Drawn by morbid curiosity, she found herself crossing to the open wardrobe. The clothes were not his, but the scent upon the pillows indicated her employer enjoyed a fair amount of time within these walls. Who was he spending his nights with? His wife? Where was she now?
Violet paused. If there were a missus, she would not only have been presented to her long before now, but the wife would most likely have been the decision maker with regard to hiring a governess in the first place. Therefore, there must not be a Mrs. Waldegrave.
Mr. Waldegrave must be a widower.
It wasn’t until this conclusion settled the nerves dancing along her intestines that Violet realized a small part of her had actually been concerned about... about what, exactly? Competition? She stifled a snort. He was so far above her status as to make even the daydream absurd. Yet she could not like the idea of him keeping a mistress. The roiling sensation returned to her stomach.
She ran a finger along the endless row of rich gowns, not bothering to deny the jealousy eating her from the inside out. Here she was, dipped in ink and forced to air dry, in the only dress of her possession. And here was Miss Lady of the Night, whose wardrobe was full to bursting with bejeweled finery. Or had been, anyway. Violet’s brow creased as she examined the gowns more closely. This wardrobe was even older than Mr. Waldegrave’s. These clothes had not been stylish in over a decade. She frowned, uneasily recalling the pair of gravestones behind the abbey. Was the owner of this wardrobe buried down below? Or was she locked away in a gilded tower somewhere, just like Lillian?
Violet shook the morbid fancy from her head. Mr. Waldegrave was not so dreadful as that. She would simply ask him for an explanation the next time she saw him.
In the meanwhile... Unable to resist such beauty, she lifted one of the gowns from the wardrobe and held it before her. Such artistry! Even its jewels had jewels. The cut was years out of fashion, but any woman who wore something this glorious to a ball would have her dance card filled within seconds.
She held it to her shoulders and glanced about for a looking glass. She’d never in her entire sorry life wear anything half so fine, of course, but there could be no harm in indulging a quick fancy while awaiting rescue. A mere glance at her reflection would be enough fodder for an imagination as active as hers to fill up the next two decades of tattered hand-me-down dresses, with the memory of the time she’d pressed a real, honest-to-God ball gown to her bosom.
Just as she neared the glass, the door swung open and Mr. Waldegrave strode in.
A horrified gasp strangled in her throat. Her fingers dug into the delicate fabric she clutched to her chest. She stared at him in guilt and mortification. She could think of nothing at all to say that might excuse this transgression, not that her tongue seemed to be working anyway.
Mr. Waldegrave, however, did not suffer a similar loss of words.
“How dare you.” His face paled in anguish. “How dare you step into this room, touch anything you have seen, defile it with your very presence! Get out, get out, get out!”
“I—I—I... ” was all she could manage, her nerves jangled to a mortal degree. She tried to return the gown to the wardrobe, truly she did, but her limbs had frozen as if struck with rigor mortis and not a single joint obeyed her command.
His eyes were wild, as if he no longer saw Violet but rather his own private nightmare. “I have asked you to leave. This room belonged to my wife, and is all I have left to remind me of being young and happy. My wife—”
“Y-your wife?” Violet managed, then flinched as his gaze came sharply in focus.
“Relinquish her gown at once.” He stared almost beseechingly at the bejeweled fabric, as if it had the power to restore his memories to reality. “Hand it over right now, Miss Smythe, or so help me...”
Her fingers were frozen into trembling claws, her entire body shaking with terror. He was so much bigger than her. He blocked the only exit, and he was so angry. When consumed by this much emotion—
His hand flashed toward her.
Violet screamed. She stopped screaming only when she realized that he hadn’t so much as touched her. He’d simply snatched the ball gown from her hands. Well, most of it. Due to the death grip she’d held on the fragile silk, the gown hadn’t come free in one piece. Indigo threads clung to her stained bodice, and the once-fine gown now cradled in his hands was torn at the seams, the scalloped shoulders in jagged ribbons.
“Destroyed,” he said brokenly, his voice once again distant as if his words were not meant for her. “It cannot be fixed. Nothing can ever be fixed.” His eyes closed, as if in pain beyond all reckoning. “Gone. I can’t even hold on to a memory.”
Although her respiration seemed loud enough to fill the room, she still couldn’t make herself move so much as a finger.
With a tortured sound, his haunted eyes flew open. He ripped the already-ruined dress down the middle, then again, and again.
“Take it. Have all of it.Here.” He threw the torn scraps into her face. “It’s yours.”
With that, he turned on his heel and quit the chamber without another word.
She fell to her knees among the fluttering strips of jewel-encrusted silk, her shaking muscles unfreezing just enough to let her crumple to the floor.
Alistair barreleddown the empty corridor, heedless of his path. He was angry.Furious. But mostly at himself, which made him feel like a prize arse. A sensation that only served to make him even angrier.
He’d ruined Marjorie’s dress. The very gown she’d worn the night she’d told him he was going to be a father. The night he was convinced he was the luckiest man alive. The night he was his very, very happiest.
He was a fool to think keeping a shrine to the memory would enable him to keep hold of that happiness. He could never be happy. Those days were gone. That pristine bedchamber had been his one connection to the past, a three-dimensional manifestation of the portrait they’d somehow never had time to sit for.
And now it would always remind him of Miss Smythe... and his own pain. How long had it been since that room had brought him true joy? How long had it been sinceanythinghad?
He slammed his fist into the closest wall. Fire shot up his arm. He shook out his throbbing hand as if he could fling off the pain. He told himself his eyes stung because of his bloody knuckles, because of his bruised pride, because of anything,anything, except the loss of his one window into happier times.
