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‘Half a dozen.’ Her throat was bare, white and swan-like as she swallowed. ‘Perhaps more.’
Her father hurled the banner into the fire.
‘Papa!’ Violet’s cry tore through Adam’s skin.
‘That’s the last one you’ll ever make,’ Reginald Coombes said fiercely. ‘Do you understand, Violet? This has got to stop.’
She made no answer. Her fingertips lifted to that pale throat, her gaze staying on the silk as it curled and burned. The scorched scent of it filled Adam’s nostrils.
‘Will you give up this cause, as you call it?’ her father demanded.
‘I can’t,’ she whispered.
‘Can’t?’ her father repeated, incredulous. His bright blue eyes were out on stalks.
‘I won’t hang any more banners.’ Violet lifted her chin. ‘But I can’t give up the Cause. It’s in me. It’s what I believe. I don’t know if I can change that.’
Adam studied her. Her head was high, her hands clenched. He had to admire her. There was no question of her convictions. He guessed her parents knew nothing of the extent of her activities. They’d have been appalled to have seen her climbing his balcony, teetering on the edge. At least he’d stopped her from such dangerous endeavours.
Reginald Coombes’s chin thrust out, just the same as his daughter’s. Adam wondered if he realised how alike they were. ‘I forbid this nonsense. Do you hear?’
His daughter’s eyes flashed vivid blue. ‘Being a suffragette isn’t nonsense.’
‘The shame of it. It’s a scandal,’ her mother cried.
‘It’s not a scandal,’ Violet scoffed, but her voice wavered.
‘Forgive me, Miss Coombes, I’m afraid it is.’ Adam intervened. He had no choice but to break it to her. ‘The scandal is all over London. I did my best to halt it, but I didn’t succeed. Doubtless it’s being discussed in every polite drawing room from Mayfair to Kensington. I understand it has reached the palace, though not yet the ears of the King.’
Violet’s mother released a muffled shriek. She appeared about to faint.
‘Where are your smelling salts, Adeline?’ her husband demanded.
‘The silver box,’ she puffed, using her handkerchief as a fan.
Violet’s father scrabbled among the multitude of silver boxes and china ornaments on the mahogany table and administered the salts. Once again Adam felt moved by the couple’s devotion to each other. It was rarer than they probably knew. And they loved their daughter, too. It was obvious, in spite of the current situation.
‘Everyone is overreacting. It’s ridiculous for there to be such an outcry,’ Violet said, low, but her voice was shaky. ‘It was a protest. A deed for the Cause. Not a crime.’
Adam shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is ridiculous. None the less, there are many people who are very upset by it.’
He glanced towards Violet’s mother. The woman quietened, but she remained pale, clutching her husband’s hand. Her distress was real, unmistakable. Violet, too, looked even paler than before, as if she were about to faint herself, though he suspected she was made of sterner stuff than her mother.
Adam shifted nearer to Violet by the fire.
‘You must know the King has a deep respect for his departed parents,’ he muttered in an undertone. ‘Your action may be considered more than disrespectful. It’s an insult, almost sacrilegious, in some court circles.’
She bit her lip. ‘I didn’t think of that. It wasn’t meant as an insult. Is it truly that bad?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Adam said quietly. His honour demanded he tell her the truth.
Her father stood up. He moved like a beaten man. ‘That’s it, then. We’ll have to go back to Manchester.’
Violet’s mother let out a sob. ‘Such a disgrace.’
Her daughter moved towards her as if to comfort her and then drew back. Her fingers were clenched together.
Reginald Coombes turned to Adam.
‘Thank you for coming to tell us,’ he said heavily. ‘I regret you’ve seen us like this, in such a sorry state. Perhaps you’ll come and visit us in the north should you ever be in our part of the country. We won’t be in London again I don’t expect.’
‘I trust that won’t be the case.’
‘We won’t be able to show our faces here,’ Mrs Coombes wept.
‘Not necessarily,’ Adam said slowly. His half-formed plan began to fully take shape in his head.
He glanced at Violet. She was breathing in gasps she tried to suppress, making her velvet bodice heave.
‘I came today with a plan,’ he said.
Beside him Violet stiffened.
‘A plan, eh?’ her father asked. ‘What’s that?’
Adam bowed. ‘With your permission, I’ve come to propose to your daughter.’
Chapter Four (#u2ce09cc2-0bff-521c-906d-28e8de2db263)
‘Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’(1842)
Violet’s mouth fell open as she stared at Adam Beaufort. ‘You’ve come to propose to me?’
He turned on his heel and this time bowed directly towards her. There was the merest upturning of the corners of his mouth. ‘Indeed.’
‘Marriage?’ she gasped. Was that really what he meant? Had her ears deceived her? They had only met once. Well, twice, if she counted tumbling off the balcony into his arms and that meeting couldn’t be considered a formal introduction. And now he was suggesting they wed? Surely it could not be so.
The upturning of Adam Beaufort’s mouth grew more pronounced. A dent appeared in his left cheek, then vanished as he spoke. ‘I can think of no other proposal I would make, Miss Coombes.’
‘Marriage!’ her mother and father repeated at the same time, her mother breathless, and her father’s voice a stunned bellow.
‘Upon my soul!’ added Mr Coombes.
