“The reason my mother does not wear shoes,” Violet continued, “is not because she is not in her senses. It is that she could not afford them. She had one pair. One. And she saved them.” Her voice caught. She pressed on. “She saved them for me. For when I might need them. For interviews, and calls, and the day I might stand in front of a man who could change our circumstances, because she knew that no one would look twice at a girl in bare feet.” She swallowed hard. “So my mother went without. For years. So that I could walk into rooms like this one and be afforded a modicum of decency by women like you.”
Cranbrook did not move, did not blink.
“My sisters will attend this ball,” Violet said. “My mother will attend this ball. They will be dressed properly, and they will behave beautifully and Primrose will have her come-out in this house as my husband promised, and if London has a problem with the Thornwick family, then London may take it up with the Duchess of Iredell.”
The room held its breath as silence stretched out.
Cranbrook picked up her pencil. She wrote the names back onto the list, one by one, in her precise, angular hand:Lady Thornwick. Miss Primrose Linton. MissPoppy Linton. Miss Daphne Linton. Miss Daisy Linton.
“Well,” she said, with a faint smile at her lips, “at least we know the backbone is in working order.”
Cranbrook stood, collected her portfolio, and left—swiftly and, as ever, undeniably.
The next day, Violet woke with a feeling of dread after dreaming about Cranbrook shouting orders at her while thetonmocked her. Her unease caught fire when Sarah arrived with the chocolate and the morning’s chatter.
“Fog on the square again, Your Grace. I could hardly see the railings from the landing window. Mrs Greer says the roads will be foul by noon.” She set the tray down and crossed to the curtains. “Shall I open them halfway or do you prefer the room dim this morning? With the weather, the grey does nothing for the complexion.”
Violet sat up against the pillows and suppressed the queasiness that seemed to rise at the sight of chocolate. She watched her maid move through the room, stirring and feeding the fire, pouring chocolate and setting it on the bedside table within reach.
Sarah's voice was bright as usual while she folded last evening’s clothes and laid out the morning dress and talked about sleeves—the new width, the latest pattern from Madame Renard, whether the sage green or the blue for today. Violet began to wonder perhaps it was not Sarah who had opened the door when she was with her husband. Perhaps the door was already open when they’d arrived. Or perhaps, she shivered with a chill down her spine, she’d already decided what came next.
Violet reached for the chocolate and brought it to her lips. She held it there, let the steam warm her nose and breathed it in. She did not detect the bitterness of belladonna, but chocolate was far more effective in masking it than tea or coffee.
“Your Grace?” Violet lifted her eyes to her maid. Sarah was waiting expectantly. “Blue or the sage green?”
“The sage, I think.”
“A wise choice. Much more fitting for a gloomy day.”
After the usualtoilet, Sarah buttoned her into the dress with steady fingers. Violet felt those hands at her spine and pushed down the impulse to recoil.
“Your hair is lovely this morning, Your Grace. Did you brush it out more before bed?”
“I did.”
“It shows. The ends are much smoother. Shall I pin it high or—”
“High. Thank you, Sarah.”
She sat at the dressing table and let her mind wander while the curling iron, the pins, the pearl combs, all moved unhurried. Then she lifted her eyes and started. Sarah was watching her. With a faint curve of her lips. Violet averted her gaze first.
“Thank you, Sarah. That is enough.”
“But I’m not—”
“That will do. I shall wear it down today.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
Sarah took her leave, the door closing with a soft click. Violet’s hands were shaking.
The arrival of the Duchess of Cranbrook was a welcome distraction. She swept through the hall, past Patten, and marched straight to Violet who happened to be descending the staircase.
“Iredell. Good. We have work to do.” She snapped her fan open and began to rapidly fan herself.
They discussed flowers, musicians, the supper menu. The older woman approved the champagne and rejected the lobster and said the ices must come from Gunter’s and nowhere elsebecause Gunter’s was the only establishment in London whose ices did not taste of the tin.
“I hear your husband’s cousin was here for dinner this week.”