Page 14 of Too Wanton to Wed
“Oh, honey.” Chest constricting with empathy, Violet sank to the floor and pulled Lillian into her lap. “I don’t blame you in the least. But your father says—”
“The sun’s rays will kill me. I know. It’s true.” Lillian stopped crying, and her voice dropped almost too low to overhear. “But it would be worth it.”
At those anguished words, Violet’s eyes threatened tears of their own. She fought the sting, careful not to blink. She had to be strong for the child’s sake. Violet rested Lillian’s head against her shoulder and began to rock gently to and fro.
How often had Violet felt so desperate that death seemed the only way to escape bitter reality? Every single moment of her cursed childhood. Lillian had not suffered the physical torments that Violet had endured, but stark emotional despair was something she knew all too well. Once everything of value was stripped away, feelings were all that remained. And the one person impossible to hide from was oneself.
Lillian sniffled. The flow of her tears seemed to have abated, but she made no attempt to quit the warmth of Violet’s embrace.
Violet could understand the need for comfort, as well. She herself had given up on hoping for a savior long before she’d reached adolescence. Rescue was not forthcoming.
What she’d longed for, time and again, was someone who understood. Who wanted nothing from her. Who liked her for who she was. Better yet,despitewho she was. But all she’d had was misery.
Looking into Lillian’s soul-deadened eyes brought back agonizing memories Violet had tried to bury long ago. As a child, she’d been unable to save anyone, least of all herself. As an adult, she’d done the best she could at the Livingstone School for Girls.
Here, at Waldegrave Abbey, she was being given another chance. She would not fail.
Mr. Waldegrave believed his daughter in want of a cure. But what Lillian needed more than anything was a confidante. A friend. This, Violet could do. She wasted no breath asking unanswerable questions or offering unwanted advice. She just held Lillian quietly in her arms. Instinctively, she felt nonjudgmental silence spoke more to the child than any words could have done.
As she gently rocked the little girl, Violet lifted her gaze to examine the bedchamber that had become a prison. They sat in the very center of a wide space. Soaring arches converged across the vaulted ceiling. Violet presumed that all four walls had originally boasted the same stained glass as the rest of the abbey. As in the other chambers, the windows were boarded over on the inside. Despite the profusion of candelabra, the covered windows and surrounding catacombs had converted the once-beautiful sanctuary into something dark and ugly.
No paintings or looking-glasses adorned the walls. Not even golden crosses or other religious gewgaws. A smattering of dolls and other toys, a few seemingly unread books, and an incongruous four-poster bed with the darkest, thickest tester Violet had ever clapped eyes upon. No light would get through those curtains, with or without the double-boarded windows.
In lieu of a dressing-room, one corner of the sanctuary held a pair of armoires and what might have been an intricate Chinese folding screen, had the panels not been covered with the same thick fabric as the tester draping Lillian’s bed. A round table flanked by two hardback chairs stood to one side.
The only other item of note was a child-sized desk, upon which stood a narrow crystal vase choked with three dead roses. The chair cushion was upholstered in a sunny yellow—or at least it might be so, were there enough light in the room to see properly—and the curtains about the bed and the windows were a deep indigo.
Violet schooled her features into a neutral expression when the child twisted free and scrambled to her feet. Lillian turned her face toward the windowless wall. If the two were as alike as Violet suspected, right now the child hated herself for revealing her vulnerability and was vowing never to repeat the display. Violet rose to her feet as well, hobbling slightly on her swollen ankle. She did not approach the young girl. Instead, she faced the hidden stained glass windows and tried to decide what she’d want to hear, were she in Lillian’s position.
“Your strength impresses me,” Violet said at last, turning to give Lillian her full attention. “I wouldn’t be surprised to discover you feel quite helpless, but to my eye you are both a fighter and a survivor, and someone I would be honored to call a friend.”
Lillian whirled to face her. Black hair whipped from her pale face to reveal shock... but not necessarily displeasure. Even at nine years old, with her hair in tangles and few possessions save a smattering of dolls lying broken in one corner, Lillian still very much looked the part of a fairytale princess trapped in a tower. Superior bloodlines were obvious in the fine bones of her face, in the hauteur of her shoulders and the rigidity of her spine.
Violet had not lied about being amazed by the child’s inner strength. She’d seen far too many young girls in desperate situations simply give up on life and waste away until they succumbed to early deaths.
Which was not at all the same thing as wishing to die. Violet considered her own wishes from just an hour earlier. She had been willing to put up with a spoiled rich child, perhaps eke out a modicum of sympathy. But with just a few words, this shadow of a girl had wrested from her the one thing Violet had been least expecting to give: Her respect.
“You are stronger than you think, Miss Lillian.”
Lillian’s small shoulders slumped dejectedly. “I am not,” she said, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. “I am nothing. Worms live beneath the ground, but even they have seen the sun.”
Violet stepped closer. “Being vulnerable in one aspect does not make a person weak in all regards. Did not Beethoven create the most divine symphonies known to man, despite being gravely ill and stone deaf besides?”
“I don’t know Beethoven. I’m plain old Lillian Waldegrave, and I am miserable.” Her large gray eyes were dry, but her voice anguished. “What good are my eyes and ears if I can never leave this abbey?”
An excellent question, that. If only Violet had the answer. “You must find other sources of inspiration. If you cannot turn outward, you must turn inward.”
“Then all hope is lost.” Lillian slammed her fists to her side. “I have nothing inside!”
“That is why I am here. As your governess, it is my job to fill you up on the inside.”
“With what, books?” her charge asked scornfully. “No, thank you. I cannot read and I’ve no wish to learn.”
Lillian couldn’t read? Violet stared at the nine-year-old girl in surprise. By that age, Violet had wearied of being illiterate and practiced her letters every chance she could, no matter how often she was beaten for it. Perhaps she’d been wrong about the sullen child glaring up at her, pale hands fisted like rocks. Perhaps Lillian would never welcome the help or advice of one such as Violet Whitechapel, desperate loneliness or no.
Or perhaps it was Violet herself who had little to offer.
“I can’t imagine why anyone would refuse to learn anything,” she said at last.
