Emory blew out a laden breath at his brother’s voice. He really didn’t wish to discuss this with Liam. He didn’t want to think of those words at all, yet his brother had followed.
“It’s not important,” he finally said, hoping that Liam would let it rest, but knew better.
“It’s important enough that you stormed out of my home, slamming the door, when you’ve never been one for violent, emotional outbursts. You are not acting like yourself, and I wish to know why.”
Emory hadn’t been himself since he realized that Father would not enjoy a full recovery from his accident. “Father has been more vocal of late about his disappointments.” Perhaps he could leave it at that.
“Father suffered a head injury,” Liam reminded Emory, as if he could have forgotten.
“It’s also freed him to voice his opinions, in that, his speech is no longer guarded.” He turned to face his brother. “He loves each of us, he has repeatedly assured me of that, but there is nobody who can ever replace Gavin.”
“No child can replace another. Is that what this is about?”
“‘Gavin was a good viscount and would have made an excellent earl’,” he quoted his father. “‘You, Emory, are a disappointment. A rake, a rogue, a disappointment’.”
“He said that to you?” Liam asked, his wide eyes and slack jaw spoke of his shock. Emory had the same reaction the first time he’d heard those words.
“On more than a few occasions.”
“He is not in his right mind. You can’t take his words to heart.”
Emory stared at his brother. “Everyone knows that drunks often speak the truth, as do children. I also believe that those who are at the beginnings of a demented state do as well. He’s not imagining that he is something or someone he is not. He knows who we are. He knows that Gavin is dead, and he knows that I’m a disappointment.”
“That is why you’ve entered into a courtship with Lady Violet and why you truly declined the widow’s invitation.”
“Yes. I want to be able to look my father in the eye, tell him what I’ve done, promise to marry well, so maybe I can gain some of the respect our older brother had before we lose father for good.”
Violet triedto sleep but found it nearly impossible. When she did drift off, she suffered through fitful, detailed dreams of her beehives been taken away by the gardeners because all the bees had died; of the plants withering in her conservatory; of butterflies falling from the sky, their lifeless wings against the straw colored grass; decay surrounding her with everything turning brown, but not because it was winter and such was dormant, but because everything had died. She was left with nothing to call her own. All that she’d worked for, her passion, was gone. She ran to the well over and over, pulling up buckets of water, dousing her plants, but the more water she used, the more the petals and leaves curled into themselves, shrinking, until they crumbled like autumn leaves after they’d fallen to the ground and were shattered by the lightest of step.
Nobody to help her. Her father and grandmother were there. They said nothing, just shook their heads with disappointment. Wesley, holding a baby wrapped in a blanket, told her that she’d brought it upon herself. Then the gypsy drove her vardo over the dead plants in her garden. “You can have one or the other, but not both.”
That wasn’t what she’d told her before.
“Now, you have neither and never will.”
Violet had woken up in a cold sweat, her heart pounding, and in a panic similar to what she experienced in the close confines of a ballroom. Except, she was very much alone.
Pushing the blankets aside, she rose from the bed and went to the window, then turned away. She didn’t want to see Lord Ferrard returning to his brother’s home. She did not want to know how long he’d entertained Mrs. Wilder.
What if he remained there all night?
What if others saw him?
She’d trusted him. He only needed to wait a few more days, then their courtship would be at an end and then he could visit the widow as often as he wished. He could take up residence there, and Violet would never know because she’d be safely back at Forester Hall and would not expect to see him again until the spring.
Had he been visiting the widow often? Nightly? Did the entire village of Laswell know that he courted Violet during the day and visited Mrs. Wilder’s bed at night?
Her stomach churned.
Even if the residents didn’t know yet, they would. Mrs. Wilder was a frequent visitor of Mrs. Harley, and the two spent hours in gossip so once it was safe to visit the residence, all of Laswell would know by the next day.
It was too much.
Violet shouldn’t care, but she did.
Further, her heart ached in a manner that Violet didn’t think possible. To think that she had believed the certain signs of attraction of heart palpitations and racing pulse were unpleasant. Those symptoms were nothing compared to a broken heart.
Oh, this would never do.
