These Violet Delights

1

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs;
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;
Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears.

Romeo and Juliet-Act 1, Scene 1

London
June 1818

Violet Arden, beautiful, exuberant, and strange, was never expected to amount to much. The second of three daughters in a family of no great fortune, she was supposed to use her looks to advance in the world. Though much was said of her fine features and elegant figure, she was known to her family, lovingly so, as a bit of a fringe case.

To Violet, it was the world that was odd; rules and expectations made the world smaller, duller, and she had always been one to see in colors so vivid they hurt.

"At first I thought it was a shocking disappointment," said Violet, standing in front of a painting that was meant to convince the ton of her emergent skill. Her aunt, Mrs. Eliza Burton, sighed and sharpened her glare. "But then I moved a few feet away from it and realized I might not have fribbled away my time after all. That's painting for you: horrible until it isn't."

"Please keep such observations to yourself," said her aunt, with the amount of exasperation she reserved just for Violet. She reached over and clasped Violet's hand in silken gloves, squeezing. "Remember, you are to pose nicely before your work, smile, and graciously accept whatever compliments arise, or you are to say nothing at all."

With that, Eliza drifted away to spend her evening among acquaintances who wouldn't give her a headache.

Violet rocked up onto her toes, nervous, feeling as if, alone for mere seconds, she were already collecting dust in her aunt's gleaming Mayfair ballroom. This was a home of great destiny, or so Violet believed, for it was not far from where she stood-just in the corridor around the corner, among some tall ferns-that her older sister, Margaret, had first met the man who would become her loving husband.

Violet hadn't known for certain whether she believed in destiny until she'd had a chance meeting with an artist, Renaud Moncelle. Renaud put everything in perspective, the first person outside the family to see Violet's scattered nature not as a weakness, but as an unutilized strength. For six months he had been showing her how the disorganized thoughts in her head could be ordered and transferred to canvas, and now her life was stretching out ahead of her, as real as the bright ivory-and-gold carpet soaring across the floor.

How freeing, how glorious, to be standing right in front of a dream one could wrap one's arms around and hold. Six chaotic, thrilling months had changed everything. How utterly Violet, those who knew her would say if, in fact, they knew about the passion that had grown between her and the Frenchman.

"There you are! You look marvelous, though that's to be expected." Here came her sister Margaret, usually called Maggie, golden ringlets suspended like champagne bubbles around her intelligent blue eyes. They took hands and stood at the edge of the mingling guests. "Is it not terribly warm?" Maggie tugged one hand away and flourished a small fan she pulled from a reticule around her wrist, ruffling the damp curls at her temples.

"I can't feel anything," said Violet, trying not to shake with every emotion at once. "Do I look happy or sad? Excited? Mad? Nauseous?"

"Sister, dear, you look . . ." Maggie smirked and shook her head. "I've barely seen you since Christmas, and you are only more radiant. Honing an art has done you a world of good."

Maggie would say as much. She had cultivated a lifelong love for literature and writing, and just the year before, she had anonymously published her novel, to growing acclaim. In doing so, she had met her husband, Bridger Darrow, a man who had risen in all their estimations the day he came to his senses, published Maggie's book, and married her. At the mention of Christmas, Violet flushed.

"Is something the matter?" Maggie asked, her fawn-colored brows tenting.

"What was it like?" Violet began, covering her unease with a question. "Surely you or Bridger have heard criticisms of The Killbride, and how did you manage it? I don't know if I'll be able to control myself if someone with no taste and less sense degrades my hard work . . ."

Maggie tilted her head to the side, fanning herself more slowly. "It stings, I admit, but then there is the praise, and you must train your eye to seek the sunlight, not the storm."

"But you hated Bridger when first you met! He couldn't breathe without insulting your book . . ."

"Well. It was a temporary hatred, and one I was happy to revise only after he revised his wrong opinion."

While they shared a laugh, Violet caught sight of their younger sister, Winny, weaving her way through the forest of varicolored gowns worn by Aunt Eliza's wealthy friends. For a moment, Violet nearly relaxed, but then Maggie took her by the arm and led her away from the wall, toward Winny, asking, "Our aunt has assembled these people to delight in you, Violet. It is a soft crowd easily won, and even if they do not fall in love with your paintings, they will adore the artist. Why sour an evening meant for merriment?"

