The Violet Hour Read online

  “Keep your shirt on, Captain Bly.” Jonesy arrives, whipping supplies and water pell-mell into the dingy.

  Crack!

  Thunder booms, so close the vibration hums to my core. The sound doesn’t bother; indeed, bangs and fizzles are now my life.

  I stare heavenward, squinting into the gloom and nod. “Good. Good. We have to hurry, Jones.”

  Lightning flashes in the bay, connecting with the water. White tendrils spread like a glittery film from the core of the strike. Again and again and again, the heavens alight.

  One, two, three, four. Not enough strikes.

  Swirling clouds twist and turn—rumbling inside, as if some great, dark beast longs for escape.

  A few hard drops of rain tap my head, and in a blink, the deluge erupts, dowsing us.

  Jonesy’s eyes squint against the driving, vertical rain. I clap him hard on the shoulder. “You don’t have to do this.”

  His black eyes steal to the isle in the middle of the bay then flick back to me. “I’m afraid I do. You’re daft, LeFroy. So daft, you may drown or fry, depending on your particular death wish.”

  “Too true,” I laugh. “Thank you, my friend.”

  “Hold up!” A deep booming voice cuts a channel through the fog.

  Silas arrives, striding down the launch; his white cane glowing in the gloom. “I need a word, Mr. LeFroy.”

  “Blast.” I clamber out of the boat to face him. “Go on.”

  The howling wind whips his black hair but those pale, expressionless eyes remain utterly singular. “The receipts were thrice fold tonight because of your little pyrotechnic show. I wish to keep you on indefinitely.”

  “Indefinitely is a long time.”

  “Don’t be coy, LeFroy. We both know a stroke of my pen could send you running or into shackles.”

  My hands clench as I will them still, and not around his windpipe. I nod and grimace. “I must go. We will discuss it later.”

  His eyes stray into the bay and back to the dingy. “You truly are mad.”

  “Yes, yes.” I wave, already walking away.

  Shoving the boat into the water, I steer it toward Fire Island without looking back.

  Driving sheets of rain lambast our faces. Jagged bolts of light assault the ground ahead amidst a continuous eruption of white light. It flickers on and off as if God’s candle gutters.

  Crack after crack cut the night as a litany of bolts strike the ground, steaming and sizzling against the rocky crag in the bay. No doubt some of Fancy’s newer workers will think it a miracle, of so many bolts in one place. But that is precisely the reason I chose it.

  One, two, three, four, five, six…

  My heartbeat increases. My magic number; enough voltage.

  “So it begins.”

  The tiny boat skims the choppy waves, rising to catch air and splashing down, slopping seawater over the sides.

  Pops and booms of light and sound pock the air above as if a celestial warzone congregates directly overtop the isle.

  Jonesy leaps out with furtive glances at the sky. I follow, scrambling into the shallows, to help him secure the boat to the makeshift-dock.

  Two cats mewl, winding their way in and out of trees, darting out and back to best avoid the downpour. They finally skitter toward me, embracing their soggy fate.

  Jonesy’s eyes narrow to stare. “They’re waiting. Outside for you.” Jonesy shivers, pointing at their soaked faces. “That is blasted unnatural; cats detest water.”

  I kept my eyes straightforward on the forest to discourage this line of conversation.

  “Are you sure you won’t need my assistance?” He prompts.

  I shake my head, finally meeting his dark gaze. “No. You know too much already. If you weren’t so observant and obstinate, you could still be blissfully oblivious.”

  He smiles. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  The cats mewl louder, edging ever closer.

  I ignore them and pelt down the overgrown path toward the briny pond.

  “Good luck, Brighton,” Jones calls to my back.

  I raise my hand in reply without turning and run faster.

  Chapter Two

  “At least permit me to hot iron your hair,” Sarah says, her blue eyes pleading.

  “What is the point in that? With this heat, your hard work will melt the moment I step outside. Might you fetch the wig? We’re going to be late.”

  I stare in the looking glass and run my fingers through my hair. For a second, I feel the ghost of my mother’s touch, combing out the waves, soothing. “Your strawberry field,” she used to call my tangled mess of curls. I swallow down the lump the thought of her brings to my throat.

