The Violet Hour (2 page)

Plimpton scowls, regarding my clothing with suspicion.

“Might you give us a sample, Miss…” he unfurls the papers, eyes roving, “Teagarden?”

He gestures to the small stage. I stride forward, willing, willing my legs to hold out.

Sarah collapses in a front row seat, primly folding her hands in her lap. She keeps her eyes cast low, probably also trying to remain upright.

He places the violin in my hands. As I slip it beneath my chin, joy ricochets through my soul. And I begin.

The music flows forth from my soul, as I channel emotion, as I was instructed.

Without permission, I begin to hum a melody in counterpoint—so that my music and voice hum together in a polyphony. My perfect pitch ringing throughout the tented amphitheater.

I halt. I have lost track of all time and space, as is my custom when I play.

The seats come back into focus and I see not just Sarah, but the entire orchestra, hired hands gathered behind them, and small children before me, cross-legged on the ground.

Silas begins a slow, metered clapping, which erupts into thunderous applause and whistles.

Sarah meets my eyes and we share a communal, non-verbal sigh.

“You are hired, Miss Teagarden.”

Chapter One

1860 Charleston, South Carolina

9 months later

I see him, dead-center in the crowd.

My heart seizes then surges against my ribcage, pumping a thick terror all the way to my fingertips. They tingle as I grip the neck of my cello, hastening it between my legs.

The man’s form amplifies as if he is the melody and the rest of the people milling past him, the harmony. His soldier’s uniform, emblazoned with my father’s crest is unmistakable, even at night. Come to find me. To haul me home.

Jonesy notices. As he adjusts his violin beneath his chin, his dark eyes search the crowd for the source of my panic.

“What is it, Allegra?”

I glance around the orchestra, reassuring myself that no other musician’s take notice. My fellow cellists are oblivious, smiling and murmuring, awaiting the conductor’s call to attention.

“By the boathouse.” My voice sounds small and weak. I thrust back my shoulders against it.

Jonesy’s eyes flick through the crowd and halt. He nods. “Steady, my friend. We’ll shove off in moments.”

The riverboat teems with well-heeled Charleston society. Women in ball gowns uselessly flutter fans against the brutal, oppressive heat; even though dusk has fallen, every inhalation is like breathing underwater.

I never thought I’d miss England’s rain, but the summer blaze is intolerable.

The last few patrons’ board and the boat rumbles as it shudders away from the dock.

Away from the amusement park, away from my wretched hunter.

My relieved breath escapes as my chest struggles to find its normal rhythm.

My eyes flit across the shoreline—the white guesthouse, the white swans and peacocks, and the hovering red and white striped balloon, stark against the darkening night sky.

The amusement park,
Charleston’s Fancy,
is both my savior and my master.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise despite the close heat.

Someone else watches.
Silas, the grand owner, glares from the dock. His eyes firmly fixed on me, despite the throng covering the deck.

The man misses nothing.

“You’re fine now, Allegra. Breathe my friend,” Jonesy prompts. His eyes follow my gaze to Silas. “Forget him. Choke on his importance, he will.”

I force a weak smile. “One must have a dream…”

Bang!

I duck. As does half the string section; my heart hammers like the kettledrum behind me as I struggle to catch my breath.

A flaming blue cluster of light cuts across the inky-black sky, hovering for but a blink above the boat. It blossoms into a fiery flower, raining back down to earth as a sparkling waterfall.

Jonesy smiles widely, the sky casting a blue glow across his features. “The pyrotechnics. I forgot they were trying that tonight.”

“By their reaction, so did everyone else.”

I search the crowd once again, but my seeker is gone. My eyes drift up, searching for the origin of the organized chaos that lights the sky.

On the hill, a man scrambles to and fro, setting the fireworks alight. Four red jets streak heavenward, illuminating his upturned face for a short moment.

I suck in my breath. He is beautiful; tangles of black curls and a long, straight nose and lips. His complexion is dark, exotic.

“Who.” I swallow. “Who is that?”

“That be the warlock,” Marietta interrupts. She leans forward conspiratorially, so close I am able to make out the light sheen of sweat on her ample bosom as it threatens escape from her scalloped décolletage.

“Everyone’s talking about him. His name is LeFroy. He’s even newer than you, deary.”

“Why do you say he’s a witch?”

“Marietta, do not be so provincial. He’s not a witch—” Jonesy begins.

“I have it on good authority he
flies
.”

“What?” A warm tickle of fear flits across my chest.

The conductor taps his rod and the myriad of instruments rise to his call.

I reposition the cello between my legs and risk one final glance.

The hillside is bare, but the pyrotechnics continue to fly, burst and twinkle as if millions of fireflies dance a frenzied tango.

He is gone.

* * *

Brighton

“Jonesy! For heaven’s sake man, hurry up!”

Dark clouds cluster, pregnant and oppressive over the bay.

“Keep your shirt on, Captain Bly.” Jonesy arrives, whipping supplies and water pell-mell into the dingy.

Crack!

Thunder booms, so close the vibration hums to my core. The sound doesn’t bother; indeed, bangs and fizzles are now my life.

I stare heavenward, squinting into the gloom and nod. “Good. Good. We have to hurry, Jones.”

Lightning flashes in the bay,
connecting
with the water. White tendrils spread like a glittery film from the core of the strike. Again and again and again, the heavens alight.

One, two, three, four. Not enough strikes
.

Swirling clouds twist and turn—rumbling inside, as if some great, dark beast longs for escape.

