And, well, should I be shocked now, by the last thing you said?
That was a difficult job when reminders of him kept appearing everywhere.
It was mostly in the papers. When I was looking for any sort of shred of information on him, I studied his drawings intricately, and had become acquainted with his elegant, dark style. I'd even taken a look at some of the sketches he'd done for the crime magazines, and they were too beautiful, even in their detailed, graphic state. Soon, every time I saw even a brush stroke that was Violet's I was able to label its artist correctly.
It was not an obsession, I promise you.
But the heavy feeling of abandonment in my chest only began to worsen as time went on without any sort of interaction from Violet. In fact, it was as if he had disappeared completely; I heard nothing about him from anyone. My friends had never ever seen him before. Of course, they'd heard of his family — was I really the only one who didn't know that his father basically worked for Scotland Yard? — But as for Violet himself, no one knew anything about him other than he was an introvert, and tended not to venture outside very much at all. Once I heard these words from someone else's mouth, I finally began to accept the fact that the attention I'd received would have to be a solitary event.
Although maybe, that wasn't the case.
I remember how the day was so well simply because it held a memorable happening. It was a Saturday, the morning sun streaming through the window panes onto our dining room table. It lit up the whole room, warming the air, making me feel happier than I usually did. The end of July was always an amazing time for wonderful weather.
"Grace?" My father waved at me from the other end of the table, his egg-coated knife in the air.
"Mhm?" I looked up from my meal of porridge.
"You have a letter, sweetheart."
He lifted up an envelope from the stack of mail beside him and passed it to my mother, who passed it to me.
"Lady Grace Harcourt
18 Westbrough Drive
South London
185-4548"
It was written in small, curling script, the purple ink standing out boldly against the creamy paper.
Purple ink? Now, that was strange.
I turned it over to read the return address.
"Gregory Violet
375 Kensington High Street
South London
185-7877"
Violet? It was from Violet?
I slipped a finger underneath the tab of the envelope and pulled it open. Inside was a stiff, folded piece of paper with a short letter on one side.
"Dearest Grace,
I was able to contact you through the school — I hope that you do not mind. I am interesting in both starting a correspondence with you, and studying your exquisite proportions in further detail. I know this may sound bold of me. I also know that you enjoy my art, and this fact humbles me greatly. I have enclosed a drawing for you.
It would mean a lot for you to reply.
Yours,
Violet."
I turned the smooth sheet over with shaking fingers. On the other side there was a picture of a wilting violet, its crumpled, shrivelled petals resting against a hardwood surface.
It was beautiful, as was all of Violet's work, and for some strange reason the paper smelled wonderful — floral, almost. There was no question of me wanting to reply — I felt giddy just at the thought.
"Shrinking Violet,
Do you mind if I call you that? Shrinking Violet, after your drawing. The artwork is amazing, as always — how sad it is, though! To think about the dying of flowers. They're so beautiful, Violet, beautiful and pathetic at the same time. How you managed to convey this in your gorgeous drawing, I do not know.
You're so talented, it's almost unbelievable at times. I know you enjoyed music while you were at school. To be accepted to Weston, you must have been quite intelligent, also. When I met you first, you were the height of well manners, very polite and well spoken. It would make a lady wonder, you know..."
My letter to Violet, scrawled in dark blue ink, was a rambling four pages long. A bit extensive it would seem, but if he was planning on winning my favour with drawings, I was going to seduce him with words.
I received the next letter around a week after my reply had been sent off in the post. On the back of a gentle sketch of a daffodil Violet was praising my descriptive skills and asking me to write him a longer letter.
Goodness, gracious me. No man had ever actually asked me to speak more than I usually did. I sent him back a wordier letter, describing the bleached-sunlight colour of the flower's petals, the sharp, crisp green of the stem.
And it appeared that he liked it when I called him Shrinking Violet.
Soon, his letters became a regular luxury. I would anticipate their arrival every week, and they would come — usually with a breath-taking, slightly longer message on the other side, until soon, Violet was writing almost as much as myself. After about two and a half months of such behaviour, I received a standout letter.
"Grace,
First, I will start with the most formal, 'How are you?' And then tell you that I am fine. Although I am well-off enough already, I am also happy to confess that business has been picking up steadily for me. This week alone, five drawings have already been commissioned — two of which are in the Murder Gazette (which I do NOT recommend you read — this week's main article deals with a disgusting butcher known as Sweeney Todd), Three of which are portrait paintings. But don't worry. I would find it very hard to forget about drawing for you.
I also have a question — well, more of a request, really. I have enjoyed our letters (and your strange mind) but I should remember that I enjoyed your company even more. So I was thinking — why not see each other again?
I know that I am not sociable. And I know that I must not be the most desirable of men out there, but I want to see you again. And draw you a proper portrait, one that you can keep this time.
My most sincere regards, Lady Grace,
Violet."
Again. Again. He wanted to see me again. I turned the page over, and on the back was something I had never seen before — a self portrait.
The charcoal was cruder, heavier this time, shadowing his dark hair and his hollowed cheeks, deep collarbones cutting through a thin shirt. Smooth, full lips, with black eyes, endless and haunting.
It was a mesmerising picture.
My heart was pounding in my throat as I read through the captivating letter once more. Violet... wanted to see me. He liked me.
Was he...interested in courting me? Was it possible?
I could have just been jumping to conclusions yet again. But... he thought I was beautiful.
Why did he want to see me? Did he want to draw me again?
Nonetheless, I hastened to reply.
"Sir Gregory,
I would very much like to see you again. Shall we meet at my house? My parents will be delighted to be acquainted with you properly, as my father and yours have worked in close relations for many years.
Saturday night after the evening meal would be most appropriate.
