The Violet Hour Read online

  The Violet Hour

  Brynn Chapman

  The Violet Hour

  Copyright © 2015 by R. R. Hochbein

  Produced in the United States of America, all rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any form or any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by an information storage and retrieval system, except for reviewers who may quote brief passages.

  All characters are from the author’s imagination and have no relationship to anyone bearing the same names, save actual historical figures. They are not inspired from anyone known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.

  Publisher: R. R. Hochbein

  Kindle Edition

  Dedication: To Cade.

  #YouAreMySunshine #ThanksForBeingMyLight

  Lost Time is never found again.

  ~Benjamin Franklin

  Some people die at twenty and five, but aren’t buried till seventy-five.

  ~Benjamin Franklin

  Prologue

  1859 Charleston, South Carolina

  Seaside~The Opera House

  If you are doing this. It must be now.

  The blood-red opera-house curtains undulate, a mere six inches from the chair on which I sit.

  If I move my boot forward, extend my leg a meager inch, my toe would poke from beneath them—visible to the nearly three hundred townsfolk gathered behind it.

  “We are thrilled and pleased—”

  Rivulets of sweat snake down my neck, running into my dress. My hands are clammy and I readjust my violin. It slides down to the frets and I nearly drop it.

  My heartbeat doubles and a wave of fear pulses. It must be now-It must be now.

  “Her name is oft used in company with the words, virtuoso. Perfect pitch.”

  I cock my head and hear it. The surf pounding the shore, just outside the window.

  Images flash.

  Her lithe body, bloated and purple, bobbing beneath the waves in a whirling tornado of tiny bubbles.

  I clamp my eyes together.

  Another flash.

  The empty coffin. Oh dear heaven sustain me the empty coffin.

  I stand. Am walking, not seeing. I clutch the violin to my chest. I stumble toward my dressing room. It is my imagination, of course. They never found her body.

  “She has toured the halls of Europe, Asia, and is now here, once again, to grace our lovely Charleston stage.”

  I fling open the door, grasp a calling card and scribble on the back of it. I ring the bell and fling a few day dresses into my bag.

  The servant appears; her black eyes wide and afraid. I thrust some coins into her outstretched palm, along with a note. “This is for Sarah. Do you understand me? Sarah only.”

  She shakes her head no, clearly terrified. I drop two more in. “Sarah. Go now!”

  I spin her—shoving her back out the stage door. I insist on utter solitude prior to performing. But it shan’t last. Right outside the thin wooden door lurk opportunists, fans, soliders…him.

  I stride forward, the room tilts and obscures, so that all in my focus is the window. The low-enough-to-the-ground escape route.

  I sling my leg out the ledge and as my head pokes out, the surf roars louder, conjuring more images.

  No, No, NO. Do not think on her. Do not think on her.

  I jump. Leap from the ledge and crumple to the damp earth; the strong smell of the sea invading my nostrils as they flare. Resurrection fern blowing in the soft air of dusk.

  My ankles wail as I scramble to stand.

  Charleston is alive and bustling despite the darkening hour.

  I stride forward into the crowd, ripping off my wig, my wincing at the hot pain in my scalp as the pins pull free—and fling it beneath a bougainvillea bush.

  I lurch into the crowd, and am instantly swallowed.

  The smell of Charleston sweet-grass fills my nostrils. Our last visit, my mother fingering the weaving of the sweet-grass baskets, deciding which to buy.

  I tilt my chin higher. I must appear brave. Blend into the throng if I have any chance of escape.

  I have rehearsed this countless times in my mind. My stomach lurches with fear and I swallow down the bile that threatens.

  Applause erupts in The Seaside, wafting down onto the crowds through the myriad of open windows.

  Sweat breaks under my arms, on my forehead. I hurry forward, forcing myself not to run. Look forward, do not meet their gazes.

  I hear the crowd’s murmuring confusion, growing louder and louder, till the manager takes the stage once again. The recommencing of the orchestra. Hissess and boo’s.

  Gooseflesh erupts from nape to bottom. He will flay me. Flay me alive.

  Behind, just within earshot, the opera house door bangs open and I flinch. “Where are you? Come back this instant, I say!”

  A man collides with my shoulder and I feel something thud against my shoulder, bouncing to the ground. My eyes dart frantically, trying to locate it through the myriad of boots.

  No. No. It is all that remains of her. I quickly finger my other ear, wrenching the remaining earring from it, shoving it to safety within the secret pocket in my skirt.

  “Where are you?” His deranged voice rings out over the crowd, and many stop to stare at his beet-red face.

  I see her then. Her tall, red head sticking up above the crowd. She’s poised by a hansom; her hand on the door..

  She sees me coming and flings it wide and crawls inside.

  I hurtle in, slamming the door.

  Sarah bangs the side of the carriage. “Drive on!”

  * * *

  Sarah’s grasp is a hot-vice; despite her glove I feel the perspiration beneath. She bites her full lip, trying to be brave. She has no tears, thank heaven, or I might disintegrate myself.

