Still holding her hands, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Violet’s ardor cooled at the gentle touch. A kiss to the forehead was not passion. A kiss to the forehead was good-bye. Her shoulders sagged, her entire body feeling as if it might crumble into a thousand pieces and settle like dust among the shadows.
His warm breath tickling her hair, he whispered, “Thank you.”
She couldn’t even speak. And then he was gone.
Chapter 12
Even a sleepless night fraught with shamefully lurid dreams of compromising positions could not keep Violet from stumbling out of bed to greet the new morning. She hadn’t forgotten the gifts of the previous day. So many paints and canvases awaited that the sheer number and variety of cloths and colors was positively dizzying. She had never been visited by Father Christmas, so she couldn’t say with certainty, but she imagined children lucky enough to receive presents must feel precisely this drunk with giddy anticipation at the prospect of opening every single box.
Art brought her joy. Theanticipationof art brought her joy. And with any luck, perhaps she could share a bit of that joy with the solemn Waldegraves.
Violet smiled to herself as she shoved pins into her hair. Dawn was far too early to countenance marmalade or soft-boiled eggs, but it was perfect for art. The moment she was remotely presentable, she was out the door and down the hall. Even the shadows her meager flame cast upon the catacomb walls could do nothing to dispel her spirits. Not when there were canvases waiting!
Within minutes, she was cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a sea of colorful potential. Soon, her chignon had fallen, her borrowed dress was three shades lighter with dust, but she was happy, truly happy, for the first time she could recall since the death of Old Man Livingstone.
Wryly, she glanced over her shoulder at the soaring wall of boarded-over stained glass. If ever there was a domicile in need of some beauty, it was Waldegrave Abbey. And if ever there were a lonely child desperately in need of an escape, it was Miss Lillian.
Now that her materials were organized, the only question was what to paint first. Violet peered into the largest box of canvases. Mr. Waldegrave had surely lost his mind. With or without frames, there were enough blank canvases to paper the entire sanctuary! What on earth was he—
Her spine snapped straight. It was all she could do not to laugh aloud at the thought. Whynotpaper the sanctuary? Perhaps there weren’t truly enough canvases to rise all the way to the topmost rafters, but at the very least she could certainly manage eye-level. Miss Lillian might not be able to step outside, but there was no reason at all why Violet could not bring the outsidein.
It would take weeks, of course, and every speck of every paint in every box—but, oh, would it be worth it!
Unable to conceal her grin, she rose to her feet. Right now she had a little girl to teach, but tonight she would paint. Tonight, and every night hence. She shook the dust from her skirts and surveyed the room one last time.
Oh, certainly it couldn’t hurt to augment today’s lesson with a bit of art. Surely that would be far more interesting than the endless screech of chalk upon the blackboard. Without wasting precious time on putting together a frame, she rolled the smallest of the unstretched canvases, selected a brush and a small tray of watercolors, and sailed out the door to collect her charge.
Two hours later, she was kneeling in the schoolroom beside a little girl so overcome with excitement that her shaking fingers flung more paint droplets upon herself and the floor than the canvas before her. The promise of watercolors had ensured Lillian acted the model student throughout maths and history, and now that she finally held a dripping paintbrush in her hand, Lillian was in danger of exploding with happiness on the spot.
Slowly, painstakingly, she drew the bristles up, over, down, until the final swish of a berry-pink “n” glistened wetly at the edge of the canvas.
“There. ‘Lillian.’” She lifted her gaze to Violet, her lower lip clenched nervously betwixt her teeth.
“Just so,” Violet agreed with an encouraging smile. “How does it feel to have created something so beautiful?”
A mischievous smile flashed across Lillian’s face. “It makes me want to take the brushes back to my bedchamber and paint every single day.”
“I knew we were two of a kind,” Violet said with a laugh. “I was your age when I nicked my first stick of chalk, and after that there was no going back.”
Lillian’s eyes widened. “You stole chalk? How?”
“I pretended to let a boy kiss me,” Violet said with a conspiratorial grin. “Distract ’em, and you can nick anything.”
Lillian giggled. “I don’t have to kiss boys. Papa can buy anything I want.”
Violet’s cheeks heated. “True enough. And if it’s paint you desire, you won’t have to work hard to convince your father. Once he sees how talented you are, he won’t deny you a thing.” She nodded toward the canvas. “I particularly like the colors you’ve chosen. I see you’ve got pink in there twice. Is pink your favorite color?”
Lillian’s eyes widened, then lowered. “I should not have done the same color twice. I mucked it up, didn’t I? I ought to have chosen red or brown or black or—oranythingelse. I will next time. I promise. Oh,canwe do it again? Sometime, I mean. Please? I’ll use any color you wish. It doesn’t have to be pink. I—”
“Lillian.” Violet grabbed her beneath the shoulders and forced the child to meet her eyes. “The only rule in art is that there aren’t any rules in art.”
Lillian frowned at her. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Art doesn’t have to make sense. You can paint in every color of the rainbow if you so choose, or you can paint in just pink for the rest of your life.”
Lillian blinked damp lashes. “What does a rainbow look like? Is it truly beautiful?”
