Page 40 of Too Wanton to Wed
Violet shook her head. “No, thank you. I like to stay on my toes.”
“You and the master,” Mrs. Tumsen said with a sigh, as if this were further proof of severe character faults. “Won’t even suffer a drop of wine with dinner, that one.”
Violet shot a sidelong glance at the clock upon the nightstand. “Is he at supper now?”
“Thinking about him, are ye?” Mrs. Tumsen gazed at her with shrewd eyes. “He’s in his office, researching. I’m heading that way myself. Shall I ask ’im to join ye?”
“No, no,” Violet blurted far too quickly. She had no wish to continue discussing her presence or lack thereof at the upcoming coterie of physicians and scientists. Besides, she enjoyed sharing the occasional meal with Lillian. Her father being in his office meant Violet wouldn’t be horning in, and she and Lily could have some time to be silly and have fun. “I’ll be in the sanctuary.”
“As ye like. I’ll let Cook know.” With a bob and a crooked wave, Mrs. Tumsen hobbled back into the shadows.
Violet lit a fresh taper and headed to the catacombs. Toward darkness and away from Mr. Waldegrave. What was the true reason she avoided him? She hurried faster once the answer presented itself. It was not that she did not trust him but rather, to her surprise, because she actually did.
At the end of the tunnel, she knocked soundly upon Lillian’s door. The child was seated at the edge of her bed, thumbing through a picture book.
“Come look,” she called excitedly. “Papa was here earlier. See this book? It’s got drawings of every kind of flower in the world! Did you know there are more than just regular lilies named after me? There are eventigerlilies.” Merry-eyed, she bared her teeth and swiped a claw-shaped hand through the air above the book. “Rowr! I’m a tiger lily!”
Laughing, Violet pulled the child-size chair from Lillian’s escritoire and seated herself beside the bed. “What other illustrations are in the book, Miss Tiger Lily?”
“Well, if there are lots of lilies, you cannot imagine the number of roses. Look—an entire chapter of them! Did you know England’s national flower is a rose? Papa says that’s been so ever since the Wars of the Roses four hundred years ago. Except they weren’t fighting about roses. And, look, these ones are pretty, even if they’re not roses or lilies. I’m not certain what kind of flower they are. What’s this say? Here, on top.”
“Let’s see... ‘Hottonia palustris.’ The water-violet.”
Lillian fell backward, laughing until she hiccupped. “The water-violet! Not nearly as exciting as tiger lily. I’m the king of the jungle, and you’re all wet. Not me! Rowr!”
“Imp.” Violet rescued the picture book before it tumbled to the floor. “You knew what that said all along and just wished to tease me. Well, I’ll have you know that water can be very lovely. And besides, it’s not tigers but lions who are kings of the jungle.”
“That’s just jealousy talking,” Lillian countered cheerfully. She grabbed the picture book and flipped to another black-and-white drawing. “I wish we had all of these in our garden so that I could see their colors. They must be beautiful. Papa would bring in a new flower every day if he could, wouldn’t he?”
“More like every hour, if he thought it would please you.” Violet sat back with a start when she realized the words were probably true. Mr. Waldegrave wasn’t simply the “least bad” of all the men she’d ever met—he was completely and truly good. His entire being was focused on caring for someone else—a trait Violet could not help but love, in a man she could not help but respect. “Would you like me to paint one for you?”
“Yes!” Lillian smothered a giggle. “Do the water-violet, so it can be your self-portrait.”
Violet tickled her sides in response.
Supper arrived before they could begin, but as soon as they finished their repast, Violet excused herself to fetch the “self-portrait” supplies from her art room.
The once-empty chamber now overflowed with painted canvases, stacked atop each other and leaning against every surface. If she was lucky, tonight would be her last sleepless night, and in the morning she could finally surprise Lillian with a room covered floor-to-ceiling with the outside world.
If there were a way to surround the child with a real summer garden, Violet would gladly plant every seed herself. Instead, all she could give was art. Words had never been easy, but she hoped the emotion contained in each brushstroke would demonstrate her love, and speak directly to Lillian’s heart.
Violet had filled the largest canvases with close-up grasses and flowers and birds and bees. Horizon lines of heather-topped hills flowed across the medium-size canvases. The smallest of the canvases were every kind of cloud—fluffy white against bright blue skies, thick as dark wool or shot through with lightning, or wispy curls dancing about a shimmering rainbow.
Filled with nervous excitement for the morrow’s surprise, she closed the art room door and returned to Lillian’s chamber. She arranged their easels side by side, placed a blank canvas upon each one, and set a tray of watercolors on a small table beside them.
“And now,” Violet announced in her best penny-theater voice, “the world famous, award-winning, death-defying...water-violet!”
Lillian scrambled to her feet and positioned herself before her canvas.
“First—a quick reminder of the majesty and beauty our brushes shall soon capture.” Violet dipped a feather quill into the inkwell on Lillian’s desk and quickly sketched a copy of the book illustration at the top corner of her canvas. She replaced both ink and brush, then turned to her young charge. “Ready?”
Lillian nodded eagerly.
“Splendid. I’m going to do each step very slowly. I will watch you do the same, and when you are finished, I will continue to the next step. Don’t worry about mistakes—it doesn’t have to be perfect, and I am right here to help anytime you need me.”
Lillian bit her lip, but nodded her agreement.
As promised, Violet performed each stroke, each color selection, each twist of the brush with painstakingly slow precision.
