Chapter 6

Chapter Six

" I 've never seen you in a rage before," Rosalie noted, looking at Violet thoughtfully over her book.

"You've never seen me married before," Violet huffed as she stabbed the needle into the cushion she was supposed to be embroidering.

So far, the embroidery was looking much less like a neat flower and more like one that had been ripped apart. She was so irritated at her husband that she couldn't focus on what she was doing and kept having to undo her stitches and start all over again.

"Now I have a husband to send me into rages."

Rosalie laughed from the other side of the settee. "Well, I must say, I think it becomes you."

"Don't say that," Violet snapped, making her sister look up in surprise at the sharpness of her tone. "Don't say it becomes me."

The words were far too similar to the ones her husband had used last night: "You look so pretty when you're mad." They echoed in her mind, and once more, she felt a strange surge of emotions that she didn't understand.

How dare he speak so flirtatiously with her when he was the one who had determined that they would have a platonic relationship?! The insincerity of it was what irked her, she was certain.

He clearly did not find her pretty or attractive, or else he would have wanted a traditional marriage. And yet, he flirted with her. The only conclusion she could come to was that he did not take her seriously. She was a joke to him. He didn't even consider her feelings, that it might be confusing and even hurtful to flirt with her when he so clearly found her hideous.

This, however, she could not tell her sister.

"All right, I won't say it becomes you. But you must admit it's rare for you to be in so foul a mood. Usually, you are so…" Rosalie trailed off and shrugged, then returned to her book.

Violet put down her embroidery and looked hard at her sister, her curiosity piqued. "Usually I'm so what ?" she asked.

Rosalie sighed and put down her book. "Usually you're so unreadable. You must have noticed this about yourself. You don't wear your emotions on your sleeve. They're hidden inside, somewhere, and most of the time, I have no idea what you're feeling."

Violet considered this. "Do you think most people feel that way about me?"

"Of course!" Rosalie gave her an astonished look. "This can't come as a surprise to you, Vi! Our whole life, you have been a mystery. Iris and I have had many conversations about how we never know what you're thinking."

Violet bit her lip. It wasn't that her sister's words were such a complete surprise—she just didn't like them. She didn't want to come across as cold and unfeeling.

"I do have emotions," she said after a moment. "And I do want to share them. It's just… growing up in our house, everything was always so fraught with tension and conflict. The number of times I heard Iris crying herself to sleep at night… She tried to stay strong for us—you probably never noticed, as you were too young—but I saw the shell break. And father's emotions were so volatile, one never knew when he was going to start screaming. And you, of course…"

"My emotions aren't volatile!" Rosalie stated indignantly. "And I never yell."

"No, of course not," Violet said, laughing. "But you are also very upfront about your emotions. Yes, they're usually positive, but you have never had any trouble saying how you feel. And being surrounded by all those emotions… well, they take up space. It can make one shrink in on oneself, to try and fit into the little amount of space that is left."

There was a brief silence after that as Rosalie and Violet looked at one another. For the first time in a while, Violet saw shock and even dismay on her sister's face.

"I never knew you felt that way," Rosalie said after a moment. "And I never thought about it before, how all our emotions took up so much space."

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining," Violet added quickly. "Well… I suppose I'm complaining about Father's emotions." They both laughed. "But I don't mind that you are expressive and romantic and emotional. I love that about you. I'm just explaining why I didn't always show my emotions. And now, it's a force of habit. I'm used to holding things in."

"Well, you're not holding things in now," Rosalie said, smiling slightly. "And I think that's a good thing."

"You do?" Violet was surprised. "Even though anger can be so unpleasant? I don't want to be like Father…"

"You're not like Father," Rosalie asserted at once. "Everyone feels anger. And if you're angry at your husband, it's best to figure out why and talk to him about it."

Violet sighed. "I just feel that he doesn't take me seriously. He turns everything into a joke, and I'm worried he does it because he doesn't think I'm good enough to be a duchess."

Of course, this wasn't just the reason she was upset with her husband, but she couldn't speak about her other frustrations with her younger sister. Rosalie wasn't even out yet, and as much as she thought she understood relations between men and women from all the books she read, she was still very much an innocent.

"Why would he have married you if he didn't deem you good enough to be a duchess?" Rosalie asked reasonably.

"He needed a woman who wasn't looking for love" Violet said, squirming at the interrogation. "He refused to elaborate, but there was also another reason he needed a wife so badly. Neither engender a feeling of being worthy of my title."

"But he could have picked any number of ladies looking for a practical marriage," Rosalie pointed out. "And don't say it's just about protecting us. He could have protected us without marrying you."

"Then why does he make fun of everything I do?"

Rosalie raised her eyebrows. "Well, in the romances I read, usually a man teases a woman when he likes her."

That made Violet laugh out loud. "Believe me, he doesn't like me. If anything, it's the opposite."

"I don't know," Rosalie said, a small smile playing on her lips. "That's not what I've read."

