Page 26 of Too Wanton to Wed
With a sigh, he dragged himself over to the stack of science and anatomy tomes piled atop his nightstand, and opened the first to the ribbon he’d placed between chapters that same morning. He’d work, that’s what he’d do. If he couldn’t help himself, at least he could help Lillian. Spend all night studying, memorizing, taking notes, just as he’d done the night before, and the night before that. He slipped on his pince-nez and began to read.
When his team of scientists arrived, he’d be ready.
Chapter 11
Gel, didn’t I tell ye not to bargain with the devil?”
Violet shook her groggy head and swung the door open enough to allow Mrs. Tumsen entry. The old woman may have been right about making bargains, but she was wrong about which Waldegrave was the devil. He had been a madman when he found Violet in his wife’s bedchamber. She sighed and shook her head. A madman who had just lost his last tie to a past he could never regain.
“Here.” The old woman shoved a pile of soft blue cloth forward. “I brought ye this. Hasn’t been fashionable since... well, ever, but Charles tells me ye might find it useful.”
Violet accepted the folded parcel in confusion. “Er... Charles?”
“Memory loss, have ye now? He’s the one that brought ye back to your room yesterday, if ye can’t recall. Although, to be fair, he did say ye were in a bit of a state, and rightly so, I imagine.”
Now she was certain she was still asleep. “Charles” was Mr. Roper, the surly manservant? True, he’d come to collect her from the bedchamber of Mr. Waldegrave’s dead wife, and true, Mr. Roper had immediately apologized for his role in the events of the afternoon. Regardless of any perceived slight, she should never have touched those gowns. Violet had been certain she’d be sacked, and wasn’t quite convinced whether she felt relieved to still retain her post.
She shook out the folds and held the garment out before her. Unfashionable, perhaps, but clean, comfortable, and about as old as—
“Mrs. Tumsen, does this dress belong to you?” Violet asked as she realized the truth.
“Once upon a time, but if ye think it’d fit me now, yer eyes are as bad as yer memory. Charles thought you might like summat new.” Mrs. Tumsen turned toward the door. “Don’t dally, now. Ought to break yer fast before ye enter the cave of horrors.”
With that, Mrs. Tumsen quit the room.
Violet laid the dress on her bed and went to the sideboard to splash water on her face. Blessedly, her ankle was much improved. She tested her foot. No more hobbling.
She wasn’t sure if Mrs. Tumsen’s “cave of horrors” referred to the catacombs or Lillian’s sanctuary or the entire abbey grounds, but now that Violet was awake, breakfast sounded just the thing.
Within fifteen minutes, she was dressed and ready. Another fifteen passed. No one came to fetch her. She frowned. Now that food had been mentioned, her stomach was growling at every interval. Sighing, she leaned against a bedpost to await Roper’s knock.
It was not forthcoming.
Hunger eventually turned into frustration at having been so easily forgotten. Again. She shoved her hands into her dress pockets and stalked toward the bell pull.
Her fingertips brushed cold metal.
She paused midstride as her fingers curled around a slender brass key. She withdrew her hand from the pocket, unable to hide the smile from her face. Clever. “Charles” had given her the perfect peace offering. He would never know that what she appreciated most was not the key itself, but the gift of his trust.
Smiling, she crossed to the door and slid the key into the lock. She swung open the door and found herself face to face with the scarred manservant himself.
“Mr. Roper!” How long had he been out there, waiting for her to notice the key, standing at the ready just in case she never did? She beamed at him. “Thank you.”
He raised his brows as if he couldn’t imagine to what she referred. “Good morning, miss. May I escort you to breakfast?”
“With pleasure.”
Later that morning, two hours into Lillian’s lessons, Violet thanked her lucky stars she’d taken Mrs. Tumsen’s advice and had a fortifying meal. She’d exhausted all her energy trying to keep up with Lillian. Today, there was no inkwell in the classroom, in order to for them both to focus on the blackboard.
Lillian had drawn an almost-perfect circle on the very first attempt. The ease in which the little girl perfectly copied each stroke indicated an artistic facility far beyond anything Violet had imagined.
Violet continued drilling letters until she was convinced Lillian could not only recognize all of them on sight, but could draw each one from memory.
“You’re a quick study, Miss Lillian. It’s a shame you haven’t had a bevy of governesses.”
Lillian shrugged and kept practicing letters. “Papa likes to teach me himself. He comes to my room every day and sings made-up alphabet songs and recites all the kings and queens of England, but I plug my ears and yellLa! La! La!so I can’t listen.”
Violet’s sympathy toward him deepened even further. “Every day?”
