Page 35 of My Darling Mr. Darling
“Aren’t you tired of running, Vi?” John kept his voice deliberately soft, relaxed his shoulders, his whole posture, in an effort to put her at ease. She had been running so long that it was second nature, and he—he needed hernotto run.Sheneeded not to run, even if she didn’t yet know it.
A strangled sound—a sob—burst from her throat. Horrified, she clapped one hand over her mouth. But tiny wheezes still breached her fingers, and she blinked back a sheen of tears as an odd expression, something like disgust, crossed her face for a fleeting second before she resolutely turned her back on him.
That horror, that disgust—it had been directed inward, John realized. Because that vaunted control had slipped its leash, and the broken bits of her had come tumbling out before she could scrape them all together again.
He knew well enough the pain of it, the humiliation. How embarrassing that loss of control could be; how impossible it seemed to collect oneself again. How it could ruin a person in unexpected ways.
She did not hear him rise from his seat and cross the floor. But she jerked once when he said her name, and again when he touched her shoulder lightly. Still those terrible little choked sounds clawed at her throat as she whirled back around and stumbled back a step, stretching out one hand as if to ward him away. Backing herself into a corner, because she’d missed the opportunity to flee when first the inclination had arisen.
“You’re perfectly safe, Vi,” John soothed. “That ill-tempered mountain you call a butler is likely waiting just outside the door.” A careful step toward her—there was nowhere left for her to retreat, but she held her ground just the same, watching warily through a fresh round of those tiny, broken wheezes. “I suspect he’d like nothing better than an excuse to plant me a facer, so if you feel the need”—slowly he extended his hand, curled it around the nape of her neck, and for the first time she did not startle or jerk away—“just give a shout, and I’m certain he’ll be glad to oblige. You’re safe, Vi. You’re safe.”
She didn’t quite believe him, he knew. Her skin was misted with perspiration; a testament to her unease. “There,” he said, and eased closer still, as the tense muscles beneath his fingers began, slowly, to relax, and she dropped her head once more. He didn’t know if it was resignation or acceptance, but he supposed it didn’t matter, so long as she hadn’t shouted for Davis.
But then, a woman in Violet’s position might be moved to accept comfort from wherever it might come—because she had so few options. He’d seen to that. It hadn’t been his intent, but he’d accomplished it all the same. There was just Serena to confide in, and he knew she had done little enough of that, fearful of losing her one true friend.
“There,” he said again, and with a gentle tug he drew her closer still. She shoved her arms between them, a crucial barrier between her and his chest—always holding herself apart, physically, mentally, emotionally. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she angled her face down and away, her shoulders trembling. “I’m sorry,” he said softly near her ear, as he wrapped his other arm around her, pressing his palm between her shoulder blades with light, firm pressure. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t upset me.” It was a bitter lie, sharp and unpleasant. She was uncomfortable, anxious, her mind resisting the impulse to relax into the gentle stroke of his fingers at her nape. Fighting the connection she desperately craved. “I’m not that weak. I’mnot.”
“I have never once thought you weak.”
A cold, biting laugh scratched its way from her throat, but even that was better than the threat of tears. “You don’t know me,” she said, and for once he thought—yes, she was right. Hedidn’tknow her. Not yet. But he could learn.
And so he said, “I’ve spent years collecting information. I know Grace, and Sarah, and Lucy— Maude, Mary, Kate, Susan.” Her breaths had slowed and evened once more, and he knew she was moments away from recovering herself at last. “But you’re correct. Idon’tknow Violet,” he said. “But, Vi—I don’t think you do, either.”
Chapter Thirteen
It should have been easy to wrench herself away, but Violet’s arms didn’t want to cooperate. For so long she had lived within the shelter of an invisible barrier, touching no one—scrupulously avoidingbeingtouched. And it had been because of exactly this. Shewasweak.
Her childhood had been full of love and affection. From her papa, who had never believed that children ought to remain secreted away in the nursery. From the servants, who had never failed to ruffle her hair as she had careened past them through the corridors, or to slip her sticky buns, or to gently wipe her face clean of dirt. Papa had never encouraged that staid, reserved demeanor, that critical distance between the family and the staff that the upper classes lived by.
And then she had been torn away from it all and thrust into that odious school, where the only touch was corrective—the only words sharp and recriminating. There were no more indulgent embraces, no more sticky buns, no more pinched cheeks or ruffled hair. Smiles were rare, practiced before a mirror until met with approval. Touch was reduced to beatings; the lash of a crop across bare thighs, or a sharp slap to a cheek, or a cuff to the ear.
She didn’t want to want the gentle fingers that massaged her neck, the warmth of the palm pressed flat against her back. Certainly she didn’t want to want them fromhim. And still it was a struggle to force her arms straight, to shove him away. Because shedidwant them. She wanted them so much, she lingered longer than she should have, longer that was wise, longer than was good for her head or her heart.
At the slightest push, he released her immediately, without protest. But he said, in that soft voice that made her heart wrench, “Don’t run, Vi.”
Aren’t you tired of running?
Her eyes closed. She didn’t know how to do anything else. There was only the cold, clawing terror that had lived within her chest all these years. Scratching away at her ribs with its sharp claws, rending her from the inside out. It spread its insidious poison through her veins, until the fear of being caught thrummed through her, until panic weighted her chest and smothered her.
Shehadbeen caught. The worst had finally happened. And that fearful, scrabbling animal that was cobbled together of every nightmare she had ever lived…curled up in her chest and died. It was a relief, on some level. The next breath she drew was sweet and soft, and it filled her lungs completely. She tasted something other than panic.
Warm fingers grasped hers, curled her fingers around a china teacup. She blinked her eyes open, stared at the cup in her hand as if it were unfamiliar. She’d expected to find herself crowded into the corner of the room still, but instead Mr. Darling had retreated—as if he had known she needed space.
“It’s not poisoned,” he offered with a nod toward the cup in her hand as he took his seat once more. “I failed to foresee the need to visit an apothecary before I arrived.” The corner of his mouth pulled in something approximating a smile, as if he had endeavored to break the tension with a joke.
It didn’t quite work. But an awkward little laugh eased out of her throat anyway. Her hand trembled as she lifted the cup to her lips—he’d refilled her cup, and for the first time she noticed it was perfectly sweetened, with just a hint of milk. Just as she liked it. As if he had studied that, too. For someone so accustomed to invisibility, it was disconcerting to feel seen. Disconcerting, and oddly pleasant.
“I truly am sorry about the daisies,” he said. “I thought you would enjoy them. There’s a portrait of you in a field of them—”
“An invention of the artist,” she said. “I could never sit still long enough to pose properly. He found it an easier task to fill the canvas with flowers in order to draw attention away from how poor a likeness it was.”
“Not so poor,” he said. “It was the basis for the sketch I had done up inTheTimes.”
She gave an inelegant snort. “Little wonder, then, that no one ever recognized me from it.” Still, she suppressed a shiver to recall the weeks she had spent looking over her shoulder, terrified that someone would recognize her, that she’d be trussed up and delivered straight to his doorstep. The reward offered had been substantial—enough to turn anyone’s aspirations to tracking her down. For those long weeks and months until she had fallen out of memory, everyone had been a potential threat.
Mr. Darling had gone still, his dark eyes sliding over her face with that studious, pensive expression he wore so often. “What were you thinking just then?” he asked. “You were a hundred miles away in a moment.”