Haunting Violet
Page 57
“Well, you’ve certainly made a muddle of it, haven’t you?” he remarked, not unkindly.
“What would you know about it?” she lashed out. “You’ve never been hungry or alone, have you?” In her distress her carefully cultivated town accent crumbled under Cockney vowels.
“Mary—”
“I’ve told you, it’s Celeste. Why were you at Rosefield if not to see me?”
“I was invited. Lord Jasper has long been friendly with my grandfather. I thought it might be amusing.” His mouth quirked, tone dry as matchsticks.
“Let’s not quarrel, Nigel.” Mother pouted prettily, clearly deciding to take another tack. “The important thing is that you have a daughter. Why don’t you take her home with you, then?”
He gave a bark of startled laughter. “You can’t be serious.”
“Why not? She’s as much your responsibility as she is mine. More, I’d say. You’ve never fed her or clothed her, have you? Not a penny.”
“I have a wife,” he said. “And two boys.”
So I did have siblings, after all. I wondered what they were like.
Mother clapped her hands. “Excellent. Violet is wonderful with children. She can take care of them.” I could only stare. I’d barely ever even interacted with children before.
“Celeste, you can’t expect my wife, a duke’s daughter no less, to accept a bastard into her house. Be reasonable.”
All the blood drained clear out of me. It didn’t matter that I already knew I was a bastard; it was another thing entirely to hear it spoken by your very own father. And so casually, as if it were nothing.
“You have to take her.”
I felt weaker still. Neither of my parents wanted me.
“I simply can’t. It’s out of the question. I shouldn’t have come at all.” He handed me back the letter I’d written to him. “I’m sorry.”
“She’s a St. Clair!” Mother chased him as he made his way to the front door. “She’s one of you—you said so yourself.”
He shook his head again.
“How am I supposed to feed her?” she screeched as he went down the walkway to his waiting carriage. She watched him until he was down the congested road and out of sight. Then she came back into the gloomy hall and seemed to deflate. When she said it again, her voice was tiny and broken. “How am I supposed to feed you?”
I sat on the step until the shadows grew longer and longer, until the crowd outside grew bored and went off to find their supper. Marjorie came to light the lamps and sweep out the parlor. Her eye was swollen and bruised, as she’d made the mistake of knocking on Mother’s door to ask if she needed anything. Mutely, I helped Marjorie gather all the broken crockery for the dustbin, carted out a splintered chair that required repairing, and rehung one of the drapes. There was a large tea stain that wouldn’t scrub out of the paper, nor would it blend sufficiently into the pattern. We covered it with a seascape painting from the hallway. The drawing room looked sparse now, empty.
I didn’t weep until I was alone in my room, with a single candle and the distant sound of hooves from the street under the narrow window. And once I’d started, I couldn’t seem to stop, even when my eyes ached and were as pink as hollyhock petals. I hardly knew what to do with myself. When I went to bed, I used the cold water on the washstand to clean my face. Looking up, the reflection in the glass was not my own—instead it had blond hair, white lilies, and dark bruises.
“Rowena,” I murmured. She faded as quickly as she’d appeared, and I was left looking only at myself. “Wait, come back!”
But no matter how I begged, she wouldn’t come back. Another ghost did though, but it was an old man who didn’t look my way. He shuffled his feet, walking through the wall.
The thought that he could wander through my room when I was asleep—or worse, dressing—had me scattering salt over the spot where he’d been.
I finally went to bed and lay in the dark, unable to sleep, and turned the events of the week over and over again in my head, as if they were good, rich soil that might sprout an answer or two.
Needless to say, nothing grew.
Caroline had lit the lamp at the séance with deliberate intent. I was hardly a threat to her charge, but it was clear she didn’t like me poking around and asking questions about Rowena. Were we looking for a murderess and not a murderer? Or perhaps she was protecting Peter? And what could have induced either of them to such an action? How on earth was I supposed to prove their guilt and vindicate Rowena’s restless spirit?
I groaned and punched at my pillow. There were too many questions circling in my head, none of them willing to let me rest. Why had Rowena chosen me of all people? Lord Jasper knew other mediums, surely, and she might have showed herself to anyone one of them.
Poor Rowena.
Because if I was her only hope, she was doomed.
It was past midnight when I gave up trying to sleep. I’d been lying there for hours, listening to carriages rolling down the street and making myself mad with the attempt to alternately forget about Rowena and figure out what had happened to her. Neither was terribly successful.
I did, however, recall something Elizabeth had said about the funeral.
Determined to do something, even if it was foolhardy and futile, I put on my most serviceable dress and hurried up the stairs to Colin’s room in the attic. I knocked and waited impatiently. I knocked again.
