Mooning? George stiffened. “Contrary to your opinion, eight and twenty is not actually in one’s dotage.”
“No, but it’s an age when a lady should know better.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You should have some sense of propriety by now. You should be more dignified.”
“Dignified!”
Violet slapped the table, making the silverware rattle. “You don’t care what others think about you. You don’t—”
“What are you talking about?” George asked, genuinely confused.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Violet wailed. “It’s not fair. Just because Aunt Clara left you piles of money and land you think you can do anything you want. You never stop to consider those around you and how your actions might affect them.”
“What is the matter with you?” George set down her cup. “I simply don’t believe a tendre I may or may not have is any of your concern.”
“It’s my business when what you do reflects on the family. On me.” Violet stood up so abruptly her teacup overturned. An ugly brown stain started migrating across the tablecloth. “You know very well it isn’t proper to be alone with a man like Mr. Pye, and yet you’re having sordid assignations with him at night.”
“Violet! That’s quite enough.” George was startled at her own anger. She hardly ever raised her voice to her younger sister. Quickly she held out a hand in appeasement, but it was too late.
Violet was beet red and had tears in her eyes. “Fine!” she shouted. “Make a fool of yourself over some baseborn yokel! He’s probably only interested in your money, anyway!” The last words hung horribly in the air.
Violet looked stricken for a moment; then she spun violently and ran out the door.
George pushed her plate aside and laid her head in her arms. It wasn’t a day for kippers after all.
VIOLET POUNDED UP THE STAIRS, her vision blurred. Why, oh why must things change? Why couldn’t everything stay the same? At the top, she turned right, striding as fast as possible in her voluminous skirts. A door ahead of her opened. She tried to duck away but wasn’t quick enough.
“You’re quite flushed, dear. Is something amiss?” Euphie looked at her worriedly, blocking Violet from her own room farther down the corridor.
“I… I have a slight headache. I was just going to lie down.” Violet tried a smile.
“How horrible headaches are,” Euphie exclaimed. “I shall send up a maid with a basin of cool water for your brow. Make sure to lay a damp cloth on your forehead and change it every ten minutes. Now, where did I put my powder? It’s very useful for headaches.”
Violet felt like screaming as Euphie went into a dither that looked like it might last for hours.
“Thank you, but I think I’ll be all right if I just lie down.” Violet leaned forward and whispered, “My woman’s flow, you know.”
If anything was likely to stop Euphie, it was mention of women’s matters. She turned bright red and averted her eyes as if Violet was wearing a sign proclaiming her condition.
“Oh, I comprehend, dear. Well, then, you just go lie down. And I’ll see if I can find my powder.” She half-covered her mouth with her hand and hissed, “It’s good for that as well.”
Violet sighed, realizing there was no way she could get away without accepting Euphie’s help. “That’s sweet of you. Perhaps you can give it to my maid when you find it?”
Euphie nodded, and after further detailed instructions on how to deal with that, Violet was mercifully able to escape. In her room, she closed and locked the door, and then crossed to sit on the window seat. Her room was one of the prettiest in Woldsly, although it was by no means the biggest. Faded yellow and blue striped silk hung on the walls, and the carpet was an ancient Persian in blues and reds. Normally, Violet adored the room. But now it had begun to rain again outside, the wind spitting drops against the window and rattling the panes. Had the sun shone at all since she’d come to Yorkshire? She leaned her forehead against the glass and watched as her breath fogged the window. The fire had died on the grate, and her room was dim and cold, perfectly suiting her mood.
Her life was in utter shambles, and it was all her fault. Her eyes burned again, and she swiped at them angrily. She’d cried enough in the last two months to float a fleet of ships, and it hadn’t done a lick of good. Oh, if only one could go back and have a second chance to do things over. She’d never do it again, not if she had a second chance. She’d know that the feelings—so desperate and urgent at the time—would fade soon enough.
She hugged a blue silk cushion to her chest as the window blurred before her eyes. It hadn’t helped to run away. She’d thought that, surely, if she left Leicestershire, she’d soon forget. But she hadn’t, and now all her problems had followed her to Yorkshire. And George—staid George, funny older sister so firmly on the shelf with her flyaway hair and love of fairy tales—George was acting strange, hardly noticing Violet at all and spending all her time with that dreadful man. George was so naïve, it probably never occurred to her that nasty Mr. Pye was after her fortune.
Or worse.
Well, that at least she could do something about. Violet tumbled off the window seat and ran to her escritoire. She pulled out drawers and rummaged through them until she found a sheet of writing paper. Uncapping her ink bottle, she sat down. George would never listen to her, but there was one person she had to obey.
She dipped her quill in the ink and began to write.
“WHY HAVE YOU NEVER MARRIED, Mr. Pye?” Lady Georgina stressed his surname just to irritate him, Harry was sure.
Today, she wore a yellow dress printed with birds like none he’d ever seen—some of them had three wings. She did look fetching in it, he had to admit. She had one of those scarf things that women wore tucked into her bodice. It was almost transparent, giving him a teasing hint of her titties. That irritated him as well. And the fact that she was beside him in the gig again, despite his strong objections, pretty much put a cap on things. At least the relentless rain had let up for a bit today, although the sky was an ominous gray. He hoped they could reach the first cottage before they were soaked.
“I don’t know.” Harry spoke curtly, a tone he would never have taken with her a week ago. The horse seemed to sense his mood and jogged sideways, jolting the gig. Harry tightened the reins to bring the nag back on the track. “I haven’t met the right woman yet, likely.”