Brenda Joyce (43 page)

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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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Violette smiled at Blake from across the room. He would not, could not, leave her now. Surely now they would reconcile. Surely he knew that as positively as she.
But he stared at her, unsmiling, his expression terribly strained and terribly grave.
And Violette’s heart fluttered with unease even as Susan cooed happily. She stopped smiling herself. “Blake? Come. Come see your daughter. She is so beautiful. Please.”
He walked over slowly, reluctantly. His hands were deep in the pockets of his gray trousers. He had shed his jacket and waistcoat long ago and his sleeves were rolled up to his forearms. Violette now noticed the scratches on his wrists and her eyes widened. Had she done that?
He stared down at them both.
“Do you want to hold her?” Violette asked, smiling again, but now uncertainly.
Blake’s gaze was on his daughter, now it shot to Violette’s face. He was gray beneath his healthy golden tan. He shook his head.
Violette was confused. She tried to sit up straighter, holding Susan more tightly now, enough so that the baby whimpered. “Oh, sorry, darling,” Violette whispered, kissing her daughter’s blond, downy head. She held the child out. “Blake? Come. Hold your daughter. Surely you are not afraid?”
Blake’s chest seemed to swell. “No.” It was one word, emphatic, final.
Violette did not understand.
And Blake inhaled. “Good-bye.” He nodded abruptly. And then she saw it, before he turned, the tears filling his eyes. Violette was stunned.
And he was striding across the room, away from her, away from them, out of the door—out of their lives.
Violette sat up. “Blake!” she shouted. “Blake!” she screamed.
But he was gone, his footsteps rapid and hard, at first loud, but too quickly fading as he rushed down the hall, as he rushed away.
And only silence remained in the corridor outside the room.
The Bride
SUSAN
lay in her brand-new cradle, one painted a pleasing shade of ivory and beautifully adorned with carved vines and flowers, rabbits and birds. She was sleeping in her little white lace nest very peacefully beside the large four-poster canopied bed in the master bedroom of the house Blake had bought for Violette in the Faubourg St-Germain. The nursery, quite stupidly, Violette thought, was on the floor above. It was unused. The moment she had come home from the hospital, Violette had decided that her baby would sleep in her room with her. The nurse slept in the adjoining bedroom—a room originally intended for the master of the house’s wife.
Now Violette continued to pack a medium-sized leather trunk with her wardrobe. As she folded lacy chemises, beribboned corsets, silk drawers and petticoats, she kept glancing at her sleeping child. Susan was twelve weeks old. She was so beautiful, as blond and pink-cheeked as any angel, with her perfect, tiny rosebud mouth. Every time she looked at her daughter, Violette felt such an anguish she thought she might collapse and die. Dr. Aubigner had said that Susan could travel once she was three months old. Tomorrow they would cross the Channel.
Violette wondered if she could go through with what she intended to do.
One of the house’s many maids appeared, wearing a black uniform and an apron, carrying an armful of newly ironed gowns. “Madame?”
Violette sat down heavily on the bed beside the open trunk, exhausted.
“S’il vous plait
. Please. And when you have packed my gowns, make sure I have stockings, hats, gloves, et cetera,
all that a lady needs for a brief stay abroad.” She could not really care about what clothes she took with her.
“
Oui, madame
.” The petite brunette began to pack each gown carefully amidst much tissue paper. Violette watched for a moment, wondering just how brief her stay would actually be. She only intended to remain in London for a few short days before returning home to Paris. And once home, she would focus all of her energy, all of her attention, her every waking thought, her every waking moment, upon opening a ladies’ shop and making it a success. Blake had been good to his word. He had transferred a huge sum of money into her account, a personal loan with which to begin her new business.
Tears filled Violette’s eyes. She could not stand it. She walked over to the sleeping baby and wondered how often a woman’s heart could break. She had lost count long ago of the many times her feelings had been irreparably shattered, damaged, destroyed. “I think I might die without you,” she whispered to Susan.
Susan sighed in her sleep.
Of course, Violette thought grimly, she might very well die in reality, because she was a fugitive from Her Majesty’s law, wanted for a murder she had not committed. But surely if she entered London without any fanfare, and left as secretly, she would not be caught and arrested—she would not be caught, tried, and hanged.
But did it really matter? Perhaps death would be far easier to bear than the kind of existence the future held for her.
Then she shoved such morbid thoughts aside. She might be Lady Neville now, but a part of her would always be Violet Cooper, and she would never accept hanging, oh, no. She would never accept a living death.
