Haunting Violet
Page 62

He only grunted, but he did step back enough to let me make my own way to the chair nearest the fire. “What set her off this time?” he asked grimly.
I held the raw beefsteak gingerly against my cheek, grimacing. “Xavier came.”
“Ah.” There was a long beat of silence. “And?”
“And you can’t expect a son from a respectable family to marry a bastard, can you?” I tried to ignore the flutter of ghostly movement by the door. Perhaps if I didn’t pay them any mind, the spirits would grow bored with me and leave. Already a pair of disembodied eyes watched me from the doorway, and a head hovered through the glass-encased clock on the mantel.
Colin’s mouth tightened. “He said that to you?”
“He may as well. It’s what he meant to say between all the polite stammering.”
“Ijit.”
I tossed the beef wrap aside. “I suppose I’m better off.”
He was careful not to meet my gaze. “Did you love him, then?”
“I thought I might be able to. I guess not, though, as I’m not nearly as upset as I ought to be.”
“Good.”
“There’s no escape for me now though,” I murmured. When I looked up there was a crush of spirits, all watching me intently. I shivered. Colin followed my glance, saw nothing, looked closer, and still saw only furniture and firelight.
“Stop it,” I said softly but firmly. They remained and seemed only the more interested.
“Tell Bradley I miss him,” came a whisper.
“Can you see us?”
“Where’s the old enameled table that used to sit here? I carved my name on it once, when I was six.”
I shut my eyes tightly for a few moments. Colin took my hand, his warm, callused palm against mine. When I opened my eyes again, most of the spirits had faded except for an older man standing at Colin’s shoulder, cap in hands.
“Miss, if you don’t mind …”
I smiled. “Colin, your grandfather was a gardener, wasn’t he? Back in Ireland? Bushy eyebrows, big hands?”
Colin blinked at me. “Aye.”
I nodded, listening. “When you were five you dug up all of his turnips and ate them. He says you had such a bellyache, he didn’t have the heart to punish you.”
Colin looked behind him. “Is he here?”
“He was,” I said as the old man vanished. “He looks out for you, I think.”
“And my mother?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I could only see him.”
“Hell of a talent, Vi,” he said finally.
“I know.” I pushed my hair off my shoulders, wincing when my neck protested.
“Does it hurt?” he asked instantly. “You’ve got a right shiner starting already.”
My eye did feel tender and puffy but at least the sharp throbbing had subsided. My lip tingled painfully.
“You have to get out of here, Violet,” he said quietly, grimly.
“Where am I supposed to go? Lord Thornwood won’t take me in, and even if he did, do you expect his family would accept me?” I snorted. “I rather doubt it.”
“I know she’s your mam, but she’s no good for you.”
“Can we not talk about this?” I asked, mostly because I knew he was right. “I really just want to forget this day ever happened.” I leaned my head back. The room was dark now, the sun had long since set completely in the fog. The fire was cheerful and the rest of the house so hushed it might have been deserted. Marjorie and Cook were no doubt in hiding in the back of the kitchen, and Mother always took to her bed after one of her fits, no matter the time. Even the streets outside were quiet.
“Colin?” I was suddenly very aware of his body close beside me, his legs stretched along mine, our boots resting lightly together.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
I seized the moment before I could talk myself out of it.
I kissed him because kissing Colin was like being outside during an electrical storm and refusing to go inside where it was safe. He tasted like candy and smoke. He tasted right. His hand cradled the back of my neck. My cut lip tingled slightly at the pressure but I hardly cared. We kissed as if there was nothing more important, not even air.
Finally, when we pulled apart to rest my already sore lip, we stretched out on the carpet in front of the fire. We drank cold tea and ate all the biscuits and bread and butter sandwiches and talked for hours.
“Perhaps Mother’s wrong,” I said, watching the flames thoughtfully, chin propped on my hand. “I might make a good governess. I do love to read, after all.”
“You’re clever enough,” Colin assured me. “But your mother’s right. No one would hire you. You’re too pretty.”
“Oh, honestly.”
“Wives of earls and dukes don’t bring pretty sixteen-year-old girls to live with them, Violet. It’d be daft.”
I blew out a breath, ruffling a lock of hair falling over my shoulder. “That’s not fair.”
He shrugged one shoulder negligently. “It never is.” He lay next to me, shoulder brushing mine. “You could be part of the black-letter gentry, like Charles Dickens and the Bell brothers you love so much, and write your own books.”
I smiled. “That sounds lovely. I suppose I could also be a teacher in one of those dreadful academies. I’d need to save enough money to advertise first. Or do they advertise?”