Page 48 of Too Wanton to Wed
To Violet’s horror, her words did not bring a smile to Lily’s face. Instead, the child burst into tears and threw herself headlong in Violet’s arms.
Startled, Violet shot her gaze at Mr. Waldegrave, who had immediately abandoned his vigil by the door upon sight of his daughter’s tears. He looked just as perplexed as Violet felt.
She gave the girl a long hug, then ran her fingers through the soft tangles at the back of Lily’s head until she stopped crying. “What is it, Tiger Lily? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Sniffing, Lily pulled back in order to look up into Violet’s eyes. “I think I’m happy. I never made anybody proud before.”
From the corner of her eye, Violet saw Mr. Waldegrave halt suddenly, as if he’d just taken an unexpected punch to the gut. Violet could scarce imagine how he must be feeling. Neither had any idea how much the other one loved them. He would sacrifice his own limbs if he thought it would help his child. He wanted nothing more than her happiness. To hear his daughter say she had never made him proud must have struck him right through the heart.
Violet kissed Lily’s forehead, then rose to her feet to address him. “Come look at this lovely painting!”
Hesitantly, as if he feared more traps lay just ahead, he stepped closer.
“I wish I had thought about putting water-violets on from the start,” Violet continued, careful to keep her voice light. “They make everything better, don’t you think?”
“Water violets?” He reached her side and smiled when he saw the painting. “Why, so they are. And beautiful ones, at that. Very imaginative, daughter. How amusing to see them on land instead of on water!”
Lily drew back from the canvas with a horrified gasp. “I told you they were wrong!”
“No, no, no,” Violet assured her quickly. “Remember, art is never wrong.”
Mr. Waldegrave’s expression was stricken anew. “The water-violets are wonderful. I only meant—”
“You only meant, ‘It’swrong,’ just like everything I ever do, just like everything I am! Why can’t—why can’t youlikeme?” Lily slammed her canvas to the ground. “Why is everything I ever do always wrong?”
“Lily. Sweetling.” Mr. Waldegrave dropped to his knees and folded his daughter into his arms.
She kicked him. When he failed to release her, she twisted her head to stare up at Violet with swollen, red-rimmed eyes and a wobbly chin. “I won’t speak to him.”
Mr. Waldegrave’s eyes filled with self-reproach.
Violet pressed her hand to her mouth and tried to think of something to say that might actually help either of them.
No miracles came to mind.
“Lily,” he whispered into the back of his daughter’s head. “Nothing was wrong. The thought was lovely. The painting was lovely. I wish you hadn’t overturned your palette on it. The water-violets were splendid. The next time you paint something, I promise—”
“I’m done painting.” Lily struggled to escape her father’s embrace. “I’m done with everything, ever. I can’t do anything right, so why bother?”
Just as she freed herself from her father’s arms, the overturned paint palette began to slide down the still-wet canvas.
Even as his daughter fled to the relative safety hidden behind her bed curtains, he remained on his knees upon the floor, watching the inexorable slide of the overturned palette with an expression of naked self-loathing.
Violet’s heart clenched in sympathy. Her brain was desperately whirring for something to say, something to do. She could think of nothing, and could only stand there and watch his pain.
He stared up at the ruined canvas in silence, flinching every time the falling palette obliterated each precious bloom as if each flower’s demise destroyed another part of his soul along with it.
Chapter 18
Master. Master!”
Alistair jerked upright so quickly his pince-nez flew from his nose to the floor. All that noise hadn’t been the pounding of his migraine after all, from struggling to memorize anatomical diagrams and minute scientific terminology.
“Come in,” he said wearily, then recalled he was the sole possessor of a key to his office. Sighing, he pushed back his chair, rescued his pince-nez, and managed to pull himself upright on sleep-prickled feet. After shaking off as many kinks as he could, he hobbled across the room and swung open the door. “Pull yourself together, man. What’s the meaning of all this racket?”
Far from abashed, his staid manservant eyed him with concern. “Master, you must cease doing this.”
Alistair rubbed the corded muscles at the base of his neck. “Doing what? Researching a cure?”
