Page 81 of Too Wanton to Wed
“Certainly.”
Grinning, Alistair held out a hand to his daughter. “Come this way, for there are ever so many treasures just around the corner.”
Lily raced to place her hand in his.
Joy filled Violet’s heart as she watched father and daughter bend their heads together over every corner of the lawn.
She hung back, not wishing to interrupt the magic of the shared moment between them. If she’d had paints, or even a bit of charcoal handy, she would have loved to sketch their excited faces as they eagerly explored grasses and flowers and trees. Perhaps she still would. A private collection, just for her. Just like she used to do, for whenever she felt lonely and wanted to pretend she had a family.
Although she did not truly belong, her heart still swelled to see Alistair and Lily finally find each other. She doubted they would ever lose sight of family again. Violet found a soft patch of grass and settled down to watch.
Two hours later, he finally managed to corral his bright-eyed, exhausted little girl back indoors.
“When can we do it again?” Lily begged her father once they’d made their way back to the sanctuary. “May we go back outside tomorrow? And every single night after? I’ll be good! I’ll be a perfect angel!”
“I’m sure you will,” he agreed with a laugh. He divested her of her pelisse and helped her get ready for bed. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Did I!” Lily beamed at him. “It was the most fun I’ve ever had in my entire life. Thank you, Papa.”
Alistair shot a grateful smile at Violet over Lily’s head before returning his pleased gaze to his daughter.
Chapter 33
The following morning, after foregoing both breakfast and maths—Violet was of no mind to contest Lily on the latter score—the pair spent the entire day covering the majority of one of the sanctuary walls with a dreamlike panorama of fantastical, hyper-real flowers towering above each other in splendid chaos, peppered with exotic birds and unreal creatures frolicking among the profusion of flora with little regard to perspective or the constraints of reality.
With Violet’s help, Lily’s imaginatively disproportionate landscape sketched in pencil upon the walls burst into vivid color, transforming the sanctuary from a windowless crypt into a wonderland of extraordinary possibility.
Violet would have happily continued painting until next week, had it not been almost time for the unburial ceremony. She rang for Lily’s bath and then hurried to her chamber to ring for her own. She had just enough time to twist her hair into a chignon and get dressed in her nicest gown.
As soon as she was ready, she joined the rest of the staff at the gravesite on the back lawn. She and Roper exchanged conspiratorial grins as he handed out shovels. Violet was thrilled for Lily and eager to see how this changed the father-daughter dynamic. This night was already a miracle in the making. Alistair had outdone himself arranging an extravagant ceremony in the hopes that maybe, this time, his daughter would finally realize how much he loved her.
Everyone from the abbey was present beneath the stars. Every manservant, every maid, every person that Violet had come to consider a friend. Tonight, they would welcome Lily as family.
Although the moon waxed high in the sky, flickering candles lined the walkways. The women stood before the graves as witnesses, each bearing petals to toss into the air. The men flanked the other side, jostling each other and laughing. Some bore shovels or pickaxes, others simple trowels, but each of them held fast to a tool capable of chiseling stone from dirt.
Hand in hand, Alistair and Lily made their way along the candlelit path. This was no somber funerary procession with sobs and dirges and handkerchiefs. A welcoming smile beamed from every face. Alistair gazed down upon his daughter with fatherly love. The grin lighting the child’s face was brighter than the sun.
When the two finally joined Violet next to the small gravestone at the intersection between the maids and the menservants, Alistair knelt before his daughter and took both her hands in his.
“Lily.” His low voice rang clear and true, carried upon the soft breeze. “This stone bears your name, but this grave marks no death. You are very much alive—to me, to Miss Smythe, to everyone who shares our home here at Waldegrave Abbey. And as you can see, every single member of our extended family has come here tonight to show their support ofyouand your future.”
Lily gazed at the sea of faces in wonder.
Alistair glanced up over her shoulder. “Ready, Violet?”
“Absolutely.” Smiling, Violet stepped forward and handed him the shovel.
He stood, gripped the handle, and slammed the blade into the soil. He placed his boot on the metal edge and shoved again, well and truly entrenching the shovel into the ground. Metal scraped against stone as he scooped up the first mound of dark earth and tossed it to one side. Everyone cheered.
Violet accepted the shovel from him and did the same, taking great contentment in the spark of blade-against-stone and in the joy upon Lily’s face as she watched Violet add a second scoop of black dirt atop the first.
“Your turn, Tiger Lily,” she said softly, and handed her the shovel. “Show us how the queen of the jungle does it.”
Lily snatched the handle from Violet’s hands and dug up not one but three shovelfuls in quick succession, to much whooping and whistling on the part of the onlookers. Giggling, Lily tried to hand the spade back to her father.
Alistair shook his head with a smile and gestured at the row of men behind them. “Roper is at the ready, and Cook just beside him for his go. We areallhere to officially welcome you into the land of the living. To honor your life—and your future—as a family.”
They joined Violet to one side as the men took their turn in succession, followed by the maids. The resulting trench was more than big enough for Roper and Alistair to lift the stone free and set it upon a patch of hard soil. This time, turns were taken with pickaxes and hammers until all that was left of the false gravestone was an unidentifiable pile of rubble and dust. Already the breeze carried away the lightest bits. Soon it would be nothing more than a memory.
