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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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“I want you out of my house!” Joanna shouted. “Go back to the streets—where you belong—you tart!”
Almost seeing red, Blake stepped between the two women, but before he could speak, the countess put an arm around Joanna, a smile fixed on her face. “Lady Joanna. Please, calm yourself. There is no cause for incivility. We must respect the dead.”
Tears filled Joanna’s eyes. “Respect the dead? I loved my father! He was a wonderful man! But my life has been insufferable since he married this trollop, this tramp! I do not know how she managed it, but I want her out of my home!”
The countess was taken aback. Violette was frozen, her expression glazing over. Blake said, very coldly, “Lady Feldstone, I suggest you share this moment of mourning with your husband elsewhere. Good day.”
“Blake!” the countess gasped.
The earl, highly annoyed, stepped into the midst of the gathering. “Lady Feldstone, you may or may not like your stepmother, but facts speak for themselves, and she was Sir Thomas’s wife. Sir Thomas had no sons. It is impossible to guess what provisions he has made for either yourself or Lady Goodwin, but until his will is read, Lady Goodwin has every right to remain in this house under the common law of this land.”
Blake refrained from saying,
Hear
,
hear.
Joanna gaped at the earl. “You take her side, my lord?”
“I refuse to take sides in this matter. I am merely stating the facts under the law.”
Blake turned to Violette, whom he saw was shaking. He didn’t think twice as he put his arm around her. “It will be all right,” he said quietly.
Joanna began to weep, loudly, into her handkerchief.
“Father?” Jon interjected. “Given the emotions running rampant today, perhaps we should unearth Sir Thomas’s will. What is the point in waiting? He was a fair man. I am sure he has made provisions for both his wife and his daughter.”
The earl sighed, glancing at his pocket watch. But he directed himself to Violette. “Lady Goodwin, do you have any idea where your husband’s will might be?”
Violette, her face a mask of fear, shook her head. “I ain’t got no idea.”
Blake was already crossing the room, his brother falling into step beside him. “The library. We shall mount our search there.”
“Of course,” Jon said.
 
As the two brothers entered the library, a small, dark, cluttered room, Jon said, his voice low, “You are wearing your heart on your sleeve. It is not appropriate. Did I not tell you to be careful?”
Blake started, looking for matches, which he found on a small table. He lit a lamp. “Are you mad? What are you talking about?” Had his concern for Violette been so obvious?
“You can deny it, even to yourself, but your affection for the widow is glaringly obvious. And Joanna Feldstone is not oblivious, even in her grief.”
Blake tensed. “She is more child than woman. I feel nothing but sympathy for her. She is in mourning, for God’s sake. I would sympathize with anyone in her position.”
“You did not think her a child last night,” Jon said, “and she may be young, but she is no child.” He gazed at Blake. “And if I can see where your sympathy will lead, so can everyone else.”
Blake halted besides the desk. “My
sympathy
is not leading anywhere.” He meant it. But he was also confused, because his own feelings were not quite clear, even to him. But Jon was absolutely wrong if he thought that Blake would purposefully or inadvertently comfort the widow.
Jon stared. “I think you are lying to yourself.”
Blake hoped that Jon was wrong. “Did we come here to analyze my relationship to Lady Goodwin, or to find the will?”
“I am sorry,” Jon said. “Dammit.” He raked his hand through his thick, gold hair. “But this is a small village, and we both know how the villagers love a little scandal.”
“There is not going to be any scandal,” Blake said flatly. “I promise you that.”
Jon grunted. Blake frowned as they turned their attention to the desk. The top contained an open book on the taxonomy of insects, several pens, a ledger, and some unused sheets of vellum.
Unable to remain annoyed with his brother, he opened the center drawer. And he whistled instantly. “I think someone knew his time was coming, Jon.” He held up a large envelope.
It was clearly marked in black ink: The Last Will and Testament of Sir Thomas Goodwin, Knight.
