Weyward(8)

5


VIOLET


Violet straightened her green dress as she followed Father and Cecil out of the dining room. She’d barely been able to eat a thing, and not just because Mrs Kirkby had made rabbit pie (she had tried not to think of silky ears and delicate pink noses as she chewed). Father had asked her to accompany him to the drawing room after dinner. The drawing room – furnished in oppressive dark tartans – was where Father enjoyed his postprandial glass of port and silence, observed by the stuffed head of an ibex that hung over the chimneypiece. Women were forbidden (apart from Mrs Kirkby, who had lit an unseasonable fire in the grate).

‘Close the door,’ Father said once they were inside. As she swung the door shut, Violet saw Graham glower at her from the corridor. He had never been invited to the drawing room. Though perhaps that was a good thing. Violet turned back to Father and saw that his face had taken on the ashen hue that usually signalled grave displeasure. Her stomach flipped.

Father stalked over to the drinks trolley, where crystal decanters sparkled in the firelight. He poured himself a generous glass of port before sinking into an armchair. The leather squeaked as he crossed his legs. He did not invite her to sit down (though the only other chair in the room, an austere wing-back, was rather too close to the fire – and Cecil – to be inviting).

‘Violet,’ Father said, crinkling his nose as though her name offended him in some way.

‘Yes, Father?’ Violet hated how thin her voice sounded. She swallowed, wondering what she had done wrong. He normally only bothered to discipline her when Graham was around. Otherwise, she largely escaped his notice. For the second time that day, she thought of the incident with the bees and winced.

He leaned over to stoke the fire violently, so that it spat pale ash onto the richly patterned Turkey carpet. Cecil yelped, then began to growl in Violet’s direction, deducing that she must be the cause of his master’s displeasure. A vein jumped at Father’s temple. He was silent for so long that Violet was beginning to wonder whether she could just creep out of the drawing room without him noticing.

‘We need to discuss your behaviour,’ he said, finally.

Her cheeks grew hot with panic.

‘My behaviour?’

‘Yes,’ Father said. ‘Miss Poole tells me that you have been … climbing trees.’ He spoke the last two words slowly and clearly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. ‘Apparently, you ripped your skirt. I’m told it is … ruined.’

He stared into the fire, frowning.

Violet twisted her hands, which were by now slick with sweat. She hadn’t even noticed the tear – snaking the full length of the wool skirt – until Nanny Metcalfe had collected it for the wash. The skirt was ancient, anyway, and far too long, with horridly prissy pleats. Secretly, she was glad to be rid of it.

‘I’m … I’m sorry, Father.’

His frown deepened, creasing his forehead. Violet looked to the window, forgetting that the black-out curtains were drawn. A fly buffeted its tiny body against the fabric in desperate search of the outside world. The whirr of its wings filled Violet’s ears and she didn’t hear what Father said next.

‘What?’ she said.

‘“I beg your pardon, Father.”’

‘I beg your pardon, Father?’ she repeated, still watching the fly.

‘I was saying that you have one last chance to conduct yourself appropriately, as befits my daughter. Your cousin Frederick is coming to stay with us next month, on leave from the front.’ He paused and Violet braced herself for a sermon.

Father often talked about his time fighting in the Great War. Every November he made Graham polish his medals in preparation for Armistice Day, when he had the entire household gather in the first sitting room for the minute of silence. Afterwards, he gave a repetitive speech about valour and sacrifice that seemed to get longer every year.

‘Knows nowt about real fighting,’ Violet had heard Dinsdale, the gardener, mutter to Mrs Kirkby once after a particularly long address. ‘Spent most of his time in the officers’ mess with a bottle of port, I’d wager.’ Father had seemed almost gleeful when war was again declared in 1939. He had immediately commanded that Graham and Violet set about gathering conkers from the horse chestnut trees that lined the drive. Apparently, the round seeds, glossy as rubies, were bound to be indispensable in the production of the bombs that would explode all over Germany and ‘send the Boche to kingdom come’. Graham collected hundreds of the things, but Violet couldn’t bear to think of the beautiful seeds coming to such a grisly end. She secretly buried them in the garden, hoping that they would grow anew. Fortunately, Father soon lost enthusiasm for the war – kept from enlisting by a gammy knee and ‘duties to the estate’ – and forgot all about this assignment.

But there was no martial sermon tonight. ‘I expect you to be on your best behaviour around Frederick,’ Father continued instead. Violet thought this was all very odd. She couldn’t remember ever hearing about a cousin called Frederick – or any cousin at all, for that matter. Father never spoke of any relations – not even his parents and older brother, who had died in an accident before she was born. This subject too was forbidden – she had once received three stinging raps on the hand for asking about it. ‘Consider it … a test. If you fail to conduct yourself appropriately during his visit, then … I’ll have no choice but to send you away. For your own good.’