Lady violet pays a call, p.1
Lady Violet Pays a Call, page 1
Lady Violet Pays a Call
The Lady Violet Mysteries — Book Seven
Grace Burrowes
Grace Burrowes Publishing
Lady Violet Pays a Call
Copyright © 2022 by Grace Burrowes
All rights reserved.
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Cover design by Wax Creative, Inc.
Cover art by Cracked Light Studio, Inc.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
To My Dear Readers
Miss Dauntless—Excerpt
Dedication
This series is dedicated to my nephew, Jackson.
Chapter One
HUGH
A gentleman who asks the woman he loves to marry him should be devastated when circumstances prevent the lady from speaking her vows. Circumstances, in the person of a wife I had thought long dead, showed up at precisely the moment when Lady Violet Belmaine had agreed to become Madame Hugh St. Sevier.
Le Bon Dieu has a unique sense of humor, non? And in my humble person, the Almighty has been provided with endless entertainment. Nonetheless, divine providence has also smiled upon me in my blackest hours. A gentleman does not complain.
My wife Ann and I were the victims of complementary vagaries of war. While I was serving as a medical volunteer during Wellington’s campaign on the Iberian Peninsula, Ann’s first husband—a young Scotsman—died in battle. She was not on the official rolls as an officer’s wife, and thus she was stranded in a foreign land, her options limited to holy matrimony with my humble self or unholy prostitution with half the regiment.
Ann is pragmatic by nature.
After we married, she watched me practice battlefield medicine for less than a year. She then took her chances trailing a band of deserters heading for the coast in hopes of finding passage home. I was told her party had come to a bad end at the hands of a French patrol—no survivors.
That erroneous information was spread by English officers in an effort to stem the never-ending tide of disloyal soldiers. Ann, a few months later, read of my supposed death on the casualty rolls, and thus our paths diverged. Chance alone had me traveling to Perth, Scotland, in the company of Lady Violet Belmaine, my former intended. On the streets of Perth, not a year past, Ann had caught a glimpse of me, and I of her.
At the time, I had resorted to the usual widower’s defenses—my eyes had played tricks on me. Scotland, the land of Ann’s birth, had played tricks on me. My increasing regard for Lady Violet had inspired my conscience to see what had not been before me.
Those chance sightings might have been the end of matters—many an ill-suited couple has parted ways to start afresh—except that Ann and I had been married long enough and passionately enough that, unbeknownst to me, a child had resulted.
Do not judge us, not unless you have been young, lonely, and far from home in wartime.
Fiona has her mother’s flaming red hair, my brown eyes, and a spirit that delights me every time I behold my daughter.
Fiona’s mother has a temper, a complicated code of honor, and an unwavering devotion to our child. I admire all three attributes, truly I do. Ann confronted me with the fact of her existence—and Fiona’s—as much to prevent Lady Violet from undertaking a bigamous union as to ensure Fiona enjoyed my support and protection.
What I wanted was of no particular moment to Ann, nor should it have been. Were she to ask me about my wishes, I’m not sure I could fashion a coherent reply in French or English, even now.
In her defense, Ann had no notion when she interrupted my wedding plans that Violet already carried my child—and neither had I. Violet herself had yet to come to that realization. If all goes well, her ladyship should become a mother in less than six months’ time. If all goes perfectly, she will become a Scotsman’s marchioness before that happy occasion.
What a muddle, as the English would say.
The only honorable course open to me was to set aside my ambitions where Lady Violet was concerned—or to allow her to graciously set me aside. I turned my energies to being Fiona’s papa and Ann’s…
I believe the English term is housemate.
We dwell at Belle Terre in rural Kent, a property I inherited. I had been considering selling Belle Terre, but when Ann and I needed a place to sort ourselves out, I reasoned that an estate to which I was not attached, one where I had little loyalty from the staff, was the better choice.
We have been here nearly three months. We are settling in. Protracted silences are relieved by short conversations relating mostly to Fiona’s activities.
I am not to buy our daughter a pony for at least two years.
I am to speak French to her in the forenoon. I may speak English to her thereafter.
I am to read to her at bedtime, though Fiona is old enough to grasp simple texts herself in English, French, and Gaelic.
Thus do the lord and lady of the manor settle in at Belle Terre.
I am permitted to ride out, and because the acreage associated with the property is considerable, I use my time in the saddle to acquaint myself with the land and tenants. The work is uphill there—there too—owing in some part to my lamentable Frenchness.
I have grown heartily weary of speaking to my tenants in slow, loud words of few syllables, but the average Kentish farmer is apparently prone to poor hearing.
My horse’s hearing is excellent, and when Charlemagne pricked his ears and stared intently at the path leading up to the manor house, I came alert as well. I was alone in the stable, the lads having gone for their nooning. I was happy to busy myself with removing Charlemagne’s saddle and bridle after a morning of loudly admiring Mrs. Deever’s new baby—despite the infant’s slight case of convergent strabismus—and loudly hoping Mr. Deever’s harvest was as impressive as he predicted.
