The Violet Hour (12 page)

Thunder again. Lightning flashes. The images flicker and die.

I jam mother’s sketchbook beneath my dress and flee toward the tree line and…remember.

The lace. Beyond that lace, to the right, was a Magnolia patch.

That was the hem of my mother’s skirt.

* * *

One week later

Allegra

The heat on the veranda is stifling and I flutter my fan, though I know it to be futile.

I stare and shuffle, marveling that a mere porch could be so very beautiful. I stare over the porch rail into a man-made Eden. Crepe myrtles and palmettos give the illusion of water on land as their fronds whisper and flutter in the salty breeze. Pink azaleas dot the stone walkways and magnolias flower and bloom at every turn.

Silas’s ornate privacy door which leads to the midway is closed. People pass by; I see them, coming and going about their business, but not a one dares to glance up at us.

I’d learned the hard way about the Southern custom; when one’s door was closed, it meant the occupants were not ready to receive guests, despite the fact the owners might be clearly visible from the street on their open porch. Southerners considered it the
height
of rudeness to disrespect this custom.

One man, Tom, perhaps a foreigner like me, had ignored this crucial rule, gawking as some well-to-doers lounging on their
piazza.
He was promptly
jailed
…and earned the name, Peeping Tom.

Silas considers me, breaking my reverie; his black eyes rove boldly without the slightest regard for propriety.

I flush deeply and quickly hand him my symphony, fighting to keep my hand steady. The man
smells
weakness; imbibes and swallows and distills it for his own personal use. My heart picks up to a staccato rhythm, as it always does in his presence; which has naught to do with attraction and everything to do with survival.

Being in his presence is like dancing around a jungle cat
. One false word or move, and he will pounce.

His face brightens as he scans the notes. “Marvelous. I assume you’ve penned a copy for Mr. Plimpton?”

I automatically nod.
He is tone deaf, what does he know of marvelous?
I stifle the grin at his choice of words.

I should be thrilled. My
first
original score—and an entire orchestra will play it.

My finger throbs; a physical manifestation of all my hours of composition and practice. I fight not to flex my fingers, to give Silas any indication I may be a liability.

Beneath my skirt, my legs twitch, anxious to vacate the piazza. Wild thoughts fill my head.

There is a certain madness to Silas. That he seems to give free reign when I am alone with him.

His nostrils flare as he stares out across the garden. I recognize lust when it’s before me. Father paraded a fair share of suitors, all tight as thoroughbreds, ready to bed me in a word.

Fear that he will
take me
right here, right now, regardless of the passing workers is a distinct possibility.
Daring
them to glance up. To do something about it, if they dare.

Sweat pops on my brow and my fan flutters in response.

“Will you not stay?” He gestures to the lunch of fresh mussels, laid upon an ornate silver tray on the serving table.

My skin prickles, thinking of the rash that will ensue if I touch even one.

“No, thank you, sir. I must make haste. Practice, you know.”

He is beside me in a blink. My hands grip the piazza railing and I fight the swoon borne of fear.

His finger wraps about my curl as he purrs, “Allegra. You are a most peculiar creature. Peculiar, but oh so enticing.”

I swallow and inch away from him but he closes the gap once again.

I hear a girlish giggle from the street below and feverishly wish myself there, inside that girl’s body and life,
my
voice issuing that innocent sound.

Silas plants his lips in the small space below my ear and whispers, “I shall have you. One way or the other. Wouldn’t it be simpler to just consent. I will even give you the honor of becoming my bride.”

I shudder as his fingers splay and trail down my neck which burns red-hot.

“I do not think so—”

“Do, remember,
sweet
Allegra, that soldiers search the streets for you this very night, and all it would take is a singular word from me to sending you packing.”

I shift tactics. “I am, of course, highly honored by such a suggestion and proposal, sir.” My face blushes hot with the lie, but he seems to be even more enamored by the color.

My breath is coming faster and I struggle to hide it.

I choose my words carefully—he is a powder-keg of a man, and my words the ignition.

“I.” I clear my throat to vanquish the fear. “I am so very honored, Mr. Boone…” I step toward the exit, never dropping our gaze. “But I need to focus on my music. I am a savant of sorts, unable to properly divide my attentions…”

I have reached the door; I jump as the doorknob rattles against my back.

His smile is lascivious. A jackal licking his lips. “Of course. I can see how I might become your obsession; distract you from your music. Which we both need. But one day, I fear my need for you, shall supersede even my need for the coin your music provides.”

I curtsy and hurry out the privacy door, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I feel the impending swoon, but breathe deeply through my nose and out my mouth to ward it off.

I cross the grounds, focusing solely on the warm sun, letting it burn away the cold remnants of his lust.

I do not slow down till I am sure his eyes no longer sear my back.

I pause, exhaling my vexation, as I lean on the rail of the bridge which arches over the small fish pond.

I stare at it intently. I am fairly certain
this
pond is not recorded anywhere in my mother’s sketchbook.

My fingers grip the wood and I close my eyes, raising my face to the sun.

“Miss Teagarden?” My heart leaps at the deep rumble that is his voice

Brighton stands beside me; I feel and smell him. Our arms touch and mine prickles with pimpled gooseflesh.

I open my eyes and turn toward him, smiling. I think of Jonesy’s warning words, but I am…
drawn
to him. Like a moth to his proverbial flame; so much so, I will endure the scorching.

He is smiling slightly at the use of my surname.

“I have been waiting to see you, but you have been…absent…of late.”