It was true; they were not among the sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued set who would gleefully rip an artwork to pieces over a misplaced shadow or misshapen berry. Still, Violet had spotted a few strangers who were avoiding the refreshments and studying the art with alarming solemnity. Her mind fixed itself there, circling around all the nasty things they might say.

"Mm," Violet muttered. She wanted to listen to her sister, but it was hard. "Between the very strong punch and the number of cataracts, who could trust their assessment?"

"That's the spirit," replied Maggie, waving to their sister. "Besides, I've never known you to care about what anyone thinks. Why would that change now?"

She flinched. In the past, Violet couldn't give two figs about what anyone thought of her, but now . . . Something had shifted when she met Renaud. He had stuck out at the Christmas party where they met, a king striding among peasants. Their eyes had sparked over the pastillage cherub nestled in sugar flowers, and for the first time in her life, Violet Arden had been speechless. He was so ornate, so sharply defined, so French. She couldn't look away from his rumpled rakishness; the intensity of his black gaze made her heart beat wildly. After that-indeed, almost every moment after that until this very evening-Renaud's eyes had remained pinned to Violet as if she were not a striking young woman of middling prospects and almost no dowry but a Greek muse.

Some would call this foreshadowing, but to Violet, it was that elusive thing she wanted so desperately: destiny. A path. And so, Violet's decision to take up painting in earnest was declared mere moments after she learned Renaud Moncelle was a visiting artist and teacher from Paris who would be spending the next year in England.

Quelle surprise.

That nobody had noticed their budding and, frankly, flagrant romance over the last six months was due in large part to her cousin, Lane Richmond, for his wife had struggled with a difficult pregnancy. All eyes, prayers, love, and care had gone to the young couple, and with mother and child now safe, only recently had anyone in their circle begun to question why Violet Arden, known to be theatrical but never diligent, had all but sprouted paintbrushes from her fingertips and devoted herself to practice.

"What chance!" cried Winny, arriving and greeting her sisters with her usual overflowing cheerfulness.

"Winny, dear, we were all invited," Maggie pointed out.

"Yet it is always to be enjoyed, is it not? And remarked upon-when a family can reunite in health and in joyful circumstances."

Winny, rosy-cheeked and cherubic as the sugar-paste baby that had hovered beneath Violet and Renaud's meeting, looked as well and ample as she always did. With all her might, Violet tried to hang on to that phrase she had just used: joyful circumstances. Yes. Joyful. This was meant to be Violet's first foray into being taken seriously as an artist, or as seriously as a female artist could be taken. Only, it was not her ascension alone; Renaud Moncelle of Mont-de-Marsan, then Veneto, then Paris, close personal companion of a close personal companion of Hortense Haudebourt-Lescot, was meant to share in Violet's triumph.

And, more notably, he was meant to arrive ages ago. The man of the hour was more than an hour late. More than two.

Violet knitted her hands together, nervously pressing the fabric of her gloves until the grooves between her fingers were wet with sweat. Renaud was no stranger to a saucy cup (or four) of wine before an evening's entertainment, but he also never resisted an opportunity to be adored.

So where was he?

"Oh, just look at your darling paintings," said Winny, drifting toward the art. One of Violet's watercolors of a basket of fruit on a sill was positioned to the right and slightly below Renaud's rendition of a nearly identical collection of apples. "I thought you preferred portraits, Violet."

"I do," she replied, stealing anxious glances at the archway behind them. "But Ren-Monsieur Moncelle insists that I am not ready, and it is better to master still lifes and landscapes first."

"And you listened?" Winny giggled and craned her neck, her nose perilously close to the canvas. "This bauble you painted here has real charm . . ."

Violet stared at her sister in disbelief. "Winny, that's a grape."

"Oh! I knew that! I was teasing." She was not, and rarely did. "'Tis . . . perfectly discernible, confidently a grape."