  My eyes flick outside to the Magnolia trees—which remind me of her. Everything about this place reminds me of her. It is both painful and comforting.

  Her final resting place is here, in Charleston. On our previous tour, she died. Took her own life.

  I swallow hard at the memory of returning to England without her. The long, wordless journey home with my father—culminating in the return to our large, lonely estate; where the two of us floated about like two ghosts, steadfastly avoiding contact with one another.

  “Here, milady.” Sarah hands me a dark brown wig and proceeds to arrange my hair beneath it. She upsweeps the sides to fasten them in place with a Magnolia pin, a gift from my mother. I finger it lovingly.

  “How about this one, milady?”

  I turn to stare and shake away the trance.

  Sarah lays my best dress on the bed, smoothing it gently.

  I sigh. Old habits die hard.

  I walk over and place my hands bracingly on her shoulders.

  “I’m not milady. And you no longer have to dress me. I now only own five dresses, and that is my best one. We must think differently to survive here, Sarah.”

  She nods, blue eyes swimming in tears. “I’m sorry, m—Allegra. It’s all taking some getting used to.”

  I bite my lip as the pang of guilt shoots through my chest. “I shouldn’t have let you come with me. You should’ve returned home, Sarah.”

  Sarah had caught me, mid-flight and insisted on accompanying me.

  She shakes her red head furiously, simultaneously whipping the shirtwaist from the armoire. “Don’t you ever say that Allegra Manners. I belong where you are. I’m not just your lady’s maid. I’m your—”

  “My friend. I know. My very best friend. And I’m glad you’re here, but it still doesn’t feel fair. You didn’t wish to escape. And remember, it’s Teagarden.”

  Her hands fly to cover her blush. “Oh my word, I will give us away yet. You…had much to flee from milady.”

  A storm crosses her face. I know its origin.

  Our eyes search one another’s as if sharing the same memory.

  My father, veins bulging in his forehead, jabbing his finger against my chest, screaming, “You will marry who I say and you shall do so submissively. If I say roll in the mud, you shall obey. If I say burn that blasted cello—you. Shall. Obey!”

  I shiver and stare at the sparse surroundings of our bungalow, comparing it to our sprawling estate in the English countryside.

  Two beds, a table and chairs, and a threadbare rug before a tiny hearth. I care not. It is all mine and I’ve earned it—with my own hands, by my music. My index digit smarts as if in agreement. It has been perpetually and troublingly sore for a fortnight.

  The music, according to my father, was my most precious commodity. Well, that and my chastity. I was but three when I could first play…and he wasted no time dragging me across the whole of Europe, exploiting me in each and every ballroom across the land.

  I shake my head. The future of an entire estate, riding on the slim shoulders of a gangly seven-year-old.

  My hands shake and Sarah grasps them hard, squeezing my fingers.

  We sink onto the bed’s edge, both our chest’s heaving. “I…just needed to be more than something to wed. Or somebody’s little music
box. I…can think. Better than many men.”

  Sarah nods furiously. “I understand. You were drowning, milady.”

  The sides of my mouth twitch and curl up a fraction. “Yes, I was. I could not marry him.”

  Sarah’s eyebrows pull together, and I know by the repulsed curling of her lip she recalls my would-be fiancé.

  Fat, rich, and cruel Lord Lumberton. Thrice my age and desperate to produce an heir.

  My father had no care where I landed, so long as my alliance brought more coin or more prestige to the House of Manners.

  My finger, which had long given me trouble from hours of playing, had been the turning point for my father.

  He decided my dowry would out-pay what he feared might be the end of my musical career.

  My index finger was currently bent, the tip touching my palm. No matter how I tried, I could not straighten it, unless I flicked it up with my other hand.

  I did so, and Sarah flinched.

  Any semblance of kindness that had lived in Estate Manners had died with my mother. Whose loveless marriage had been arranged. As mine was to be.

  I shake my head, needing to explain. “I couldn’t have him marry me off. And share mother’s fate. At the end…she was so despondent.”