“Why, Mr. LeFroy? What did you need me for? The second symphony? I know we need to work on it, it is just—”

He places a singular finger against my lips, quieting me. My eyes widen at this unexpected show of attention. He is always aloof, calculating.

His warm, calloused hand slides over mine and my heart vaults upward, lodging in my windpipe.

He turns my palm over and I resist the urge to close my eyes and savor every bit of his touch.

The feel of cold metal suddenly encircles my index digit, but in the space of a blink, turns curiously
warm
against my skin. The band is a simple silver design.

I cock my head, raising my hand to the sun to stare at it. “Whatever in the world is this?”

His lips press to a thin line. “It is what is loosely referred to as a
cramp ring
.”

A flicker of memory as my mind recalls my governess, proper Miss Potts, and her scoffing derision over this very issue during a history lesson.

“From the 14th century? Was not their power to have been borne of a King’s blessing upon a ring? Mr. LeFroy, you surprise me. I would not take you for a superstitious man?”

He slides the band around my finger in a circle and the heat intensifies and the throb in my finger…
quiets
. I blink repeatedly and I shiver.

“That is not possible.” I flex my hand open and closed. Not a pinch of pain.

“The power was not from the King’s blessing. That portion was indeed a wives’ tale. There were a finite number of rings forged, with specific metallurgical properties—”

My eyebrows bunch and he amends, “Specific metals. Used for centuries in healing. Once known only to the Pharaohs.”

“And
this
,
is one such ring?” I stare at it with equal reverence and horror.

He nods gruffly. “Cannot have that precious cello-hand lame, now can we?”

My finger is noticeably less swollen. Mother was right about one fact, Charleston is special. Will the wonders of this place never cease?

“Where would one acquire such a ring?”

He ignores my question, his eyes scrutinizing my hair. “I see you used the Henna.”

“Yes.” I playfully turned my head right and left, wiggling my eyebrows, letting him admire my handiwork. “Better?”

He shakes his head. “No. I expect your true color is magnificent. I would very much like to see it someday.” His finger boldly strays to the dark ringlet of my wig, to ease it behind my shoulder.

My breath catches and I remind myself to breathe.

“Perhaps. Perhaps we might trade secrets.”

And you could tell me about those animals, about that island. About your Samson-like strength.

His eyes narrow and his expression turns as black as the storms he chases. He gives me a stiff tip of his hat. “Good day, Miss Teagarden.”

Without thinking, I clutch his arm. “
Allegra
. Call me Allegra. And please don’t go. I’m—I’m sorry. You can keep your secrets.”

He pauses, turning back. His mouth tightens and his words slip out through gritted teeth, “I. Don’t
want
to. I
have
to.”

The sadness in his eyes cuts to my core. It is as deep and fathomless as the water’s where we both search for answers.

He strides from the bridge into the cover of the giant Oak tree.

I follow, pleading, “Please, Brighton, don’t go. Not yet.”

He halts and spins back and leans in—so close and so quick, his breath caresses my cheek.

The slight tremor in his voice betrays his emotion. “I would love nothing better to confide my secrets. To unload this heavy burden that weighs down my very soul. But…that would be best
for me
. Not you. There is safety in ignorance, Allegra.”

The cry of the animals fills my head
. Could he be capable of such cruelty?
But the rabbit stood up, in the end.

I stare at him. The stark tenderness in his voice; such sincerity could not be feigned.
Could it?

He turns to leave, mistaking my far-away expression for a dismissal—but I slip my arm through his, securing it tightly. “Walk me to my rehearsal?”

He laughs nervously, staring at our linked arms, but his eyes concede. “Fine. No harm in that, I suppose.”

We stroll past the white swans and the workers scuttling back and forth, repairing various rides.

“Where
have
you been, Mr. LeFroy? You swept in, sketched me pretty pictures, inspired a symphony, left me breathless with a chute ride and disappeared. Why, I felt like a common strumpet.”

His face colors and he laughs loudly. His eyes dance as he regards me once again. “Oh,
you,
Miss Teagarden, are a truly dangerous creature.”

“Dangerous enough to handle the likes of you.”

My heart beats so fast I fight the swoon. I bite my lip
.

Would he think me too bold?
If I confess he
is
and
has been
in my every thought since I first laid eyes upon him?

I find the prospect of
not
telling him leaves a bigger hole than the gnawing fear of truth.

I leap. I hear the gravity in my own voice. I halt, forcing him to face me.

“Please, Brighton. Do not disappear again. I…merely wish to be in your presence. I care not if you confess anything, ever. Just. Stay with me? Allow me that?”

His mouth opens along with his eyes. He snaps it closed and licks his lips. “I. You deserve so much better than what I am able to offer, Allegra.”

He continues his ardent stride and I struggle to keep pace with his long-legged steps.

I see the gazebo ahead and the occasional practice note floats to our ears.

My heart falls and I extricate my arm. “That is to be your excuse then, to let me down easy?”

The shake of his head is so fervent it sends his black curls falling across his forehead. “No, no, I assure you. But I’m afraid I find you much too interesting. Too consuming. I do not divide my obsessions well. I will never provide the life that all women wish for.”

My eyebrows press down as I prickle with irritation. “You are presumptuous, sir, to assume to know the life which I desire. You know nothing of the sort. Of my desires.”

He smiles. “Too true. Excuse my assumption. I scarcely know you.” A storm wrinkles his brow, but he battles it, and the lines soon smooth.

“Come to the island tonight. I will prepare supper.”