Weyward — Chapter 8: Violet

8

VIOLET

Violet was on her best behaviour.

All week, she had been focused and diligent in her lessons. Miss Poole was thrilled that she had finally grasped the French pluperfect tense and said that her drawing of a vase of irises was exquisite. Violet thought that the blue flowers looked like corpses, with their wilting heads and drooping leaves. Miss Poole had picked them. Violet didn’t believe in picking flowers, in snapping their stems for no reason other than to look at them.

But she kept her mouth shut and drew their likeness as best she could.

She even made some crooked progress on the silk slip that Miss Poole insisted she sew for her ‘trousseau’. (She couldn’t for the life of her think why such a thing was necessary. Nanny Metcalfe was the only person who had ever seen her in her ‘combinations’ – as the nursemaid rather archaically called them – and Violet intended for matters to stay that way.) Determined to avoid the purgatory of finishing school, she had stayed inside for two weeks now. Two weeks since she had felt the kiss of an insect’s wings against her skin. Two weeks since she’d climbed her beloved beech, since she’d removed her treasures – the snail’s shell, the butterfly cocoon, the beech nut with its spiky fronds – from the windowsill and hidden them under her bed. She’d taken to asking Miss Poole to shut the windows, even though it was getting so warm that sweat shone on their upper lips, because she couldn’t bear the sounds of the valley. The drone of a bee was a torment; a chattering squirrel pierced her heart.

But gradually, the sounds faded away. She was glad of it.

Even Goldie seemed to lose interest in her. Normally, she could hear the faint click of his legs as he climbed out of the hatbox and scuttled about the

room at night – sometimes she even woke to find him nestled safe in her hair – but now there was just silence. She worried that he’d died but couldn’t bring herself to look.

Most days, when she wasn’t attending to what Miss Poole dubbed her ‘improvements’, Violet lay on her bed with the curtains drawn, sweating in the dark heat. Mrs Kirkby began bringing trays to her room: first, elaborate fruit pies and cakes, towering with cream, and when those went untouched, bowls of bland nursery food. Nanny Metcalfe even came in one afternoon and asked if she wouldn’t like her to read aloud, something she hadn’t done since Violet was small. ‘There was that book of tales you loved,’ she said. ‘Brothers Slim, or summat—’ ‘Grimm. The Brothers Grimm,’ Violet said. She had loved them, it was true, even if Nanny Metcalfe had pronounced half the words wrong. ‘I’m much too old for that now, Nanny.’ She turned to face the wall. She could see a chink of golden light on the floral wallpaper.

She heard the rustle of Nanny Metcalfe’s dress as she bent over Violet’s

bed. ‘Do you need—’ ‘Can you draw the curtains more closely together, please, Nanny?’ she asked, cutting the nurse’s questions off. ‘All right, Miss Violet,’ she said. ‘If you’re sure.’ Violet bit her lip. She just had to get through this visit from Father’s relative. She had to show him that he didn’t need to send her away to some stuffy old school. Then she could go outside again. Until then, all she needed was to be left alone.

That evening, as Violet drifted between sleep and wakefulness, she heard Nanny Metcalfe and Mrs Kirkby muttering outside her door. Mrs Kirkby had come to collect another tray of uneaten food. ‘I’ve never seen a person take to their bed like this, without being ill,’ Nanny Metcalfe said. ‘But there’s nowt wrong with her that I can find. No fever, no rash …’ ‘I have,’ said Mrs Kirkby. ‘The late mistress took to her bed, not long

before the end.’ ‘Why? Nerves?’

‘That’s what Doctor Radcliffe said. The master had him come out, the

first time, on condition of secrecy.’ ‘Could he say what triggered it?’ ‘He didn’t need to. We all knew the reason. Especially after what happened next.’ Perhaps they can stop you from turning out like her.

The next afternoon, while Violet sat limp in the schoolroom, embroidering with Miss Poole, Nanny Metcalfe burst through the door. ‘The Master wants Miss Violet to take the air,’ she said.

