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Of course, she was not.
“Is she beautiful? She must be if she has nothing else to recommend her. Oh Max, do describe her to me.”
Max sighed and lifted his teacup to his mouth while he sought for inspiration. “Well, she has milky-white skin,” he began slowly, “and very dark hair and a glorious smile. Oh, and her eyes. Just like sapphires. I know it’s a cliché, but they really are.” He was talking more rapidly now as he warmed to his theme. Really, it was quite easy to paint a picture of a fictional love interest when he could base it on someone real. “She’s quite unaffected in the way most young ladies are. No simpering, saying things just to please a man. That sort of thing, if you understand me.”
“She sounds very…direct. But penniless, you say. What does her father do?”
Max pursed his lips. He had no idea, of course, though he must have been a complete reprobate or possibly even unknown considering his daughter did what she did for a living. Not that Max could tell his aunt what the lady he most admired did for a living.
“What does her father do?” he repeated slowly, while his brain raced to come up with something plausible. “Why, he’s dead. That’s why his daughter has to—”
“Good lord! The poor girl has to work? Is that what you’re saying? That you’ve fallen in love with a…a serving girl?”
“Not a serving girl, Aunt. No, a… working girl. I mean a shop girl.” Yes, that could just about pass muster.
“And what’s her name?”
“Violet.” That was easy though he was surprised the name came out so readily. The name that matched the description he’d just given Aunt Euphemia.
“You’ve fallen in love with a shop girl, Max?”
Max feigned regret, unable to meet his aunt’s eyes in case she called him out on his lie and insisted again on trailing him through a dozen London drawing rooms. She’d really do it, he feared. And he’d not be able to say no to her.
“I have. Grandfather would be appalled, which is why, naturally, I’ve kept it very close. But…” he looked appealingly at Aunt Euphemia, “that is the reason why of course I have no heart for society. My love for Violet is impossible, I realise, yet I can muster no enthusiasm at this present time for pursuing other, more suitable, potential brides.” He touched his heart and mustered a sad, sympathetic smile for his aunt’s benefit. “Surely you, of all people, understand this, Aunt Euphemia.”
Aunt Euphemia reached out a trembling hand though her grip upon his wrist was surprisingly strong.
“Yes, Max. I, of all people, understand.”
“And you’ll speak no word of it to grandfather?”
Her fingers clenched at the mention of the brother Max knew she detested. They were of one accord in this, at least. Lord Granville had shown little kindness to either of them in his nearly seventy years.
“You have my word, Max.”
Max nodded, his expression serious. “Thank you, Aunt Euphemia.” With relief, he rose, his unsatisfactory breakfast heavy in his stomach, yet the moment he could make his escape through those parlour doors he’d feel a new lightness; he knew.
“You’re a brick; you know that?” He grinned, his heart lifting at the sight of her smile. The moment he was out of those doors he’d make enquiries of Aunt Euphemia’s doctor as to just what the problem was regarding that cough. Surely it was nothing that a winter in Spain couldn’t fix. He’d hire a reliable travelling companion so she could escape London’s harsh and miserable upcoming winter.
In the meantime though, he was off to book his passage on the first suitable vessel to Cape Town.
By the time he passed through the doors of the breakfast parlour he did, indeed, feel a hundred pounds lighter.
As if his life was only now about to begin.
Chapter 3
Violet lay on her bed watching the shadows dancing on the walls as the sun that seeped through her thin curtains grew weaker.
She was exhausted and not relishing the prospects of what the night ahead might bring. More disappointment. More affirmation that her life was meaningless. How ironic that she could debase herself so much for the sake of dignity.
“Come in,” she called at the sound of a light knock on the door. It would be Daisy asking why she wasn’t in the drawing room with the other girls.
And, indeed, it was Daisy but holding a crisp cream envelope, embossed, she saw a moment later, causing her heart to lurch. The only person who would address a letter to her on such fine notepaper certainly did not have her best interests at heart.
She waited for Daisy to leave before she tore it open roughly. Although no longer did she have the niceties to hand like the silver letter opener her mother used for the invitations she used to receive, the letter hardly deserved to be treated nicely. The handwriting was unfamiliar but had no doubt been dictated.
“Dear Miss Lilywhite…” it began.
