Miss Violet Thornof Upper Clapton, London, was annoyed. Not the least because once again her rich uncle Edwin had called her a born spinster, but also because he used his pet name for her in a letter. It was a playful jibe at her disposition, ever since he’d offered her a boiled sweet as a child—she hated boiled sweets—and she’d told him a resoundingno. The vehemence of her reply at age seven had brought a smile to his face, and he never shied away from teasing her whenever he could.
The letter read:
My dearest Thorny,
I’m having a little party at a rather Gothic old pile in Bricewold, Hertfordshire on the night of 6th April. If all goes well, then I won’t call you a ‘spinster’ anymore, and if all else fails, I want to put that sharp mind of yours to good use. Do say you’ll come.
Your loving Uncle Edwin
Violet frowned and put down the letter. She’d received it at breakfast in front of her parents, who were always hopeful of him remembering them in his will. Once she’d finished reading, her mother snatched it up.
“Oh, my.” Mrs. Thorn finished reading its contents and set it down by her plate of toast. She brushed a stray, brown curl out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. “Why did he invite you and not the rest of us? He’smybrother.”
Violet shrugged. “Perhaps there are young men he wishes me to meet.”
“Well, in that case, you must have an escort.”
“Mama,” Violet began. “There’s no need. Not if Uncle Edwin is there.”
“Nonsense. I should be there too.”
“Daisy…” Mr. Thorn peered at his wife from atop his newspaper,The Daily Star. He often communicated by way of his big, grey bushy eyebrows, which rose at that moment. “Let the girl go. It’s only Edwin. What’s the worst that could happen to our innocent Violet? She’s too old to be an object of prey for anyone.”
Violet frowned and set down her teaspoon with a sharp clatter. She hated the fact that she had been named after a flower. Her mother enjoyed being called “Daisy” and liked her namesake flower, so she had cheerfully passed on the naming convention to her daughter, much to Violet’s mortification. Violet liked purple but found that people expected her to be lovely, charming, and sweet, when she was anything but.
But she was sour, for her uncle’s letter had teased her about a fact she did not want to face: she was a spinster.
She had failed at the marriage mart, utterly and completely. Though not destitute, her family had been too poor to afford to give her a proper London Season, so she had made do by attending a few large parties and dinners held by the friends of her parents, two middling and respectable shop owners in Hertfordshire who had done well—well enough to spend a few weeks in London when it suited.
Violet wasn’t quite sure how she had failed so utterly. She thought herself pretty enough, with soft, blonde hair, nut-brown eyes, a pert nose, and good fashion sense. She often dressed in shades of purple, plum, and aubergine, all of which suited her slightly pale complexion well.
And yet, when it came to chatting with the young men, after a few polite conversations, they all seemed to lose interest and make only halfhearted attempts to get to know her. She’d overheard one say that she was rude, but she chose not to believe it. But the invitations to dance had not been forthcoming, much to the amusement of her peers, who’d laughed and gossiped in stage whispers behind delicately gloved hands and lace fans.
Perhaps it was her firm opinions, or her interest in the occult, or in crime. She was a keen follower of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels and felt like though rare, there was a woman writer with whom she could identify. Women could write too, just as well as the men, so why could they not investigate crimes as well? She was a keen puzzler.
But the moment she’d dared express her opinion on the facts of the day or the latest crimes in the paper, or even the novels she’d devoured most recently, the men had seemed decidedly uninterested. Some had indicated surprise she’d even read at all. Within half an hour of attending a ball or party, she’d felt so disassociated from the company that she’d lurked in the host’s library for want of amusement. Perhaps tonight she might have a real adventure.
Her mother daintily nibbled a piece of toast and said, “Well, I don’t think you should go. It’s not right, my brother inviting you and not me, or all of us. Why would he only want to see you?”
“Perhaps he wishes to introduce me to some eligible bachelors.” Violet smiled.
Her mother tittered. “Your uncle is the last man I would trust to make a match for you. Besides, you’re a bit old for a chaperonenow, anyway. No, my dear girl, I think you should face the inevitability that you… are on the shelf.”
Violet froze.
“I know this isn’t necessarily what you want to hear, but it’s the solid truth facing us. You will never marry. I will never have a grandchild. And I did so want her to be called ‘Daisy.’ Or ‘Petal.’”
“Daisy…” Mr. Thorne started. “Leave it. Violet is not yet thirty. You make it sound like she’s old and crotchety.”
“Well, at twenty-nine, she’s not far off,” her mother snapped, evidently displeased at being taken to task. She crunched into her toast savagely, shedding crumbs on the fine, white tablecloth. “The fact is, when I was your age, I was already married and you were well on the way. Now you are nothing but a wizened—”
“Daisy,” Violet’s father said.
“—Woman, with nothing to do but spend your days at home. Perhaps you might find work as a companion to a rich, old woman and when she dies, be left her inheritance.”
“Mama,” Violet said, kneading part of the tablecloth that fell to her lap in her hands. “I’m going to go.”
“What for? I don’t see why he would want to see you for a party and not us.” Her mother swallowed her mouthful. A bit of marmalade stuck to the side of her mouth.