A few hard drops of rain tap my head, and in a blink, the deluge erupts, dowsing us.

Jonesy’s eyes squint against the driving, vertical rain. I clap him hard on the shoulder. “You don’t have to do this.”

His black eyes steal to the isle in the middle of the bay then flick back to me. “I’m afraid I do. You’re daft, LeFroy. So daft, you may drown or fry, depending on your particular death wish.”

“Too true,” I laugh. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Hold up!” A deep booming voice cuts a channel through the fog.

Silas arrives, striding down the launch; his white cane glowing in the gloom. “I need a word, Mr. LeFroy.”

“Blast.” I clamber out of the boat to face him. “Go on.”

The howling wind whips his black hair but those pale, expressionless eyes remain utterly singular. “The receipts were thrice fold tonight because of your little pyrotechnic show. I wish to keep you on indefinitely.”

“Indefinitely is a long time.”

“Don’t be coy, LeFroy. We both know a stroke of my pen could send you running or into shackles.”

My hands clench as I will them still, and not around his windpipe. I nod and grimace. “I must go. We will discuss it later.”

His eyes stray into the bay and back to the dingy. “You truly are mad.”

“Yes, yes.” I wave, already walking away.

Shoving the boat into the water, I steer it toward
Fire Island
without looking back.

Driving sheets of rain lambast our faces. Jagged bolts of light assault the ground ahead amidst a continuous eruption of white light. It flickers on and off as if God’s candle gutters.

Crack
after
crack
cut the night as a litany of bolts strike the ground, steaming and sizzling against the rocky crag in the bay. No doubt some of Fancy’s newer workers will think it a miracle, of so many bolts in one place. But that is precisely the reason I chose it.

One, two, three, four, five, six…

My heartbeat increases. My magic number; enough voltage.

“So it begins.”

The tiny boat skims the choppy waves, rising to catch air and splashing down, slopping seawater over the sides.

Pops and booms of light and sound pock the air above as if a celestial warzone congregates directly overtop the isle.

Jonesy leaps out with furtive glances at the sky. I follow, scrambling into the shallows, to help him secure the boat to the makeshift-dock.

Two cats mewl, winding their way in and out of trees, darting out and back to best avoid the downpour. They finally skitter toward me, embracing their soggy fate.

Jonesy’s eyes narrow to stare. “They’re waiting.
Outside for you
.” Jonesy shivers, pointing at their soaked faces. “That is blasted unnatural; cats detest water.”

I kept my eyes straightforward on the forest to discourage this line of conversation.

“Are you sure you won’t need my assistance?” He prompts.

I shake my head, finally meeting his dark gaze. “No. You know too much already. If you weren’t so observant
and
obstinate, you could still be blissfully oblivious.”

He smiles. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The cats mewl louder, edging ever closer.

I ignore them and pelt down the overgrown path toward the briny pond.

“Good luck, Brighton,” Jones calls to my back.

I raise my hand in reply without turning and run faster.

Chapter Two

“At least permit me to hot iron your hair,” Sarah says, her blue eyes pleading.

“What is the point in that? With this heat, your hard work will melt the moment I step outside. Might you fetch the wig? We’re going to be late.”

I stare in the looking glass and run my fingers through my hair. For a second, I feel the ghost of my mother’s touch, combing out the waves, soothing. “Your strawberry field,” she used to call my tangled mess of curls. I swallow down the lump the thought of her brings to my throat.

My eyes flick outside to the Magnolia trees—which remind me of her.
Everything
about this place reminds me of her. It is both painful and comforting.

Her final resting place is here, in Charleston. On our previous tour, she died. Took her own life.

I swallow hard at the memory of returning to England without her. The long, wordless journey home with my father—culminating in the return to our large, lonely estate; where the two of us floated about like two ghosts, steadfastly avoiding contact with one another.

“Here, milady.” Sarah hands me a dark brown wig and proceeds to arrange my hair beneath it. She upsweeps the sides to fasten them in place with a Magnolia pin, a gift from my mother. I finger it lovingly.

“How about this one, milady?”

I turn to stare and shake away the trance.

Sarah lays my best dress on the bed, smoothing it gently.

I sigh. Old habits die hard.

I walk over and place my hands bracingly on her shoulders.

“I’m not
milady
. And you no longer have to dress me. I now only own five dresses, and
that
is my best one. We must think differently to survive here, Sarah.”

She nods, blue eyes swimming in tears. “I’m sorry, m—Allegra. It’s all taking some getting used to.”

I bite my lip as the pang of guilt shoots through my chest. “I shouldn’t have let you come with me. You should’ve returned home, Sarah.”

Sarah had caught me, mid-flight and insisted on accompanying me.

She shakes her red head furiously, simultaneously whipping the shirtwaist from the armoire. “Don’t you ever say that Allegra Manners. I belong
where you are
. I’m not just your lady’s maid. I’m your—”

“My friend. I know. My very best friend. And I’m glad you’re here, but it still doesn’t feel fair. You didn’t wish to escape. And remember, it’s
Teagarden.
”

Her hands fly to cover her blush. “Oh my word, I will give us away yet. You…had much to flee from milady.”

A storm crosses her face. I know its origin.

Our eyes search one another’s as if sharing the same memory.

My father, veins bulging in his forehead, jabbing his finger against my chest, screaming, “You will marry who I say and you shall do so submissively. If I say roll in the mud, you shall obey. If I say burn that blasted cello—you. Shall.
Obey!
”

I shiver and stare at the sparse surroundings of our bungalow, comparing it to our sprawling estate in the English countryside.