  “Worried for you, Allegra. And you alone. Not even about herself. Down to the end.”

  I frown, an edge of anger stealing into my voice, “In the end, she did think of herself.”

  Sarah shakes her head. “I still do not believe that, Milady.”

  Thomas, my elder brother, took after my father.

  Cruel and handsome and ruthless. Leaving mother and I to try and carve out our own slice of happiness amidst their endless demands of propriety.

  My mother died on a visit to Charleston; and even after two years, the place refused to vacate my mind.

  So, whilst on our next musical tour of these United States, I fled; escaped his societal halter.

  On our last penny, we saw the sign tacked on the pub, as if Providence had seen our plight.

  ‘New Orchestra forming. Musicians apply at Charleston’s Fancy.’

  “It’s an adventure here, Allegra. This…Charleston. New ideas, new opportunities. Why, I may no longer be in service.”

  I smile wider. “No. We shall find you employment of your choosing. One that pleases you.”

  “Pleases me…” she murmurs in awe.

  A harsh rap on the bungalow door startles us both to standing.

  I open it to see Silas. He grants me a smile which does not reach his eyes. That smile is familiar; it’s merely plastered on a new face.

  “A word, Miss Teagarden.”

  I step outside, shutting the door on Sarah’s pinched face.

  The amusement park has wakened; ladies and gentlemen in a sparkling array of colors shuffle in two directions, as if they were its colorful arms, stretching before the morning chaos.

  Hands erect white tents in preparation for tonight’s society ball. I spy a throng of workers buzzing over the outside of the massive guest house, stringing garlands of flowers like busy human bees.

  It is breathtaking. A white, blossoming heaven on earth.

  The rich flock to dance, dine, socialize and drink in all the amusements Charleston’s Fancy offered.

  The smell of gardenia, magnolia and honeysuckle waft down into the main thoroughfare where we mere mortals, reside.

  I blink, refocusing on Silas’s impatient face.

  I clear my throat. “Yes, Mr. Boone?”

  “The orchestra practices at one sharp.” He boldly fingers one of my ringlets, placing it behind my shoulder.

  I shiver, fighting the hitch in my chest.

  Do not bolt. Steady. He is your vile ticket to freedom.

  A young girl skips down the thoroughfare, barely keeping her eyes in their sockets. Her gaze oo’d and aww’d without a whispered sound at the park’s untold delights.

  Her nanny shoo’s her forward, lugging her cello.

  Silas raises an eyebrow. “One of yours, I suppose?”

  I beam. I cannot help it. “Yes, lessons, you know. I’ll be sure to be done by one. Sharp.”

  He nods. “Good. You have quite an ear, Allegra, and I’ve heard a rumor you compose as well.”

  A hot blush warms my cheeks. “Yes.”

  “Bring one to me.”

  “I shall, Mr. Boone, thank you.”

  “Silas. Do call me Silas.”

  Silas turns and walks toward the main house without another word. His white walking stick swinging jauntily at his side.

  I bend and pat the top of Esmeralda’s head. “Ready, my dove?”

  Behind me, murmurs rise to fevered whispers. I glance back and my heart plummets to my knees, turning them to water.

  My eyes meet Sarah’s and I give her a nod. She shuffles forward, motioning for them to enter.

  “Come in, Essie and Miss Parker. How’s your practicing?”

  I quietly shut the door and stare, mesmerized. It is the beautiful man from the hillside. The fireworks genius…the dark-haired witch?

  He stands before Silas, gesturing wildly, his face taut with rage.

  His blue eyes pinch and he spits, “It is far too dangerous. You are begging for trouble. You cannot light it all.”

  Silas stands straighter. He is slightly taller than the man, but his head cocks as if he is unsure.

  I bite my lip. Prior to this moment, unsure is the least likely word I would ever pair with Silas Boone. But this man…challenges him.

  Indeed, Silas is the second most arrogant man I’ve ever encountered.

  “You manage to find a way. Out there, in the middle of nowhere. How is that possible, LeFroy?”

  Lefroy. I turn it over in my mouth, permitting the sound of it to linger on my tongue.

