Haunting Violet
Page 34
I lost myself for the better part of an hour in the red room at Thornfield Hall with the taciturn and handsome Mr. Rochester. Xavier wasn’t a bit like him. I just knew he didn’t have any secrets. He wouldn’t snap at me and tease me, but he’d never dress up like an old gypsy woman for entertainment either. I didn’t know why I was comparing the two. Or why I was perfectly able to picture Colin with a treasure chest of secrets.
Jane was just fleeing the church in her best dress with the news of Mr. Rochester’s dead wife when Elizabeth cleared her throat, her shadow falling over me.
I jerked, yelping loudly. Startled, Elizabeth yelped right back, louder.
“Why are we screaming?” she shouted, clutching her heart.
We paused, stared at each other, and then burst out laughing. As always, tucking my nose into a book made me completely oblivious to my surroundings. I would have made a terrible spy in the army—the first person to hand me a novel would have been able to shoot my head clean off without me noticing. Elizabeth dropped down into a chair and blew a stray curl out of her eye.
“I’ve talked to every old biddy here and drank enough tea to widen the Thames,” she muttered. “I know every gouty foot, bunion, and putrid throat intimately. And that half the people here are dreadfully tired,” she mimicked, slumping in a way we’d never have dared if either of our mothers had been in the vicinity. “But I know precious little about Rowena’s tragic demise.”
I put my novel down reluctantly. “Nothing?”
“Nothing but the story everyone already knows, that she drowned last autumn. There were lots of sighs and ‘oh dear’s’ but nothing useful. What’s become of good, proper gossip? I’m heartily ashamed of the whole dull lot of them. Even the bits about her father were the same complaints about gambling and creditors.”
“And Mr. Travis?”
“Nothing we didn’t already know. Neither my mother nor any of her friends will deign to talk to him, and they’re quite put out that Lord Jasper would invite him at all. So I still can’t think where I might have seen him before now.”
“Blast.”
“They feel the same about Xavier, I’m sorry to say, but he’s rich enough that they’ll pretend otherwise. And you’re so beautiful, they think him quite lucky.” I could just imagine what they would think of me if they knew the truth.
I rose and went to the shelves by the window. I couldn’t avoid it any longer. “Maybe these will help?” I said, bringing a tower of them over to the big round table.
“It’s too fine a day for reading,” she groaned.
“There’s no such thing,” I said decisively.
“You’re the bluestocking, always with your nose in a book,” she said, sighing dramatically. “Besides, reading gives me a headache.”
I arched an eyebrow and pushed a pile of pamphlets toward her. “Read.”
“Mother says I shouldn’t act too intelligent or no man will have me.”
I snorted.
She leaned her chin in her hands and grinned. “Perhaps I won’t marry then. Instead, you and I shall live as spinsters in a cottage by the sea. We’ll burn our corsets, eat chocolate noon and night, and grow fat as hedgehogs.”
“Sounds lovely. But I’d rather have books than chocolate.”
“Criminal,” she declared. “Would you rather books over pineapple, even?”
“Even that.”
We read for a couple of hours, discovering more about spirits than we’d previously thought possible: that sometimes they took over the body and wrote on slates—and the medium had no control over what was being written, that flowers appeared out of the air, that they blew cold winds (without the help of bellows), that women were more susceptible to their powers and better suited to lead séances, that spirit messages were to be followed exactly, and that illness often predated the development of Spiritualist gifts. We read until even I was cross-eyed but felt no less confused. Finally Elizabeth slammed her book shut in a puff of agitated dust motes.
“No more!” she exclaimed. “My head is full and if I develop wrinkles around my eyes, Mother will kill me. And you, I suspect. She is convinced that is why my cousin Mary has never married. Even though it’s far more likely that it’s because Mary is always cross and eats too many onions.” She leaped to her feet. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“But we need to do more research.”
“We’ll go back to the pond, see what we can find. That’s research.”
“And probably a bad idea.” I stood up and smiled. “Let’s.”
She grabbed my hand before I could change my mind.
“We have to put the books away.” I laughed, tugging back.
“One of the maids will do that. Come on.”
I slipped a small book into my pocket. I hadn’t yet had a chance to finish the section on contacting spirits, and it seemed promising. It might be helpful. We stumbled out into the bright garden, blinking like baby owls.
“Not that way,” Elizabeth hissed when I went to turn. “They’ll be taking tea outside and if I hear one more word about how bad the damp is for the bones, I swear I shall scream.”
