Haunting Violet
Page 54
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I wrinkled my nose. “I do not like that man.”
Colin grunted an agreement before following me into the carriage and shutting the door behind him. The seats were worn and the curtains faded, but at least it was clean and didn’t smell like someone’s unwashed coat or travel luncheon. Mother didn’t speak, only brooded and stared out of the window. I brooded just as fiercely. I hadn’t wanted the responsibility of helping Rowena, but now that I had it, I worried about how I was supposed to make any progress back in London. We’d likely never be invited to travel again, and certainly not back to Rosefield. And there was still the mystery of Mr. Travis to consider. What if he did something untoward while I was away? Or Peter? I’d never had a chance to witness his temper for myself.
Not to mention the fact that the story of Mother’s exposure and ruin would reach London soon enough. And then what would we do? Mother’s threat of sewing for long, arduous hours was very real. Worse yet, I didn’t think I actually sewed well enough to even have that option. And what of Colin? Where would he go? Would we be separated?
I was fretting so much that at first I thought it was only the gathering mist, or the stress of the last few days, that was making the shadows into faces. After all, Mother hadn’t once turned away from the window and her morose sulking.
The view from my window was decidedly different.
The mist thickened until everywhere I looked were ghostly faces and pale hands scrabbling at me. Some raced along on equally pale horses; others just hovered on the other side of the glass. There was a lady with curls piled high and a line of blood at her throat like a red satin ribbon; another one in a tattered, moth-eaten wedding gown; a man in a beaver hat; another with a sword he waved about quite uncaring as to which unsuspecting spirit he might cleave in two. They merely fell apart like rain, and then came back together again. We were a ghostly caravan, our single hired carriage and a parade of frantic spirits keeping pace.
My expression must have altered considerably since Colin’s eyes bore into mine, willing me to glance away from the hazy spirit-crowds. When I did, his gaze latched onto mine.
“Look at me,” he mouthed so as not to draw Mother’s attention, but a flash of white had me turning back to the window, which was now fogged with ghostly hands. Colin’s boot kicked my ankle. Hard.
“Ow,” I mouthed back, rubbing the bruise.
“Only me,” he whispered. “Look only at me.”
Mother never once took notice of our silent conversation. Colin’s eyes turned to silver when the faint light from the driver’s lamp caught them. The pupils were black and large, like calm water at midnight. The carriage rocked softly as we made our way down the bumpy road. The spirits faded away.
I hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep until Colin murmured my name. My cheek was pressed against his shoulder. We pulled up to the station and dragged our trunks behind a copse of cherry trees to wait until morning. We didn’t speak, not one of us, but Colin passed me a penny dreadful, creased from being in his pocket. When I opened it to read, a pink rose petal fell out, the same as I’d found on my pillow.
I kept it in my pocket on the train ride the next morning. We arrived in London early, negotiating the foggy London streets in another hired coach. The coal smog was thick, pressing against the narrow houses, against the pubs, against the thin trees. Flower girls stood at the corners with handfuls of violets. The men rolled out their carts, selling muffins, baked potatoes, and meat pies. As we passed by Hyde Park and Mayfair, the walkways were lined with maids parading pampered pets, little fluffy white dogs mostly and the odd pug, but a few cats as well, and even one disgruntled monkey.
Our street was still relatively quiet, the curtains drawn tight behind every window. Colin carried our bags in as the horses clopped away. The fog was thicker here, filling up every empty space, every alleyway and crevice. It was hard to breathe. Mother sailed upstairs and locked herself in her bedroom. Colin and I sat in the shadowy parlor and stared at each other. I’d never felt so tired in my entire life.
“What are we going to do now?” I scrubbed my hand over my face. “I can’t think what will happen.”
We were very aware of the unnatural silence coming from Mother’s room.
“It’s going to be bad, Vi,” Colin said.
“I know.”
Mother didn’t come down for the entire day, not for tea or even for dinner. The plate of beef stew and apple pudding was still outside her door where she’d left it hours before. It was cold, congealed, and untouched. I admit I didn’t have much of an appetite either, but I forced myself to drink tea and eat some bread and butter with a slice of cheese.
I reread Northanger Abbey for the eighth time to pass the hours. When I next looked up, it was to the concerned face of an old woman, thin and transparent as old paper. I yelped and fell off the edge of the bed with a thump. She yelped back in that faint ghostly manner, her eyes widening in alarm.
“Oh!” I snapped peevishly, crawling up onto the feather tick and pulling the quilt over my head. “Go away!”
I’d had quite enough of spirits. How was one expected to think rationally and carry on a normal conversation when one was constantly dealing with this sort of interruption? I didn’t know how the other mediums managed and I simply didn’t care. I didn’t want to be a medium.
I sulked until I fell asleep. When I woke from my rest, I wrote Elizabeth a long letter. I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking, beyond being thoroughly vexed with me. And then I wrote to my father. I couldn’t help myself. I hardly knew how to start, and if it would even be read. Surely he was as curious as I was?
