The Violet Hour (7 page)

I turn, hoping my blush doesn’t bely the thoughts in my mind.

He nods. “Back to the sitting room? It’s only proper,” he mumbles, eyes dropping to the carpet as if reading my thoughts.

Or having the same.

He strides back out into the hallway without waiting for my answer.

I follow to the sitting room. He is already hunched over the desk, his fingers sketching furiously as I sweep up behind him to stare over his shoulder.

My breath intakes sharply at the life-like sketches.

Pyrotechnics
explode
on the page in a vertical fashion—the first five, starbursts with long comet tails, the next, six diagonal shooting jets, all detonating at once into flower-shaped pinnacles of light.

“Is this better?” His eyes steal up to mine. Again, pouring over my face.

They suddenly drop to the magnolia pendant around my neck.

He spins so his whole body faces me. “What is your story, Allegra?”

Fear tickles my face. “Whatever do you mean, sir?”

He shakes his head. “You were not
born
poor. Your speech, your manners, your walk, your musical education—all recommend you are
high-born
, Miss Teagarden.” He smiles. “If that is truly your name.” His face clouds again.

I swallow as panic roots in my chest.
What if I was wrong? What if I’ve misjudged him? He may turn me in for a reward today
. This very moment.

“My parents have passed. I have only distant relatives to recommend me. I and my cousin Sarah, had to find a means to
live
, Mr. LeFroy.”

“I said, call me Brighton.” His eyes narrow. “Humbug. Sarah is no more your cousin than I am your husband. You are
hiding
…from someone or something. I wish to know before I entangle myself into your world. I have enough to be getting on with as it is.”

Anger replaces my fear.

His haughty disposition and lack of empathy light a fire in my chest.

“My
life
is no concern of yours. Need I remind you, you are here to create
a show
. A show to keep this place afloat. That is all. I owe you no explanations. Nor any man, anything.”

“Ah.” He nods smugly. “You
are
running from a husband.”

“What? No!” My hands tremble with rage and I press them hard against my thighs. To keep from striking him.

His gaze ticks from my face, lingering on them. The result is a tremor so violent, it is as if I’ve been struck with palsy. Except for my one wretched finger. It remains bent, like a crone’s hooked claw, its tip firmly fixed against my palm.

He hesitates, but then kneels before me and slides his rough fingers atop mine to gently extricate them from my thigh; the remnant of his touch burns my skin.

His other hand reaches up to finger the magnolia dangling below my collarbone. I flinch as a spark of electricity hits my chest.

He drops it quickly looking alarmed, and points to it instead.

“
This.
This says you were well-loved, my dear. It is very fine. I’ve upset you. That was not my intent. Do tell me, where is the other earring?”

“How did you know it was an earring?”

He shrugs. “Quite easily. Where is it?”

“Lost.”
Like me
.

“You shouldn’t wear it—it gives away your game. Anyone with one wit of sense will figure out you’re a fugitive with one glance of your fine necklace against your peasant dress.”

So stupid
. I step forward, feeling dizzy. He steadies me, easing me into a chair. He kneels before me, his chest pressing against my knee. My heart swells, filling my ribcage, pumping madly in my chest.

His proximity sucks every bit of breath from my body. I will myself not to touch him. To reach up and lose myself in the texture of those blackened curls.

“I. I…” I lick my dry lips, trying my best to form coherent words.

“I will not harm you, Allegra. You, and your secrets are safe with me. I have my own…troubles. Too much to ever add to anyone else’s. Keep your secrets for now, and keep them close. But if you are ever in need of help, know you may come to me.”

I nod. No words come forth. They seem to have been washed away in the pounding river of blood pumping from my ridiculous, smitten heart.

He stands and my breath returns.

He strides to my cello and walks it back, placing it before me. “Play. I will hold the pictures for you to compose.”

I place the cello between my legs as he lifts the sketches. He sits directly across from me in a wingback chair and holds aloft the starburst.

I stare at it, my mind bringing it to life, infusing it with color and sound.

I give the bow a tentative pull across the strings. My mind
explodes
with images, travelling down my limbs, expelling out my fingertips.

In a breath, the dance begins; my fingers racing up and down the cello’s neck, struggling to keep pace with the sound and images pouring from my head.

The feel of the sturdy wood between my knees emboldens me, its vibration humming through me like a moody lullaby.

We meld. I forget Lefroy; the instrument and I become one.

My feelings—
pain, desolation, desertion, longing
—pour into notes, saturating the room. Brighton disappears. I barely realize when he flips the pages, focusing solely on his sketches.

On the light. On a place where only goodness reigns.

Where I might be happy, and no longer afraid with every step I take.

And much too soon…his hands are empty.

The images halt, breaking my trance.

The silence in the room from the lack of notes leaves a ringing in my ears and I shake my head.

Brighton’s eyes are wide and his chest is heaving. A trickle of sweat cuts down the side of his face, past his sideburn. He quickly swipes it with the back of his hand and presses his thin lips together.

His blue-green eyes
blaze
. I shiver, gooseflesh erupting down my neck into my décolletage. He blinks rapidly, breaking our near-enchanted state.

I wrestle to keep the disappointment from my face.

He stands and strides for the door. “I. I must go. That was…” he turns back to stare at me, chest still rising—“
Magnificent
.”