Footsteps made her look up. She recognized them before she even saw Ralph, who came and went freely in her house, sleeping over when he pleased and taking most of his meals there. But he had not moved in. Violette had not asked him to, and he had not asked if he might. Sometimes she found herself hoping that, one day, he would just not return. The tension had never been worse between them. Violette knew that Ralph disapproved of all that Blake was doing for her. Sometimes she wondered if he was jealous of what might appear to be her good fortune.
Ralph stared at Violette from the threshold of her bedroom.
“I ’eard the maids downstairs. Said yer packin’. Where yew goin’, luv?”
Violette gazed wearily at him. “You are dirty,” she said, “and you are drunk.”
He scowled at her. “An’ yew such a grand lady, now ain’t yew! I asked yew where are yew goin’, Violette.” His tone had become rough and harsh.
Violette reached down to stroke Susan’s cheek, just once. Her skin was as soft as silk, downy. She wasn’t sure she liked Ralph anymore. That hurt, too. “I am going to London.”
Ralph stared. “That’s wot they said! I thought them wrong! Are yew insane? To go back there?”
“I am going.” Violette stood. She felt lightheaded, but she hadn’t eaten a single thing all day. Perhaps she should have a croissant, or some soup. Violette was aware of the fact that her old gowns were all too big for her now, hanging off of her impossibly small frame.
“Yew are chasin’ ’im!” Ralph accused. “’Is Lordship!”
Violette shook her head in defeat and utter resignation. She even smiled slightly. “No. No. I am not chasing Blake. I would never be such a fool. In fact, I am going to London with an escort—with Robert Farrow.” Her heart lurched. Robert had been wonderful these past few months, trying to lift her spirits, calling on her every day, bestowing fabulous gifts upon her—gifts she had refused to accept. He was very worried about her, she knew, but he approved entirely of what she intended to do.
Now Ralph gazed at her suspiciously, no longer quite so drunk. “An’ the baby? Yew takin’ ’er? Yew niver leave ’er alone fer a minute.”
Violette pursed her lips, afraid she would burst into tears, something she did constantly, ever since the baby had been born. Aubigner said that some women suffered from a deep melancholia after giving birth, but Violette knew the cause of her grief had nothing to do with birthing Susan—that had been a cause to celebrate, a cause of joy and hope. Her melancholia was far more severe, more complicated, and so deeply rooted she knew she would live with it until she finally passed away. “Yes. I am taking Susan.” It was hard to breathe. For Susan’s little leather trunk was already packed with every single item Violette had purchased for her. Nothing was being left behind. Even the cradle was coming with them.
“Why are yew goin’ back there? So they can hang yew? I
don’t understand,” Ralph said, his tone no longer hostile. “Don’t go, Violette.”
Violette rubbed one fist across her moist eyes, wondering why he even cared—when she did not. “I have to go.”
“Do yew want to ’ang fer a murder yew didn’t commit?” Ralph exclaimed.
Violette looked up at him. “If you are so concerned, why don’t you return with me.”
He stared, not replying.
And Blake’s suspicions about Ralph filled Violette’s mind. But she had shared a lifetime with Ralph, and she knew him so well, and the one thing he was not was a murderer. She was certain—wasn’t she? “I am taking Susan to Blake,” she said.
When Ralph continued to gaze at her, clearly not fathoming her meaning, Violette added, “And she is not returning with me when I come home.” Her voice caught. “I am leaving her with Blake, where she belongs.”
 
Several hours after arriving in London, the coach Violette had hired approached Harding House. Violette sat in the forward-facing seat, as ladies should do, clutching Susan to her breast. Susan was nursing contentedly.
Her face was set in steel, as was her heart. She dared not think. She must only do. She must only breathe in and out, get up, get down, walk up those stone steps, enter the front door and ask for the countess.
Violette knew she had no choice. Shortly after Blake had left her, she had realized that she could never give Susan what she truly wished for her to have, which was respectability. Blake might adopt her, but if Violette raised her she would be a shopkeeper’s daughter, worse, she would be Violet Cooper’s daughter. If Blake raised her, she would be a Harding.
Violette shut off the rest of her thoughts. She was shaking.
“Oh, madame,” the baby’s nurse said. She sat facing Violette, a heavyset, elderly woman with a kind face whose name Violette could never remember in spite of the fact that the nurse was so wonderfully sympathetic to both her and the baby. Seated beside the gray-haired nurse was the wet nurse Violette had hired several days ago, a young, red-haired girl from a small village a few kilometers north of Paris.
