Brenda Joyce (3 page)
Authors: The Finer Things
Violet could not sleep. Images of the beautiful plum pudding danced in her mind. Images of the pudding, and her best friend, Ralph.
Tears filled her eyes, but she refused to cry. Crying was for babies. Not for her. She was grown up.
She lay in one of dozens of narrow bunks that lined both walls of the room, beneath one thin sheet, shivering. The bobbies had taken her against her will to the closest workhouse.
Violet had fought them like a rabid dog. She’d been hit again, and tossed into a jail-bound conveyance like a mongrel dog. Upon arriving at the poorhouse, she was forced to endure the humiliation of being stripped naked before the cold-eyed warden and two of his assistants. They’d stolen her clothes. Been shocked to realize she wasn’t a boy. A plain gray shift had been thrown at her, along with stockings and her old, shoddy shoes. For her supper she’d been given a bowl of watery soup and a small loaf of bread.
Violet choked on a sob. How had this happened? The “union” was a fate worse than death. She’d always heard that once they got you in they never let you out, not even on Sundays to hear the Lord’s Prayer. Violet was cold—not because the workhouse was not heated, not because she was still hungry—cold because she was afraid and alone and she wanted to go home, to Ralph and St. Giles.
She stared up at the ceiling, which had been painted white a long time ago and was now a distinct shade of yellow. Tears kept filling her eyes. Where was Ralph now? He’d escaped being run over by the coach. He’d escaped capture by the bobbies. Undoubtedly he was sleeping on the stoop he shared with Violet in St. Giles just across from the Hogshead, a gin mill. Would she ever see him again?
Violet turned on her stomach and cradled her head on her arms. And what about her father? He was going to die. She’d known that for a long time. Ralph hadn’t had to tell her. Would she ever see him again?
She hugged herself, trying hard not to cry. She thought about the ladies in their brilliant ball gowns, about the man who’d looked and acted like a prince, about the plum pudding and roast lamb spilled on the lawn outside Harding House.
Violet began to weep.
She cried for a long time, unable to fight her fear. And then finally the tears were gone. She was too exhausted to cry anymore.
But she had come to a realization: One day she was going to be rich and fancy, too.
It was a vow—a vow she made not to God, whom she believed in but knew that would not help the likes of her, but to herself. One day she would wear satin and pearls, furs and diamonds, just like those fancy ladies at the ball, just like that beautiful golden lady. One day she would live in a big, fine house, filled with grand things, with servants attending her, waiting her every beck and call. She’d have a big, fat chef, too, and he’d spend all day, every day, just cooking for her—anything she wanted, from chicken pies and roasted beef to plum puddings, lemon cakes, chocolates, and sweets. Oh, yes, lots of sweets. She would have so much to eat that she would forget what it was like to be so hungry that her stomach caved in, hurting and aching and moaning; she would have so much to eat that she would be big and fat like the chef at Harding House.
And maybe one day a fine, fancy gentleman who looked and acted like a prince would dance with her across a moonlit terrace, love shining in his eyes.
And Violet, comforted by her new hopes and dreams, finally slept, images of plum puddings and princes dancing inside her head.
The Pretender
THE SHIRE OF YORK, 1858
THE
victoria seated two. Its once plush red leather seats were cracking, and the once shiny brass rails refused to gleam no matter how frequently polished, but Sir Thomas Goodwin would not consider purchasing a new conveyance. Violette did not care. When Sir Thomas had brought his young bride to his home in York six months ago, just outside of the village of Tamrah, she hadn’t noticed the torn leather or the tarnished brass of the victoria. She hadn’t noticed the excessively faded upholstery in his home, the smoke-darkened, torn wallpaper on the walls. Sir Thomas was gentry, and it had been a miracle that he would call on a mere shop girl, much less take her to wife. In many ways, Sir Thomas had saved her life. In any event, he certainly had changed it drastically.
victoria seated two. Its once plush red leather seats were cracking, and the once shiny brass rails refused to gleam no matter how frequently polished, but Sir Thomas Goodwin would not consider purchasing a new conveyance. Violette did not care. When Sir Thomas had brought his young bride to his home in York six months ago, just outside of the village of Tamrah, she hadn’t noticed the torn leather or the tarnished brass of the victoria. She hadn’t noticed the excessively faded upholstery in his home, the smoke-darkened, torn wallpaper on the walls. Sir Thomas was gentry, and it had been a miracle that he would call on a mere shop girl, much less take her to wife. In many ways, Sir Thomas had saved her life. In any event, he certainly had changed it drastically.