VIOLETTE
remained riveted by the window, her back to the windowpanes. She was dazed. She had seen death before. Many times. But somehow this time was so very different. Sir Thomas had given her almost everything she had ever wanted, had ever dreamed of—he had been so good, so kind. It did not seem at all fair that he was dead, but Violette was no fool. Life was not about fairness or justice; it was about those who were smart and strong enough to survive.
And shouldn’t she have anticipated this? Sir Thomas had never been well, not from the moment they had first met. And he had been an old man.
Violette was afraid. With Sir Thomas gone, what would happen to her now? She had never really felt secure in the role of Sir Thomas’s wife. She had no confidence now. She could envision the dark, dirty streets of St. Giles as if she had been there yesterday. She could remember being dirty, cold, and hungry. In these past few months she had almost forgotten what it was like to be homeless and vagrant, and she did not want to go back.
Violette wiped her brow with her sleeve. What if Sir Thomas had failed to mention her in his will? They had been married for six brief months. Joanna Feldstone would toss her out on her ear. Of this Violette had no doubt.
The countess squeezed her hand briefly. “There, there. Everything will end well, my dear.”
Violette looked at her blankly. What did the countess of Harding know? She could not understand. She had been swaddled in silk, not shreds, born with a silver spoon in her mouth, not a rag teat soaked with water-diluted milk. The countess had everything. Violette only had Ralph and Goodwin Manor—and perhaps not even that.
The brothers returned to the room, smiling. Violette stopped breathing. Blake was carrying an envelope, and his bright blue
eyes went directly to her. “We found it.” Still regarding Violette, he handed the sealed envelope to his father.
The earl said to the company at large, “May I?” He did not wait for an answer, promptly breaking the seal. He extracted a single page that appeared to be a legal-looking document and scanned it. “Well, this has been witnessed by the rector and Harold Keepson, and executed by Messrs. Stanhope and Cardiff—a well-known London firm. The will is simple. Sir Thomas left Goodwin Manor, its furnishings and the property it sits upon to his wife, Lady Violette. He has left his monetary estate to his only child, Lady Joanna Feldstone.”
Violette sank down into the nearest chair. She began to breathe again. Sweat poured down her body, causing her underclothes to stick to her skin. Relief overwhelmed her.
She was not going to be cast out into the streets.
“He left the house and property to her?” Joanna shrieked.
“To her?!”
“To me.” Violette closed her eyes, trembling violently.
“I am afraid that he did,” the earl said, returning the document to the envelope. “This belongs to the estate, and I shall retain possession of it until the solicitors settle any necessary transactions and file with the Justice of the Peace.”
Joanna squared her shoulders. “My father was insane. And I shall not take this meekly, oh no.” She stared furiously at Violette. “I will get this house—my home—if it is the last thing that I do. You shall be back on the streets—where you belong.”
Violette lurched to her feet, flushing. “Get out. Yew ’eard the earl. This is my ’ouse now. Scat, yew fat old toad!”
“Lady Goodwin,” the countess protested.
Violette ignored the countess, staring angrily at Joanna, for the first time in six months truly speaking her mind, defending herself—and how good it felt.
“You heard Lady Goodwin,” Blake said coolly to Lady Feldstone.
Joanna hesitated, looking from Violette to Blake and finally to the entire assembly, then curtsied abruptly to the earl and the countess. Without another word, she marched from the house, the ashen baron puffing after her. The front door slammed closed so violently that the surrounding walls shook.
Violette remained standing, her hands clasped to her breasts.
“Lady Goodwin,” Catherine said gently from her side, “I think you must be exhausted. Let me ring for your maid. You
should retire and rest after this extraordinary, tragic day.”
Violette nodded. She was numb. She had one coherent thought. Goodwin Manor was hers. Dear, dear Sir Thomas. He hadn’t forgotten her after all. “I don’t got a ladies’ maid,” she managed. “But I’ll be fine.”
