Page 45 of Too Wanton to Wed
With what she hoped was a pleasant smile, she dipped a belated curtsy. “Good morning, Mr. Waldegrave. And please, you have done nothing which requires forgiveness.”
“You are too kind. I am on my way to breakfast.” He offered his arm. “Might you join me?”
“I... Thank you.”
She curled her fingers above the crook of his elbow. The muscle buried beneath was warm and firm. The hem of her gown brushed against the black leather of his boot with every step. Although they did not otherwise touch, his body seemed too close to hers. Inches apart, side by side, as if they were two lovers recovering abed rather than two strangers en route to toast and jam.
She did not for a second believe that her bedchamber was anywhere near the route from his quarters to the main dining room. But as they traversed the sparsely lit abbey in silence, Violet felt herself growing less, rather than more, anxious. If anything, Mr. Waldegrave seemed just as tense as she. The realization that she discomfited him in equal measure was oddly empowering. His manners remained gallant and his step did not falter, but his eyes darted infrequent glances in her direction as if he half-expectedherto spring at any moment.
In the breakfast room, it was Mr. Waldegrave, and not a footman, who held her chair and got her seated. It was also he who poured tea, and served generous helpings of scones and poached eggs—a far cry from the Livingston School’s unglamorous bubble and squeak, and further yet from the years when a “good” breakfast meant brushing dirt from a scrap of stale bread. Seated at such a fine table laid with silver and china, she could almost imagine herself a lady born, rather than a street urchin in governess’s clothing.
Perhaps therein lay the true danger.
Once Mr. Waldegrave had offered sugar cubes for her tea and discussed the advantages of marmalade to blackberry preserves, a crushing silence engulfed the room. Each soft clang of fork to plate rang with the force of a church bell. The whispering candle flames rustled like a thousand autumn leaves, the crunch of her apple deafening.
She could stand the silence no more. She sat up straight and looked him right in the eyes and said, “The apples are delicious.”
Aargh. She could’ve sworn she had aimed for something a bit more interesting on the witty banter scale.
His startled gaze met hers. No, not startled. Relieved. As if he, too, had been battling the oppressive quiet and had been praying for her to break it.
“I am glad. They are not in season, but... apples are Lily’s favorite fruit.”
“Mine, too.”
There. They were speaking. Or had spoken, anyway. He had done an admirable job of keeping his end of the topic afloat, but the subject of apples and favorite fruits could not continue indefinitely. It was her turn to continue the conversation.
What else might one discuss at the breakfast table? She slowly sipped at her tea. When inspiration failed to strike, she settled for the classics. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you. I... ” Mr. Waldegrave shook his head and set down his silver. He gazed at her fully, his expression frank and open. “No. I didn’t. I haven’t slept well in years. I imagine you didn’t fare much better, and for that, I apologize.”
“It was nothing,” she said quickly, cursing her tongue for having led back to the one topic she most wished to avoid. “You need not apologize.”
“Someone must, and Lily... ” He took a deep breath, but the pain in his eyes did not diminish. He placed his hands upon the table, his voice low but intense. “I swear to you, Miss Smythe. She did not mean it.”
“Of course she didn’t mean it.” Violet’s hackles rose. She hardly needed a translator to understand Lily. “You think I don’t know that? Being locked up can drive anyone mad. Not to mention, she’s nine years old. A little girl. Feelings are impossible to control at that age.” Violet turned her attention to her marmalade. They needed a new topic, or she wouldn’t be able to control her own emotions. “Why are there two layers of board over all the windows? Would light be able to seep through a single layer?”
“The first layer had already half-rotted when Lily was born. Adding a second layer was more expedient than ripping off the old before adding the new. Besides, being doubly protected cannot hurt.”
Violet kicked herself. Of course the windows had already been boarded. She’d forgotten that he suffered the same affliction as his daughter.
“Your parents boarded the windows when you were born?” she asked softly.
Brow furrowed, he shook his head. “They’ve always been boarded. Our family owned the abbey, but rarely lived in it. I moved here when I married. We’d planned to turn the abbey into a palace—knock down walls, build a home of our own. But when Marjorie picked out her chamber and we discovered the stained glass, we couldn’t bear to destroy such beauty.”
The gears in Violet’s brain clicked into place and she stared at him in growing excitement. “Ican. The Reformation! It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
He blinked uncomprehendingly. “The what?”
“The Reformation,” she repeated, leaning forward eagerly. “When the Church of England broke from Rome in the 1500s.”
His eyebrows lifted skeptically. “Wasn’t that because Henry VIII wanted his marriage annulled and the Catholics stood in his way?”
Violet waved this interjection off. Mostly because her knowledge of British history was limited to exactly one field: Art.
“Virtually all previously church-owned property reverted back to England, butabbeychurches could still be used for parish worship.Abbeys,” she repeated emphatically. “Waldegrave Abbey. Your ancestors must have boarded the windows when they first heard the ruling. And then counted their lucky stars when the monarchy didn’t repossess the property.”
“I doubt they counted on luck. Waldegraves prefer to put their faith in the hand of God.”