Of course, Sir Thomas was old enough to be Violette’s grandfather, perhaps even her great-grandfather, and this was his second marriage. His first wife had died a decade ago. But her life had changed from the moment he walked into her shop and smiled at her. He courted her, gently and respectfully. But best of all, Sir Thomas had agreed that Ralph could leave London, too, and join them as a servant of sorts.
Sir Thomas drove the victoria down Tamrah’s single main street, keeping their gray gelding at a walk. Violette kept her chin high as several shopkeepers and pedestrians turned to look at them from the stone sidewalk. Her heart sank a little when she noticed Sir Thomas’s daughter, Joanna Feldstone, staring at her from outside the cabinet maker’s. Violette looked away from the older woman’s icy stare.
At first, she hadn’t cared about the difference in their ages.
Not really. Marriage was a matter of convenience, a business arrangement. Everyone knew it, and she and Ralph had discussed it at length. Violette had been thrilled to accept the proposal of a gentleman who would take her away from London and the grim life she had always known. She had been thrilled to marry a knight and become Lady Violette Goodwin. Sir Thomas had suggested that she spell her name in the French fashion. Violette couldn’t spell or read, so she did not care. She had agreed.
Not really. Marriage was a matter of convenience, a business arrangement. Everyone knew it, and she and Ralph had discussed it at length. Violette had been thrilled to accept the proposal of a gentleman who would take her away from London and the grim life she had always known. She had been thrilled to marry a knight and become Lady Violette Goodwin. Sir Thomas had suggested that she spell her name in the French fashion. Violette couldn’t spell or read, so she did not care. She had agreed.
They had been married for six months. Violette had just turned eighteen.
How she loved York. She loved the countryside, and she loved Goodwin Manor, but she hated this small village. It wasn’t the village itself, which was quaint, with its stone buildings and timbered roofs, flowers in the windowsill pots. It was that no one here liked her—no one, that is, except for her husband.
And Violette knew what everyone thought. They all thought she was dirt, not good enough for Sir Thomas, and that she had married him for his money. But everyone was wrong. She had married him to better herself. She had married him to escape her grim existence.
Now Sir Thomas stopped the victoria in front of the druggist’s, a small shop with stained-glass windows, and Violette felt her cheeks begin to bum—not that she cared what these hoighty-toity villagers thought. However, she did smooth down her magenta-colored silk dress, one overlaid with a darker red lace tissue, red roses decorating the flounced hem and the high neckline. She fingered the pearls at her neck. She tucked an escaping wisp of hair back into her dark blue velvet bonnet, which was decorated with a small bird and fruit. Then she picked up her reticule. She could not help being nervous.
“Do what you have to do, Violette,” Sir Thomas said mildly.
Violette smiled at him. He was very tall and very thin. Cook was always scolding him for not eating, and his face was pale except for two brilliant red spots on his cheeks. Violette, of course, ate enough for the two of them. He was close to seventy, or so Violette had heard, so of course he was very wrinkled, but his eyes were as mild as his tone had been, and they were kind. Violette had liked his eyes from the moment they had first met. “I promise to ’urry.” She stepped down from
the carriage carelessly, landing on the dirt street with a small, restrained jump.
the carriage carelessly, landing on the dirt street with a small, restrained jump.
Her pulse accelerating now, Violette turned to glance back the way they had come. The moors stretched out into what appeared to be infinity, on the one hand bleak and inhospitable, nearly treeless; yet it was late summer now, and they were abloom with purple gorse. Sometimes it seemed to Violette that she lived on top of the world, that she could see out forever, to China if need be.
But even Violette knew that was an impossibility. However, from where she stood, she could see a good ten kilometers. A few miles in the distance the ground was more elevated, and atop that hill there appeared to be a pile of stone; but it wasn’t stone or rocks—it was Harding Hall, the country seat of the earldom.
And the Hardings were in residence. Sir Thomas was calling on them that noon—to introduce his bride.
Swallowing, Violette entered the druggist’s, trying to tamp down her nervousness. She was terrified of facing the earl and the countess. She might look like a lady, but Violette was always aware of the truth, and thus far it did not seem that she had fooled anyone. She was no longer hungry, not ever, but often, like now, she had a sickness deep in the pit of her belly. If these villagers disliked her so, she could imagine the reaction of Lord and Lady Harding.