She ducked behind a yew bush carefully clipped within an inch of its life. It was shaped like a rabbit, if rabbits were rigid and perfect. Behind it was a narrow path that wound around the patio, hidden from view by several trellises dripping with more roses and morning glories. We passed the conservatory, with its small orange and lemon trees pressing glossy leaves against the glass. A shadow moved between them. I recognized the mane of white hair.
Jane was just fleeing the church in her best dress with the news of Mr. Rochester’s dead wife when Elizabeth cleared her throat, her shadow falling over me.
I jerked, yelping loudly. Startled, Elizabeth yelped right back, louder.
“Why are we screaming?” she shouted, clutching her heart.
We paused, stared at each other, and then burst out laughing. As always, tucking my nose into a book made me completely oblivious to my surroundings. I would have made a terrible spy in the army—the first person to hand me a novel would have been able to shoot my head clean off without me noticing. Elizabeth dropped down into a chair and blew a stray curl out of her eye.
“I’ve talked to every old biddy here and drank enough tea to widen the Thames,” she muttered. “I know every gouty foot, bunion, and putrid throat intimately. And that half the people here are dreadfully tired,” she mimicked, slumping in a way we’d never have dared if either of our mothers had been in the vicinity. “But I know precious little about Rowena’s tragic demise.”
I put my novel down reluctantly. “Nothing?”
“Nothing but the story everyone already knows, that she drowned last autumn. There were lots of sighs and ‘oh dear’s’ but nothing useful. What’s become of good, proper gossip? I’m heartily ashamed of the whole dull lot of them. Even the bits about her father were the same complaints about gambling and creditors.”
“And Mr. Travis?”
“Nothing we didn’t already know. Neither my mother nor any of her friends will deign to talk to him, and they’re quite put out that Lord Jasper would invite him at all. So I still can’t think where I might have seen him before now.”
“Blast.”
“They feel the same about Xavier, I’m sorry to say, but he’s rich enough that they’ll pretend otherwise. And you’re so beautiful, they think him quite lucky.” I could just imagine what they would think of me if they knew the truth.
I rose and went to the shelves by the window. I couldn’t avoid it any longer. “Maybe these will help?” I said, bringing a tower of them over to the big round table.
“It’s too fine a day for reading,” she groaned.
“There’s no such thing,” I said decisively.
“You’re the bluestocking, always with your nose in a book,” she said, sighing dramatically. “Besides, reading gives me a headache.”
I arched an eyebrow and pushed a pile of pamphlets toward her. “Read.”
“Mother says I shouldn’t act too intelligent or no man will have me.”
I snorted.
She leaned her chin in her hands and grinned. “Perhaps I won’t marry then. Instead, you and I shall live as spinsters in a cottage by the sea. We’ll burn our corsets, eat chocolate noon and night, and grow fat as hedgehogs.”
“Sounds lovely. But I’d rather have books than chocolate.”
“Criminal,” she declared. “Would you rather books over pineapple, even?”
“Even that.”
We read for a couple of hours, discovering more about spirits than we’d previously thought possible: that sometimes they took over the body and wrote on slates—and the medium had no control over what was being written, that flowers appeared out of the air, that they blew cold winds (without the help of bellows), that women were more susceptible to their powers and better suited to lead séances, that spirit messages were to be followed exactly, and that illness often predated the development of Spiritualist gifts. We read until even I was cross-eyed but felt no less confused. Finally Elizabeth slammed her book shut in a puff of agitated dust motes.
“No more!” she exclaimed. “My head is full and if I develop wrinkles around my eyes, Mother will kill me. And you, I suspect. She is convinced that is why my cousin Mary has never married. Even though it’s far more likely that it’s because Mary is always cross and eats too many onions.” She leaped to her feet. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“But we need to do more research.”
“We’ll go back to the pond, see what we can find. That’s research.”
“And probably a bad idea.” I stood up and smiled. “Let’s.”
She grabbed my hand before I could change my mind.
“We have to put the books away.” I laughed, tugging back.
“One of the maids will do that. Come on.”
I slipped a small book into my pocket. I hadn’t yet had a chance to finish the section on contacting spirits, and it seemed promising. It might be helpful. We stumbled out into the bright garden, blinking like baby owls.
“Not that way,” Elizabeth hissed when I went to turn. “They’ll be taking tea outside and if I hear one more word about how bad the damp is for the bones, I swear I shall scream.”
She ducked behind a yew bush carefully clipped within an inch of its life. It was shaped like a rabbit, if rabbits were rigid and perfect. Behind it was a narrow path that wound around the patio, hidden from view by several trellises dripping with more roses and morning glories. We passed the conservatory, with its small orange and lemon trees pressing glossy leaves against the glass. A shadow moved between them. I recognized the mane of white hair.
