Wedding Violet (Fair Cyprians of London 4)

But the only gold or diamonds he could envisage were those he’d love to see adorning Violet’s creamy white throat.

“You’ll catch your death, Max.” Mabel hugged herself and stamped her feet to ward off the cold as she stood on the top step. “Violet will understand if you don’t come to fetch her. Let her return in the carriage.” She sighed and added a little wistfully, “Though I daresay you can’t bear to be away from each other a moment longer.”

Max nodded. “Goodbye, Mabel.” He held out his hand to his old friend and was pleased when she moved to embrace him. He wanted to know there was no bad blood between them since he didn’t know how long it would be before he saw her again.

But her words stayed in his mind. He couldn’t bear to be away from Violet at this moment, it was true, but he couldn’t be with her, either. It would be fatal to see her again, which was why he’d had to resort to some vigorous exercise in this ridiculously inclement weather. Anything to keep himself occupied while he whiled away the time until he could board his ship.

Without any notion of where he was going, he set off in the direction of his grandfather’s estate, though of course he had no intention of going there.

But he had to go somewhere and so he headed west. A brisk, hour-long canter in that direction might work off his agitation and he could return later that night to a hot bath, a fortifying whiskey, and then bed where he’d spend his final night under English skies.

He’d have all of tomorrow to make any final preparations, as long as he was at the docks by four in the afternoon.

It was a relief to leave the traffic behind him and to at last be amidst meadowed fields and quiet woods.

He imagined Violet readying herself for Lord Bainbridge, a thought which made him feel physically ill. He hoped the additional funds he’d deposited into her account would make her think more kindly towards him.

Not that he feared on that score. Violet had been remarkably accepting. Some females in her position would have gone all o

ut to stick their claws in as deeply as they could. They’d have used reproaches and pretended Max had gone back on his word.

Violet, of course, had made it clear how much she wanted him to stay, but she’d done it so sweetly. If Max had had any intention of remaining in England, he would have stayed with her.

She was the most beautiful…and the most beautifully natured…female he’d ever come across.

The steady drizzle by late afternoon, and the effort it took to avoid the muddy puddles, whose depth he could not gauge, should have taken all his attention yet still his mind wandered back to Violet.

How he wished he could think of something else. It was too dismal to dwell on her sad life and how much she’d lost.

He passed a hovel on the outskirts of a village and a couple of scrawny, ragged children, each with a dead rabbit slung over his shoulder. Violet was lucky compared with them, he reminded himself. There were thousands of young women in her position and Max, tenderhearted though he was, couldn’t play philanthropist to them all.

He’d reasoned this out many times.

Yet, he did wish he could finish up with one last, fitting gesture before he left English soil. A gesture that would bring a little joy and solace to Violet. Something that came from the heart, but which suggested no weakening on his part.

The thought presented itself to him quite suddenly when he saw the name carved into a stone with an arrow pointing in the direction he was travelling, though he was about to turn back.

Ruislip.

It wasn’t so great a distance further. In all likelihood, it’s where he’d intended to go from the outset, if he was prepared to admit it.

By the time he reached the turnoff for Ruislip, Max wasn’t at all sure it was a good idea to follow his inclination to deviate via the village. What could be gained by it other than a cursory glance at the house where Violet claimed to have spent her last few years? The house of an unloving grandmother who was fast losing her mind, according to his aunt’s reports. Max certainly had nothing to say to her.

Nevertheless, he left the main road and directed his horse towards the cluster of habitations. Other than what were obviously labourers’ dwellings, there were several fine houses on either side of the graveyard.

This was the graveyard in which Violet’s sister had been laid to rest. The sky had darkened considerably, but he was already so wet through the weather hardly mattered.

What did matter was executing a lovely, final gesture—laying flowers on Emily Lilywhite’s grave. He could write to Violet and describe the charm of her sister’s resting place. It would surely give her some comfort. He felt a jolt of warmth at the idea of making Violet happy, and raised his head to survey the area: a few ramshackle, ill-tended graves to his right, and a few rows of neatly tended graves stretching out towards the grey stone church that huddled bleakly amidst grey skies and dull green fields.

He began to walk the rows, searching for the Lilywhite graves, until he found Zebediah Lilywhite—perhaps Violet’s grandfather—beneath a hawthorn tree. Beside him were the graves of his son and daughter-in-law. “Died in Cawnpore. In Memory of…” Yes, these were Violet’s parents. With their deaths having occurred in India, he’d been unsure if he’d find anything here to mark their passing.

He was also relieved to find evidence Violet had been telling the truth. But then, that was one of the things he admired about Violet. She was honest.

Honest about her feelings. Honest about her failings.

Yet proud.

He shook his head to clear it when he realised what he was doing—dwelling on Violet much too much when he was about to leave her. He was here to carry out a small gesture to assuage his conscience and make Violet feel better. That was all.