  LeFroy presses his lips together. “I have explained that, as best I can. I cannot abide by your use of the arc lamps.”

  “I have never seen them, anywhere. And I being the first to possess them, will be an instant draw to the well-heeled. They are always panting after the latest invention.”

  LeFroy’s eyes narrow, “There is a reason you have never seen them prior.. I tell you, complications will ensue from their use.”

  “I care not for the complications, only the coin this will bring. Work your magic. I want this place glowing with light. Can’t have the rich breaking their necks, can we?”

  Chills spread over my neck. Silas…is dangerous. My instincts crawl, urging me to flee.

  But what choice do I have?

  None.

  Mr. LeFroy inhales deep breaths, biting his lip as Silas stalks away.

  His eyes suddenly flick to me as if feeling my stare.

  I freeze; caught eavesdropping. “H-hello.” I raise my hand in a feeble, awkward greeting.

  He inclines his head, ever so slightly and turns, stomping in Silas’s footsteps toward the guest house. His deep brown hair blows in the morning air as he breaks into a canter.

  My heart beats against my chest, well into the next hour, and throughout Essie’s scales, recalling every mannerism on his face.

  Witch or no, Mr. LeFroy has wholly enchanted me.

  Chapter Three

  The heat is unrelenting, but a cool breeze blows in from the sea, billowing the white tent like a fore gleam of fall. I sit in my orchestra chair, my cello propped between my thighs, staring out across the white-tipped waves.

  A sigh slips from my lips. I could stay here forever. I intend to.

  I hear the young boy coming before I actually see him. His left club-foot drags behind him, making a loud scraping sound on the hardwood orchestra floor.

  Eyes, blue and bright as the heavens, meet mine. “Good day, Ms. Teagarden. I-I was wondering…” The boy is about ten, and his eyes drop to regard his nervously-shuffling feet.

  “Yes?”

  His earnest eyes rise and plead. “I wish to learn to play. I. I haven’t the money for lessons, though. Might I work in exchange, to lea
rn?”

  The boy’s shirt is far too large; his scuffed boots have passed the day for mending and now beg replacement. I wish for my father’s fortune, to help him. I swallow, clearing the lump in my throat.

  “Of course. I must first consider your assignment. Come back in a few days’ time?”

  The boy beams and I see hope spark in his eyes. “Thank you so much, Miss Teagarden. They were right. You really are an angel.”

  My cheeks heat and feel a stare burning the side of my face; like I am the insect and Lefroy’s gaze the magnifying glass.

  Mr. LeFroy is checking the newly erected arc lamps. He strides across the lawn and my heart leaps.

  A very large hot air balloon darts playfully overhead; its festive red and white stripes like a massive, floating lollipop in the sky. I have never seen one so close and my heart beats like a little girl at the fair for the first time.

  I forget myself and my manners and dash after Mr. LeFroy, skidding to a stop by his side.

  His thick hands yank the rope and check the tether. He jerks, apparently just registering my presence.

  “Where on earth did it come from? How do you keep it aloft?”

  Suddenly LeFroy’s eyes narrow and see nothing but me. They smolder and burn, hotter than the Carolina sun.

  “Are you always so curious, Miss…?”

  “Teagarden. Yes. How else does one learn?’

  He hesitates; raising one dark eyebrow, then gives a reluctant smile. “Indeed.”

  My heart stutters like the words that are now stuck between my mind and mouth.

  His gaze lingers…curiously flicking from my eyes to my hair and back.

  I pat my head. “Something amiss?”

  “No, mam.”

  He starts to walk away, toward the gazebo. “These lamps? I’ve never seen them before? Where on earth did you get them?”

  “Where on earth indeed,” he mutters, still walking away.

  I suddenly do not wish him to leave. I fight convention’s reins, straining against my neck, and force myself not to follow him.

  “You did not tell me how it keeps aloft,” I blurt, too loud and much too forward.

  He turns to face me, still walking backwards. “Curious interests for a female. But if you must know it is a mixture of dilute sulfuric acid and metal fillings. It creates Hydrogen.”