*
Curse her wretched hide! Violet’s cheeks heated as more tears spilled out, pulling free of her control with unrelenting force. Her heart was too full to be subdued by her fatigued mind. Especially when wrapped in such a tender embrace.
The world defined strength and peace as polar opposites, yet in Dr. Vaughn, Violet found equal measures of both working in perfect harmony. The gentleman was no warrior of old with fists ready to prove his power through physical might; his strength was not woven in his limbs and muscles but in his heart. Those arms now wrapped around her were mightyenough to hold her together, and the world slid from Violet’s thoughts, allowing her to revel in the serenity enveloping Dr. Vaughn like the cinnamon in his cologne.
She wasn’t alone. For now. And held so tightly, Violet could almost believe that everything would turn out well in the end.
Leaning back, she wiped her cheeks again with a shake of her head at herself. Plenty of situations did not end with happy endings all wrapped up neatly in a bow, and it did little good to sit about believing this one would.
Reaching into his pocket, Dr. Vaughn retrieved a handkerchief and handed it to her.
“I could spend the rest of my life expounding on my gratitude, and I fear I would never be able to fully compensate you for your kindnesses,” she said with a weak smile as she wiped at her cheeks. With a sigh, Violet shook her head. “I—”
“None of that, Miss Templeton,” he replied whilst taking her free hand once more. She sighed at the touch, for it was nearly as good as nestling into his arms. “I think it would be best if we move beyond stumbling apologies and exuberant declarations of gratitude. Perhaps we could simply rebuild our…friendship.”
Dropping her hand with the handkerchief from her face, Violet straightened.
“Do you still wish to be friends? After everything…” But her voice drifted off as Dr. Vaughn gave her a warning look.
He drew in a deep breath, a faint smile played at the corner of his lips. “Believe it or not, Miss Templeton, but I missed your company as well.”
Violet cursed her wretched face, for at that very moment, it threatened to turn into a watering pot once more as the telltale quiver began taking hold of her chin and lips, but Dr. Vaughn’s eyes narrowed, and he squeezed her hand.
“None of that now, Miss Templeton. There is work to be done. What do you need me to do?”
A smile graced her lips, and the exhaustion weighing down her limbs eased, allowing her to straighten. Violet felt like embracing the gentleman once more, but the hours were slipping away, and there was no time for dallying. With a few instructions, the pair set themselves to the task at hand.
Chapter 31
Holidays are supposed to be happy things.Celebrations.And one cannot mark those festive occasions without a modicum of joy. It was written into the very name, after all.Festivities.It was impossible to speak the word without a frisson of anticipation. It evoked thoughts of games and food, dancing and music, and laughter and revelries that lightened the spirits of the entire village.
Yet it was difficult to muster excitement for the first harvest celebration this year. Though there were still some weeks before autumn would fully arrive, Lammas ushered in the end of a summer that had been far too fleeting. Too insubstantial. As much as she adored flurries of snow and ice, Violet wasn’t ready for winter to arrive.
Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath and clung to the little pleasures of the day. The church smelled like a bakery, and the air was thick with notes of honey and wheat, which evoked vivid memories of other Lammas celebrations and promised a grand feast once the service ended. Her stomach gurgled, and her eyes snapped open as she pressed a hand to it; thankfully, hers was not the only one rumbling at the sight of the altar ladenwith loaves of every size and shape, awaiting the vicar’s blessings on the first fruits of the harvest.
The vicar’s wife and her helpers had done their utmost to bedeck the interior with wheat and other symbols of harvest time, though the poor weather had guaranteed a poor crop. Large sheaves stood sentinel on either side of the bounty, whilst the pews were adorned with garlands of autumnal greenery and the occasional apple, pumpkin, or squash serving as accents.
With the final blessing, the parish rose to their feet and shuffled toward the churchyard as the ladies who’d organized the festivities hurried to move the loaves from the altar to the tables outside whilst the sharp-eyed bakers kept a close watch; it wouldn’t do to have one’s loaf ruined by a rival before the competition was to begin.
The children rushed forward, slipping none-too-carefully through the crowd to the waiting games whilst their parents began splintering off to enjoy the entertainments the festival had to offer. Alongside the bread, the feasting table was laden with donations of every sort; large pots of cider sat ready to be enjoyed alongside the bread, jams, fruits, and cheese. None of which were particularly grand, but they were beloved all the same.
Some children gathered to one side for races, whilst others sat at tables to weave wheat stalks into dolls, figurines, or whatever else delighted them. Several ladies worked amongst them, demonstrating the intricacies of the craft whilst creating grand sculptures with nothing more than a bit of twisted wheat. Despite having tried her hand at them, Violet had never been able to manage much more than the simplest of shapes, but she found it fascinating to watch the women’s fingers fly through the movements.
The gentility never deigned to enter the baking competition, but quite a few hovered nearby to watch whilst their servants’ loaves were judged on taste or appearance, eagerly awaiting the results as though their household’s honor were at stake. The audience clapped at the sight of the carefully sculptedloaves, some of which bore the likenesses of animals, foods, and plants.
The shift from somber to spirited happened in the blink of an eye, and the congregation threw themselves into the festivities with fervor. But Violet stood to one side, glancing about for any friendly face. When her eyes caught Miss Wrigley’s, Violet raised a hand in greeting, but the lady’s expression tightened before turning away in a pointed dismissal.
Like a pack of marauding Vikings, Violet’s confession had torn through the village, pillaging and razing everything in its path before the sun had set that day. In the sennight and a half since, the gossip had likely spread to Bentmoor as well, giving the busybodies a wealth of fodder—the likes of which they hadn’t seen since Mrs. Payne’s mysterious “trip” last year when she’d disappeared for several months and returned home with an infant in tow.
It was foolish to hope the turmoil would dissipate in less than a fortnight, and Violet knew she simply needed to accept her punishment. It was of her own making, after all. Drawing in a deep breath, she let it out in a long sigh, though she didn’t allow her disappointment to touch her posture. Shoulders back, spine straight. There was no need to broadcast just how much it bothered her to be standing alone.
At the far side of the gathering, Violet spied Diana and decided to throw herself on her friend’s mercy. Even standing silently with the ladies would be an improvement. Forcing a smile that was neither too broad (for that marked her as arrogant and unrepentant) nor too self-effacing (for going about in sackcloth and ashes was gaudy and insincere), Violet strode through the crowd.
“Good afternoon,” she said to Diana. The other ladies watched Violet with varying degrees of antagonism and apathy, and she nodded in their direction before sidling up beside her friend. “Did you and your mama assist Mrs. York with the decorations? The pews looked like they had benefited from your touch.”
Diana smiled, though there was a touch of confusion to it. “You know we do so every year.”
“Are you implying that the rest of the decorations were neglected without Miss Gadd’s assistance? I assure you Mrs. York and the others did marvelous work,” said Miss Orton with a narrowed gaze. Violet refused to allow her shoulders to fall, though she cursed her silly eyes for not ensuring that none of Diana’s companions were closely tied to the trouble Violet had stirred up—and Miss Orton couldn’t be any closer to her particular friend, Miss Bacon.