The steps on the path were soft and quick, also light—not a grown man. I had time to both hope and dread that my wife sought me out before Fiona scampered into view.
“Papa, you must come. Mama says. Vite! Vite!”
Ann never summoned me, and I never summoned her. Vite! Vite! was both encouraging and mildly alarming. “I must first put Charlemagne away, child, then I will come.”
“Put him away quickly, Papa. Mr. Grant has need of you. He came to the kitchen to fetch Mrs. Trebish, and she came to fetch Mama in the sewing room, and Mama sent me to fetch you.”
Mrs. Trebish, our new housekeeper, had taken her post with fear and trembling at the prospect of working in the home of a murdering Frenchie. Only Ann’s repeated reassurances that the owner of the household was also a physician who had served under Wellington induced Mrs. T to grace us with her presence.
She was civil to me, but much preferred to deal with Ann, whose Scottish origins were also less than ideal in Mrs. T’s eyes, but by no means as dubious as my own.
“You should tell Jules to put Charlemagne away, Papa.”
“Jules is taking his luncheon.”
“Jules!” Fiona enjoyed prodigiously healthy lungs. “S’il vous plaît, venez now! Come, please!”
When excited, Fiona mixed up her languages. When absolutely beside herself, which I had observed on only one occasion, she lapsed into her mother’s native Gaelic. Charlemagne looked as if he too was about to start babbling in several languages, so great was his dismay at Fiona’s agitation.
“Jules is in the servants’ hall, Fiona. He cannot hear you.”
“Then I will fetch him!” She dashed off, leaving me to remove Charlemagne’s saddle and lead him to his loose box. I did not put away the saddle or bridle, nor did I give the horse the grooming he deserved. The beast seemed happy enough to be reunited with the pile of hay waiting for him in the corner of his stall, and I had cooled him out properly.
I adopted as rapid a pace as dignity would allow when I made my way to the house. My wife had sent for me, albeit at the behest of a neighbor. Considering that Ann generally had no use whatsoever for her husband, I was pleased to heed her summons.
I came into the house using the back entrance intended for servants and tradesmen. This habit horrified all and sundry. Because Belle Terre was a sizable replica of the Parthenon, my abandonment of decorum saved me many pointless steps circling around to a more genteel approach.
I came to my wife in all my dirt and found her in the company of an agitated Dervid Grant. They occupied Ann’s private parlor, an elegant space full of light, soft upholstery, and the scent of roses.
Grant was a tenant farmer, using the term loosely. More significantly, he was the father of a bewilderingly large brood, considering that he was still a young man. His presence in Ann’s parlor signified dire trouble afoot.
In addition to be
“Could be twins again,” he was saying as he ran a hand through disheveled wheat-blond hair. “The twins were awful. Cassia nearly died, they took so long to be born.”
He noted my arrival and nodded at me, then began circling a battered cap in his hands.
“Your wife is in childbed?” I asked.
“She’s in agony, sir. Miss Marigold said I was to fetch you.”
But of course. Fetch me now that the situation had become dire, when saving mother and child was a much less likely proposition than it might have been a day ago. If all my skill and all my experience yielded only tragedy, the fault would lie with me and not with the midwife who’d so humbly—and belatedly—had me summoned.
“Give me a moment to fetch my husband’s medical bags,” Ann said, “and I will need to change into an older dress.”
“Please hurry,” Mr. Grant said, “and I’ll just be going.”
Ann had made the sensible decision for me, the only possible decision. “Nonsense, Grant,” I said. “My gig will be out front in ten minutes, and you will arrive home much more quickly by traveling with us. Have you eaten yet today?”
He looked bewildered, and as if the slightest breeze would send him into a sound nap on Ann’s Savonnerie carpet. I knew what that felt like, when exhaustion and worry stole every last wit.
“Go down to the kitchen, Mr. Grant,” Ann said, heading for the door. “You must keep up your strength. Please tell Cook to prepare a basket to send along with us, because your children must eat as well.”
Grant looked to me for either a second to that motion or a translation into some dialect a tired, terrified male could understand.
“Food,” I said. “A sandwich for yourself, a basket for the children. Off you go to the kitchen, and send one of the grooms for the gig.”
I did not clap my hands and snap, Vite! Vite! as Fiona had done, for that would have been French of me—also uncharacteristically forward. Grant already lacked confidence in my medical skill, and I did not want to add to his fears.
I caught up with Ann on the landing, though she was moving at her usual forced march.
“You will have to see to my hooks,” she said, “and do not think of remonstrating with me, Hugh.”
“Why would I remonstrate with you?”