Miss Poole looked at the clock, a frown accentuating her reptilian features. ‘But we’ve only just started our needlepoint lesson,’ she said. ‘Master’s orders,’ said Nanny Metcalfe. ‘I’d rather stay inside,’ said Violet, looking down at her fingers on the canvas. Her hands, like the rest of her, had grown pale from lack of sun. Her fingernails were speckled and thin, as if they might peel away. Could you die, Violet wondered, from longing? ‘Well, Violet, if your father wants you to, perhaps you should,’ said Miss Poole. ‘But you can continue with your needlepoint after dinner. I’m so very pleased with your enthusiasm. Where has this Violet been hiding?’ Nanny Metcalfe offered Violet her arm as they made their way around the grounds. The gardens were bright with flowers – blue spikes of hyacinth, fleshy whorls of rhododendrons – so bright that she averted her eyes and looked down at her feet in their leather brogues. ‘Isn’t it lovely to be outside, listening to the birds?’ Nanny Metcalfe said. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Lovely.’ But she couldn’t hear the birds. In fact, she could barely hear anything at all, other than Nanny Metcalfe’s voice. It was as if her ears were wrapped in wool.

A butterfly passed them. Out of habit, Violet lifted her hand, but instead of coming to rest on her palm, it flew on, like she wasn’t even there. ‘Your father would like you to take your tea downstairs this evening, in the dining room with himself and Graham,’ said Nanny Metcalfe. ‘Very well,’ said Violet faintly, watching the butterfly until it was no more than a white flash in the corner of her vision.

‘Nanny,’ she said, pausing as she tried to word the question that had worried at her for days. ‘Was there something wrong with my mother?’ ‘Your mother? Don’t know where that’s come from. Violet, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I barely knew her ladyship, rest her soul.’ But Violet saw that Nanny Metcalfe’s cheeks had reddened. ‘And … what about me? Is there something wrong with me?’ ‘Here, pet,’ Nanny Metcalfe said, turning to look at her. ‘Wherever would you get an idea like that?’ ‘Just something Father said. And I’m not allowed in the village, but Graham is. And – until this cousin – no one has ever come to call.’ People were always calling on each other in novels, Violet had learned.

And it wasn’t as if there was a shortage of nearby families of similar status, who might be disposed to friendship. Why, Baron Seymour lived only 30 miles from Orton Hall and had a son and a daughter of equivalent ages to Graham and Violet. She had once looked them up in Father’s battered copy of Burke’s Peerage. ‘Och, your father’s just overprotective, that’s all. Don’t you pay him any mind. Here, we’d better be getting back so you can have your bath.’ Her words made Violet feel very small, as if she were six instead of sixteen.

Violet didn’t brush her hair before supper, and wore her least favourite dress, an ill-fitting orange gingham. She knew it made her look sallow and drawn, but she didn’t care.

Mrs Kirkby set a shrunken joint of roast mutton on the table. Violet hated mutton, though she knew from Father’s lectures that they were rather lucky to have it at all. Still, she tried not to picture the gentle, cloud-soft sheep that had given its life for their meal.

She looked at her plate. The meat was grey and lumpish, the sort of thing Father would never have eaten before the war. Watery blood leaked from its flesh, staining her potatoes pink. She felt as if she might be sick.

She put her knife and fork down, before realising that Father was watching her. A fleck of gravy quivered at the corner of his frown. ‘Eat up, girl,’ he said. ‘Follow your brother’s example.’ Graham, whose plate was already nearly empty, flushed. Father helped himself to more gravy. ‘You will recall,’ he began, ‘that your cousin Frederick is coming to stay with us tomorrow. He’s an officer in the Eighth Army, taking leave from the

fighting in Tobruk. Do you know where Tobruk is, Graham?’ ‘No, Father,’ said Graham. ‘It’s in Libya,’ said Father between mouthfuls. Violet could see strings of meat in his teeth when he talked. The urge to vomit returned. She trained her eyes on the painting hanging on the wall behind him – the portrait of some long-dead viscount, looking on imperiously from the eighteenth century. ‘Godforsaken place,’ Father continued. ‘Full of savages.’ He shook his head. Violet flinched as she felt something brush against her leg. Pretending to drop her napkin, she peered under the table in time to see Father deliver Cecil a swift kick to the rump. ‘Those wops haven’t a clue what they’re doing out there. They couldn’t govern a sandbar.’ The maid, Penny, began clearing the plates to make room for pudding.

