The Countess Conspiracy (Brothers Sinister #3)(19)

“Stuff and nonsense. When people say that it’s nothing, they usually mean, ‘nothing I wish to talk about.’ But I am your mother, Violet. Your wish to keep silent is irrelevant. I wish you to tell me what you know, and so you will.”

Violet bit back a laugh. So might her mother browbeat anyone. She’d seen it a thousand times. Of late—oh, truthfully, over the last decade—she’d bemusedly watched herself doing the exact same thing. As the years went by, she and her mother became more and more alike. Violet couldn’t wait until she’d earned her mother’s prickly indifference, until the calm, assertive façade that she put on became truth.

“What’s so funny?” her mother asked, frowning at her. “Are you laughing at me? What have you heard, Violet?”

“I haven’t heard anything,” Violet said.

There was a long pause. Her mother carefully stood. She tiptoed to the door, and stood there in silence for a moment, counting out beats. Then, very swiftly, she yanked it open.

Nobody was there. Her mother poked her head out, peered both ways down the hall, then very softly shut the door once more.

“I appreciate your discretion, Violet,” she murmured. “And I understand that there are…some things that must not be spoken aloud. But if we are to manage the thing that I hope we will not have to manage, we must come to an understanding. Just as well that Lily is not here; she’d have conniptions.” She looked over at Violet. “You know what we have to do.”

It was the first rule, the rule that superseded all other rules. “A lady protects her own,” Violet said.

Her mother nodded. “Even if her own is foolish and forgetful…ah, well. I have no regrets. Come, Violet. Sit. Don’t say it aloud—I don’t believe anyone is listening, but I’d rather not find out that I’m wrong when…” She sighed. “I’m too old to manage this sort of fear. This scandal that you have in mind. Is it a new scandal or an old scandal?”

“It is an old scandal.”

Her mother’s nose wrinkled. “What year?”

“Oh,” Violet said in surprise, counting back. “It was…1862.”

“Oh. So.” The baroness’s lips pinched together and she shook her head in silence. “That. Indeed.”

After a long pause, Violet realized that was all the acknowledgment she was going to get.

Maybe she’d hoped for more. Some days, she’d idly toyed with mentioning the matter to her mother. Mama would understand if she knew, Violet had sometimes thought. She was her mother, after all, and for all Lily thought her cold and unfeeling, Violet knew better. Or she had thought she had.

Her mother rubbed her forehead, a gesture of upset and vulnerability so out of place that Violet almost reached for her—until she recalled that her mother would not welcome being touched. Especially not when Violet was the cause of her distress.

“So,” her mother repeated. “I had hoped… But then, hope never fixed anything.” She sighed and looked up. “Who have you told, then? Did you tell your sister? Because if you did, she will tell her husband, and he’ll think it his duty—he has the most godforsaken theories on what his duty is, that apparently don’t include keeping family secrets—to make a ruckus about it. If that’s the case, we’ll all hang.”

Violet grimaced. Nothing like a little hyperbole to keep everyone in line. “I’m not an idiot. Lily knows nothing.”

“Good. Anyone else?”

“Well, Sebastian Malheur, of course.”

Her mother snorted. “That boy. I had my eye on him from the moment he was old enough to walk. I knew he’d make trouble. But he has been discreet, at least, and if he hasn’t told yet, I doubt he’ll do it.” She sighed. “Still, the more people who know, the worse it is, no matter how trustworthy you think they are. This is awful. It’s beyond ruinous.”

Violet tried not to flinch, but still she felt her stomach clench. Some part of her had been hoping for a single whispered word of praise. Even the brief flicker of a smile. But her mother’s eyes looked dark and condemning.

“I still have nightmares about it,” her mother continued. “Some days, I can’t even make myself believe it is true. It disgusts me.” Her hands were trembling; she set her knitting on the table and rubbed her fingers.

Oh, Violet had been telling herself lies. Proud? Her mother? No chance of that. Violet was disgusting.

Violet had always known that she was fundamentally unlovable. That she had to pretend to have any hope of fitting in. When she was younger, it had been a cause of some grief, but she’d straightened her spine and gone on with her life. The only thing worse than an unlovable woman was an unlovable woman who whined about not being loved. She’d killed off all the parts of her that hoped for anything more than tepid acquaintanceship, and she’d made a habit of hiding her most unpalatable parts.

If she’d ever wanted proof that she’d made the right decision, this was it. Her own mother couldn’t accept who she was and what she’d done.

Violet swallowed.

There was a bright side to this all. She was getting better at managing her emotions. She felt only a mid-sized disappointment. Not crushing anguish or teeth-gnashing misery. Her mother was disgusted, and Violet could smile with equanimity as if nothing were happening. She was learning not to expect anything more from life. By the time she became her mother’s age, she might learn to forgo hope altogether.