Yet she was also curious. She and Ralph had driven the victoria past Harding Hall many times, when Sir Thomas was abed, as he so often was; they had gazed at the sprawling palace, wondering what it might be like to live in such a place, or even to visit within those beige stone walls.
Violette shoved her thoughts aside, aware that she was perspiring, a part of her hoping that something would happen to postpone the visit. It was dim within the druggist’s. Standing at the counter was Harold Keepson, clad in his white jacket and horn-rimmed spectacles; next to him was the rector’s wife. Both Harold Keepson and Lillith Stayne ceased conversation the moment she entered the shop. They turned simultaneously to look at Violette. Her cheeks burned more violently now, especially as Missus Stayne made no effort to disguise the fact that she was looking Violette up and down with sheer dislike and utter condescension.
Her chin lifted another fraction. Violette had the feeling that
she had committed some monstrous mistake, but for the life of her, she did not know what that mistake could possibly be—other than entering the ranks of a society which wished so fervently to exclude her. “G’day, Mister Keepson. G’day, Missus Stayne.”
she had committed some monstrous mistake, but for the life of her, she did not know what that mistake could possibly be—other than entering the ranks of a society which wished so fervently to exclude her. “G’day, Mister Keepson. G’day, Missus Stayne.”
Lillith winced. “Good day, Lady Goodwin.” Most of the villagers had trouble pronouncing the word “lady” whenever it preceded Goodwin. “My, what an
interesting
dress.”
interesting
dress.”
Violette glanced down at the big, beautiful roses she dearly loved on the flounced hem of her favorite dress, then fingered the roses on her bodice. “Thank yew. Mister Keepson, do yew got rat poison fer me?”
Keepson nodded, staring at her through his thick lenses. “Do you have a problem with rats, Lady Goodwin?” His tone was kinder than Lillith Stayne’s had been. But Violette had already figured out that the men in the village were much nicer than the women—some of them, in fact, wanted to be too nice. She wasn’t a fool.
She shook her head and gave a small smile. “Infortunately, we do. Cook asked me to bring the poison ’ome.”
Missus Stayne wore a frozen smile. “I’ll be right back,” Keepson said, as the shop door opened, its bell tinkling. “Just how much rat poison do you need?”
“I ain’t really sure. Mebbe enough to kill off four or five?” Violette’s hands were trembling. Joanna Feldstone had just entered the store.
Keepson disappeared into the storeroom. Violette was never sure whether Joanna would acknowledge her presence or treat her like a piece of furniture, so she nodded quickly, glancing at the older woman out of the corner of her eye. Lady Feldstone was old enough to be Violette’s mother. She was a big, buxom woman with an ever-present glare.
She turned her back on Violette. “I didn’t know there were rats at Goodwin Manor. My father never had rats before, not once in his entire life, I should know. I say, I cannot understand what is happening over there these days!”
Violette clenched her fists. She didn’t even think of holding her tongue. “The cat died. That’s why we’ve got rats.”
Joanna Feldstone turned, raised both heavy brows in a look at once incredulous and dismissive, then gave Violette her broad back again.
Keepson returned, assuring Violette that he had given her enough arsenic to do away with a good dozen rats, and Violette
proudly paid with a fiver she took out of her purse. She loved paying for everything with cash. The fiver actually was a part of Violette’s pin money. Goodwin gave her a five-pound note once a month to do with as she pleased. Violette had been overwhelmed by his generosity.
proudly paid with a fiver she took out of her purse. She loved paying for everything with cash. The fiver actually was a part of Violette’s pin money. Goodwin gave her a five-pound note once a month to do with as she pleased. Violette had been overwhelmed by his generosity.
Violette thanked the druggist, but did not bother to say good-bye to either woman, giving them
her
back. Outside, she found Sir Thomas still sitting in the victoria, but he was talking to the rector, George Stayne. Both men paused as she appeared. Violette handed her husband the bag containing the poison, then clambered up into the victoria. As she settled down on the seat besides Sir Thomas, she saw where the rector was looking. Several inches of stocking and one black high-low had been revealed by her movements. Violette tugged down her bright skirts to cover her ankle and shoe.
her
back. Outside, she found Sir Thomas still sitting in the victoria, but he was talking to the rector, George Stayne. Both men paused as she appeared. Violette handed her husband the bag containing the poison, then clambered up into the victoria. As she settled down on the seat besides Sir Thomas, she saw where the rector was looking. Several inches of stocking and one black high-low had been revealed by her movements. Violette tugged down her bright skirts to cover her ankle and shoe.