“What would you know about it?” she lashed out. “You’ve never been hungry or alone, have you?” In her distress her carefully cultivated town accent crumbled under Cockney vowels.
“Mary—”
“I’ve told you, it’s Celeste. Why were you at Rosefield if not to see me?”
“I was invited. Lord Jasper has long been friendly with my grandfather. I thought it might be amusing.” His mouth quirked, tone dry as matchsticks.
“Let’s not quarrel, Nigel.” Mother pouted prettily, clearly deciding to take another tack. “The important thing is that you have a daughter. Why don’t you take her home with you, then?”
He gave a bark of startled laughter. “You can’t be serious.”
“Why not? She’s as much your responsibility as she is mine. More, I’d say. You’ve never fed her or clothed her, have you? Not a penny.”
“I have a wife,” he said. “And two boys.”
So I did have siblings, after all. I wondered what they were like.
Mother clapped her hands. “Excellent. Violet is wonderful with children. She can take care of them.” I could only stare. I’d barely ever even interacted with children before.
“Celeste, you can’t expect my wife, a duke’s daughter no less, to accept a bastard into her house. Be reasonable.”
All the blood drained clear out of me. It didn’t matter that I already knew I was a bastard; it was another thing entirely to hear it spoken by your very own father. And so casually, as if it were nothing.
“You have to take her.”
I felt weaker still. Neither of my parents wanted me.
“I simply can’t. It’s out of the question. I shouldn’t have come at all.” He handed me back the letter I’d written to him. “I’m sorry.”
“She’s a St. Clair!” Mother chased him as he made his way to the front door. “She’s one of you—you said so yourself.”
He shook his head again.
“How am I supposed to feed her?” she screeched as he went down the walkway to his waiting carriage. She watched him until he was down the congested road and out of sight. Then she came back into the gloomy hall and seemed to deflate. When she said it again, her voice was tiny and broken. “How am I supposed to feed you?”
I sat on the step until the shadows grew longer and longer, until the crowd outside grew bored and went off to find their supper. Marjorie came to light the lamps and sweep out the parlor. Her eye was swollen and bruised, as she’d made the mistake of knocking on Mother’s door to ask if she needed anything. Mutely, I helped Marjorie gather all the broken crockery for the dustbin, carted out a splintered chair that required repairing, and rehung one of the drapes. There was a large tea stain that wouldn’t scrub out of the paper, nor would it blend sufficiently into the pattern. We covered it with a seascape painting from the hallway. The drawing room looked sparse now, empty.
I didn’t weep until I was alone in my room, with a single candle and the distant sound of hooves from the street under the narrow window. And once I’d started, I couldn’t seem to stop, even when my eyes ached and were as pink as hollyhock petals. I hardly knew what to do with myself. When I went to bed, I used the cold water on the washstand to clean my face. Looking up, the reflection in the glass was not my own—instead it had blond hair, white lilies, and dark bruises.
“Rowena,” I murmured. She faded as quickly as she’d appeared, and I was left looking only at myself. “Wait, come back!”
But no matter how I begged, she wouldn’t come back. Another ghost did though, but it was an old man who didn’t look my way. He shuffled his feet, walking through the wall.
The thought that he could wander through my room when I was asleep—or worse, dressing—had me scattering salt over the spot where he’d been.
I finally went to bed and lay in the dark, unable to sleep, and turned the events of the week over and over again in my head, as if they were good, rich soil that might sprout an answer or two.
Needless to say, nothing grew.
Caroline had lit the lamp at the séance with deliberate intent. I was hardly a threat to her charge, but it was clear she didn’t like me poking around and asking questions about Rowena. Were we looking for a murderess and not a murderer? Or perhaps she was protecting Peter? And what could have induced either of them to such an action? How on earth was I supposed to prove their guilt and vindicate Rowena’s restless spirit?
I groaned and punched at my pillow. There were too many questions circling in my head, none of them willing to let me rest. Why had Rowena chosen me of all people? Lord Jasper knew other mediums, surely, and she might have showed herself to anyone one of them.
Poor Rowena.
Because if I was her only hope, she was doomed.
It was past midnight when I gave up trying to sleep. I’d been lying there for hours, listening to carriages rolling down the street and making myself mad with the attempt to alternately forget about Rowena and figure out what had happened to her. Neither was terribly successful.
I did, however, recall something Elizabeth had said about the funeral.
Determined to do something, even if it was foolhardy and futile, I put on my most serviceable dress and hurried up the stairs to Colin’s room in the attic. I knocked and waited impatiently. I knocked again.