The coach had become small and stuffy, airless.
Violette stared out of the window as the magnificent facade of Harding House appeared at the end of the block. She felt
ill, violently so, even though she’d eaten nothing but toast that morning, many hours ago. She had not even contemplated going to Blake’s Belgravia home. It was past tea, he might be home—she had no wish to see him.
Did not trust herself to see him.
The coach halted. Susan had stopped suckling and Violette hugged her once, then disengaged her from her breast. The nurse reached out for her, but Violette shook her head, shaking now, and managed to close her bodice while holding Susan on her lap. She knew that all too soon she would hand Susan over to the countess.
Violette cuddled the baby to her breast so hard that Susan woke up with a cry. “Sorry, sorry, darling,” Violette whispered, her face pressed to her daughter’s. How could she go through with this?
But she must.
Do not think anymore,
she told herself.
“My lady?” the coachman intoned, holding the door open for them all.
Violette got unsteadily to her feet, very faint now. Refusing to release Susan made it all that more difficult to descend from the coach’s single step, but the servant gripped her arm firmly as she came down. Violette inhaled deeply on the curb, waiting for the nurse and wet nurse, shaking, holding Susan as tightly as she dared. “Please wait,” she said to the coachman, her tone low and thick. “I shall be but a few moments.”
They marched up the wide, low front steps and paused at the heavy paired doors of the mansion. The two liveried footmen standing on either side of the wide doors did not stir or blink. Violette recognized the one and memories crashed over her, memories she did not want to face, not now, not ever. Of the first time she had seen Blake at Harding Hall in York, and how magnificent he had been, how he had appeared a prince among men, even then; of his holding her upright at Sir Thomas’s funeral when no one present would come near her, how he had whispered in her ear that she should feel free to faint if she must; of his walking in on her in her bedroom at Goodwin Manor later that day, ordering her to consume brandy, as Violette stood there half undressed, much to Catherine’s shock and chagrin. The memories came more rapidly now, as tears seemed to burn the back of Violette’s lids. As if it were yesterday she recalled being in his hard embrace, she recalled the taste and texture and passion of his first kiss in the gardens behind Harding Hall. And finally, she remembered standing just
where she stood now, desperate to find him, madly in love, so afraid and alone but somehow knowing he would help her, rescue her, once again. And then she had barged into his club.
Violette could see herself so clearly, a young, awkward girl from the streets garishly dressed in purplish-blue, huge roses on her bodice, birds and flowers on her hat. She could even hear herself as she had sounded then, saying “ow” instead of “how” and “me” instead of “my” and the memories made her wince herself. She must have been mad, chasing after Blake, thinking to seize a star, a shooting star, holding onto impossible, out of reach dreams. Utterly mad.
Oh, Blake.
Suddenly Violette found herself facing Tulley. His eyes widened and he gaped at her and the infant. Immediately he beamed, crying out, “Lady Neville! How
wonderful
to see you again! Do come in!”
Violette trembled more noticeably than before. She stepped inside silently, not trusting herself to speak, the nurse and redhead following as quietly. Tulley shut the door. He smiled at the little baby. “His Lordship’s?” he asked.
So they knew, it was no secret, everyone knew. Violette nodded.
“How beautiful she is,” Tulley said, reaching out to touch her blond curls. “And she looks just like you, if you do not mind me saying so, Lady Neville.”
Violette fought for control, and to find her voice. “She is blond.”
“Like Her Ladyship,” Tulley nodded, referring to the countess. “Of course, children change. She might have hair as black as midnight like you and His Lordship, my lady.”
Violette could not respond. She hugged Susan harder, and the baby squeaked. Finally she found her tongue. “Is the countess at home? I w-wish to see her.”
“She is in the drawing room with Lady Dearfield,” Tulley said.
Violette froze. She could not breathe. She did not want to see Catherine, not now, not like this. Of course, if Tulley knew, then Catherine surely knew about the baby, too. But in a few more weeks Catherine and Blake were marrying. In fact, Violette realized that she and the countess were probaby finalizing the last-minute wedding arrangements right now. She bent and quickly kissed Susan’s forehead and tasted a tear at the corner
of her mouth. Her own tear, which had somehow escaped to trickle down Violette’s face.
Violette told the nurse and the red-haired girl to wait in the foyer, and then she followed Tulley down the hall. Every painting she passed, every light fixture, every gilded chair and side table, seemed to cause a stabbing in her breast. Too late, she realized that coming to Harding House had been a terrible mistake. She should have summoned the countess to her hotel suite.

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