Colin grunted an agreement before following me into the carriage and shutting the door behind him. The seats were worn and the curtains faded, but at least it was clean and didn’t smell like someone’s unwashed coat or travel luncheon. Mother didn’t speak, only brooded and stared out of the window. I brooded just as fiercely. I hadn’t wanted the responsibility of helping Rowena, but now that I had it, I worried about how I was supposed to make any progress back in London. We’d likely never be invited to travel again, and certainly not back to Rosefield. And there was still the mystery of Mr. Travis to consider. What if he did something untoward while I was away? Or Peter? I’d never had a chance to witness his temper for myself.
Not to mention the fact that the story of Mother’s exposure and ruin would reach London soon enough. And then what would we do? Mother’s threat of sewing for long, arduous hours was very real. Worse yet, I didn’t think I actually sewed well enough to even have that option. And what of Colin? Where would he go? Would we be separated?
I was fretting so much that at first I thought it was only the gathering mist, or the stress of the last few days, that was making the shadows into faces. After all, Mother hadn’t once turned away from the window and her morose sulking.
The view from my window was decidedly different.
The mist thickened until everywhere I looked were ghostly faces and pale hands scrabbling at me. Some raced along on equally pale horses; others just hovered on the other side of the glass. There was a lady with curls piled high and a line of blood at her throat like a red satin ribbon; another one in a tattered, moth-eaten wedding gown; a man in a beaver hat; another with a sword he waved about quite uncaring as to which unsuspecting spirit he might cleave in two. They merely fell apart like rain, and then came back together again. We were a ghostly caravan, our single hired carriage and a parade of frantic spirits keeping pace.
My expression must have altered considerably since Colin’s eyes bore into mine, willing me to glance away from the hazy spirit-crowds. When I did, his gaze latched onto mine.
“Look at me,” he mouthed so as not to draw Mother’s attention, but a flash of white had me turning back to the window, which was now fogged with ghostly hands. Colin’s boot kicked my ankle. Hard.
“Ow,” I mouthed back, rubbing the bruise.
“Only me,” he whispered. “Look only at me.”
Mother never once took notice of our silent conversation. Colin’s eyes turned to silver when the faint light from the driver’s lamp caught them. The pupils were black and large, like calm water at midnight. The carriage rocked softly as we made our way down the bumpy road. The spirits faded away.
I hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep until Colin murmured my name. My cheek was pressed against his shoulder. We pulled up to the station and dragged our trunks behind a copse of cherry trees to wait until morning. We didn’t speak, not one of us, but Colin passed me a penny dreadful, creased from being in his pocket. When I opened it to read, a pink rose petal fell out, the same as I’d found on my pillow.
I kept it in my pocket on the train ride the next morning. We arrived in London early, negotiating the foggy London streets in another hired coach. The coal smog was thick, pressing against the narrow houses, against the pubs, against the thin trees. Flower girls stood at the corners with handfuls of violets. The men rolled out their carts, selling muffins, baked potatoes, and meat pies. As we passed by Hyde Park and Mayfair, the walkways were lined with maids parading pampered pets, little fluffy white dogs mostly and the odd pug, but a few cats as well, and even one disgruntled monkey.
Our street was still relatively quiet, the curtains drawn tight behind every window. Colin carried our bags in as the horses clopped away. The fog was thicker here, filling up every empty space, every alleyway and crevice. It was hard to breathe. Mother sailed upstairs and locked herself in her bedroom. Colin and I sat in the shadowy parlor and stared at each other. I’d never felt so tired in my entire life.
“What are we going to do now?” I scrubbed my hand over my face. “I can’t think what will happen.”
We were very aware of the unnatural silence coming from Mother’s room.
“It’s going to be bad, Vi,” Colin said.
“I know.”
Mother didn’t come down for the entire day, not for tea or even for dinner. The plate of beef stew and apple pudding was still outside her door where she’d left it hours before. It was cold, congealed, and untouched. I admit I didn’t have much of an appetite either, but I forced myself to drink tea and eat some bread and butter with a slice of cheese.
I reread Northanger Abbey for the eighth time to pass the hours. When I next looked up, it was to the concerned face of an old woman, thin and transparent as old paper. I yelped and fell off the edge of the bed with a thump. She yelped back in that faint ghostly manner, her eyes widening in alarm.
“Oh!” I snapped peevishly, crawling up onto the feather tick and pulling the quilt over my head. “Go away!”
I’d had quite enough of spirits. How was one expected to think rationally and carry on a normal conversation when one was constantly dealing with this sort of interruption? I didn’t know how the other mediums managed and I simply didn’t care. I didn’t want to be a medium.
I sulked until I fell asleep. When I woke from my rest, I wrote Elizabeth a long letter. I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking, beyond being thoroughly vexed with me. And then I wrote to my father. I couldn’t help myself. I hardly knew how to start, and if it would even be read. Surely he was as curious as I was?
