“So,” Freddie snorted, crossing his arms. He looked terrible. Sleepless. Waxy. “One of us will marry a Richmond after all.”
It was tempting to look away, but Alasdair forced himself not to. “Perhaps there should have been a longer conversation between you and I…I…Violet—Miss Arden—recounted to me some of the things Danforth said in his madness. All of it was for our mother. His devotion to her was his total undoing. We could have been better sons, but I will never say that his way was the right one. I thought myself better than him, but I put her feelings before yours. I hope you can forgive me, Freddie, I hope you will allow me the time to earn that forgiveness.”
Freddie’s eyes widened as he guffawed. “You? Apologizing to me? I never thought I would see the day! My God, but that feels incredible.”
“Then—”
“No, no, I don’t forgive you, not yet. I want to revel in this a while longer.” Freddie shook his head and batted something invisible away. “You were not all wrong—I’m not good enough for Emilia. I don’t know how to be. I don’t…Without Father, without you, with Mother giving all of her attention to Danforth, I suppose I just thought I could live like nobody was looking, because nobody was.”
“That will change, Freddie, I swear it. I’m here now, I’m looking.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he said, laughing shortly. He shrugged, making himself yet more rumpled, and wanderedaway toward his own bedchamber. “And you’ll be pleased to hear I’ve decided against the clergy. It never suited me. No, I’ll train to be a solicitor. Someone needs to help Finny protect art!” Alasdair stifled his groan. His brother dashed down the hallway. “And then, I shall win back Emilia!”
His amusement at Freddie’s outburst was short-lived. The next conversation to be had would not be so brief or so genial, he knew. Lady Edith was not in her chair when Alasdair found her; instead, she was standing at the back window of the drawing room, staring out onto the wintry trees that reached with their bare and shrunken limbs toward the house.
“There is no need to look maudlin,” she told him, not turning away from the cold landscape. She was studying his reflection in the glass. “I know you will marry her. You are the man of this house, and I will be powerless to stop it.”
“Violet is not responsible for what my father did, nor should she be blamed for the unkind reactions of her aunt,” said Alasdair. Compassion crept into his voice, for her despair was palpable. “Whatever your opinion of her, she discovered Freddie’s unwitting involvement in the fires. If she hadn’t, Freddie might be the one condemned for the crimes. Would that be better?”
Lady Edith shrank, her forehead skimming the window. The chill of the glass shocked her, and she pushed away from the wall. “John went too far.”
Alasdair waited for more, but she remained silent. “Tomorrow, I will order all of the portraits of Sir Jonathan removed to London. If any are to make the transition to Clafton, that discussion can be had later. I will inform Gordon to draw up plans for a small chapel to be erected on the grounds; perhaps you can give him your thoughts on its design, too. Miss Arden has suffered terribly, and our wedding will be delayed until she feels at her best.”
Lady Edith turned around at the mention of the chapel, and he was somewhat gratified to see that his mother did not react viscerally to the mention of his wedding to Violet. It would have to be enough.
“I will try, Mother. It will not be easy, but I hope you will join me in the trying.”
He returned to Violet and found her drowsy but awake. Supper would be brought to her; she would have whatever she needed. Predictably, the next day, well-wishers from Pressmore and Beadle Cottage swarmed Sampson. They came tentatively, perched a respectable distance up the drive as if terrified to trespass on forbidden ground; even Emilia was there, which struck him as a good portent. Margaret and Winny Arden charged past him with nary a word, though the threat in Margaret’s eyes promised retribution if a single precious hair was out of place on Violet’s head. They stayed to fuss over their sister for days, refusing to leave, though he dared not suggest otherwise. Margaret in particular warmed to him when he promised, at length and with all due humility, that he would never let harm come to Violet again. The threat in her eyes lingered, as was expected from a loving older sister.
Mrs. Mildred Richmond was not among the well-wishers, though she had sent a very pleasant card expressing her concern for what had transpired and extending a chilly yet polite invitation for the Kerrs to dine at Pressmore the following week. Said card was presented to him as if he were being handed a holy relic.
Violet was stunned into five entire minutes of silence when given the card, so perhaps it really was a miracle of a kind. Once Violet recovered from her surprise, she flung her arms around Alasdair and kissed him and pronounced that they had done the impossible.
