Haunting Violet
Page 61

“Miss Willoughby.” There it was again, the pointed refusal to use my first name.
“Yes?”
“I’ve come on urgent business.”
“I see.”
He turned, paced back. “About …”
“Yes?” My stomach dropped, even though this was hardly unexpected.
“About our engagement.”
“Yes. Shall I tell Mother you’d like to speak with her?” I don’t know why I did it. I just wanted to see him squirm. I didn’t know how else to hide the disappointment. Even if I knew I couldn’t marry him, it would have been nice to know he stood by me regardless. I’d considered him a friend, after all. But I knew perfectly well why he had come.
“No!” he practically shouted. “That is, it’s a private matter. Of some delicacy.” He swallowed convulsively. “Miss Willoughby, you must see that we cannot marry. It would be impossible.”
“Would it?” I was finding perverse pleasure in forcing him to explain every detail.
“My parents won’t allow it.”
I knew for a fact that his mother must have had vapors at the thought of our families being joined. There was fame and then there was infamy. “And you?” I asked quietly.
He looked vaguely confused. “I’m sorry?”
“What do you think, Xavier?”
“Mother forbids it.”
“That’s not what I asked, is it?”
“It would never do for me to call off the engagement, if one had indeed been formally made. I am a man of honor, after all. I am willing to let everyone believe that you were the one to cry off.”
“How very kind,” I answered dryly. He didn’t even notice the sarcasm.
“I am sorry, Miss Willoughby. Truly.”
“And that’s it, then?”
“You must understand. We are a respectable family and you are … well …”
“A bastard,” I supplied with vitriolic sweetness. I stood up sharply. “Good day.”
“Miss Willoughby—”
“You may see yourself out,” I cut him off. He had to leave before I betrayed myself with a trembling lip or damp cheek. He bowed once. I listened to his footsteps recede, the door shutting softly, the horses walking off.
Mother sailed cheerfully into the room, Marjorie trailing behind her with the tea cart. “Here we are, Mr.—” She stopped, frowning. “Where did he go?”
I lifted my chin. “He was called away.”
“When will he return?”
“He won’t.”
She grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my skin even through my sleeve. “What? You let him go? Idiot girl.”
I tried to pull away but she was stronger. “He won’t marry a bastard, Mother.”
CHAPTER 18
Her eyes were slits.
“So now it’s my fault, is it? There’s gratitude for you.” She slapped me right across the mouth. “You’re not to speak to me that way. I am your mother. You don’t know what I’ve suffered. I demand your respect.”
I tasted blood on my lip.
“Stupid girl!” she yelled. “We need him. He was our last hope.” She slapped me again until I stumbled back against a chair. The legs scraped the floor. “Now we have nothing! Nothing!”
It was a punch this time and pain seared my eye, a bruise already blooming like a black rose. I threw my hands up to protect myself as Marjorie sobbed. One of the other chairs slid into the settee, slamming it against the wall. The table tilted and wobbled, untouched, as if some unseen medium sat there.
The spirits were gathering, and Mother didn’t notice their objections to her treatment of me. The curtains flung and twisted as if a storm blew. Angry faces formed in the mirrors, in the windows, even in the milk jug on the tray.
It seemed like ages before Colin burst through the door and pulled her off me.
“Get off!” he yelled. She scratched at him and blood trickled down the side of his face. His eyes were like tarnished silver coins.
“Fine!” she screeched. “You two deserve each other!”
She flung off his restraining hand and stalked upstairs. Her bedroom door slammed hard enough to rattle the chandelier in the hall. I stayed on the floor, curled into a tight ball. Colin crouched, his breathing hard, his words forced between his clenched teeth.
“Violet, she’s gone.” He reached out to stroke my hair, so gently I might have imagined it. “You’re all right now, she’s gone.”
Marjorie left and then returned and I still didn’t move. She handed Colin a chunk of raw beef wrapped in a towel.
“For the swelling,” she whispered before leaving again. The door shut quietly behind her. It was just Colin and me and the sun setting at the window, burning lavender and orange through the gaps in the draperies. He didn’t say anything, just handed me the towel and went to light a fire in the grate. The scratch of the matches, the lick of the fire against the wood were a comforting lullaby. I sat up carefully, my face aching, my arms sore. I wrinkled my nose at the red meat.
“I don’t know how I feel about having supper on my face.”
“It’ll help,” Colin promised, feeding more wood into the flames. He didn’t turn around until I tried to stand up, and then he was at my elbow almost instantly. I tried to smile even though it wasn’t terribly convincing.
“I’m all right,” I assured him.