  “It is fine. The day has finally arrived,” I speak quietly, even though the only chance of an eavesdropper is the hansom driver. And that would be quite impossible of the clip-clop of hooves and the rattle wagon’s wheels over cobblestones.

  “We have discussed this. Have you the coin?”

  I was unable to stash any significant coin while traveling. My father knew every stitch of clothing, every perfume, every minute of my every day.

  Sarah, however…was unmonitored. And it was a testament to my level of trust that I had no fear she would flee with the money. She was, for all intensive purposes, my sister. The only company I had ever known, save my mother.

  “I ’ave it.” Sarah’s accent seemed to ring through the carriage.

  “Sarah, darling, we must listen to the locals. Try to mimic their accent.” I clear my throat. “It shall be a protection,” I say, in the best southern drawl I can manage.

  “Oo, that is most excellent.” She blinks, “I mean, capital.”

  I wince at her attempt—but it shall have to do.

  “Did you secure lodging under the name I provided?”

  “Yes, but…” the first quiver of her lips.

  “Yes?” I try, try to keep the shake from my hands.

  “It shan’t last long. Your brother found the money.”

  “What! When?”

  Horror blackens my sight. My brother was cruel, horrid, but oh so clever. He would instantly comprehend why Sarah was carrying a sizeable sum.

  She places her hand over mine, “I split it in two. He did not get it all. But…”

  It would last but a few days.

  I stare around the carriage, out at the massive oak trees, flying past the window. We would have to secure a position. Without letters, it may be futile. My mind conjures desperate images. I am not ignorant to the fate of women without protection. Without coin.

  “I shall fo
rge them.”

  * * *

  Two weeks later

  Hunger is a curious thing.

  It gradually makes its presence known; first like a tiny little rat, gnawing at one’s insides…but soon shifts to a roaring, biting lion, consuming each and every thought.

  Three days without a meal. We had taken to…stealing. Wandering into fields at night, gathering bits of vegetables, and eating them on the run.

  One would not image one such as I, from a sprawling estate, and a titled father, would have such intimate knowledge.

  Hunger and I met on several occasions. Locked in my opulent apartment, for two days’ time, with only water, “To clear my head. Make me rethink my position.”

  When my opinions conflict with fathers. Which would be every solitary word issuing forth from his cruel mouth.

  Streaks of red cross the horizon as dawn arrives. The day is beautiful.

  Azure sky, with white puffs of clouds, as numerous as the bobbing cotton in the fields on either side of us.

  Sarah strides forward, her long legs handling the road better than my own.

  I finger the forged papers of recommendation in my skirt.

  I see the sign and swallow.

  CHARLESTON’S FANCY

  The park is remote, but I see in the distance, festive red and white tents, billowing in the salty air.

  “Allegra. Look!” Sarah’s long finger juts upward.

  No less than three hot-air balloons take to the sky and a smile breaks loose. The first in a month.

  I squeeze her hand and nod, not trusting my voice. She risked her life for me. I am responsible for us, live or die.

  I hear it and my heart beats frantic and discordant—in direct contradiction to the perfect, synchronous notes that spurred the reaction.

  An orchestra. I close my eyes and halt, right outside the wrought iron gate, allowing the music to bathe me, fill in the cracks of my soul.

  Home. The music is home.

  “No. No, no, no. How many times must I tell you?” A very large-walrus-looking man, taps his stick upon the podium at the front of the orchestra.

  “Hurry.” I grab Sarah’s sleeve and we plunge forward, weaving past a throng of people.

  From hired hands who screw, tighten and pound, to prim and polished maids, draped with pristine white aprons, carrying trays of sweets that make my stomach scream with hunger. All bustling around a sprawling, white confection of an Inn.

  “Take ten.” The maestro gives the word and I see the musician’s faces alter—some amused, some irritated. All scatter to enjoy each moment of their break.

  “Excuse me, good sir.”

  Walrus-man wheels about, much like a ship changing course, to regard Sarah and I. I swallow as I watch his eyes rove over our definitely-not-pristine attire.

  “I am Allegra Teagarden and this is my cousin, Sarah. We are newly arrived and seeking a position. I am a violinist—I—”

  “Hold your introduction Miss Teagarden. I am not in need of a violinist.”

  My insides clench and I fight the swoon. This is our very last chance.

  I thrust the papers at him. “I have papers.”

  He begins to wave them away.

  “Hold on, Mr. Plimpton.” A deep, baritone voice rumbles behind us.

  I turn and a very tall, very dark man ambles forth. Plimpton’s bulk somehow deflates smaller and smaller as he draws closer.

  “Sir.” He nods.

  The man extends a long fingered hand. “Silas. I am the owner of this establishment. You say you are a musician.”

  He has not the southern drawl of Charleston. It is decidedly Yankee-northern.

  My cheeks are flushed hot-red. His eyes rove over me, and something about the set of his mouth. As if he would devour me whole, if I should allow it.

  “Yes, sir. Here are my papers.” I thrust them into his hand and he touches it a breath too long. “I…studied with Heir Schubert for a time.”

