The Violet Hour

The Violet Hour

Brynn Chapman

The Violet Hour

Copyright © 2015 by R. R. Hochbein

Produced in the United States of America, all rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any form or any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by an information storage and retrieval system, except for reviewers who may quote brief passages.

All characters are from the author’s imagination and have no relationship to anyone bearing the same names, save actual historical figures. They are not inspired from anyone known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.

Publisher: R. R. Hochbein

Kindle Edition

Dedication: To Cade.

#YouAreMySunshine
 
#ThanksForBeingMyLight

Lost Time is never found again.

~
Benjamin Franklin

Some people die at twenty and five, but aren’t buried till seventy-five.

~
Benjamin Franklin

Prologue

1859 Charleston, South Carolina

Seaside~The Opera House

If you are doing this. It must be now.

The blood-red opera-house curtains undulate, a mere six inches from the chair on which I sit.

If I move my boot forward, extend my leg a meager inch, my toe would poke from beneath them—visible to the nearly three hundred townsfolk gathered behind it.

“We are thrilled and pleased—”

Rivulets of sweat snake down my neck, running into my dress. My hands are clammy and I readjust my violin. It slides down to the frets and I nearly drop it.

My heartbeat doubles and a wave of fear pulses.
It must be now-It must be now.

“Her name is oft used in company with the words, virtuoso. Perfect pitch.”

I cock my head and
hear it
. The surf
pounding
the shore, just outside the window.

Images flash.

Her lithe body, bloated and purple, bobbing beneath the waves in a whirling tornado of tiny bubbles.

I clamp my eyes together.

Another flash.

The empty coffin. Oh dear heaven sustain me the empty coffin.

I stand. Am walking, not seeing. I clutch the violin to my chest. I stumble toward my dressing room. It is my imagination, of course. They never found her body.

“She has toured the halls of Europe, Asia, and is now here, once again, to grace our lovely Charleston stage.”

I fling open the door, grasp a calling card and scribble on the back of it. I ring the bell and fling a few day dresses into my bag.

The servant appears; her black eyes wide and afraid. I thrust some coins into her outstretched palm, along with a note. “This is for Sarah. Do you understand me? Sarah only.”

She shakes her head
no
, clearly terrified. I drop two more in. “Sarah. Go now!”

I spin her—shoving her back out the stage door. I insist on utter solitude prior to performing. But it shan’t last. Right outside the thin wooden door lurk opportunists, fans, soliders…
him.

I stride forward, the room tilts and obscures, so that all in my focus is the window. The low-enough-to-the-ground escape route.

I sling my leg out the ledge and as my head pokes out, the surf roars louder, conjuring more images.

No, No, NO. Do not think on her. Do not think on her.

I
jump
. Leap from the ledge and crumple to the damp earth; the strong smell of the sea invading my nostrils as they flare. Resurrection fern blowing in the soft air of dusk.

My ankles wail as I scramble to stand.

Charleston is alive and bustling despite the darkening hour.

I stride forward into the crowd, ripping off my wig, my wincing at the hot pain in my scalp as the pins pull free—and fling it beneath a bougainvillea bush.

I lurch into the crowd, and am instantly swallowed.

The smell of Charleston sweet-grass fills my nostrils. Our last visit, my mother fingering the weaving of the sweet-grass baskets, deciding which to buy.

I tilt my chin higher. I must appear brave. Blend into the throng if I have any chance of escape.

I have rehearsed this countless times in my mind. My stomach lurches with fear and I swallow down the bile that threatens.

Applause erupts in
The Seaside
, wafting down onto the crowds through the myriad of open windows.

Sweat breaks under my arms, on my forehead. I hurry forward, forcing myself not to run. Look forward, do not meet their gazes.

I hear the crowd’s murmuring confusion, growing louder and louder, till the manager takes the stage once again. The recommencing of the orchestra. Hissess and boo’s.

Gooseflesh erupts from nape to bottom. He will
flay me
. Flay me alive.

Behind, just within earshot, the opera house door bangs open and I flinch. “Where are you? Come back this instant, I say!”

A man collides with my shoulder and I feel something
thud
against my shoulder, bouncing to the ground. My eyes dart frantically, trying to locate it through the myriad of boots.

No. No. It is all that remains of her
. I quickly finger my other ear, wrenching the remaining earring from it, shoving it to safety within the secret pocket in my skirt.

“
Where are you
?” His deranged voice rings out over the crowd, and many stop to stare at his beet-red face.

I see her then. Her tall, red head sticking up above the crowd. She’s poised by a hansom; her hand on the door..

She sees me coming and flings it wide and crawls inside.

I hurtle in, slamming the door.

Sarah bangs the side of the carriage. “Drive on!”

* * *

Sarah’s grasp is a hot-vice; despite her glove I feel the perspiration beneath. She bites her full lip, trying to be brave. She has no tears, thank heaven, or I might disintegrate myself.

