Dark Surrender (6 page)

But the creature he’d been presented with in the prayer room had been anything but a guttersnipe.

He’d just finished innumerable unanswered pleas to God, and turned to behold a grown woman, in her mid-twenties. The gown she wore was shabby from overuse, but fell perfectly against her too-slender frame. Her skin was an unfashionable bronze, but flawless and smooth across high cheekbones and scandalously bare arms. Her eyes were a blue so deep one almost believed them purple—no doubt why she’d given herself the false name of “Violet”—and framed by eyelashes as thick and rich as her unbound hair. The auburn tresses had been damp and lifeless at first, but during the course of the conversation, they’d dried into big, looping curls about her face and shoulders. The ringlets tumbled halfway to her hips. She looked a perfect angel.

Miss Smythe, he had realized in shock, was stunningly beautiful. With a few more pounds on her frame and a decent gown to accentuate the results, she’d be breathtaking. She was the last thing he needed.

“What about the new governess?” he demanded gruffly.

Roper hesitated. “What do we know about her?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Alistair returned. “And by the grace of God, that’s precisely how much she knows about us. That is the only way this arrangement could even work.”

“But two pounds per week, Master. It’s . . .”

Ah. The money. Truth be told, any young lady who landed upon a doorstep in as ragged condition as had Miss Smythe, must be in far greater need of those two coins than Alistair. However, he could well understand Roper’s concerns. Regardless of Alistair’s flush pockets, two pounds per week was an outlandish sum to promise a strange woman of unknown origin.

“I will hardly miss it. And Lillian’s education is worth any price.” Nonetheless, Alistair recognized this hope as the fanciful dream that it was. In nine years, his daughter had never permitted him to teach her so much as basic sums. “If Miss Smythe manages to achieve any improvement with Lillian, she will walk out of Waldegrave Abbey having earned every penny.”

Roper nodded slowly. He might or might not agree with his master’s decision, but he understood the logic and the emotion behind it, and would suffer his role as silent watcher without complaint. “Where is the young lady now?”

Alistair motioned in the direction of the shadowed passageway. “With Lillian.”

His manservant choked, his face purple beneath his scars. “
Alone?
”

“Lillian invited her to stay,” Alistair said simply. Although nothing was simple. Within seconds of her arrival, the fair stranger had already wrought her first miracle. He just wished Miss Smythe’s magic hadn’t made him feel so . . . trivial.

Roper appeared to be suffering apoplexy on the spot. “Miss Lillian . . .
invited
. . . ?”

Alistair fit his fingers into the handle of the shears and stretched open the blades. The shears were old, but still strong and serviceable. He sharpened them after every moonlit trip to the garden—which is where he would be now, were it not for his anxious manservant. He closed the blades with a snap.

“I’m going to take some air. Stay by the bells, should Lillian ring.”

Without waiting for a response, Alistair sidestepped his manservant. Bracing himself against the onslaught of a chill Shrewsbury breeze, he stepped out into the twilight.

He yearned to tilt his face up at the stars, to greet his old friends Hercules and Draco, but did not indulge the desire. Not if he couldn’t share the night sky with his daughter. Oh, how he wished to. But the last time, she had run off and nearly died from the breaking dawn. He would not take that risk again. Even though it was past twilight, he himself wouldn’t even be out-of-doors, were it not for the goal of bringing some small piece of the outside world to his daughter. Fresh roses, every week.

He pocketed the garden shears and approached with caution. As always, an explosion of flowers bloomed about Marjorie as if her mere touch could cause the tiniest seed to blossom. Inhaling their scent, he turned his back to the light of the moon.

His shadow fell upon the closer of two gravestones. His gaze locked on the stark letters etched therein. He would never forget the first of March, 1826. The morning of his daughter’s birth. And the morning of his wife’s death, as well as the death of life as Alistair knew it. Forever.

He had to rely on his memory in order to gaze upon his wife’s angelic face, for she lay in a casket six feet below the scented petals. And because he could not provide Lillian with her mother, he offered what little he could: stories. The more imperfect their lives became, the more perfect Marjorie shone in his memory and in his tales. And why not? He had thus far been unable to give Lillian anything else that she wanted. The least he could give her was a goddess for a mother. An angel who had returned to the heavens.