  The man’s black eyebrows shoot beneath the matching color hair. “Heir Schubert, you say. Plimpton, your impulsivity might have cost us a real find, today.”

  Plimpton scowls, regarding my clothing with suspicion.

  “Might you give us a sample, Miss…” he unfurls the papers, eyes roving, “Teagarden?”

  He gestures to the small stage. I stride forward, willing, willing my legs to hold out.

  Sarah collapses in a front row seat, primly folding her hands in her lap. She keeps her eyes cast low, probably also trying to remain upright.

  He places the violin in my hands. As I slip it beneath my chin, joy ricochets through my soul. And I begin.

  The music flows forth from my soul, as I channel emotion, as I was instructed.

  Without permission, I begin to hum a melody in counterpoint—so that my music and voice hum together in a polyphony. My perfect pitch ringing throughout the tented amphitheater.

  I halt. I have lost track of all time and space, as is my custom when I play.

  The seats come back into focus and I see not just Sarah, but the entire orchestra, hired hands gathered behind them, and small children before me, cross-legged on the ground.

  Silas begins a slow, metered clapping, which erupts into thunderous applause and whistles.

  Sarah meets my eyes and we share a communal, non-verbal sigh.

  “You are hired, Miss Teagarden.”

  Chapter One

  1860 Charleston, South Carolina

  9 months later

  I see him, dead-center in the crowd.

  My heart seizes then surges against my ribcage, pumping a thick terror all the way to my fingertips. They tingle as I grip the neck of my cello, hastening it between my legs.

  The man’s form amplifies as if he is the melody and the rest of the people milling past him, the harmony. His soldier’s uniform, emblazoned with my father’s crest is unmistakable, even at night. Come to find me. To haul me home.

  Jonesy notices. As he adjusts his violin beneath his chin, his dark eyes search the crowd for the source of my panic.

  “What is it, Allegra?”

  I glance around the orchestra, reassuring myself that no other musician’s take notice. My fellow cellists are oblivious, smiling and murmuring, awaiting the conductor’s call to attention.

  “By the boathouse.” My voice sounds small and weak. I thrust back my shoulders against it.

  Jonesy’s eyes flick through the crowd and halt. He nods. “Steady, my friend. We’ll shove off in moments.”

  The riverboat teems with well-heeled Charleston society. Women in ball gowns uselessly flutter fans against the brutal, oppressive heat; even though dusk has fallen, every inhalation is like breathing underwater.

  I never thought I’d miss England’s rain, but the summer blaze is intolerable.

  The last few patrons’ board and the boat rumbles as it shudders away from the dock.

  Away from the amusement park, away from my wretched hunter.

  My relieved breath escapes as my chest struggles to find its normal rhythm.

  My eyes flit across the shoreline—the white guesthouse, the white swans and peacocks, and the hovering red and white striped balloon, stark against the darkening night sky.

  The amusement park, Charleston’s Fancy, is both my savior and my master.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rise despite the close heat.

  Someone else watches. Silas, the grand owner, glares from the dock. His eyes firmly fixed on me, despite the throng covering the deck.

  The man misses nothing.

  “You’re fine now, Allegra. Breathe my friend,” Jonesy prompts. His eyes follow my gaze to Silas. “Forget him. Choke on his importance, he will.”

  I force a weak smile. “One must have a dream…”

  Bang!

  I duck. As does half the string section; my heart hammers like the kettledrum behind me as I struggle to catch my breath.

  A flaming blue cluster of light cuts across the inky-black sky, hovering for bu
t a blink above the boat. It blossoms into a fiery flower, raining back down to earth as a sparkling waterfall.

  Jonesy smiles widely, the sky casting a blue glow across his features. “The pyrotechnics. I forgot they were trying that tonight.”

  “By their reaction, so did everyone else.”

  I search the crowd once again, but my seeker is gone. My eyes drift up, searching for the origin of the organized chaos that lights the sky.

  On the hill, a man scrambles to and fro, setting the fireworks alight. Four red jets streak heavenward, illuminating his upturned face for a short moment.

  I suck in my breath. He is beautiful; tangles of black curls and a long, straight nose and lips. His complexion is dark, exotic.

  “Who.” I swallow. “Who is that?”

  “That be the warlock,” Marietta interrupts. She leans forward conspiratorially, so close I am able to make out the light sheen of sweat on her ample bosom as it threatens escape from her scalloped décolletage.

  “Everyone’s talking about him. His name is LeFroy. He’s even newer than you, deary.”

  “Why do you say he’s a witch?”

  “Marietta, do not be so provincial. He’s not a witch—” Jonesy begins.

  “I have it on good authority he flies.”

  “What?” A warm tickle of fear flits across my chest.

  The conductor taps his rod and the myriad of instruments rise to his call.

  I reposition the cello between my legs and risk one final glance.

  The hillside is bare, but the pyrotechnics continue to fly, burst and twinkle as if millions of fireflies dance a frenzied tango.

  He is gone.

  * * *

  Brighton

  “Jonesy! For heaven’s sake man, hurry up!”

  Dark clouds cluster, pregnant and oppressive over the bay.