Arranging the packing of her trunks, giving instructions to the household servants on what would be expected of them for the remainder of the Season and providing detailed instructions to Bianca’s lady’s maid on her new role as a chaperon, had kept Violet physically busy as she’d prepared for her trip back to Norfolk, but hadn’t stopped her busy mind from dwelling on unwanted thoughts and memories.
Even worse was the train journey home. After she and Agatha had taken their seats and she had exchanged a few pleasantries with the other passengers in the first-class compartment, Violet had nothing to do except sit and watch London pass by outside the window. She hoped that once the bustling, smoky city disappeared from sight, to be replaced by the pleasant greenery of the passing countryside, her tense body would start to relax.
She was on her way home. Away from him. Surely the gripping in her shoulders and neck should now release, the agitation in her stomach start to settle down.
Perhaps she needed to be at home, back to her normal routine. Then she would be free of those thoughts that constantly tormented her. Then she could stop going over and over their last conversation, thinking of things she should have said, creating his responses, which were always contrite as he admitted that everything she said was right. Or, alternatively, she imagined him putting up feeble arguments, which she would immediately shoot down with some caustic comments, while watching with satisfaction as he crumbled before her.
And, when she was finally free of thinking about him, hopefully she would also be free of the harrowing memory of him holding her, kissing her, caressing her. When that unwanted image invaded her mind, her body reacted with such powerful longing it was physically painful. As if she were an empty pit and every part of her was craving his touch to fill her up and make her whole again.
She coughed, smiled tightly at the other passengers, pleased that they could not read her mind, and picked up her abandoned book. As she stared at the page, the words swam in front of her eyes. The journey passed at an excruciatingly slow pace, but finally she was back in Norfolk. Home. Now she would be able to heal. Now she would be able to get back to who she really was before she’d so foolishly lost herself to Jake Rosemont.
She walked in through the familiar entrance of Maidstone House and waited for the weight to be lifted off her shoulders. Her home had never sounded so quiet. There was no Bianca, greeting her with her cheerful chatter. No Father emerging from his study to acknowledge her arrival, list off all that needed doing, before retreating once more to his solitude. There was just Violet. She was going to have to get used to this silence. Bianca would soon be gone, leaving her all alone.
But she would not sink into self-pity. She had plenty to keep her busy. Unlike some other people she wasn’t even going to think about, she was not a worthless wastrel who had to find pointless ways to fill her time. She had a house to run, tenants to care for, an estate that still needed a manager. Yes, she had plenty to occupy her time.
And at the end of the Season, once Bianca had finished enjoying every ball and soirée and had her fill of the theatre and the opera, Violet would also have a wedding to arrange. That, too, would keep her busy.
She sank down on to the bench by the entranceway. A wedding where she would inevitably see Lord Jake again. He would probably even be Mr Fortescue’s best man.
No doubt he would look splendid in a morning suit. Dove grey would probably suit him best and would contrast well with his dark hair.
This will not do. Pull yourself together.
She stood up and walked briskly down to the kitchen. The housekeeper had remained in London, at Violet’s insistence, so she could attend to any entertaining needs Bianca might have. That was all for the best. Violet would enjoy managing the house herself.
She entered the kitchen. The scullery maid was seated at the table, languidly peeling some potatoes, while the kitchen maid sat by the stove, reading the newspaper. They both jumped to their feet on her arrival and bobbed quick curtsies.
‘Mrs Hampton has remained in London, so I alone will be organising the household.’
‘Very good, my lady,’ the maid said with another quick bob. ‘And will you be hosting any dinner parties any time soon that we need to prepare for? Will we need the services of Beryl and Myrtle again?’
‘No.’
‘Very good, my lady. And will there be any guests arriving that we need to buy provisions and prepare rooms for?’
‘No.’
The kitchen maid and the scullery maid exchanged quick glances. Violet knew what they were thinking. If she was the only person in residence and she was not planning on entertaining, what did she actually have to organise?
‘Well, everything seems to be in order,’ Violet said, looking around as if giving the kitchen her final approval. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
She left the kitchen and looked up and down the corridor, trying to decide what needed her attention next.
The village. The tenants probably needed her help in all sorts of ways, particularly poor, broken-hearted Mr Armstrong. She would visit the Golden Fleece and help him find a permanent new barmaid.
With a fresh determination to sort out this problem, she strode down the pathway and through the village, greeting each tenant as she passed.
Unlike the last time she had visited the tavern, today the doors were wide open, and the sound of laughter and men’s loud voices spilled out into the road. She entered to find the place full of farmworkers, all enjoying their tankards of beer after their day working in the fields.
A few men looked up from their tables when they saw her and rose to their feet, but most were too busy enjoying their beer and the companionship of others to notice her.
Mr Armstrong was behind the bar. Gone was the sullen man who could barely lift his head. He was smiling and chatting with the patrons as he refilled their tankards. And Rosie, the temporary barmaid Violet had organised, was still working by his side.
Rosie looked completely at home, flirting, laughing and exchanging banter with the patrons. She pushed past Mr Armstrong and reached for another tankard hanging from hooks above the bar. To Violet’s horror, as she did so, Mr Armstrong grabbed hold of her buttocks and gave them a squeeze.
