The following evening, Violet rejoined Cook, Mrs. Tumsen and Mr. Roper for another night of card-playing. Although the trio was full of good humor—Mrs. Tumsen was in particularly rare form, since she had spent the afternoon “visiting Ginny”—Violet’s heart was not in the game. Long before midnight, she excused herself and rose to leave. She was almost to the door when the sound of a scraping chair gave her pause.
“Wait, dear, I nearly forgot!” Mrs. Tumsen called out. She fished a small parcel from inside a cloak pocket and hurried to Violet’s side.
As she pressed a small stack of twine-bound missives into Violet’s palm, Mrs. Tumsen’s bloodshot eyes were oddly serious. “It’s yer... correspondence, miss. Also something else in there ye really oughta see.” Her voice dropped, and her next whiskey-spiced words were faint against Violet’s ear. “I can mind a secret if ye need me to, dear. All of us can.”
Frowning, Violet gave her a quick nod and escaped from the room with her heart beating unaccountably fast. Had Mrs. Tumsen read her petitions? There was nothing to be learned except that she was in the market for a barrister, which Violet had already confided in order to obtain the list of directions in the first place. She had been purposefully vague. So what on earth was Mrs. Tumsen referring to? Had it just been the whiskey talking?
Violet was concentrating so closely on picking apart the knot binding the folded missives together that she nearly bowled over Mr. Waldegrave as he emerged from the catacomb tunnels.
“My apologies,” she stammered in embarrassment. “I didn’t see you there. I was just... How is Lily?”
“Asleep, thankfully. Gave me plenty of time to study this delightful little read.” He indicated a heavy tome trapped beneath his arm. “And you? How was your evening?”
She tightened her grip on the small stack of folded parchment. “Lovely, thank you.”
“It’s actually good that we ran into each other. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
“Have you?” she asked doubtfully.
“I—” He stared at her for a moment then let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “I deserved that, I suppose. You’re right. I have been distant. Not because Iwishto avoid you, understand. Quite the opposite. But I’m trying very hard to be a good... employer.”
“I know.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “That is who you are. You strive to be a good employer, a good man, a good father—”
“Precisely,” he interrupted vaguely, as if he hadn’t been attending her words. “Which is what I wished to discuss. Do you recall me mentioning having invited the greatest minds in Britain to convene here at Waldegrave Abbey to pursue a cure for acute sunsickness?”
“Oh.” She forced a smile. “Of course.”
What had she expected? That he desired her presence for something other than the improvement of his daughter’s environs?
Even if he were not trying so desperately to be agoodman and agoodfather and agoodemployer, the chasm between them was more than mere class differences. He required goodness from himself because what he expected from others was nothing short of perfection. He would expect even more from a woman like her. No one would ever take the place of his long-dead angel of a wife, and no imperfect scrap of a woman could ever be good enough for his daughter.
She continued to be amazed every morning she awoke beneath a velvet tester and every month when heavy coins were pressed into her palm. She had no illusions about the impermanence of her stay here at Waldegrave Abbey. Even if she did manage to clear her name, she would never be good enough for him. Even though her foolish heart still longed to try.
“Prepare any questions you might have. The retreat will be upon us before we know.” His voice rang oddly loud among the awkward silence that ensued. “I suppose I ought to get back to my studies. I see you’ve reading material of your own to attend to.”
“What? Yes. These are... letters.” She flipped open the only sheet not sealed tight with wax, intending to feign some friend or relation had penned amusing anecdotes or inquired about her health.
“So I see. I shall leave you to them. Good night, Miss Smythe.”
But Violet barely heard him. Her veins thrummed with fear. Her shaking fingers were almost too clammy to keep hold of the parchment trembling in her hand.
This was not a response from a London barrister. This was a large, hand-inked Wanted bill, with her wild-eyed likeness staring out from dead center.
Her skin suddenly icy, she stumbled backward against the wall and tried desperately not to panic.
How could she not panic? “WANTED FOR MURDER” screamed right across the top, followed by “VIOLET WHITECHAPEL” and “DANGEROUS FELON—£100 FOR WHEREABOUTS OR CAPTURE.”
She had to get out of here. She had to get out of herenow.
No—no, no, no. She couldn’t go anywhere. Not one step. If Mrs. Tumsen had picked this up right here in Shrewsbury, it meant Violet couldn’t so much as peek outside the abbey without risking discovery and capture.
It also meant the Livingstone estate was leaving no stone unturned in all of Britain. She might have let the evil Percy Livingstone and his companion die in flames, but that hardly meant he wouldn’t have a passel of equally villainous cousins to seek their revenge on a runaway art instructor.
She had to stay hidden.Wellhidden. At least until her face wasn’t affixed on lampposts in every town center, for God’s sake. Had she been so arrogant as to question whether or not the servants ever walked off with tortoise-shell betting chips? She ought to have been counting her blessings Mrs. Tumsen hadn’t turned her in for a hundred pound windfall!
Mrs. Tumsen had said she could keep a secret, hadn’t she? Well, good. Violet was a secret who desperately needed to stay well-kept. As long as she stayed cloistered within the abbey for another month or three, no one would be the wiser. She would have plenty of time to save money and organize her defense. Once Mrs. Tumsen confirmed there were no more fliers posted about town, Violet could head to London and clear her name. She just had to lay low until then. No trips, no new faces, no unnecessary risks. Should be simple enough. It wasn’t as if the abbey was a hotbed of social activ—oh no.
“Mr. Waldegrave!” she shouted, her voice cracking in terror as she raced down the hall after him. “Mr. Waldegrave, wait!”
