Chapter 30
Alistair’s knees banged against his daughter’s new breakfast table. He winced as the silver clattered against the china for the hundredth time in five minutes. He was either going to break his knees or the dishware. It was just a matter of time.
Meanwhile, Lily was oblivious to his pain, both inner and physical. She’d been beside herself with glee ever since the child-sized breakfast set arrived. The miniature table and miniature chairs might not be designed for someone of his dimensions, but they matched his petite daughter perfectly, allowing her not only to dine in greater comfort, but also to more easily play hostess to guests. In this case, her father.
Fortunately for him, she was so enamored with pouring tea and arranging pots of jam that she scarcely noticed whether or not her father attended to her inarticulate murmurs of delight. He was having enough trouble attending to his own problems. Starting with the events of last night.
He set down his teacup before it shattered in his hands. Yesterday, he thought he’d met the true Violet Smythe—pardon, Violet Whitechapel—for the very first time. But had he? She had never claimed to share his ideals, nor had she ever professed to be innocent or virginal. He hadassumedinstead of simply asking her, then judged where he had no business judging at all. She was the same Violet she’d always been. The woman he loved. It was he who needed to change.
“More tea, Papa?” Lily stared up at him expectantly, the undersized china pot clutched tight in her small hands.
He nodded his assent. If he had learned anything lately, it was not to assume. Else he might never have come to share this moment today, with his daughter. He raised his eyebrows appreciatively as he sipped the tepid brew, makinghow-deliciousnoises more appropriate to teatime at Buckingham Palace. Lily beamed in response.
He couldn’t help but smile back. They’d been so lonely for so long... As the lemon-and-honey tea slid down his oddly scratchy throat, he gazed across his teacup at his daughter in growing wonder. It wasn’t that he couldn’t recall the last time they’d spent such a pleasant morning together. On the contrary. It was that the pleasant moments began after Violet’s arrival in their abbey. Regardless of her past, there was no denying the very real miracles she had wrought in their lives.
Besides, was Alistair himself so perfect? Far from it. He’d never claimed to be a saint, but nor had Violet ever laid claim to any proclivity toward godliness. If Alistair were being truly honest, even his beloved Marjorie, martyred in the very act of bringing life to their daughter, had not been the perfect angel he had painted her to be.
Marjorie, bless her soul, had been wholly and delightfully human. She had lived passionately, loved passionately, and fought passionately. At the time, she’d been the girl of his dreams—but that dream had long since concluded. She would forever be the woman who gave Lily life, but perhaps he’d done his daughter a disservice by overemphasizing her mother’s goodness. In his grief, he may have constantly, if inadvertently, thrown the sharpness of his loss in his daughter’s face.
Lily had never had a mother, had anyone to look up to, save himself.
Until Violet.
His shoulders tightened as he faced the truth. Violet had never been just a governess. She had certainly never been a mere companion to him or his daughter. Violet was the first new confidante in his life in over a decade. And she was the first friend Lily had had in her entire life. The first mother figure his daughter had ever known.
No—not a “figure”. Not a substitute, not a mirage, not a substandard stopgap. To say anything of the sort was to devalue the very special and undeniably real relationship Violet and Lily had built over the past several months. Violet might not be her biological mother, but there was little else to stand in the way of the title. His daughter had loved her wholly and unconditionally almost from the first.
“Papa?”
“Hmm?”
“Tomorrow can Miss Smythe join us for breakfast?”
He choked on his tea. Would Violet even be here tomorrow? Could he blame her if she left them both? He had certainly done little to make her stay. He could scarce be surprised if she were even now packing her bags. And when Violet did leave them—whether to face her accuser or flee to Switzerland or live a life of freedom in London town, far away from Alistair—Lily would be devastated. What would he do then? The loss of Violet in his daughter’s life would hit her equally as soul-deep as the premature loss of his wife had devastated Alistair in his youth. How could he possibly prepare his child for something like that? He couldn’t even promise her breakfast.
“We’ll see,” was all he said aloud. “You may invite her to dine with you whenever you wish, but please do not be... hurt... if there is a time when Miss Smythe cannot attend.”
Lily laughed as if he’d told a brilliant jest. “She would never say no, Papa. She loves me.”
Love.He opened his mouth to reply, but not a single word escaped. Did he even know what the word meant anymore?
Lily twisted around in her seat. “Papa... may I paint my room?”
“Paint anything you wish, sweetling.”
He pushed his chair back. At least Lily would have a new love—that of art—to bring color to her life after they lost Violet. His stomach clenched. Oh, how could he let her leave? And yet he could not force her to stay. Only after she faced her past would she be able to consider her future. He and Lily would just have to carry on, as they had always done. No matter how hard it might be.
He had always prayed Lily never need experience the pain of abandonment. For the sake of Violet’s future, however... And for the sake of Alistair’s shaken heart...
Sighing, he rose to his feet. He was not at all certain what he wanted, and he did not know what to pray for that would provide an optimal solution for all parties. He would turn it over in his mind as he paged through the books in his study.
He rang for a maid and kissed his daughter’s cheeks before slipping quickly and silently through the darkness of the catacombs. But once he was back in the lonely safety of his office, he slumped into his chair and stared sightlessly at the mundane correspondence he’d been unable to bear opening since the tidal wave of the day before. He just couldn’t face it.
Ever since returning from Shrewsbury proper, he had not studied a single essay, nor broken the seal on a single missive, nor slept a single wink. How could he? He could hardly return to his old life when his new life had been so neatly turned upside down. Before, he’d had precisely one focus, and precisely one goal.
Now he had two.
He slid a blank sheet of parchment from the stack in his secretary drawer and dipped his pen into a reservoir of ink. Violet needed help, and Alistair would provide it.