‘I realise this is unusual,’ Adam said. ‘And quite sudden. I believe that is the phrase, in such circumstances. But the circumstances are unusual, to say the least.’
‘They certainly are.’ Violet found her voice was as breathless as her mama’s. She put her hand to her bodice. Her heart fluttered like a bird in a cage.
‘Marriage to a Beaufort!’ Mrs Coombes reached for her fan. ‘Oh, my...’
Mr Coombes clutched his chest. He staggered and reached for the side table to right himself, sending a tin of Floral Creams flying.
‘Papa!’ Violet rushed to help him. ‘You must sit down.’
Mrs Coombes hurried to her husband’s side. ‘Reginald!’
‘I’m all right,’ he insisted, leaning heavily on the table, his breath coming in puffs.
Violet steered him to the wing chair by the fireplace. Her papa sank on to it, half-raised himself up, then sank back again. His normally florid cheeks turned a sickly colour, sweat beaded his forehead.
‘Are you quite well, sir?’ Adam Beaufort asked, concerned.
Mrs Coombes wrung her handkerchief in distress. ‘It’s his heart.’
Panting heavily, Mr Coombes waved away their alarm. ‘I get the odd turn. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Shall I call for a doctor?’ Adam asked.
‘No need, no need.’ Mr Coombes puffed. ‘I’ve seen all the best quacks. There’s nothing they can do.’
Violet moved swiftly to the drinks tray. ‘Stay still, Papa. I’ll pour you a glass of water.’
‘Give it a bit of colour, won’t you? For medicinal purposes.’
‘You know you ought not to drink spirits when you’ve had a turn.’
‘I’ll be all the better for a spot of whisky.’
She shook her head and added the merest drop of whisky to the water glass. There was no point in agitating him further. The doctors had been clear—the best medicine for him was peace and quiet.
Violet’s hand tightened on the whisky bottle. Clearly the morning’s events had upset him greatly.
It was all her fault.
Adam Beaufort frowned. ‘Are you sure you don’t wish me to fetch medical help?’
‘I’ll be right as rain in a moment,’ Mr Coombes assured him, his voice already stronger. ‘I always am. Where’s that drink, Violet?’
‘Here you are, Papa.’ Violet gave her father the weak whisky and water and propped a cushion behind him.
Mr Coombes took a sip. ‘Ah, that’s it.’
Violet turned to her mother, who was still wringing her hands. She looked about to cry.
‘Sit down, Mama,’ Violet said gently.
Mrs Coombes picked up her fan. ‘Oh, dear. Oh, Reginald.’
‘I’m quite well, Adeline,’ Mr Coombes said stoutly. ‘Do as Violet says.’
Violet tucked her mother beneath a silk shawl. Going back to her papa, she took his wrist, counted and waited. His pulse was faster than usual, but it wasn’t as bad as some of his turns had been in the past, as far as she could make out.
She straightened her back and glanced at Adam Beaufort. His expression was inscrutable. He was a man who controlled his emotions. He’d moved out of her way as she helped her mother and father. Now he stood by the fireplace, a tall but surprisingly comforting presence.
He stayed calm in a crisis. That was it. She’d witnessed it before, when he’d caught her under his balcony. She liked that about him.
‘Would you care for a whisky?’ she asked him.
In an unhurried movement, he took out a pocket watch. ‘It’s rather early in the day for spirits.’
‘But in the circumstances...’ Violet prompted.
His mouth cornered into a smile. ‘Indeed.’
She poured a large measure into the cut-crystal glass. ‘Water?’
He inclined his dark head.
‘Don’t drown it as you did mine, Violet,’ said Mr Coombes from the wing chair.
‘You ought not to be having whisky at all, Papa,’ she retorted, pleased that he appeared to be rallying. But her hand shook as she poured some water into Adam Beaufort’s glass, spilling it on to the drinks tray. Her papa had been so angry. He’d never said such things to her before.
She blotted the spilt water. Crossing the room, she gave Adam Beaufort his glass of whisky.
His fingers grazed hers as he took it. They were warm and dry. ‘Thank you.’
His touch seemed to stay on her skin, steadying her as she returned to the tray and poured herself a generous finger of whisky. She threw it back, straight, letting the fire scorch the back of her throat, only to find Adam Beaufort surveying her over the rim of his glass.
The heavy crystal clanked as she replaced it on the silver tray. Young ladies were not supposed to drink spirits, let alone before luncheon. Yet another rule for women that did not apply to men. How it irked her.
Heading over to her father’s chair, she took away his empty glass. The colour had returned to his cheeks, she noted with relief. He always recovered quickly from his turns, as he called them, but she was sure they were becoming more frequent.
‘How are you feeling now, Papa?’ she asked.
He patted her hand. His anger seemed to have abated. ‘No harm done.’
‘Would you like some more water?’
‘Not unless you are going to give it a bit more colour this time.’
‘Certainly not,’ she retorted.
Mr Coombes gave a slight guffaw and clambered to his feet. He puffed out his chest, but stayed upright.
‘Won’t you rest a little longer, Reginald?’ Mrs Coombes pleaded from the sofa.
‘I’m quite well now, Adeline. No need to fret.’ Mr Coombes took one step forward, one step back across the carpet, as if testing his strength.
