Page 73 of My Darling Mr. Darling
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Her mother’s portrait had gone missing; a mysterious occurrence that Violet could not explain. She had placed it in a position of honor, right upon the nightstand at the side of her bed. It was the first thing she saw when she woke in the morning, and the last before she went to sleep.
She had asked all the staff if they had seen it, but they had all come up empty—and she had been a servant too long herself to baselessly accuse any one of them of theft, especially of something so small as a portrait that had only sentimental value.
Perhaps she had taken to sleepwalking. Or perhaps she had simply moved it herself and had forgotten—but even a long, slow walk through the house a room at a time had failed to turn it up again.
That portrait had healed a hole in her heart that had been ripped open with the loss of her treasured locket to Mrs. Selkirk’s greedy, grasping fingers. Though she had had it only a few short weeks, its very presence on her nightstand had been so very comforting. If she could not find it—
If she could not find it, she might very well have to grit her teeth and write to John. Inquire if he might be willing to send round a message to the Kent estate, to determine if there might be another tucked away in an attic somewhere. Perhaps for one of her father, too—she would hang them together, and reunite them once more.
It was simply too bad she had not the talent of sketching, or she might have created her own likenesses of them, with which to commission an artist. The thought of having to lower herself to request such an indulgence from John was simply too much to bear.
Selfishly, she wished that Serena did not have her own classes to teach today—she could have used a sympathetic ear. But at the very least, Violet had the next four days to mope about as she pleased before her last week of classes, without risk of judgment. Intellectually, she knew that all things passed in time. The sharp edges of the hurt would dull, and eventually lose their power to wound, and in time even this would be only an unpleasant memory.
Emotionally, she felt ravaged. And rather embarrassed that she had made light of Serena’s broken heart, given that, at the time, she had had no experience with one herself.Moving onwas a process of one step at a time, and just now, each of those steps felt as though she were slogging through tar. Fruitless, intolerable—and getting nowhere at all.
Clearly, Serena had said something to the staff at some point, for they had been coddling her to the point of incredulity. Cook had baked a heaping tray of strawberry pastries just this morning and had sent out one of the footman for drinking chocolate; a luxury that Violet had seldom allowed herself. But she could forgive herself for the excess just this once, given the circumstances, and so she had taken herself down to the drawing room to languish in her melancholia and examine the ruins of her life before she would be obliged to stitch together the disparate parts of it leftover.
Instead, she found herself aimlessly staring at the chair John had always occupied, and had heaved a disconsolate sigh over the fact that he never would again. Herclean cutin severing whatever bond remained between them had become something less than clean, and she suspected that she had gained one more ghost to haunt her through her days. Only this one was built of everything thatmighthave been—had she been willing to settle for less than she wanted.
A sharp rap came upon the door, and Violet’s head swiveled toward the foyer, her heart skipping in her chest as Davis passed through her line of sight. If it was John—
But it wasn’t, because Davis would have thrown him straight into the street. Her heart sank to her toes as Davis scratched at the door jamb and said, “Miss, you have a caller.”
Mr. Simmons stood just beyond his left shoulder, hat in hand, his face arranged in an expression of resolve—though his fingers worried the brim of his hat to the point that Violet feared it would never lie correctly upon his head again.
Surreptitiously, she swiped at her mouth, hoping she hadn’t gotten pastry crumbs anywhere inconvenient. “Mr. Simmons,” she said weakly. “How…unexpected to see you.”
Courage bolstered by even the vague welcome she had managed, Mr. Simmons strode into the room. “Miss Townsend,” he said. “I hope you do not find me presumptuous, but I had to see you.”
“Well, I—”
He turned his back, walking the length of the room in long, nervous strides. “It has occurred to me in these last weeks that we have been together, Miss Townsend, that I have developed deeper affections for you than perhaps I should have done.”
Given the frenetic pace of his speech, Violet began to suspect that he had rehearsed on the carriage ride over. Praying for patience, she began, “Mr. Simmons, I understand—”
“My mother will no doubt be displeased with my choice of bride, but she shall simply have to resign herself to it. I am perfectly satisfied in you, Miss Townsend, and I can have no other thought but that in your person and your connections, you should satisfy every requirement.”
Bride? Oh, absolutely not—she had not lost one husband only to acquire another directly upon his heels. “Mr. Simmons, while I am flattered—”
“I realize that you are a woman of profound morals and ethics,” he said, pacing the length of the room once more, while Violet could only goggle at his temerity as her head swam trying to follow both his movements and his logic. “I have declared myself prematurely,” he said, nodding along as if with his own sage wisdom. “I see that now—for am I still your student.”
Awash in a dawning desperation, Violet tried once more. “Mr. Simmons, I don’t think—”
“I beg your forgiveness,” he said passionately, striding across the room and seizing her hand—which was, of course, peppered with pastry crumbs—and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “I shall conceal my affections until I am no longer your student.”
“That is not—”
“But itisnecessary—only think of your conscience, my dearest, for I do not think it could bear such a burden.”
Violet attempted to extract her hand from his, unsuccessfully, as she reflected that her conscience had quite successfully borne a great deal more than an inappropriate romance. “I was going to say‘That is not what I meant,’” she said, as gently as she could, somewhat surprised that she had, at last, managed to get a word in edgewise. “It is impossible, Mr. Simmons. While I am…flattered”—she wasn’t, really. She really,trulywasn’t—“and cognizant of the honor you do me, I’m afraid I do not share your feelings.”
For perhaps a fraction of a second, Mr. Simmons looked nonplussed, his jaw hanging so loose that a stiff breeze might’ve blown it free of his face entirely. He recovered himself a moment later, patting her trapped hand. “Of course you cannot admit to such a thingnow,” he said, practically crooning the words. “But you have only a week more to wait, my pet, and then I shall announce my intentions to the world—and we will be free to be together.”
Oh,Lord. “Mr. Simmons—”
Abruptly he released her hand, backing toward the door. “Never fear; I am not so inconstant that so small a delay should sway my feelings. Be comforted in the fact that I shall guard our secret closely, and I shall be eagerly awaiting the day we may at last been honest with one another.” With a flourish of his hat, he disappeared—and Violet was left speechless, shocked, as Davis closed the front door behind him.