Epilogue
A heart to love, and in that heart
Courage to make ’s love known.
Macbeth—Act 2, Scene 3
Clafton Hall was properly repaired, furnished, and finished by May. Violet Arden was never very good at patience, however, and her wedding quite preceded Clafton’s hosting debut. No, she could not wait to marry her Mr. Kerr, who agreed that a swift wedding was the best idea. It was a happy event made better by the profusion of friends who arrived to fête the couple. Violet was particularly moved to discover that Cristabel Bilbury had made the journey from London, bringing with her a surprise that fittingly blessed the union—she revealed to the couple a wrapped frame, and beneath the covering lay Violet’s self-portrait, vividly restored. Ann, of course, had conspired to ship the thing to London and have Cristabel rectify the defacement.
A still greater revelation followed, as Ann and Emilia cleverly presented the portrait of Alasdair that Violet had startedand abandoned. Though she had bade them toshove it in the fire, leave it in the snow, they had safely hidden it in a dark corner of the house. When finished, it would hang side by side with Violet’s, positioned just over a small, charming table with a floral design.
The wedding took place on a bracingly cold morning at the small church in Cray Arches. Aunt Mildred held her nose long enough to attend, though Lady Edith swore she would not deign to appear. To everyone’s sustained surprise, Lady Edith did march through the wedding breakfast at Sampson Park, tilt her chin low enough to glimpse Violet, and state, “That is a pleasing shade of blue,” in regard to the bride’s gown. For the moment, it was enough.
A thrill of hope went through Violet, and she squeezed Alasdair’s hand beneath the table. Perhaps one day, Lady Edith would stay in the room long enough to see how glowingly happy the young lady made her son. Freddie Kerr announced to anyone who would listen (and those who expressed total disinterest) that he was going to be a solicitor. Mr. Finny, who had come from London, coolly schooled his expression into one of feigned acceptance. He would be seeing much more of Freddie. These professional declarations were not missed by Emilia Graddock, who peered at Freddie occasionally, though any who saw these looks would assume they indicated no more than passing curiosity. Emilia had devoted herself to her sister’s charitable society, and while Ann graciously endured the trials of motherhood, Emilia took charge. It was not clear whether she had sworn off love for good, though Maggie confided that Emilia had begged for her next novel to be a romance. The Arden sisters took this as an encouraging sign.
Many at the wedding whispered doubts that Violet Kerrwould continue painting beyond what suited a rich hobbyist. Yet they would all be proved wrong, for Violet had made a promise to Cristabel that she would never turn away from her art, and Alasdair had fallen so madly in love with the woman and the work that he encouraged her to continue. She did, of course, and while she was not being accepted into the Royal Watercolour Society anytime soon, commissions soon poured in from the members of the Tenebris Circle. Perhaps Robert and Lillian Daly refused to lower themselves to dine with Violet, but there were other men with other wives, wives who were hungry for clever conversation and good company.
Violet set aside all of her earnings to pay for their beef and would not hear Alasdair’s protestations about it.
When it was time for the family to relocate to Clafton, Alasdair took exactly one portrait of Sir Jonathan from their warehouse and kept it in his private study. By and by, his fury toward the man settled into something more like disappointment. He would live longer than his father and turn around toward the past to cast his gaze disapprovingly on the man’s mistakes. Alasdair did not pretend to understand the man but loved him for the fine lessons he had handed down. Some he took, some he left behind.
John Danforth was lost to the prisons, and Lady Edith never spoke of him again.
Clafton was the sort of great house that required dogs, and so Violet chose several from a litter. She painted them frequently, often joking that she had made good on her promise to paint only dogs and never men. This rule was swiftly broken, as she could not resist painting Alasdair, the man,withhis hounds. And the goat, Puck—for how could we forget him—at last met his match in these very hounds. Often set loose uponthe grounds of Pressmore, the pups could be seen giving Puck a merry chase, and when, at last, they were all exhausted, they made a bed of his round, obliging belly.
Their little joke of men and hounds indeed found its way into one of Maggie’s books, and Violet provided a small painting that fit the story. Bridger Darrow had it made into a woodcutting for the frontispiece of Maggie’s novel, copies of which landed in the Sapphire Library—a place of destiny for both sisters—and others were placed into the new library at Alasdair’s vision of Clafton, and it was, at last, enough.