The countess looked at Catherine and Catherine said, “Come. Let me at least help you upstairs.”
Violette allowed the other woman to take her arm. Then, impulsively, she burst out, “Thank yew, all of yew, so very much.”
“There is nothing to thank us for,” Blake said softly, his gaze holding hers.
 
Violette led Catherine into her bedroom. Catherine glanced around at the small, dark room. It was immediately apparent that Violette slept there alone. Her narrow bed could not possibly accommodate more than one person. But Catherine couldn’t help wondering why the furnishings were so tired and worn. Why hadn’t Sir Thomas refurbished the room for his bride, as was customary? If Violette were not about to nap, Catherine would have opened the yellowing muslin drapes to brighten the interior.
Violette sank into a chair covered with faded magenta brocade. “I think I’m tired.”
“I would imagine so,” Catherine said, studying her. She wanted to understand why Blake was so interested in her. She was, Catherine thought, terribly beautiful, yet there was also a waiflike aspect to her. Was that the reason Blake was so intrigued? She was so different from Gabriella.
Catherine had been friends with Blake and Jon since they were children. She knew both brothers as well as they knew one another. Her father was an earl who had acquired both his title and Dearfield Way some dozen years ago. Catherine still remembered as if it were but yesterday the first time she had met the two brothers—they had all been astride, Catherine in pigtails, accompanied by a groom and riding a fine Arabian mare. Blake and Jon had been breaking rules and riding about the countryside unescorted on two handsome hunters. The boys had been twelve and fourteen, respectively, Catherine only seven years of age. Somehow they had raced across the moors, and Catherine had given both boys a run for their money. She hadn’t won, but she had crossed the finish line on the brothers’ heels. And they had all become instant friends.
She had known of Blake’s three-year love affair with Gabriella, who had then been widowed for several years and apparently in no rush to wed in spite of the numerous suits she had garnered. Blake had been eighteen in the beginning of their liaison, Gabriella thirty. Everyone had known of the affair. They had been quite inseparable.
Catherine had debuted five years ago, and since then become somewhat acquainted with Lady Cantwell. She was, of course, quite beautiful, but it was her extreme intelligence and outspokenness which was outstanding, that and her generous, warm nature. No two women could be more different than Gabriella Cantwell and Violette Goodwin. Blake’s interest in Violette, which was glaring, almost made no sense.
Yet there was something about Violette Goodwin that even compelled Catherine, and after a moment’s reflection she realized that it might be her stubborn pride, which was clearly at odds with her vulnerability, both the result of her being miscast as the elderly knight’s young wife. Catherine could not help but admire Violette’s courage, both in transforming her life by marrying so upwardly, and in clinging to her new life now with Sir Thomas dead. And Blake, she knew, admired traits like courage, honesty, and pride far more than he did either gentility, decorum, or mere beauty.
Perhaps, Catherine thought suddenly, Gabriella and Violette had more in common than one might assume at a first glance. “Can I help you out of your gown?” Catherine asked kindly.
Violette smiled wanly. “Thank yew. In truth, I ain’t in the mood to struggle meself.”
As Violette stood, Catherine began undoing the numerous buttons down the back of Violette’s black serge dress. She helped the younger woman pull the heavy wool garment over her head, then began to unfasten the tapes holding the crinolines in place. They whooshed to the floor when released.
Violette stepped out of the cage, clad in a plain petticoat and chemise. “I’m fine now, thank yew, Lady Dearfield.”
Catherine smiled. “Lady Goodwin, you may call me Catherine if you wish.”
Violette blinked. A smile spread over her face. “I would love to call yew Catherine,” she said slowly. Then added eagerly, “Yew may call me Violette.”
“Can I help you with anything else?” Catherine asked. Violette appeared dazed and lost. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked gently, referring to the death.