Eton mess, a favourite of Father’s, who never lost an opportunity to remind Graham that he had expected him to follow in his Etonian footsteps. (Graham had not got into Eton. He was on summer break from Harrow.) ‘Your cousin’, said Father, ‘is risking his life every day, fighting for his country. I expect you to treat him with the utmost respect when he arrives.

Is that clear, children?’

‘Yes, Father,’ said Graham. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Violet,’ Father said, ‘you will not hide in your bedroom. Such laziness disrespects the soldiers fighting hard for King and country and is unbecoming of a woman. I expect you to maintain a cheerful presence around the Hall and be gracious towards your cousin. Understood?’ ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You will recall what we discussed,’ he said. ‘Yes, Father.’

After supper, Violet finished her needlepoint lesson with Miss Poole. When they were done, she sat for a while, looking longingly out of the window. It was very bright for seven o’clock. Normally, she’d spend an evening like this outdoors, sitting under her beech tree with a book, perhaps; or down by the beck, sketching the frothy white plumes of angelica that grew there.

But with her voluntary confinement still in effect, there was not much for Violet to do other than to go up to bed. On her way to the staircase, she passed the library. Perhaps she would try to read in her room. She went

inside, and from the very bottom shelf in the corner, she picked up a book with a red leather jacket, the front cover embossed with gold script: Children’s and Household Tales by The Brothers Grimm.

She tucked it under one arm and continued upstairs to her bedroom, where she saw there was a little glass jar on her coverlet, glinting in the evening sun. Something was moving inside it.

It was a damselfly. Whoever had put it there had poked holes in the lid of the jar. A note had been fastened to the lid with a green ribbon tied in a clumsy bow. Violet opened the note and saw that it was from Graham.

Dear Violet, he had written in neat, Harrovian script. Get well soon. Best wishes, your brother Graham. She smiled to herself. It was like something the old Graham would have done.

She opened the jar, hoping the insect would come to rest on her hand.

Instead, it flew towards the window, fast, like it was afraid of her. It seemed to Violet to make barely a sound. She opened the window to let it out, quickly shutting it again. The fleeting happiness brought by Graham’s gift evaporated.

She drew the black-out curtains, blocking out the view of the pink setting sun, turned on the bedside lamp and got into bed.

Dust fell from the pages when she opened them, at random, at the story of ‘The Robber Bridegroom’.

It was a grisly story – much grislier than she had remembered. A man was so desperate to marry off his daughter that he had her betrothed to a murderer. The only saving grace was that the girl managed to outsmart him, with the help of an old witch. In the end, the bridegroom was put to death, along with his band of robbers. Serves them right, she thought.

Abandoning the book, she took off her necklace, reaching over to put it on the bedside cabinet. She sighed at the clink and rustle of it slipping onto the floor. Violet peered over the edge of the bed but couldn’t see its gold glint; perhaps it had rolled underneath. Cursing, she climbed out from the covers and crouched on the floor, groping for the necklace. Her fingers came away empty, grimed with dust. Had it fallen behind the cabinet, somehow? She should have been paying closer attention. A chill gripped her heart at the thought of losing the necklace. It was true – as Nanny Metcalfe had commented more than once – that it was ugly; misshapen and blackened with age. But it was all she had of her mother.

Violet grunted with effort as she moved the cabinet, wincing at the sound of it scraping across the floorboards. Her pulse slowed when she spotted the necklace, the links of its chain threaded through with great ropes of dust.

She couldn’t recall the last time her room had been properly cleaned: Penny, the maid, only seemed to give it a cursory mop once a week. Guilt tugged at her stomach. She knew Penny was a little afraid of her, ever since Violet had convinced her to peer into Goldie’s hatbox. She’d only wanted to show Penny the pretty gold stripes on his legs. She couldn’t have known that the maid – who, it transpired, had a horror of spiders – would faint clean away.

Violet bent down to retrieve the necklace and was just about to move the cabinet back again when she noticed something. There was a letter, scratched into the white paint of the wainscoting, half hidden by a spool of fluff. It was a W – the same letter engraved on the pendant she gripped in her hand. Gently brushing away the dust, she uncovered more letters, which looked as if they had been painstakingly etched with a pin, or – she shuddered – a fingernail. Together, the letters formed a word which was somehow familiar, like a long-lost friend, though she had no recollection of

ever seeing it before.

Weyward.

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