After a long pause, Violet realized that was all the acknowledgment she was going to get.
Maybe she’d hoped for more. Some days, she’d idly toyed with mentioning the matter to her mother. Mama would understand if she knew, Violet had sometimes thought. She was her mother, after all, and for all Lily thought her cold and unfeeling, Violet knew better. Or she had thought she had.
Her mother rubbed her forehead, a gesture of upset and vulnerability so out of place that Violet almost reached for her—until she recalled that her mother would not welcome being touched. Especially not when Violet was the cause of her distress.
“So,” her mother repeated. “I had hoped… But then, hope never fixed anything.” She sighed and looked up. “Who have you told, then? Did you tell your sister? Because if you did, she will tell her husband, and he’ll think it his duty—he has the most godforsaken theories on what his duty is, that apparently don’t include keeping family secrets—to make a ruckus about it. If that’s the case, we’ll all hang.”
Violet grimaced. Nothing like a little hyperbole to keep everyone in line. “I’m not an idiot. Lily knows nothing.”
“Good. Anyone else?”
“Well, Sebastian Malheur, of course.”
Her mother snorted. “That boy. I had my eye on him from the moment he was old enough to walk. I knew he’d make trouble. But he has been discreet, at least, and if he hasn’t told yet, I doubt he’ll do it.” She sighed. “Still, the more people who know, the worse it is, no matter how trustworthy you think they are. This is awful. It’s beyond ruinous.”
Violet tried not to flinch, but still she felt her stomach clench. Some part of her had been hoping for a single whispered word of praise. Even the brief flicker of a smile. But her mother’s eyes looked dark and condemning.
“I still have nightmares about it,” her mother continued. “Some days, I can’t even make myself believe it is true. It disgusts me.” Her hands were trembling; she set her knitting on the table and rubbed her fingers.
Oh, Violet had been telling herself lies. Proud? Her mother? No chance of that. Violet was disgusting.
Violet had always known that she was fundamentally unlovable. That she had to pretend to have any hope of fitting in. When she was younger, it had been a cause of some grief, but she’d straightened her spine and gone on with her life. The only thing worse than an unlovable woman was an unlovable woman who whined about not being loved. She’d killed off all the parts of her that hoped for anything more than tepid acquaintanceship, and she’d made a habit of hiding her most unpalatable parts.
If she’d ever wanted proof that she’d made the right decision, this was it. Her own mother couldn’t accept who she was and what she’d done.
Violet swallowed.
There was a bright side to this all. She was getting better at managing her emotions. She felt only a mid-sized disappointment. Not crushing anguish or teeth-gnashing misery. Her mother was disgusted, and Violet could smile with equanimity as if nothing were happening. She was learning not to expect anything more from life. By the time she became her mother’s age, she might learn to forgo hope altogether.
“I understand, Mama.” She managed to say the words without a tremble in her voice. “Why do you think I’ve never talked to you about it?”
“Good girl,” her mother said. “Well, we’ll just have to keep it hidden. It was just a whisper I heard, after all—a sly chance remark that someone made. I don’t think Lady Haffington meant to do anything except stick her tongue out at me. She had no idea how much truth there was in her accusation.” Her mother smiled tremulously. “But you will tell me if you become aware of a…greater danger of this coming out, won’t you?”
“Of course, Mama.” Violet sat with her hands folded. She wasn’t sure what to say. “If it would help,” she finally managed, “you may castigate me. A little.”
Her mother simply looked puzzled. “If I wanted to do that, I would hardly need your permission. Am I supposed to want that?”
Violet looked away. “When it comes down to it, I’ve…accepted what has come as a result of…this scandal with open arms. Without it…I don’t know what I would have made of myself. It has meant everything to me. I feel guilty and so, so selfish.”
“Violet Marie Waterfield, don’t you dare say that you feel guilty.” Her mother’s voice sounded a little hoarse. “Not in my presence. Not for that. Don’t you dare.”
“But—” For a second, all of Violet’s squashed hopes leaped up again. Her mother was proud. Violet had done an amazing thing. She’d be recognized—even a little—by the woman whose opinion she most cared for.
“Don’t you dare feel an ounce of guilt because of this. I won’t have it.”
Violet sucked in a breath. Her lungs burned. She wouldn’t hope. She wouldn’t.
Her mother held up her hand. “Do not say it. Do not ever say it, because if anyone hears—a single, solitary servant—we are at the end of everything. Don’t feel guilty, Violet. Guilt serves no purpose. Just make sure—whatever you do, whatever you say—for God’s sake, make sure that nobody ever finds out.”
No. Hope was pointless. She should never have harbored it, or it wouldn’t be crushing her under this enormous weight.
“Don’t worry, Mama,” Violet said. “I know what it would mean.” Her chin went up. “I won’t let anything happen. A lady protects her own, after all.”
She might have been imagining the moisture that seemed to temporarily cloud her mother’s vision. For a second, she was almost sure it was there. But then her mother raised her chin, and she knew it had been an illusion after all.
Chapter Five
AT PRECISELY NINE MINUTES BEFORE FOUR, Sebastian arrived home, a gratifyingly large stack of paperwork tucked into his briefcase. He’d had one encounter with Violet in Hyde Park already today, and he both feared and anticipated their next meeting. But he had to be ready to brave lions—or Violet. Whichever he happened to encounter first.
Lions would have been easier to convince, he thought ruefully, and less dangerous.
But whether he was meeting a pride of lions or a single Violet, preparations had to be made. He gave his valet the rest of the day off, settled the details of the evening meal with his cook, and retreated to his back garden with strict orders that he didn’t wish to be bothered.