As the years went by, the sharpness of his grief had dulled. What his daughter really needed was a mother in flesh and blood. Someone just as good-hearted, just as pure of body and soul, just as perfect as the one she’d lost. He would not offer her anything less. He only wished he could give her so much more. First, however, he would have to cure her disease.

Only then could Lillian find joy at last. And only then would he deserve his own peace. To be worthy of his daughter’s love. To forgive himself.

CHAPTER FOUR

Long after the door locked shut behind her retreating father, Lillian remained a silent doll, devoid of all animation. Violet hugged the little girl’s unresponsive body to her chest. Both of them facing the closed door, Violet rested her cheek against the dark tangle of Lillian’s hair.

Violet wished she could think of something comforting to say. She ached to assure the child that everything was all right, or at the very least soon would be. But clearly that was not the case, and Violet refused to lie to children. They endured enough.

A drop of wetness streaked down one of Lillian’s pale cheeks.

“Oh, honey.” Violet sank to the floor and pulled Lillian into her lap. “I know, love. I know.”

“You don’t know. You
can’t
know. And for that, I hate you, too. I hate everyone. I hate everything.” Lillian wept brokenly. “I just want to see the sun.”

Violet’s chest constricted in empathy. “I don’t blame you in the least. But your father says—”

“The sun’s rays will kill me. I know. It’s true.” Lillian stopped crying, and her voice dropped almost too low to overhear. “But it would be worth it.”

At those anguished words, Violet’s eyes threatened tears of their own. She fought the sting, careful not to blink. She had to be strong for the child’s sake. Violet rested Lillian’s head against her shoulder and began to rock gently to and fro.

How often had Violet felt so desperate that death seemed the only way to escape bitter reality? Every single moment of her cursed childhood. Lillian had not suffered the physical torments that Violet had endured, but the stark emotional despair was exactly the same. After all, once everything of value was taken away, feelings were all that remained. And the one person impossible to hide from was oneself.

Lillian sniffled. The flow of her tears seemed to have abated, but she made no attempt to quit the warmth of Violet’s embrace.

Violet could understand the need for comfort, as well. She herself had given up on hoping for a savior long before she’d reached adolescence. Rescue was not forthcoming.

What she’d longed for, time and again, was someone who understood. Who wanted nothing from her. Who liked her for who she was. Better yet,
despite
who she was. But all she’d had was misery.

Looking into Lillian’s soul-deadened eyes brought back agonizing memories Violet had tried to bury long ago. As a child, she’d been unable to save anyone, least of all herself. As an adult, she’d done the best she could at the Livingstone School for Girls.

Here, at Waldegrave Abbey, she was being given another chance. She would not fail.

Mr. Waldegrave believed his daughter in want of a cure. But what Lillian needed more than anything was a confidante. A friend. This, Violet could do. She wasted no breath asking unanswerable questions or offering unwanted advice. She just held Lillian quietly in her arms. Instinctively, she felt nonjudgmental silence spoke more to the child than any words could have done.

As she gently rocked the little girl, Violet lifted her gaze to examine the bedchamber that had become a prison. They sat in the very center of a wide space. Soaring arches converged across the vaulted ceiling. Violet presumed that all four walls had originally boasted the same stained glass as the rest of the abbey. As in the other chambers, the windows were boarded over on the inside. Despite the profusion of candelabra, the covered windows and surrounding catacombs had converted the once-beautiful sanctuary into something dark and ugly.

No paintings or looking-glasses adorned the walls. Not even golden crosses or other religious gewgaws. A smattering of dolls and other toys, a few seemingly unread books, and an incongruous four-poster bed with the darkest, thickest tester Violet had ever clapped eyes upon. No light would get through those curtains, with or without the double-boarded windows.

In lieu of a dressing-room, one corner of the sanctuary held a pair of armoires and what might have been an intricate Chinese folding screen, had the panels not been covered with the same thick fabric as the tester draping Lillian’s bed. A round table flanked by two hardback chairs stood to one side.

