He had a sister he did not know what to do with, in a shop he couldn’t stay in, with a mind too frenzied to resolve anything.
But he could kill a spider in the rafters.
That much he could do.
“I cannot dance.” At the confession, both Lord Cunningham and Violet glanced up from the white-knitted picnic blanket.
For the past week, Penrose Abbey had been different. The ancient corridors were less empty and dim. The windows more sunlit. The rooms all a bit cheerier, with their fresh vases of flowers and the joyous floral scents.
Perhaps it was the absence of Lord Cunningham’s secret. Why had he kept such a thing in the first place? Did he not think her capable, after he had borne her troubles, for her to bear his?
Only in her bedchamber, at night, did the merriment pass.
Darkness cloaked her, wrapped about her soul, as she blew out the final candle.
Because she thought of him.
Tom.
She knew every line he’d spoken to her by heart, she felt his lips, and she chilled beneath the powerful intensity of his eyes. When she was awake, halfway into the night, she thumped her pillow and tossed and huffed in frustration. When she was asleep, she was dragged unwillingly back into his arms, into haunting memories of him she knew weren’t real.
He had loved her.
That much she felt.
Had she loved him?
Doubtful.
No, she had likely been lonely and he a preying companion. Or foolish and him the luring pursuer. Which explained, of course, her fear of him. Why else should he discomfit her so? Why else should she resist the thought of ever seeing him again but, at the same time, think of nothing else?
Lord Cunningham deemed the man a rogue.
Her past, from all accounts, had been lovely. She had lived a pleasant life with her uncle in a pleasant apothecary shop, pleasantly assisting the ill and aching.
Tom McGwen had been the one stain on her lily-white existence.
She could not be blamed for wishing to rub that stain away.
Or for having trouble doing so.
“EvenIknow how to dance, and I am only seven.”
“Violet.” Lord Cunningham shook his head at his daughter, though he smiled. “You must remember that our darling Miss Margaret has not all of her memories. She may be more proficient at dancing than either of us.”
“She cannot be better than you.”
Lord Cunningham took another quick drink of his ginger beer, as if to keep from a laugh. “My daughter, as you can see, does like to flatter me. What is it you want, my dear child?”
“I wish to go punting on the lake.”
“You forget we made our good doctor a promise. An hour of fresh air and that is all. No exertion whatsoever.”
Violet crossed her arms over her chest with a pitiful glance at the rippling, sky-reflecting lake. Beyond it in the distance, Penrose Abbey sat crested among trees and bushes, a tranquil backdrop to their picnic.
“Very well.” Violet scooped up a handful of nuts and crunched on them a little too loudly. “I am used to being disappointed.”
“My dear—”
