He scoffed, shaking his head as he turned away, paced to the sideboard and poured a measure of whisky. “I’ll make enough money to pay off the debts, more than enough to protect James for as long as he needs.”
“But what about you? Callum—” She followed him, grabbed his arm and made him turn around. “You think making money for your family is more important than yourlife?”
“It’s no’ just money.” His voice cut like shattered glass. “It’s power, access. James and Aunt Aileen need that, and only I—”
“They needyou.” She advanced, close enough to see his pulse pounding in his neck, the tremor in his jaw.I need you.
He looked to the floor, his shoulders slumped. What little hope remained burning in her breast extinguished. “I have to go,mo chridhe.”
She shook her head, a jagged movement that did nothing to stem the flow of tears. “We’ve both accomplished what we wanted, and we can part as friends.”
I love you, she willed from his lips.I’ll stay for you.
But Callum’s shouldersslumped. “Can I write ye?”
“No.” The single word tore at her insides. “We would be best to leave—leave our arrangement behind us.”
When he looked at her at last, his expression was resigned, his eyes dry. That, perhaps, hurt most of all. “Then there’s nothing left to say, is there?”
She managed a weak smile, injected every ounce of dignity she had remaining into her spine. The time had come for her to begin her new existence, and she would do it with grace and poise. “Only goodbye. It was a pleasure being ruined by you.”
Chapter 37
Faster.
Hooves thundered against the ground, the impact rattling her bones as she jolted in the saddle. Tall grass and budding wildflowers surrendered to her as she passed, but not without flying into the air in protest, some having the gall to slice at her skin.
She welcomed it, leaned forward even further over the mane of Lyra, one of her sister’s larger mares who could handle the strain of Violet’s riding. The urge to chuckle came to her when she heard the horse’s name, a page in her constellation journal calling to her memory.
Lyra: first documented by Ptolemy in the 2nd century. Contains Vega and Ring Nebula (Messier, 1779); mythology: Orpheus’ lyre, powerful enough to charm Hades to gain passage to the underworld
She’d omitted the rest of Orpheus’ story, how he failed to retrieve his love, Eurydice, from the depths of hell, had spent the remainder of his days pining for her, rejecting all offers of marriage. Eventually the thwarted women turned on him, pummeling him with stones and spears, then cast his magical harp into the sky so it could never charm a woman again.
A bit extreme, perhaps, but Violet felt a sudden empathy for the spear-wielding women.
Sweat glistened on Lyra’s flanks when Violet slowed the horse to a gentle canter, then trotted back into the stable yard at Harrow’s Hill. Marigold stood by the stone wall guarding the enclosure, and Violet felt the prickle of unease at her sister’s presence. She’d avoided conversing with her older sibling at any depth for the past three days, since Aunt Margaret had tossed Violet and their hastily packed belongings into a carriage and rushed to Mari’s estate in northern Yorkshire. As though she could outrun the damage she’d done and the memories of the man who had left her behind.
“You’ve been out a long time,” Mari said as Violet dismounted, handing the horse off to a waiting groom. Her sister had always been the caretaker, the one scolding Violet and the twins for climbing too high in trees or running too fast in the hallways, the one who mended cuts and skinned knees, constantly vigilant for any threats to their wellbeing. Not surprisingly, Mari had been a fluttering presence in Violet’s periphery since her arrival at the marquess’ estate, desperate to protect, to fix.
A shame there was nothing to be done.
“No longer than yesterday.” She’d planned to rub down the animal herself, giving her something more to occupy the endless hours of daylight, but she supposed she had made use of her sister’s hospitality long enough without engaging in conversation about why she’d fled like a thief in the night.
“I was hoping we could talk about what happened.” Mari thrummed with nervous energy, her fingers twitching at her sides until she threaded them together at her waist. “Mama has cabled twice more and wants to come see you—”
“No,” Violet barked as hot shame flooded her once more. “I can’t see Mama yet.”
“Then won’t you tell me so I can put her off a while longer?”
Her sister had surprised her by taking her in without question, giving Violet space and time until this moment. Although, she had to wonder how much she knew of Marigold to make such a judgment. Violet had been fifteen when her sister married Lord Torcross, the future Marquess of Croydon. She’d stood at the church’s altar and watched her sister’s fingers tremble as the man, two decades her senior and incapable of smiling, slid a band on her finger. She’d only seen the now-marquess once since then, when he’d accompanied Marigold to Boar’s Hill to introduce the family to their son Reginald.
They’d never visited again. If pressed, Violet was unsure she could give her brother-in-law’s first name.
Mari had said nothing about her husband’s absence, and Violet would give her the courtesy of not questioning it. A mutual understanding that some things werebest left unsaid.
Violet’s shoulders slumped as she exhaled in a rush. “I suppose it’s time.”
They walked around the grounds as Violet explained what had happened at Claremont Abbey, her reasons for not marrying Sir Phineas, her plan for ruination. Tall birch trees lined their path, the leaves straining for the warm spring sunlight until the branches tangled together over their heads in an arboreal embrace.