The only other item of note was a child-sized desk, upon which stood a narrow crystal vase choked with three dead roses. The chair cushion was upholstered in a sunny yellow—or at least it might be so, were there enough light in the room to see properly—and the curtains about the bed and the windows were a deep indigo.

Violet schooled her features into a neutral expression when the child in question twisted free and scrambled to her feet. Lillian turned her face toward the windowless wall. If the two were as alike as Violet suspected, right now the child hated herself for revealing her vulnerability and was vowing never to repeat the display. Violet rose to her feet as well, but did not approach the young girl. Instead, she faced the hidden stained glass windows and tried to decide what she’d want to hear, were she in Lillian’s position.

“Your strength impresses me,” Violet said at last, turning to give Lillian her full attention. “I wouldn’t be surprised to discover you feel quite helpless, but to my eye you are both a fighter and a survivor, and someone I would be honored to call a friend.”

Lillian whirled to face her. Black hair whipped from her pale face to reveal shock . . . but not necessarily displeasure. Even at nine years old, with her hair in tangles and few possessions save a smattering of dolls lying broken in one corner, Lillian still very much looked the part of a fairytale princess trapped in a tower. Superior bloodlines were obvious in the fine bones of her face, in the hauteur of her shoulders and the rigidity of her spine.

Violet had not lied about being amazed by the child’s inner strength. She’d seen far too many young girls in desperate situations simply give up on life and waste away until they succumbed to early deaths. Despite her previous declaration, Lillian was the furthest thing from suicidal. She wanted to
live.
Even if attempting to do so endangered her, she obviously felt it worth the risk.

Which was not at all the same thing as wishing to die. Violet considered her own wishes from just an hour earlier. She had been willing to put up with a spoiled rich child, perhaps eke out a modicum of sympathy. But with just a few words, this shadow of a girl had wrested from her the one thing Violet had been least expecting to give: Her respect.

“You are stronger than you think, Miss Lillian.”

Lillian’s small shoulders slumped dejectedly. “I am not,” she said, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. “I am nothing. Worms live beneath the ground, but even they have seen the sun.”

Violet stepped closer. “Being vulnerable in one aspect does not make a person weak in all regards. Did not Beethoven create the most divine symphonies known to man, despite being gravely ill and stone deaf besides?”

“I don’t know Beethoven. I’m plain old Lillian Waldegrave, and I am miserable.” Her large gray eyes were dry, but her voice anguished. “What good are my eyes and ears if I can never leave this abbey?”

An excellent question, that. If only Violet had the answer. “You must find other sources of inspiration. If you cannot turn outward, you must turn inward.”

Lillian pounded a fist to her small chest. “I have nothing inside!”

“That is why I am here. As your governess, it is my job to fill you up on the inside.”

“With what, books?” her charge asked scornfully. “No, thank you. I cannot read and I’ve no wish to learn.”

Lillian couldn’t read? Violet stared at the nine-year-old girl in surprise. By that age, Violet had wearied of being illiterate and practiced her letters every chance she could, no matter how often she was beaten for it. Perhaps she’d been wrong about the sullen child glaring up at her, pale hands fisted like rocks. Perhaps Lillian would never welcome the help or advice of one such as Violet Whitechapel, desperate loneliness or no. Or perhaps it was Violet herself who had little to offer.

“I can’t imagine why anyone would refuse to learn anything,” she said at last.

“Refuse?” Lillian’s eyes flashed. “No one could bear my presence long enough to teach me. But I don’t care. My life is wretched enough without spending my time reading about everything everybody else can do.” Her chin rose. “I prefer staring at walls.”

“That is one way to look at the matter,” Violet said carefully, as if her heart was not twisting into shards of pain at the injustice the child must feel. If Lillian were allowed to nurse such melancholy, she would never rise above her despair. “I suppose I wasted my time learning about Beethoven, a brilliant composer of music, since I was no child prodigy myself, and to this day have never composed a single note. I imagine going to an opera is pointless as well, if one can neither sing nor act. Thank heavens I am neither wealthy enough nor idle enough to indulge such folly. I suppose enjoying a warm biscuit is equally senseless if one finds oneself incapable of baking her own.”