Page 33 of Too Wanton to Wed
Lillian stared at her father as if he’d offered her a kingdom. “Y-you think it’s... wonderful?”
He stared back at her in surprise. “I canseethat it’s wonderful. If you didn’t want it for your bedchamber, I was set to beg it from you for my own.”
“You were?” Lillian blinked at the painting, then raised shocked brows at Violet. When Violet simply raised her own eyebrows in response, Lillian squared her shoulders and returned her gaze to her father. “All right, then.”
His forehead creased. “All right what?”
“All right, you can have it.” Lillian gave her father a censorious stare. “But not until it dries. And I get to visit it anytime I want.”
Mr. Waldegrave lowered his eyes, as if he believed he could somehow hide the vulnerability therein. But the only person blind to the all-encompassing love he had for his daughter was his daughter herself. And he was just as blind to hers. If Violet had managed to lift their suffering for just a moment, for just long enough for them to truly see each other, if only for a second—then the wet scrap of canvas lying between them was the greatest bit of art she’d ever created in her life.
“Deal,” he said at last. “I will cherish it always. Thank you, daughter.”
Lillian shot Violet a smug look and stage-whispered, “Papa never thanks me.”
Violet returned an arch look of her own. “Have you ever tried to deserve his thanks?”
Lillian frowned. “What do you mean?”
Violet lifted a shoulder. “People get to hear ‘thank you’ when they do something nice. Perhaps hearing ‘thank you’ more often is within your control after all. What about your father? Do you say ‘thank you’ to him when he is nice to you?”
Lillian’s lips puckered. She seemed to realize there was not much to be said. Not when all three of them knew very well that she’d spent years doing her best to appear ungrateful. For the first time, however, she seemed to consider how her father might have felt. Cheeks tinged with pink, she gestured awkwardly at his side and mumbled, “You bring flowers.”
“So I do,” he agreed slowly, staring at the roses in his hand as if he’d forgotten their existence. Perhaps he had. “Although it seems I have been bringing the wrong kind all along.” He shook his head as if to clear it from unwanted thoughts, and then offered his daughter a hopeful smile. “Starting tomorrow, I will grow lilies instead.”
Lillian angled her head as if thinking the proposition over carefully before coming to a decision. “Lilies are my favorite,” she said slowly, “but... I like yours, too.”
This time, it was Mr. Waldegrave’s turn to be nonplussed. He gazed at his daughter as if her words held the power to turn dirt into gold.
“You do?” His voice was so soft as to be almost shy. “These are roses. Lilies are your favorite, but roses... Roses were your mother’s favorite.”
Lillian sucked in a breath as if the flowers before her had been imbued with magical powers. “They were?”
He nodded as if he could no longer trust himself to speak.
Lillian looked at the profusion of painted lilies surrounding her name, then back to the three roses dangling from her father’s hand. The blooms were full, the petals perfect. Bright red and fragrant. She stepped forward to take them from him. “They’re my favorite, too. I have two favorites. Lilies and roses both.” She cut a sudden worried glance toward Violet. “I can have two favorites?”
“You can have as many favorites as you wish,” Violet assured her. She’d been trying so hard to melt into the background that it was startling to be suddenly included, as if her opinions were as important as those of father and daughter. “Favorites are like art—there’s no rules at all.”
Lillian nodded gravely. She brought the roses to her nose, her eyes closing as she inhaled deeply. When she opened them again, she had eyes only for her father. “Thank you, Papa. Your flowers are beautiful.”
He flinched, as if her words cut just as much as they healed. Or as if right up until she spoke, he had still expected his gift to be thrown back into his face. He hesitated, then reached one thorn-scarred hand out to his daughter. “Would you like to help me arrange them in the vase?”
Violet’s breath caught and held while they both awaited Lillian’s reply. She doubted he realized that it would take just as much courage for his daughter to accept the offer as it did for him to extend it.
Finally, when Violet was nearly dizzy with worry, Lillian nodded. She kept the roses pressed to her chest with one hand and reached the other one out to her father. His large, strong fingers closed gently around her tiny watercolor-stained hand. They left the room hand-in-hand.
Before the door had even latched behind them, Violet turned sharply away to busy herself cleaning paintbrushes as if she got paid by the bristle. They had touched each other. They had touched her. Perhaps Lillian could begin to heal. Perhaps Mr. Waldegrave would, too.
Violet was gathering the last of the supplies when the schoolroom door reopened, and he stepped back inside.
He stood for a long moment in silence. And then he simply whispered, “Thank you.”
She shook her head without meeting his gaze.
“I don’t know how you managed to convince her I—” The words cut off abruptly. He cleared his throat, then began again. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to feel my daughter’s hand in mine?”
Her hands stilled atop the paintbrushes as she met his gaze. “Years, I imagine.”
