Page 1 of Most Ardently (Return to Culloden Moor #5)

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TATTERS UPON TATTERS

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I n her mother's painfully-Spartan chambers, Violet stood behind the stoic woman and worked the laces of her everyday dress. The fabric, once a vibrant blue, now showed its age, the threads weakened by countless wears and careful mendings. How many times had they used ink to cover the flaws? It was a wonder Violet's fingers weren't blue every morning.

“Easy,” her mother murmured. “It won't bear much more.”

Violet eased her grip, but too late. A sharp snap echoed against the bare walls. The lace unraveled, the loops disintegrating into frayed strands.

Violet examined what was left and cursed to herself. “Nothing for it, Mother. It is beyond repair.”

Her mother's breath leaked out in a long sigh. “I feared as much.” She slid her hands along her ribs. “It served me well, at least.” A ghost of a smile was followed by a tear skidding down her cheek.

“It was high time for a new one in any case. And you can hardly wear your Sunday best every day.”

Mother's gaze drifted around the room, taking in the faded wallpaper, the threadbare rug. Except for the rooms at the front of the house, Durrafair—The Bonny Grove—showed its decay in every corner. “A new dress is...an extravagance we cannot?—”

“A necessity,” Violet countered. She rose and brushed her hands together to end the debate. “I shall sell some books.”

Her mother's eyes widened in alarm. “Violet…” Another tear escaped. “I know how you loved your father’s books...”

“But I love you more, Mother.” She met her mother's gaze and smiled. “Books are merely things. We are more important.”

Her mother turned her back. For a long moment, the only sound came from a small branch tapping against the window, prodded by a breeze. When the woman finally spoke, her voice was low, her words tentative. “It may not be so simple, my love. The books...”

Violet froze. “What about them?”

Mother twisted her hands. “I've... I've already sold the rest of them. Last week. The man has yet to collect the remainder. I have tried a dozen times to tell you...”

The rest of them? The words hit Violet like a violent burst of wind, threatening to blow her over. “When you say the rest of them, you mean to say...you mean you have sold them all.” A statement, not a question.

Her mother nodded, her shoulders slumped. “The butcher demanded payment. The dinner party at Christmas?—”

“But the beasts were ours!”

“Still.” She shrugged. “So many notes came due, and all at once. The apothecary, the grocer, the woodsman.”

Violet calmed herself and took shallow breaths in order to keep her emotions contained. “Please remember, next time, that I can do the butchering. I can chop wood. I shall learn how?—”

“You cannot fell a tree. You cannot mend the roof, my dear. You can cook as well as any, but you cannot grind the wheat?—”

“Of course I can.”

“I will not put every burden of life on your shoulders!”

“No. Instead, you keep them upon yours.”

Mother buried her face in her hands. “I'm so ashamed.”

Violet crossed to her and pulled her trembling form into her arms. “Mother,” she said gently. “Look at me. All will be well.”

Her mother shook her head. “I failed him. I failed your father.”

“You did not fail him,” Violet insisted. “You kept us together. You held this family, this house , upright when by all accounts, it should not still stand. You are the miracle of Dunnafair. And if Father were here, he would agree.”

“But his books,” her mother sobbed, “his notes, his stories...gone.”

Dread surged through Violet. “His journals? You sold those? To whom?”

“A man from Perth. He said he would pay by the pound. I added all I could to make the boxes heavy, you see.”

Violet's mind raced. A portion of her soul had been removed without her knowing. A chunk the exact size and shape of a pair of books. The words were nonsense, but it was all she’d had left of her dear father.

She had to ask. “Are you certain the journals were among them?”

Her mother shook her head again. “The only thing he wouldn't take was Cook's old book of recipes. And of course, I never offered him anything from your room.”

“I never would have thought to keep them there. The library was always...safe enough.” Violet inhaled deeply and fought back the urge to scream in frustration. “Where was I when this happened? Did he come in the night?”

“You had gone to Brigadunn, remember? To deliver our regrets about the country party. It took you the better part of the day. You said you preferred to walk, though I suspect you did not wish anyone to see you riding Old Sal.”

“It is my fault,” she realized. “If I hadn't taken that stroll around the loch?—”

“I am glad you were gone.” Mother straightened away from her. “It had to be done, and you and I would have had a row over it, I am certain. And when he comes for the rest of them, I trust you will hold your tongue. I have already paid the bills. The money is gone. If those boxes weigh any less?—”

“That is right. You said he has not yet collected the last!” Hope bloomed anew.

“He took all his wagon could hold. There are only a few boxes left. Two, perhaps three.” A fresh wave of tears cascaded down the woman’s face. “I am sorry.”

Violet held her mother, offering what comfort she could, but inside she still clung to hope.

A sharp knock echoed through the house, cutting through their emotional whirlwind. Her mother pulled away and tried to right the gown that couldn't be righted. Violet dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief that was more stitches than fabric now.

“That will be Mrs. Higgins,” Mother said, instantly composed for the sake of visitors. “About the mending, I expect you will have to see to her.”

“I will.” Violet hurried out the door.

They used to have a maid who was uncommonly talented with a needle. She'd moved on long ago, but to earn a few pennies, she and her mother pretended Julia was still part of the household. Naturally, the woman was never free to meet with Mrs. Higgins herself, but her mother passed on the older woman's instructions and saw to it that Julia got the mending done promptly. Of course it was Mother doing the work now.