Violette met her gaze. Her eyes were moist. It was a moment before she spoke, as if trying to decide whether to share her thoughts or not. “’E was old, but I was ’appy.” A shadow flitted across her terribly expressive face. “Look at this room.” She glanced around. “It’s me own, me very own, not even to share. D’yew know that Sir Thomas gave me pin money?”
Most husbands do, Catherine thought, but refrained from saying so. She wondered what Violette was not saying.
“’E was a good man, and ’e was my friend,” Violette said firmly. “’E changed my life.”
“I am very sorry that he passed away,” Catherine said sincerely.
“I will miss ’im. A lot.” Violette sat down heavily on the bed, her white petticoats belling about her. “Sometimes … ,” she stopped.
“What, dear?”
Violette stared down at her ruffled knees. “’E’s gone an’ I’m scared,” she said frankly.
Catherine did not know what to say. So she reached for the other woman’s hand.
And at precisely that point, there was a knock on the door. Violette merely cocked her head, but Catherine was alarmed.
“Who is it?” Catherine asked, already suspicious.
“It is I, Blake,” came a warm male voice.
Violette leapt to her feet, holding her dress up to her chest, as Catherine cried, “Do not even think of entering this room!”
Too late. Blake had opened the door. His smile faded when he saw Violette. In spite of the dress she held up, her shoulders and arms were entirely bare and he stared far too intently for Catherine’s taste.
Violette lifted the dress to her chin. “I ain’t fit fer yer eyes.”
“Blake, whatever can you be thinking?” Catherine was aghast.
Blake held up a snifter, not removing his gaze away from Violette. “Brandy. For Lady Goodwin. I insist that she drink the entire glass.” He met Violette’s eyes. “You need some sleep. This will help. Either that, or I shall send for Dr. Crumb. He can dose you with laudanum.”
“I don’t need laudanum,” Violette said flatly.
Blake handed Catherine the glass. “We are preparing to leave.” His gaze slipped to Violette. “May I call in the morning? To see how you are getting on?”
Violette was motionless for a moment. “O’ course.” Pink colored her cheeks.
And Catherine looked from one to the other, well aware that at that moment, they were both completely unaware of her presence. Tension spiraled between them. Had Catherine possessed a match, and had she lit it, she thought the air itself would have burst into flames.
 
Blake arrived at Goodwin Manor just before noon. He slid off of the fine gray stallion he had been riding. Clad in a tweed riding coat, tan breeches, and Hessian boots, he stared at Goodwin Manor, which appeared almost eerily still. He saw no sign that anyone was present. Clearly, once again, no one from the village had bothered to call that morning to see if the widow was in need of comfort or anything else.
His temper rose—and with it, pity for Violette Goodwin, an outsider and an outcast. As he stared, he watched the front door open and the lanky, sandy-haired manservant appear. Ralph Horn was wearing his usual expression of undisguised hostility, and he eyed Blake coldly from where he stood with his back to the entry hall.
Blake sighed inwardly, unable not to wonder once again about the servant and his relationship to his mistress. Blake led his horse forward and tied it to the small jockey statue which belonged to the pair at the head of the drive. “Is Lady Goodwin at home?”
Ralph did not move aside, rather, his body barred the open doorway. “She is still abed.” His thin lips bared his teeth in an almost feral way.
But an image of Violette asleep in the small bed he had glimpsed the day before filled his head, distracting him. He imagined piles of blue-black hair streaming over the white sheets, while her slim arms and shoulder were bare and uncovered. He shook himself free of his very unwelcome thoughts. “At noon?”
“Yeah. At noon.” Ralph smiled at him as unpleasantly as before.
Blake stared back at him, more than annoyed. What was this servant to Lady Violette? Only a fool would dismiss the fact that they both spoke with the exact same Cockney accent, were about the same age, and that Horn’s behavior was hardly subservient. “Than I shall leave my card and take some dinner in
town—and stop by on my way back to Harding Hall,” Blake decided.

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