
Violet nodded, but did not add other truths.
That the weight of her own guilt was often crushing.
That the aftermath of Dahlia’s ruination and elopement had shattered their former way of life. London was forgotten. Illustrious neighbors had shunned their company. Violet’s suitors had abruptly evaporated.
Her father had retreated into his writings, thinking excessive piety would absolve them. Her mother had slumped into melancholy and eventually faded altogether. Aster and Rose had been left to fend for themselves, rebelling against the tighter strictures placed upon them.
For her part, Violet had been the one to pick up the pieces, to shoulder the burden of the estate and move forward.
Even before Dahlia’s death, the family had endured the snide remarks, the hushed whispers, the achingly-polite-but-pointedly-refused invitations. They mourned the abrupt change to their status, the sudden concerns for Violet’s prospects, the genuine fears for Aster and Rose’s. Dahlia’s eventual death had done nothing to stem the tide of criticism.
Violet had never realized how ephemeral their position was until one scandalous decision—a decision she encouraged!—nearly obliterated it.
She and Mr. Campbell stared at one another for a long moment.
What sting of death do you bear? she wondered. What pain has carved such empathy?
Violet swallowed and looked away.
You must let go of this fascination. It can only lead to regret.
Several years ago, Uncle Joshua had taken herself and Dahlia up the coast to visit the Bullers o’ Buchan, a churning cauldron cut by the ocean. Waves would wash through a sea arch and crash into the towering cliffs with devastating force.
Violet had known she needed to step away, to witness the awestruck scene from a safer distance.
And yet, she had not been able to stop her feet from traveling closer and closer to the crumbling cliff’s edge, transfixed as she was by Mother Nature’s fury.
The sight had been too compelling and Violet heedlessly naive to the dangers.
The red sandstone had rung with the call of wild birds and shrieked with the wind that whipped Violet’s pelisse around her and tugged at her skirts. Wave
s crashed and rumbled the ground beneath her feet.
Looking at Mr. Campbell now, Violet felt the same powerful pull, the urge to creep closer and closer to the edge, to risk a catastrophic fall.
The view was too breathtaking to turn away.
That said . . . Lady Graham had not been entirely wrong with her words the other evening:
Disaster did often follow foolish choices and scandalous behavior.
Violet swallowed hard.
She could not—she would not—repeat Dahlia’s mistakes. She would not choose heart over duty. Aster and Rose deserved better. Her mother’s memory deserved better.
Unfortunately, Violet feared her attempts to put distance between herself and Mr. Campbell had just misfired spectacularly.
Sharing threads of one’s soul had a tendency to do that.
She had wished to step back from the cliff’s edge, to run far and fast from these errant feelings.
He and she had been here before, had they not?
When she had tumbled on that clifftop and Mr. Campbell had clutched her to him, one large hand branding her hip, the opposite palm sprawled across her stomach.
That day, she had managed to physically step away from him.
But today, instead of pushing out of his arms once again, she had metaphorically clasped his hand and invited him to enjoy the view with her—him watching her with those understanding eyes, feeling the strength of his support—each taking a step closer to the cliff’s edge and the perilous consequences of tumbling over.
This hazardous dance had to stop.
Because if not, Violet feared she would one day cease caring to push him away.
12
The weight of Lady Kildrum’s sorrow stayed with Ewan. The bleakness in her eyes, the flatness of her tone. All masks hiding a chasm of grief and pain.
The very gravity of it seemed emblematic of the lady herself.
Violet.
Her name evoked the color ultramarine, a blue-purple paint made from crushed lapis lazuli. The pigment was outrageously expensive, so artists used it sparingly. In the Middle Ages, ultramarine was the color of the robes of the Virgin Mary—the extravagant cost of the paint being an outward symbol of the devotion of the artist and his patron. And so now, in art, whenever the color ultramarine was used, it inevitably invoked the Madonna.