He swallows and bends for his bag. He tosses something toward me, and my shaking hands manage to catch it.

“Whatever is this?”

“Henna.” He nods to my head. “Whatever your hair color beneath that wig—your eyebrows do not match. Another give-away. You may color them with that.”

My mouth pops open and he slides out before I can manage another word.

Despite our lack of physical contact, I wonder if my own wedding night could ever have more passion.

* * *

Evenings later

I should not be here. Stalking the shore, stealing a boat once again. This act alone is scandalous if I am discovered.

Eavesdropping, spying again. If this man wanted me to know his secrets, he would’ve told me himself.

The isle is quiet, the ride across the waves suspiciously uneventful.

As if I am supposed to come this night.

But something
draws me
to Brighton.

It is like he is a magneto-stone and my heart and mind are helpless to the attraction.

It vexes me on many levels.

In truth, I’ve avoided men most of my life. My father, my brother—both difficult and cruel—made me think the entire gender hopeless.

But him
. Despite his intensity, despite his gruffness…I sense
more
, when I look at him.

Like these secrets he holds, he longs to tell…someone. The right someone. He is a mystery waiting to be solved.

I feel the yearning—the draw in my chest. My heart all but sings, like a beautiful but demanding siren song.

I am the moth and Fire Island the flame.

I bite my lip. “Yes. And if they get too close, they are incinerated.”

The boat arrives in the shadows and I quickly secure it.

I slink my way into the forest from the beachhead, absently picking off the burrs which cling to my skirt from the thick underbrush.

Thunder rumbles overhead, once again threatening. I stand straight up.

The murmur of voices, very close.

This time, not in the direction of the cottage. I see a clearly defined path through the trees and swiftly half-run toward the sounds.

I carefully cut through underbrush till I reach the pond and shift closer into the swampy grass, till I can discern their conversation.

Jonesy and Brighton walk the edge of a very large pond. The bright white moon reflects in its still surface.

“Is this fine for the rod?”

Jonesy stabs another of the silver poles into the mud, his face grimacing with the effort. The very silver sentries who almost gave me away on my last visit.

“You know, we are taught to
hide
from lightning, not will it to us, LeFroy.”

Brighton’s face is grave and he huffs as he jabs another into the wet ground. “Sound advice. If given the choice, I would hide.”

The mud makes a sucking sound with every rod placed, till the entire pond is encircled like a metal fortress.

Lightning rods. I have read of them. What in the name of Providence are they doing with so many?

“Tell me what you know about her,” Brighton growls.

My heartbeat instantly rockets, thrashing against my ribs. Is he enquiring after me?

Jonesy’s eyebrows shoot under his jet black hair. “Really? I’m truly astounded. Do you think that inquiry wise?”

Brighton adjusts a pole into the mud as he bites his lip, shaking his head. “No. But I can’t seem to help myself, if you must know.”

“She has her own set of misfortune, Brighton. And you certainly have…” he stops, his hand indicating the pond in a sweeping gesture, “your own set of woes.”

Brighton responds through gritted teeth, “Tell me, Jones.”

Their eyes do battle, like two bucks clashing horns.

Finally Jonesy speaks. “No. That is for her to divulge. I will not compromise her trust.”

He wants to know my story
.

Thrill and fear swell my chest next to bursting.

My head swims and I barely notice as they depart the pond, heading further into the woods. I wrap my arms about myself and pad quietly after them.

They quickly arrive at a barn, the building itself larger than the whole of Brighton’s dwelling.

Multi-colored flickering lights dart and dance through the translucent window panes, casting strange shadows across the swamp-grass.

Thunder rumbles a reminder of the impending storm; its vibrations a heavenly tympani in a continuous ethereal drumroll.

It sounds like a warning
.

Which I steadfastly ignore.

A mewling makes me startle and trip; my already-tense muscles almost snapping in fear.

Two large cats follow me through the underbrush, their calls growing louder with every step. My head whips between the barn and back; they will give me away with their eerie caterwauling.

“Shh. Shh. You blasted creatures.” I crouch down in the ferns, staring them head-on.

One black, one yellow. There is something…
odd
about them. They mewl louder and louder, venturing closer.

“Shh. Shh.”

I hold out my hand and the yellow eases his whiskered face to rub against my fingers, then moves to twine his full body against my legs in a feline greeting.

“Oh!”

The black cat leaps onto my lap, kneading my dress, purring as if we were long-lost friends. And I see it.
The paws.

My blood chills. The paws are far too large, have too many feline toes.

Was there something wrong with these cats?
“Don’t be daft.”

One of my father’s primary complaints was my overactive imagination, to which I had been treated to hours upon hours of lectures.

Of course something was wrong. The better question was,
“Are they evil?”

I stare at their furry faces; eager and yearning for affection.
No.
They, too, were lost. Perhaps I belonged here, on this island of curious, lost creatures.

Recognition sneaks around my defenses as I stare at them. Tears burn my eyes and I slump to the ferns.

They remind me of…me.

Images lambast my mind—of myself as a young girl, following my father,
aching
for the slightest inkling of affection. Which never transpired. All embraces and words of comfort died with my mother. Beneath the water.

I think of mother’s sketchbook. I have kept it tucked away—the sight of it too much to bear. This morning however, I had unearthed it from the bottom of the armoire and placed it in my pack, resolved to use it. To place my notes alongside her drawings.