I earned myself an inspection at the top of the steps for that perfectly innocent question. “These people cannot pay you,” Ann said, “and what they do not pay for, they do not respect. I know that, but a mother’s life and the life of her baby are in peril.”
“I do not need their money,” I said as we traversed the family wing corridor.
“But you deserve their respect.”
What I truly longed for was Ann’s respect. In a distant way, I’d once had it. The surgeons who supported the military were all too useful after a battle, and even between battles, and our work was challenging. We often toiled for days with little rest and did so in the midst of horrendous suffering. In that sense, we’d been respected, also feared, resented, and egregiously under-supported.
“Respect is earned,” I said, holding open the door to our suite. “And that will take time. Who is this Miss Marigold?” An older unmarried woman might well be a midwife if her mother or aunt had been a midwife, but I had come across no Miss Marigolds in the local churchyard.
“Miss Marigold Fletcher,” Ann said. “Daughter of the late vicar. She and her mother bide in the little stone cottage just down the green from the smithy. The one with the blue salvia in the window boxes and flower beds. You should change out of that waistcoat.”
“Right.” I was wearing a blue waistcoat embroidered with red and gold lilies, one of my favorites. Pretty and a bit Continental, but not gaudy. A practicing doctor kept a supply of plain black waistcoats, the better to hide the inevitable stains.
We reached the bedroom, and Ann swept the hair off her nape and presented me with her back. As far as the servants knew, we enjoyed the usual pleasures and familiarities of marital partners.
The day we’d arrived at Belle Terre, our trunks had been taken up to the largest bedroom suite. Neither Ann nor I had been willing to announce that husband and wife did not share a bed. I had offered to sleep on the cot in the dressing room, and onto that lumpy, short rack I had consigned myself every night since.
On this occasion, perhaps because I knew time was of the essence, I permitted myself the barest hint of awareness of my wife’s person. Ann’s looks were too bold to be considered pretty by the English, but I was not English.
Her hair had first drawn my notice, a lush, incendiary red that reached to her hips when unbound. She had the legendary temper of a redhead, and more than once, her first husband had bedded down with the horses rather than face her wrath.
I had admired Ann’s spirit then. Now, I was consigned to spending my nights on the lit de tourment infernale. In defense of my sanity, I ignored her abundant feminine charms as best I could.
My wife was beyond pretty. She was attractive, full of vitality and passion. Her mood was often broody, but she also had a quick, earthy sense of humor that charmed and surprised me. She had the most lovely skin, petal-smooth and pale, and for a moment, I allowed myself to imagine brushing my thumb over her nape.
“You should eat something too,” she said. “You haven’t had lunch, and babies are no respecters of schedules.”
“We’ll raid the hamper,” I replied, pulling myself from reveries that replaced the brush of my thumb with the brush of my lips. “You haven’t had your lunch yet either.”
She walked away from me, her dress gaping open. I should not have found the sight fetching, but on a purely animal level, I did. My emotions—and Ann’s—were more complicated. Not three months past, I had been all but engaged to Lady Violet, a woman I had taken to my bed, loved sincerely, and would always hold in highest esteem.
But when I’d been a young man trying to find his feet in the military world, I had also loved Ann. I had admired her from a discreet distance since the day she’d shown up in my infirmary to ask if her husband was among the injured.
She had been married at the time. My admiration had thus been of the purely theoretical sort. I aspired to all the honor a gentleman should claim, of course, but more to the point, I was a Frenchman practicing medicine in an English military camp.
I watched my step.
When the officers’ wives had proposed that I solve the problem created by the death of Ann’s first husband, I had immediately agreed. After a hasty wedding, I simply had not known how to nurture the seedlings of loneliness, genuine respect, and desire into the blossoms of affection and abiding regard. In time, I might have puzzled it out, but Ann’s patience had reached its limit after less than a year of marriage.
I could not determine if my desire for Ann was a betrayal of Lady Violet—now engaged to another—or a betrayal of the Ann who’d deserved to be wooed and charmed. Perhaps admitting desire was a betrayal of my amour propre, because I deserved a wife who desired and respect me as well, didn’t I?
I ruminated on these imponderables while I tidied myself and changed into a black waistcoat. Ann donned a dress of a plain, lightweight brown wool. I did up her hooks, and then we were off down the steps to await the gig.
“I never asked if you wanted me to come along,” Ann said, gaze on the sweeping curve of the front drive.
We had fallen into the habit of tucking our questions under casual observations. I despaired to see Ann, once so bold and saucy, all trussed up in manners and caution. I was none too happy in such attire myself.
“Of course I want you with me,” I said. “A woman’s presence at a lying-in is always a comfort, and any fellow but the husband is a decided awkwardness.” For high society, that was changing, as the profession of accoucheur found a foothold with families of rank. Here in the shires, neither physicians nor surgeon-apothecaries typically attended births, though they might consult on difficult cases.