After a few sustaining breaths, Violet turned the latch and opened the door. The person reaching again for the knocker was not Mrs. Higgins, but a boy from the village. He held out an envelope that appeared as if it had been dropped in the dirt more than once. He looked tired, hungry, and smelled of sweat and dogs, but he had the manners to wait until being spoken to.

“How may I help you?”

He nodded. “For Lady Violet,” he announced, then pointed to her name. “Says urgent , it does.” He thrust the letter towards her and studied her face quickly before dropping his gaze.

Violet took the letter. Her heart quickened. She recognized Iris's frantic scrawl.

The boy licked his lips and her last penny, usually reserved for the most desperate of needs, felt suddenly light in her hand. She pressed it into his palm.

“Thank you,” she said. “You need not...you need not come all this way again. I often go into the village myself.”

The boy's eyes widened. “As ye say, milady.” He pocketed the coin with such a rueful expression that she wondered if he expected it to go to someone else. “But the postmaster...he said because it were marked urgent?—”

“I understand. Perhaps, instead of a coin, you'd prefer a sack of cherries?”

The lad brightened instantly. “Cor! That would be grand, miss.” He dug the coin out again and offered it back. Violet plucked up the bag of cherries she'd left on the entry table the night before. The fruit might make a meal, but the coin would be needed to purchase fabric for Mother's new dress.

She traded the bag for the penny and he was off with a tip of his hat. If he arrived back at the post with only a few cherries left in the sack, no one would be the wiser.

She returned the penny to her pocket and looked at the letter. Urgent, he'd said. And he was right. Just below her name and Durrafair, the word stared back at her, warning her the day could still get worse.

She closed the door and leaned against it for a moment with the letter clutched in her hand. A few seconds of peace first. Just a few seconds... But she could sense her sister's desperation radiating from the paper. There was no use putting it off.

Her mother reappeared, dressed in her Sunday best, her hair piled on her head, her manner composed enough for company. “Who was it, my dear?”

“Just someone seeking directions to Brigadunn,” Violet replied as she tucked the letter behind her back. She hated the deception, but she wouldn't share the contents of Iris's note if it wasn't necessary. Besides, if it was meant for both of them, why address it only to her?

“No doubt we shall have many more of that all week, with so many coming to Lord Ashmoore's party.” Mother continued down the stairs. “I have decided to make a dress of those things Cook left behind. Good enough for gardening, I dare say.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I will put the kettle on, shall I?” She drifted towards the kitchen, leaving Violet alone once more.

She didn't move. She stood there, the letter a burning brand in her hand, until her mother's footsteps faded. Then, she slipped out the door and sought the solace of the old oak tree and her beloved swing.

The seat creaked in protest as she settled into place. The ropes complained only slightly. Thankfully, the swing was one of those things whose worth couldn't be turned to coin, or flour, or tea. And she acknowledged that there were things, besides Father's journals, that still carried his spirit and kept his memory alive. Of course, he'd been much younger when he'd climbed the tree himself to tie the ropes for the entertainment of his many children.

She braced herself and opened the envelope. Her fingers already shook for fear of what she was about to learn.

She quickly read the letter through. When she started again, the words swam before her eyes, blurred by unshed tears. Disbelief gave way to a knot of icy fear forming in her middle. By the time she finished reading, the world seemed to tilt beneath her boots. The familiar landscape of her life had turned ugly.

Iris was in danger. Real, immediate danger. The laird! The words were there, stark and brutal, painting a picture Violet had always feared but never gave voice to. Abuse. Violence. Her sister, so far away, so alone, enduring such horrors.

Violet's groan was a strangled warble in the afternoon quiet. She had always worried what Iris might not be including in her carefully worded letters. Her sister was a governess in a remote Scottish household. She made enough of a wage to make the distance worthwhile. But no amount of money could be worth fearing for one's life from one day to the next.

She read the letter again, the words searing themselves into her memory. Iris spoke of bruises, of mounting violence, of a growing certainty that one night, the laird's temper would go too far. There was no one to help her, no one to intervene.

No one but Violet.

Guilt threatened to drown her. While she led an easy life at home, Iris had been suffering in silence. The oldest sister, Iris had always been the strong one, the stoic one, bearing her burdens with quiet dignity. Perhaps that was why Violet had been so blind.

Iris wrote of saving a meager portion of her wages, enough for a desperate flight, but not enough to return home in honor. Not enough to face their mother, empty-handed and...and damaged .

And then, the plea. The reason for the urgent letter.

You know the stories as well as I. You know where Father believed the treasure lies. But if there is any truth in his ramblings, any use to the riddles and sketches he left behind, then the journals will be the key. You, of all of us, should know where he kept them in the library. You must find them, and quickly.

She was referring to the Jacobite treasure. The mythical, perhaps nonexistent treasure their father had chased until his dying day. Iris had always dismissed it as a fanciful obsession, a way for him to escape the harsh realities of their dwindling fortunes. But Violet had once believed.

And now?

Now that mythical tale was their best hope.

Violet rose from the swing, the letter crumpled in her hand, her mind racing. There was no time for tears, no time for recriminations, no time for the luxury of fear. Action was all that mattered now. Saving Iris.

She turned towards the house and looked to the library windows. The journals were still inside. They had to be.

“Please,” she prayed aloud. “Please be there.” Then she ran.