I look forward to seeing you,
Grace x"
I couldn't believe that Violet actually wanted to see me again. Despite the fact that our letters had been growing increasingly longer, and more frequent, there was always the thought in the back of my mind that he would disappear again, like a ghost. And that was the last thing I wanted.
I was almost sure at this stage that he'd forgotten what I looked like. I was almost... apprehensive about having him set eyes on me again. What if he hadn't remembered correctly, and he now disliked what he saw?
I would try and present my best possible self to him, if that were the case. For hours on Friday night I deliberated over which dress I should wear, how I should have my hair, which shoes to partner it with. It didn't matter much, since the cold October wind would have me buttoned up in a coat anyway, but if there was even a chance that Violet would see I wanted to impress.
Deciding was hard, very hard. I eventually chose a soft red dress with lace panelling. My first desire was to wear the matching satin shoes — but as I woke up on Saturday morning, and saw the thick frost beginning to crust the ground, I knew that I would have to settle for my sturdy black boots to grip the ice.
"What time did you and that boy agree on, Grace?" My father said now, looking down the dinner table and appraising me with one suspicious eye.
"Eightish," I replied nervously, looking down at my plate. If Violet didn't show, it would be a very good reflection on how wonderful I was at picking suitors. "Around eightish."
"Well, he has ten minutes as of yet," he grunted, wiping the rest of his plate clean with a slice of thick bread. The silence that followed was quite uncomfortable.
"I know we've been putting pressure on you to find a suitor, my love," my mother chimed in, in a tiny voice. "But couldn't you have picked someone a little less... well, like him?"
"He's a nice man," I said, on the defensive straight away. "And I'm very fond of him."
"Yes, we know that, but he's a little...bizarre."
"Mother," I grit my teeth against the anger and pushed my plate away, "Nobody said we are getting married just yet."
"Grace —"
"Can I not have one thing? One thing that I enjoy without you turning your nose up at it? This thing that I enjoy happens to be a respectable gentleman, nothing too dangerous."
"Do not be sarcastic with me, young lady, or you will not be going anywhere this evening!"
"I am nineteen, mother!"
"Yes, and while underneath this roof, you are still our child —"
The doorbell rang, cutting her off. All three of us sat in perfect silence, staring at the dining room door; as if expecting Violet to let himself in, and enter most courteously.
That did not happen.
"I'll go to the door, shall I?" I said, feeling suddenly anxious.
"No, let one of the servants get it."
A moment later, there was a creak of the hinges as the ring was answered. Two soft, murmuring voices in the corridor — one of our submissive servant girl, Aisling, and the other, a low male voice that I almost instantly recognized. The volume of both crept down as their owners walked into the next room.
Aisling appeared around the edge of the door, her reddish-brown curls falling out of her mop cap (as per usual). "There's a Mister Gregory Violet here to see Miss Harcourt, Madam," she said, her eyes never leaving the ground.
"We should meet him, then," my mother answered, a new determination in her voice as she stood from the dinner table. "Aisling, make sure that you and Deidra clear the plates in good time."
"Of course, ma'am." With those three words, she disappeared.
I stood, smoothing my skirts down nervously, and followed both of my parents out into the hallway. We had not seen each other in the flesh since our first encounter, over three months ago. I shook with the nerves.
"Gregory," My father said in a booming voice as he entered the front room. "What a pleasure."
"The pleasure is all mine, sir," was the quiet reply. I stepped in shyly after my mother.
This time, his dark clothing had been reversed — the pants and waistcoat he wore were pitch black, as smoky as the charcoal he used to create his beautiful drawings. The shirt underneath was of a flamboyant purple colour, probably the brightest item of clothing that Violet owned. There was no suit jacket, only a baggy-sleeved, heavy grey cloak, the hood hanging down past his shoulder blades.
He took my mother's hand in his black-tipped fingers and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Lady Harcourt."
"Charmed," my mother replied, lingering for a moment before looking back to me. "Grace, honey, really? You choose now of all moments to become meek?"
I swallowed, giving Violet a nod. "Hello."
"Hi," he said, the tiniest smile on his lips. "Are you ready to go?"
"Let me just — " I turned, but Aisling was already there with my coat. "Oh. Thank you."
"You're welcome, ma'am," she said, holding it out so that I could easily slip it on.
"Well, we shall leave you to it. Jacob, come on."
"Yes, sweetheart," my father murmured dutifully, edging out of the room. She was a strict woman, my mother, and not one to be trifled with.
"Hello," I said again, although my voice was decisively less timid this time. "You've cut your hair."
"It was getting inconvenient." His smile grew marginally, and he stepped towards me, holding out his arm. "Shall we?"
"Of course." I took his arm, trembling. Violet used one hand to draw up his hood, and we stepped outside into the crisp, wintery air. It wasn't dark yet, but soon promised to be, as the sky was rolling in grey clouds.
I noticed a black folder tucked away underneath his other elbow. He caught me staring. "It's my sketchpad."
"Does it come with you often?"
"I have a small one that I carry around all the time, but my big one only comes when I'm planning on taking up a larger project." There was a small pause. The same dark, almost floral smell that I caught from his letters drifted towards me as we walked. "You look ravishing in red. It compliments your skin tone beautifully."
At his kind words, I turned a bright shade of red, of course, and he laughed — a proper sound, a proper toothy grin. "Are you trying to tease me?"
"Of course not." I turned my nose up in the air, attempting to be strict and look away from him. But I had to glance back soon enough — I couldn't help myself but to study the dark twist of his lips, the way his purple eyes seemed to shimmer, the sheer darkness of his soft hair. "Where are we going, then?"
"One of my favourite haunts." His eyes flickered out into the busy street. "We're going to the fair."