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le the old lady was dying.
Violet closed her eyes while acid stung the back of her throat, and a wave of self-revulsion powered through her. No, Max didn’t deserve her, and Miss Thistlethwaite certainly didn’t deserve to be taken advantage of by a money-grubbing street girl.
Violet could hardly describe herself any better than that.
“Why, Violet; you’re as sentimental as I am. Look at those tears in your eyes.” Miss Thistlethwaite sent her a watery smile. “I will have to decide whether you are crying for happiness at becoming Max’s wife or pleasure at seeing how beautiful you look.”
The irony of her pronouncement was too much for Violet. With as much dignity as she could muster, she practised an elegant sashay about the room while she struggled for words.
“I don’t deserve any of this, Miss Thistlethwaite,” she said eventually, when she’d come to a stop in front of her benefactress. Helplessly, she skimmed her sides with her hands, delicately touching her fine veil with its rich edging of lace. “You have been so very kind and there’s no way I can repay you—”
“Please, Violet; I did nothing that wasn’t to please myself. I’m only glad that I’ve been able to bring happiness to those I love most in this life.”
She looked so distressed that Violet knew it was pointless to go on. In two days, she and Max would meet secretly at the little church, where his aunt and Charity would be waiting as witnesses, for the marriage that was designed solely to give Max his freedom, and his dying aunt a moment of pleasure and relief.
Violet felt very burdened by her secret knowledge though it was some small consolation that, in truth, Miss Thistlethwaite could hardly take her money to the next world. Nor was Violet benefitting financially from her largesse, she had to remind herself. She’d not own the beautiful gown. Much as she might like to possess such an exquisite garment, it would feel like stealing if she secreted it away with her to Madame Chambon’s. For where else could she keep it? Madame Chambon would purloin it the moment Violet brought it inside, and she could hardly ask Lord Bainbridge to safeguard it for her until such time as he’d formalised the offer he’d agreed to. No, not even then, for Violet needed her own little bower to keep her things safe.
Dear lord, it was all so sordid.
“Please, Violet; you are happy, aren’t you?”
Miss Thistlethwaite’s anxious question intruded and Violet turned, forcing her eyes to shine with some emotion that would give her the comfort she needed.
“I am happy. Who could not be wild with happiness if they were to be marrying Max before the week is out? I must be patient, mustn’t I, Miss Thistlethwaite. I suppose I keep worrying that something will go wrong.”
Immediately, she wished she hadn’t said it for that only put the fear into Miss Thistlethwaite’s own delicate breast.
“Don’t you fear on that score, my dear. If my brother got wind of this, I would fight for your happiness as I never did for my own. I’m no longer the timid dormouse I once was but a fearsome proponent of the love match, believe me!”
Violet smiled at her fierce pronouncement, and was still smiling as she and Miss Thistlethwaite made their companionable way home, enjoying the fine weather to take a detour through Green Park.
Her past fears dissipated with the grey clouds that had accompanied them to her fitting. Miss Thistlethwaite truly did find real pleasure in her little exercise and, as long as it was sanctioned by Max, what did it matter that they wouldn’t go ahead with it? Violet had done nothing wrong other than agree to what Max had proposed.
Max. She tried to banish his image from her mind.
“Just stop a moment. I think I’ll sit down for a bit.”
Violet turned and saw that Miss Thistlethwaite was holding her side; her breathing laboured. She helped settle the old lady on a park bench. Couples strolled companionably through the park; children played by the water’s edge, and ducks quacked nearby. Everyone looked supremely contented as Violet scanned her fellow park dwellers. However, even as the old lady got her breath, her grey pallor was troubling.
“Home is less than five minutes’ walk. I’ll be right as rain in just a minute.” Miss Thistlethwaite tried but failed to sound light and unconcerned.
Violet heard the clock chiming the hour, and her anxiety grew. She needed to be back at Madame Chambon’s now, and Madame was a stickler for timekeeping.
Miss Thistlethwaite misinterpreted the extent of Violet’s concern. “You have your work to go to, my dear. Just leave me. I can make my own way back. Truly I can.”
It was tempting. Violet hesitated as she weighed up whether to make her way directly towards Soho or to see Miss Thistlethwaite all the way home. But the old lady’s hacking cough made up her mind.
“I’m going to fetch someone,” she said, panicked suddenly by the flecks of blood she saw on Miss Thistlethwaite’s handkerchief. The sun had gone behind a cloud, and the temperature had plummeted in just the past five minutes. She wished she had something warmer to put around Miss Thistlethwaite’s shoulders.
Hurrying towards the crescent of townhouses where Max lived and that was, fortunately, only a few blocks away, she felt her own heartbeat begin to race. Max would hardly be pleased if she showed her face in his respectable drawing room for what he might consider a flimsy excuse.
She could, perhaps, leave a note.
But what if there was a delay and Miss Thistlethwaite was left waiting even five minutes longer than she need be.
When she reached the black wrought-iron railings of the handsome, white-painted dwelling, Violet wasn’t sure whether to take the stairs down to the servants’ basement entrance or knock boldly on the front door.
She swallowed nervously as the deferential nod of the butcher’s boy decided her. If he considered her good enough to enter by the front door, she was not going to join him on the journey below. She was dressed neither as a whore nor a servant. She’d be received by the butler; she was sure of it.