“Did you make your purchases?” Sir Thomas asked.
Violette nodded. “G’day, Parson.”
“Good day, Violette,” George returned. “I hear you’re calling on the earl today.” He smiled.
Violette’s heart lurched. “Yeah.” Although the Hardings had been in residence briefly when she and Sir Thomas were first wed, he had not been feeling well then and they had never gone calling. Instead, Sir Thomas had sent Ralph with his card and an apology.
Now Sir Thomas was rubbing his abdomen, wincing.
Violette was concerned. “Yew got stomach pains?” Sir Thomas’ stomach had been bothering him for the past two months. It seemed to be a condition that was growing worse, not better. “Mebbe we should go t’ the ’All another day?”
“It will pass.” Sir Thomas lifted the reins. “Good day, George.”
“Is this an experiment?” the earl of Harding demanded of his younger son.
“No.” The one word was said flatly. Blake crossed his trouser-clad legs, leaning back comfortably in the plush leather chair. He faced his father, a tall, striking, silver-haired man who stood behind his massive rosewood, leather-inlaid desk. Blake’s older brother Jonathon also stood, but over by the one large window that overlooked the sheep-dotted moors. Outside, the sky was a brilliant shade of blue.
The two brothers and their father were in the earl’s private study, a huge room with gleaming oak floors, Aubusson rugs,
a green marble—manteled fireplace, a frescoed ceiling, and two walls of floor-to-ceiling books. The third wall was comprised of four double-sized windows, and it was papered in mint green silk. Damask sofas, Louis Quatorze chairs, striped ottomans, and several small and medium-sized tables completed the room. Sunlight streamed inside.
a green marble—manteled fireplace, a frescoed ceiling, and two walls of floor-to-ceiling books. The third wall was comprised of four double-sized windows, and it was papered in mint green silk. Damask sofas, Louis Quatorze chairs, striped ottomans, and several small and medium-sized tables completed the room. Sunlight streamed inside.
“This has to be an experiment! Either that, or you are as mad as the prince.” The earl was furious.
Blake stood, stretching. He yawned. “At least I am in good company.” He smiled lazily, a flash of white teeth in skin slightly, unfashionably, tanned. His hair was short and dark. He ressembled the earl almost uncannily, except for the difference in their years.
“You know, Theodore,” the earl said coolly, “I could disown you for this.”
Jon stepped forward, his blue eyes mild. Unlike his brother and father, he was blond. “Excuse me, but may I referee? You cannot disown Blake, Father, it would be a far graver scandal than Blake building these ‘row houses,’ as he calls them. Besides, he has weathered the scandal about the bank. Really, wasn’t that far worse than building?” Jon smiled, then shot his brother a dark, warning glare that belied his mild, placating tone. It was a command to be silent and behave.
Blake sighed. Two against one, as always. Why was it that he could never do anything right? The earl was never pleased.
“No,” Richard Blake, the earl, said. “Being a banker, by God, is only as bad, not worse, than being a builder! The Hardings do not trade, by damn! The Hardings are not plebeians. Theodore, you are doing this merely to annoy me.”
Blake no longer smiled. “I wish it were as simple as that,” he snapped. “I am a grown man, Father. And the younger son. How would you like me to live?”
“I give you an allowance. And when I am dead, your brother will do the same,” the earl said firmly. “Peers do not trade. Peers do not earn money. It is not done.”
“This peer not only trades, he buys, he sells, he builds, and dammit, he earns money,” Blake said tersely. “And I refuse to be dependent upon you and Jon. Nor do I care how the rest of society lives.”
“You made that clear twenty years ago, when you tried to run away to the Indies at the mere age of eight.” The earl shook his head.
“I was not running away,” Blake returned with a smile. “I told you my plans.”
“Fortunately,” the earl glowered.
“Even at eight, Blake was seeking an independent fortune,” Jon interjected lightly, smiling.
Blake also smiled. “I know you will not believe this, but I was more interested in seeing the world. I still regret being dragged home by Tulley.”
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