Perhaps he secretly suspected that she might not be as loyal as she looked. It did not matter that she would never dream of betraying the relationships she had nurtured here. His suspicions were valid, even though they hurt.
It was just awful that the subject of her father’s betrayal was now an elephant that stood between them, making it difficult for her to reach him and the version of him that cared about her.
“Perhaps ye might want to add some heather in yer hair,” Ona suggested with a bright smile, holding tightly to some petals of the sweet-smelling flower.
The maid was more excited about the wedding than she was.
“Yes,” Violet said. “Work your magic.”
Ona did indeed work wonders, because in the next few minutes, when Violet looked in the mirror, she liked what she saw. Themaid had twisted her hair into braids and adorned them with heather.
Violet looked simple but exotic, and while she looked simpler than she had at her first wedding, she was more at peace.
“Ye look verra beautiful!” Keira gushed, walking in. “Ye look like a princess.”
Well, Violet did feel like a princess. In fact, she had always felt like a princess since she had arrived here, with the way everyone attended to her.
In recent years, she had gotten used to being neglected, treated like she was a commodity that was not selling well. She had never felt closer to being sold to slavery than when she was Lord Westall.
It had all begun that fateful evening, when she had made her debut. Other young ladies hadcarte blancheto make their dresses in the hope of improving their looks and competing favorably on the marriage mart. It was supposed to be a summation of all the comportment lessons and the finishing schools they had attended.
Violet had none of that, not because of an aversion to the version of elegance that the ton demanded, but because while she was a daughter of a baronet, the said baronet was penniless, no thanks to his predilection for pleasure.
By the time she was ten years old, he had already lost the lands belonging to the baronetcy apart from what was entitled, plunging them into poverty like no other. They had to let go of all their servants, except for Betsy, who had been her mother’s maid and her nanny when she was little. Betsy had offered to stay, uncomfortable leaving her alone with her papa, considering the strong tone he had used with her mother.
While Violet had encouraged her to leave because of their inability to pay her, she was secretly glad when the maid had offered to stay back. The next few years were tough, with barely any return coming from the investments her father had made in the past. He had to take money from her dowry to keep them fed.
While she and Betsy did their best to keep the household in order, he flitted from one club to another in the hope that his many acquaintances would help. They did help many times, in fact, but somehow in a way that fast became ridiculous. He always squandered the money.
By all accounts, her father was not a cruel man, even though his recklessness had caused them to suffer. She still held on to the memory of the kind of man he had been before her mother died.
He had been an intelligent man who had managed to expand the wealth he had inherited from his father by making well-thought-out investments that yielded profit, while at the same time being a benevolent landlord to the people who lived on his land, making sure their leaking roofs were mended, providing seedlings, and helping make sure their land yielded a fruitful harvest.
Even with his very busy schedule, he had still found the time to dote on her. Her earliest memories were of him bouncing her on his knee and singing her to sleep.
He believed in education and did his best to give her the best of everything. She was a princess who never lacked for anything. She was happy. Their family was happy.
But then she realized that happiness could be fleeting. Grief, she realized, was not linear. He had tried to carry the weight of caring for her alone. By all accounts, he had done his best to care for her, playing the role of both father and mother to her, but at some point, he broke.
She suspected there was another external factor that had led to his relapse. Rumors were circulating that he had fallen in love with a widow who had eventually rejected his marriage proposal because she had no wish to be a stepmother.
Now thinking about it, if it was indeed true, Violet could not blame the woman. Motherhood, even one that did not include childbirth, was difficult. Even though a part of her longed for the comfort of a mother who would take over the running of the household and nurture her like the other young ladies of the ton.
She had never asked him if such a lady existed, primarily because he was usually unavailable. Either he was away to the many clubs he had become a notorious member of, or he was home, lying drunkenly, muttering about one fairytale investment or the other that would help them recover their fortune. She had learned very early not to keep her hopesup because the inevitable heartbreak that followed was usually devastating.
It would have been easy to resent her papa, but she could not shake the image of the kind of father he had been to her as a child.
In time, she and Betsy got comfortable sourcing ways to maintain the house and feed themselves, as well as her papa. She took on part-time work with the publisher down the street and earned a substantial wage. In no time, Betsy fell in love with the footman next door, who, after some months of sneaking around, had summoned up the courage to approach the Baronet to ask permission to marry her.
The news was bittersweet for Violet. While she was happy that the woman who had become a second mother to her was able to find love and happiness, she wept knowing that she was going to miss her.
Interestingly, Betsy found a way to convince her husband to come live with them, and to her greatest surprise, he agreed. Eventually, he went on to serve as a footman and a butler for the house happily.
Together, the couple became a makeshift family for her.
She had already accepted that this was to be her reality, and she was happy with it, until her father returned one day in high spirits, telling her that the Countess of Warwick, who had been adear friend of her late mother, had offered to sponsor her Season and present her to the ton.
Her joy had known no bounds. She had always envied the other young ladies as they prepared for their Seasons. She often saw them through the windows of the modiste’s shop, being measured for new dresses and having lush, beautifully colored fabrics draped on them.