"Real life isn't a book." Violet shook her head. "And in real life, when a man teases a woman constantly, it's because he thinks she's incompetent."

"No one could ever think you're incompetent," Rosalie snorted. "You're the most competent woman I know."

A knock sounded at the door, and the housekeeper entered. "Your Grace," she said, worry creasing her brow. "I believe there is a problem with the paintings that you had re-hung in the gallery. The footman misunderstood your instructions, and he seems to have hung them in the wrong order."

"They're not hung by date?" Violet asked, her heart sinking.

It had taken her so long to figure out the correct dates of all the portraits of the Dukes of Attorton—she didn't fancy trying to sort through them all again.

"No." The housekeeper wrung her hands. "It appears that he hung them according to size, from smallest to largest."

Rosalie laughed out loud. "Oh, Lord. That must look dreadful."

Violet sighed. "What were you just saying, Rose, about how competent I am? Apparently, I cannot even get a footman to hang portraits correctly."

"I don't think you need to blame yourself for this," Rosalie said ten minutes later as she, Violet, and the housekeeper stood in the gallery, looking up at the paintings. "No one in their right mind would think this is the way you're supposed to hang paintings!"

Violet had to agree with her. The portraits had been hung, as the housekeeper had described, starting from the smallest one on the east side of the hall to the largest one on the west side. It looked preposterous, like some kind of joke.

"Maybe the footmen decided to pull a prank on me?" Violet suggested.

"They would never!" the housekeeper gasped, puffing out her chest indignantly. "No footmen under my charge would dare."

"Well then, perhaps it was my husband." Violet shot her sister a look. "After all, he does love to tease me."

The housekeeper frowned, clearly unable to understand why the Duke would think this was a funny joke.

"Well, just get the footmen back and have them re-hang them," Rosalie suggested, sitting down in a chair near the windows and pulling her book, and an apple, from her reticule.

"I don't want to bother the footmen," Violet said. "Especially if this was my husband's idea. They should not have to do extra work because he and I are in a battle over the fate of the paintings." She sighed. "I suppose I'll just have to do it myself."

"You, Your Grace?" The housekeeper looked astounded. "You cannot! It isn't safe for you to climb all the way up there! And think of all the effort it will take to bring down each painting and hang it back up…"

"If it's safe enough for a footman, it's safe enough for me!" Violet declared. "As for the effort, well, I pride myself on being strong."

"But—"

"Now, go fetch me a ladder. And a hammer! And nails, I suppose…"

The housekeeper had no choice but to obey, and after she returned with everything, Violet leaned the ladder against the wall.

"Hold the bottom," she instructed, then she began to climb.

It was a little wobbly at first, and her skirts kept getting in the way, so she hiked them up and tied them with a knot to keep them out of the way. Below her, she heard the housekeeper gasp.

A duchess showing her ankles! How scandalous!

Violet couldn't help but grin as she guessed at her housekeeper's thoughts.

"Be careful, Your Grace!" the housekeeper urged as Violet took another step up the ladder. "You could fall, and then what would His Grace say to me? He'd have my hide!"

"My sister will testify that you were not at fault," Violet assured her. "In fact, she will testify that you tried very hard to stop me. Regardless, I don't think my husband would refuse to believe you—His Grace knows that I can be stubborn."

By the fifth or sixth rung, she had begun to get the hang of climbing the ladder, and after that, taking down the paintings wasn't so hard. It was moving the nails to accommodate for the different placements that was cumbersome. She had to pull the nails out of the wall, try to estimate the height of the painting she was replacing the former one with, and then make sure it was level with the one next to it. Or level enough.

Violet had a feeling that this wasn't going to be very precise.

Soon, she was sweating profusely from the exertion, and her arms were beginning to ache. She was thirsty, too, and was just thinking of asking the housekeeper to fetch her some water when she realized she was on the last painting.

She was on the top rung of the ladder, trying to reach a spot above one of the permanently mounted paintings, in order to hang the smallest portrait. It was her first time climbing this high, and as she glanced back down at the floor, she felt momentarily woozy. She swayed and felt the ladder sway with her.

"Hold tight!" she called down to the housekeeper.

Then, she gripped the top rung with her left hand as tightly as she could and reached with her right arm. She was so close, just an inch or two away from where she wanted to put the nail. She stretched just a little bit further…

"Your Grace, don't!" the housekeeper called back. "You will fall!"

"Oh don't worry, I'm f—" Violet started to say, and then her left hand, which was already damp from sweat, slipped.

There were several heart-wrenching moments when Violet could feel herself falling sideways. Her stomach had dropped to her feet, and the swooping sensation might have been pleasant if she hadn't tumbled off the ladder, with only the hardwood floor, at least ten feet below her, to catch her fall.

She screamed, and the sound reverberated throughout the corridor. Her arms flailed. They reached for something, anything , to hold on to.

Miraculously, her hands found the frame of one of the permanently affixed paintings. And not a moment too soon. Seconds later, her feet slipped from the ladder, and then she was dangling, suspended in mid-air, holding on to the frame for dear life.