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Aunt Euphemia sighed. “Why, the pair of you are quite delightful. And to think, Max, that I had no idea marriage with Mabel was simply an act of duty.”
Violet flashed him a wicked smile. “Max is the most dutiful man I’ve ever met, Miss Thistlethwaite. Honourable, dutiful, and quite the handsomest man of my acquaintance. Believe me, I see many in my line of work.”
Max blinked as his aunt murmured, “I’m sure you do. I’ve heard gentlemen can be most exacting when they’re after for something in particular.”
“Very,” agreed Violet. She smiled. “I’ve learnt to be patient.” She sighed. “But Max was not difficult at all. That’s why I fell in love with him.”
The way they were both looking at him as if he were an Adonis in terms of moral virtue, as well as physical attributes, made him realise the need to put an end to it.
“Please, Violet, I think you’re doing it a little too brown.”
“Goodness no, Max! You’re simply too modest.” She reined in her amusement and pushed back her shoulders. “But what do you really think of all this, Max? Your aunt is proposing to expend a great deal of money on me. I have nothing to contribute other than my company on the myriad exploits she’s just outlined. I’m beyond gratified, but I do think perhaps her generosity is beyond what is—”
“No, no, my dear, nothing would give me more pleasure!” Miss Thistlethwaite protested.
Gently, Max patted Violet’s wrist. “No one will think any the worse of you for accepting what is given with the greatest of good hearts.” The fondness in his smile was as much for his aunt as it was for Violet. “Now, I believe you two ladies have some shopping to do while I have some plans to make regarding our wedding tour. Venice, my love? What could be more romantic? Indulge Aunt Euphemia and you’ll be indulging me. I think you’ll find her enjoyment fully equal to yours throughout this venture.”
Except that Violet was wise enough to know her enjoyment would be fast evaporating as the execution of their little charade for Miss Thistlethwaite’s benefit reached its conclusion.
Still, she’d not lied when she’d told Max that a healthy pragmatism had helped her through life, though she did feel guilty as she waited for Miss Thistlethwaite at the entrance to what was supposedly London’s most fashionable modiste.
Her guilt was only exacerbated by the genuine pleasure in her new benefactress’s expression, as Miss Thistlethwaite extended an arm in welcome before gesturing Violet to accompany her up the stairs to the studio of ‘a French woman of the greatest discernment.’
Violet couldn’t help but draw an uncomfortable parallel. Madame Chambon considered herself such a personage, but the tall, elegant French modiste who briskly attended to Violet’s measurements was a league apart from the gross creature who directed Violet’s life.
Still, how wonderful it was to forget all that for a few moments as she held out her arms so that the guipure-lace sleeves might be fitted to the tight princess-line bodice in a manner that would do justice to ’Miss Lilywhite’s perfect form,’ while Miss Thistlethwaite offered an enthusiastic commentary from the Chippendale chair that had been arranged for her beneath an arched window.
“Of course, you must decide exactly how the gown shall look. Pay no mind to the fact I’m paying for it. Too vulgar to put that into words. However, when I was planning my own wedding gown after Richard offered so gallantly, I chose…”
It wasn’t difficult to see how genuinely affected Miss Thistlethwaite was by the dismissal of her former suitor at the hands of her callous brother, and as Violet was uncomfortably mindful of the fact that her own preparations were no more than a farce, she was eager to allow Miss Thistlethwaite to channel her own thwarted dreams into Violet’s wardrobe.
“Oh, my dear, but it is easy to see why Max loves you so.” Miss Thistlethwaite dabbed her eyes with a scrap of lace before running her admiring gaze from the hem of Violet’s swathed satin skirt to the veil of finest netting. “You are a vision. A vision in your daily attire, but what will he think when he sees you have become the fairy tale princess of his dreams?”
Violet felt it, too. The exhilaration of becoming, even more, an object of admiration and desire. She wanted Max to see her as a princess, a lady. Not what he knew her to be.
“Yet what are clothes when it’s all in the heart?” Miss Thistlethwaite tapped her chest. “I’d have happily forgone all the trappings my brother considered necessary to a person of my standing.”
From the French modiste to Lyon’s teahouse on the second day of their furious pursuit of clothes, Miss Thistlethwaite showed as much eagerness as if she were the intended bride, prompting Violet to ask, “Is it true that your brother refused to sanction your marriage because he deemed your suitor unworthy, despite your feelings?”
Miss Thistlethwaite nodded. “My Richard went to see him, cap in hand. I was sure Septimus would relent, eventually. It wasn’t as if there were any other prospective husbands lined up. I was twenty-five. Decidedly on the shelf and possessed of neither wit nor good looks.” Her smile was wry. “It’s hard to imagine my handsome Max is my own flesh and blood. Such a magnificent creature. Oh, but you and he will be so happy together!” She clasped her hands together. “Tell me, how did he propose?”
Violet’s lighthearted mood had been swept away by the thought that the kindly woman opposite her had spent the past three decades lonely and disregarded. Now the weight of duplicity was added to her burden.
“Max hasn’t told you?” she asked cautiously.
Miss Thistlethwaite shook her head. “He hasn’t, no, though it’s clear enough how happy he is.” Again, her eyes filled with moisture. “What a pleasure it is to me to see true love shining from both of you like a beacon of hope. It’s my compensation,” she added softly. Then, more eagerly, “But do tell me, Violet.”
Violet lowered her eyes to her hands that were fidgeting in her lap. Lying didn’t sit well with her, but she supposed it was in a good cause. She
smiled, remembering. Yes, remembering the way Max had drawn her from the bed and into his arms, tenderly waltzing her, naked, about the room, describing the scene as he’d offered her his pretend marriage proposal.
She could see it in her mind’s eye as if it had really happened. Except that she was…
“…wearing a lilac gown I’d made myself, Miss Thistlethwaite, and the orchestra was playing Brahms.” She smiled, closing her eyes, shivering as if she really could feel the soft pressure of Max’s hands upon her waist and shoulder. “Max had taken me to this marvellous place, and I thought myself the luckiest young woman in the entire world. Even luckier when he asked me to marry him, for I knew I…didn’t deserve him.”
“My goodness, enough of such talk. You, Violet, are the most deserving young woman I’ve met. You work hard; you never complain, and…you love Max. That is all that is important in my mind. That my darling Max enjoy a union where love blooms mutually.” She patted Violet’s hand for Violet knew her expression had closed. Deserving was not a description that sat comfortably with her, either.
“Max lost his mother so young. He’s been looking for love ever since and, like Septimus, I suppose, I thought Mabel was his perfect match. They’d known one another since they’d been children, and they seemed to get along like a house on fire. They were always so comfortable in one another’s company. But that’s not romantic love. I should have realised that. But tell me, exactly how long have you known one another?” Miss Thistlethwaite looked like an eager dormouse with her bright eyes seeking from Violet crumbs of happiness she might feast upon in her mind when she returned to her, no doubt, lonely apartments in her brother’s townhouse.