Violet expected her to slap his face as he deserved and storm out, leaving Violet to sort out the mess he had made. Instead, she squealed with laughter, turned and gave him a quick peck on the lips. The tavern keeper’s smile grew wider, and he almost appeared to be purring like a cat just given a bowl of cream.
Unbelievable. It had not been long since that man had been inconsolable, vowing he would never get over Betsy. Now it seemed he was completely healed and had already moved on to pursuing another woman.
Men. It didn’t take them long, did it? Lord Jake would be no different. He would have forgotten all about her, if he had even thought about her in the first place. That was another good reason why she should not be wasting any time thinking about him.
Violet strode up to the bar. ‘Mr Armstrong, I believe you are still in need of a permanent barmaid.’
The smile died on his lips. ‘No, my lady. All’s been taken care of. My Rosie here is happy to continue.’ He looked over at the barmaid. His smile returned, as did that dopey look on his face.
‘And what of Betsy? Have you heard anything from your wife?’
Mr Armstrong stared at her in confusion. ‘Oh, her...no, nothing.’ He went back to gazing at Rosie. Violet huffed her disapproval and strode out of the tavern.
She looked up and down the village street. People were going about their daily tasks. Women were chatting over fences to their neighbours, couples were strolling in the late afternoon sunshine, while children pushed hoops and played with spinning tops. No one within sight appeared to need her help.
She strode back to the house.
An estate manager. Good. She still needed to find an estate manager. That should occupy her time. With new determination, she rushed down to the butler’s pantry, now occupied by the head footman in the butler’s absence. Like the kitchen maid, he was absorbed in reading the newspaper, but quickly jumped to his feet the moment she entered.
‘Samuel. I need to organise a new estate manager. How does one go about doing that?’
Samuel looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable. ‘That has all been taken care of, my lady.’
‘No, it hasn’t.’
‘Yes, my lady. Your father appointed a new man before he left for London. He starts at the end of the month.’
‘My father?’ When had her father ever taken any interest in the running of the estate or organising the staff?
‘Yes, one of your guests, a Lord Jake Rosemont, contacted your father with a suitable appointment and your father hired him.’
‘Lord Jake? My father?’ What was going on? Was Lord Jake trying to ruin her life? Was he conspiring against her so she would have nothing to do? Nothing except to spend her endless days thinking about him.
‘Will there be anything else, my lady?’
‘No, no, that is all. Thank you, Samuel.’ She remained standing, wondering what to do now, then turned abruptly, left the butler’s pantry, stopped in the corridor and looked both ways. She had to keep busy, but what to do now?
She walked back out the entranceway. She would go for a long, brisk walk. That would exhaust her. By the time she returned, she would be so tired she would not be able to think, and when night came, she would fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
She walked up the gravel path, kicking up the small stones as she went, then strode across the grassy field, determined not to think of Lord Jake and not to relive her recent humiliation, but it was impossible to do so.
It was hard to believe that, after eight years of protecting her heart so vigilantly, she had let her guard down so easily and so quickly. And she could no longer deny why her pain was so intense. Fool that she was, she had actually fallen in love with Jake Rosemont.
If such a realisation didn’t hurt so much it would actually be laughable.
She had been humiliated before and knew well what that felt like. But this time, the emotion was more extreme. It wasn’t just that she had not learnt her lesson and had once again fallen for a charming man who had secrets of which she alone was unaware, but because she had fallen in love with Jake.
With Randolph, it had never really been love. She had loved the thought of having a wedding, being his wife, of being a married woman with a home of her own, but she had not loved him, not the actual man. She had enjoyed his company, had found him dashing and exciting, and had been proud to be by his side, but she did not feel the same intensity of emotion that she felt for Jake.
When Randolph had picked her out from all the available debutantes, she had been flattered to be selected by the most handsome man available that Season. She had quickly got caught up in the romance of being married and had been so proud of herself for finding a husband in her first Season. She had even felt sorry for those young ladies who were on their second, third, even their fourth or fifth Season and were still not being courted. But hadn’t they all had the last laugh and hadn’t they been able to pity her in the end?
That had been the main thing she had felt, a wound to her pride and an abhorrence of being pitied. But this time it was different. This time, she was in real pain. This time, she had felt something deep for the man. This time, it was Jake himself, and not the idea of a big white wedding or being a married woman, that she missed.
She had never really missed Randolph, but every inch of her seemed to ache for Jake.
Or was she just missing a fantasy?
He had never really been the man she thought he was. The man she had fallen in love with did not play tricks, did not manipulate other people’s emotions the way he had manipulated hers.
She had fallen in love with a man who didn’t really exist.
The man she thought she loved would not treat anyone the way he had treated her. Yes, she needed to forget all about him. She needed to once again be a woman who did not need a man in her life and certainly did not need Lord Jake Rosemont.
She approached a stile, placed a hand on the top to climb over, then sat down, her energy sapped. Taking her head in her hands, the tears she had been keeping at bay ever since Bianca’s engagement party finally rolled down her cheeks.