Violet leant back in her camp chair and closed her eyes, smiling as she fanned herself. “Why not, Aunt?” She turned at the soft tread of boots; clapping her hands in pleasure as Max emerged from the bush and strode across the sand towards them. His gun was slung across his shoulder, and his khakis were streaked with dirt and sweat.
“Emily and I have organised dinner for us, haven’t we?” he said to the girl at his side. “And dinner for an entire village since she shot a buffalo, so we’ve made ourselves very popular in the district. What have you and Aunt Euphemia been doing while we’ve been gone?” He bent to kiss Violet’s brow and murmured for her ears only, “I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you. And how much I desire an early night.”
Pleasure sparked through her as she retained her hold on his hand. “Your aunt and I have been doing a little of this and a little of that and not very much at all, though you should know that she has not had a paroxysm of coughing in two days. I think this hot, dry part of the world really is doing her good.”
It had been Max’s idea to visit his aunt one last time before they set sail. But it had been Violet’s spontaneous suggestion while they were all in her drawing room that she accompany them to a climate that would be conducive to her health.
Aunt Euphemia’s acceptance had been hesitant at first, which was only natural since she’d had just four hours in which to pack. Then joyful and touching because, as she stated, and as they all knew, what did she have to look forward to in England?
Less easy to navigate was the information that Violet and Max were not, in fact, legally wed. Miss Thistlethwaite, however, was shrewder than Violet had given her credit for so after her initial surprise, she’d indicated that Violet explain the circumstances, as she chose and in her own words, when the time was right. This had led Violet to imagining her next few days would be spent agonising over how she could illuminate Max’s aunt on at least the basics of why Max had not married her properly—and in a manner which would not horrify her.
Only, how could she explain her sordid past?
Exposure had come earlier than expected when Miss Thistlethwaite had wanted to reassure herself that Violet had her wedding gown properly packed so that she could wear it for the ship’s marriage service.
The truth was that the gown was still at the St John’s Wood residence Lord Bainbridge had secured for her, and Violet was too ashamed and afraid to venture over that threshold once more.
But Miss Thistlethwaite had been adamant, saying that in truth, the gown belonged to her, and that she didn’t care where it was being kept right now; she intended to reclaim it.
Violet could only breathe a sigh of relief that it wasn’t at Madame Chambon’s.
So, she and Aunt Euphemia—as the old lady had insisted Violet now call her—had taken a hackney to St John’s Wood where, to Violet’s horror, they had come upon Lord Bainbridge himself, ensuring that the more valuable pieces of jewellery he’d given Violet had not been taken. He’d managed to keep his anger in check for the sake of the old lady, clearly, but he’d said enough in the time it had taken the maid to fetch the wedding gown, to make clear his arrangement with Violet.
So, Violet’s shame was on display. And, although nothing had been said implicitly, Aunt Euphemia now knew that Violet had been kept in sin by another man; a fact corroborated comfortably by Max a short time later when he’d reminded his rather quiet and clearly brooding aunt that he didn’t know what else might have become of Violet after her violent and quite mad grandmother had thrown her onto the streets.
Now, as Violet and Aunt Euphemia watched Max and Emily disappearing towards their tents, singing the latest ditty Max had taught his young ward, the old lady sighed as she leaned over to clink glasses with Violet.
“My nephew really does adore you and…” She trailed off, her pale blue eyes having taken on a faraway look. “I imagine affection is all the greater for knowing there are no secrets or skeletons in the closet.”
“Because Max knows the worst of my sins yet can still love me? Oh dear, please don’t cry Aunt Euphemia.” Violet rose and put down her glass, so she could comfort the old woman who’d become so important to her. “Yes, shame is a terrible thing, but I’ve been so lucky in that Max has known the very worst of me from the very start. It makes what we have now even richer in value to me.” She knelt at the foot of the chair and began to stroke the old lady’s arm. “Please, there’s no need to cry on my behalf. You can see how very happy I am. I…I’m just so sorry to have disappointed you.” She was dismayed to think how much worse Aunt Euphemia would think of her if she knew everything.
“I’m not disappointed in you in the slightest.” Aunt Euphemia’s voice was muffled through the lace-edged handkerchief. “It’s the fact that my darling nephew was noble enough and intelligent enough to embrace you and your future, rather than take your past as the sum of your value. I mean, I… Oh, it doesn’t matter.”
Violet looked at her, perplexed, for Aunt Euphemia was crying even harder. “What are you trying to say, dearest?” Violet asked soothingly, as she stroked the old lady’s cheek. “You can tell me.”
Aunt Euphemia took a quivering breath and gripped Violet’s wrist. “When I was thirty-five, I did have an opportunity to marry. Septimus and I spent a summer at Tunbridge Wells where I met a kind widower. He wasn’t exciting, like Richard. I didn’t love him, as I had Richard, but he courted me, and I was ready to accept him.”
Violet looked at her with compassion. “But Septimus was determined to ruin your happiness as he had when Richard wanted to marry you?”
“To the contrary, Septimus thought Mr Sparrow was as good a catch as a woman of my advancing years could hope for. For a start, he was rich whereas Richard had been like a bolt of lightning—full of ideas and energy but with no funds behind him.”
“But…why did the marriage not go ahead?”
Aunt Euphemia began to cry softly again. “I wanted to confess to him my sins so that we could forge a future with no secrets.”
“But Richard was surely not a past secret you needed to be ashamed of,” Violet protested.
“Having his baby was.”
Violet exhaled sharply. Her limbs felt like jelly. She’d never been so shocked. Or felt such pity. She’d known many girls at Madame Chambon’s who had been forced to manage such situations. Fortunately, she’d not been one of them, though she hoped with all her might that not taking the usual precautions would see that she and Max were blessed with children when the time was right.
Aunt Euphemia, by contrast, would have known nothing of sexual matters.
Confused, she clarified, “But…I thought Richard wanted to marry you when you were very young?”
“He did.” Aunt Euphemia nodded. “But Septimus gave
him short shrift and forbade me to see him. He returned ten years later, and our love for each other was undimmed. But Septimus caught us. He beat Richard without mercy and sent him away. This was twenty-five years ago now, and I’ve counted each passing month faithfully. I never saw him again.” She hung her head and put a hand to her belly. “But nine months later I bore his child. Septimus sent me to a couple in Norfolk. They were kind enough, but in his pay. I never even held my daughter. I was made…told…to forget the past, but never to forget my sins. Five years later, when Mr Sparrow came courting me, I believed I could find a kind of contentment with him. I dearly wanted to escape Septimus, and Mr Sparrow seemed so very sympathetic and kind. He said he hoped we would have children someday and was so very sad he’d not been blessed in his previous marriage. In fact, his greatest fear was that we might never have children and that’s when I blurted out the fact that I was capable of bearing them; that I had borne a child. It was a grave miscalculation and one about which I won’t go into detail. Suffice to say, I’m glad I didn’t marry a man who couldn’t accept my past. You, on the other hand, have found a man who loves you despite the men in your life.”