“It is fine. The day has finally arrived,” I speak quietly, even though the only chance of an eavesdropper is the hansom driver. And that would be quite impossible of the
clip-clop
of hooves and the
rattle
wagon’s wheels over cobblestones.

“We have discussed this. Have you the coin?”

I was unable to stash any significant coin while traveling. My father knew every stitch of clothing, every perfume, every minute of my every day.

Sarah, however…was unmonitored. And it was a testament to my level of trust that I had no fear she would flee with the money. She was, for all intensive purposes, my sister. The only company I had ever known, save my mother.

“I ’ave it.” Sarah’s accent seemed to ring through the carriage.

“Sarah, darling, we must listen to the locals. Try to mimic their accent.” I clear my throat. “It shall be a protection,” I say, in the best southern drawl I can manage.

“Oo, that is most excellent.” She blinks, “I mean, capital.”

I wince at her attempt—but it shall have to do.

“Did you secure lodging under the name I provided?”

“Yes, but…” the first quiver of her lips.

“Yes?” I try, try to keep the shake from my hands.

“It shan’t last long. Your brother found the money.”

“What! When?”

Horror blackens my sight. My brother was cruel, horrid, but oh so clever. He would instantly comprehend why Sarah was carrying a sizeable sum.

She places her hand over mine, “I split it in two. He did not get it all. But…”

It would last but a few days.

I stare around the carriage, out at the massive oak trees, flying past the window. We would have to secure a position. Without letters, it may be futile. My mind conjures desperate images. I am not ignorant to the fate of women without protection. Without coin.

“I shall forge them.”

* * *

Two weeks later

Hunger is a curious thing.

It gradually makes its presence known; first like a tiny little rat, gnawing at one’s insides…but soon shifts to a roaring, biting lion, consuming each and every thought.

Three days without a meal. We had taken to…stealing. Wandering into fields at night, gathering bits of vegetables, and eating them on the run.

One would not image one such as I, from a sprawling estate, and a titled father, would have such intimate knowledge.

Hunger and I met on several occasions. Locked in my opulent apartment, for two days’ time, with only water, “To clear my head. Make me rethink my position.”

When my opinions conflict with fathers. Which would be every solitary word issuing forth from his cruel mouth.

Streaks of red cross the horizon as dawn arrives. The day is beautiful.

Azure sky, with white puffs of clouds, as numerous as the bobbing cotton in the fields on either side of us.

Sarah strides forward, her long legs handling the road better than my own.

I finger the forged papers of recommendation in my skirt.

I see the sign and swallow.

CHARLESTON’S FANCY

The park is remote, but I see in the distance, festive red and white tents, billowing in the salty air.

“Allegra. Look!” Sarah’s long finger juts upward.

No less than three hot-air balloons take to the sky and a smile breaks loose. The first in a month.

I squeeze her hand and nod, not trusting my voice. She risked her life for me. I am responsible for us, live or die.

I hear it and my heart beats frantic and discordant—in direct contradiction to the perfect, synchronous notes that spurred the reaction.

An orchestra. I close my eyes and halt, right outside the wrought iron gate, allowing the music to bathe me, fill in the cracks of my soul.

Home. The music is home.

“No. No, no, no. How many times must I tell you?” A very large-walrus-looking man, taps his stick upon the podium at the front of the orchestra.

“Hurry.” I grab Sarah’s sleeve and we plunge forward, weaving past a throng of people.

From hired hands who screw, tighten and pound, to prim and polished maids, draped with pristine white aprons, carrying trays of sweets that make my stomach scream with hunger. All bustling around a sprawling, white confection of an Inn.

“Take ten.” The maestro gives the word and I see the musician’s faces alter—some amused, some irritated. All scatter to enjoy each moment of their break.

“Excuse me, good sir.”

Walrus-man wheels about, much like a ship changing course, to regard Sarah and I. I swallow as I watch his eyes rove over our definitely-not-pristine attire.

“I am Allegra Teagarden and this is my cousin, Sarah. We are newly arrived and seeking a position. I am a violinist—I—”

“Hold your introduction Miss Teagarden. I am not in need of a violinist.”

My insides clench and I fight the swoon. This is our very last chance.

I thrust the papers at him. “I have papers.”

He begins to wave them away.

“Hold on, Mr. Plimpton.” A deep, baritone voice rumbles behind us.

I turn and a very tall, very dark man ambles forth. Plimpton’s bulk somehow deflates smaller and smaller as he draws closer.

“Sir.” He nods.

The man extends a long fingered hand. “Silas. I am the owner of this establishment. You say you are a musician.”

He has not the southern drawl of Charleston. It is decidedly Yankee-northern.

My cheeks are flushed hot-red. His eyes rove over me, and something about the set of his mouth. As if he would devour me whole, if I should allow it.

“Yes, sir. Here are my papers.” I thrust them into his hand and he touches it a breath too long. “I…studied with Heir Schubert for a time.”

The man’s black eyebrows shoot beneath the matching color hair. “Heir Schubert, you say. Plimpton, your impulsivity might have cost us a real find, today.”