for us, Mr Beaufort?’ Mrs Coombes asked, bewildered, from her seat on the sofa. Her fan still fluttered at a rapid rate, like wings of a startled bird.
Violet met Adam’s eye. He raised an eyebrow.
An unspoken communication passed between them.
She held his gaze. In return, his was steadfast. To her surprise, she felt reassured. She had experienced the same security when they’d danced at the ball, after he’d rescued her from being a wallflower. He’d caught her safely when she’d fallen from the balcony, too.
‘Mama. Papa.’ Violet took a deep breath. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Beaufort, alone.’
‘What?’ Elbows out, Mr Coombes gazed from one to the other. ‘Surely a marriage proposal is a matter for your father to consider.’
Violet lifted her chin. ‘I refuse to be discussed like cattle in the market place. No matter how unusual the circumstances.’
The dent appeared in Adam Beaufort’s cheek, as if he were trying not to chuckle.
Mr Coombes wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. He was still breathing heavily, Violet noticed with alarm, but his eyes were alert. Beneath his handkerchief he appeared to be summing Mr Beaufort up in his shrewd gaze, the way Violet had seen him assess potential buyers for the chocolate factory. She could almost hear his brain whirring, as fast as her own. Finally he tucked the handkerchief away.
‘Very well, Violet. We’ll leave you to consider this.’ Wheezing slightly, he reached for her hands. ‘I’m sorry I spoke to you so harshly earlier. I didn’t mean what I said.’
‘We were all upset.’
‘You mustn’t feel any pressure,’ her father said now. ‘Whatever happens, it will be your decision. We would never force you into anything. I hope you know that.’
Violet’s throat choked. ‘Thank you, Papa.’
He gave her hands another squeeze before letting them go, but she could still see the worry in his eyes. Worse than that. There was a despondency she’d never witnessed in him before. In spite of his health concerns, he was always so cheerful.
Her stomach lurched. She’d hurt the people she loved most in the world.
‘Come along, Adeline.’ Mr Coombes held out his hand to his wife.
‘Ought Violet be left without a chaperon?’ Mrs Coombes asked doubtfully, as she got up from the sofa with a rustle of taffeta.
‘We’ve strayed beyond all kinds of proprieties this morning, Mama, in the space of a quarter of an hour,’ Violet replied.
This time she heard Adam Beaufort’s chuckle escape.
Her papa steered her mother towards the door. It closed behind them.
Silence fell, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. She picked up the tin of Floral Creams that still lay on the Turkish carpet. Her father had knocked them off the table when he had his turn.
She clasped the tin to her bodice.
They always kept Coombes Chocolates in the drawing room. There were tins of Floral Creams in every bedroom, too. It was a point of pride for her family.
She looked down at the lid, with its swirled font and bouquet of flowers. Now it might never be adorned with the royal warrant they all wanted so much. Her papa had even left room for it in the design, believing that aiming high was the best method for success.
‘Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them.’ Her papa often quoted that. She’d been raised on the philosophy of Samuel Smiles, the author of her father’s favourite book, Self-Help. There was a handsome leather-bound copy of the book in pride of place at the factory office. It had been given to her papa by his employees one Christmas, after their annual party. Over two thousand people, men and women, worked at the Coombes factory. Violet knew each and every one of them. They all relied on their wages, for the well-being of their homes and families.
Now it was all at risk. The factory. Her papa’s health. Her mama’s happiness. The cost of being a suffragette had proved far greater than she had ever imagined.
She stared at the tin of chocolates. Its outline blurred before her eyes.
‘Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them,’ she reminded herself.
The scent of cocoa and flowers wafted up as she opened the lid and held it out towards Adam Beaufort. ‘Would you like a chocolate fondant?’
He appeared startled, then smiled. ‘Perhaps later. I’m afraid my nanny drummed into me that sweets before luncheon were the road to ruin.’
Violet smiled back, the threat of tears retreating. He had a knack of lightening the mood of a situation.
She popped a violet cream into her mouth. The familiar taste, with its dark, almost spicy chocolate, the sugar-coated violet petal on top and the contrasting smoothness of the sweet fondant inside, gave her a surge of vigour.
Replacing the tin on the table, she ran her finger over the embossed picture of roses, violets, lavender and pansies. Her mother had confided once that they had planned a whole nursery full of children, the girls to be named after the flowers that had made their fortune and the first boy, her mother had said, would be named Reginald, after her papa. Those other children had never come. Violet hadn’t felt lonely on her own, so she’d not missed sisters and brothers. She’d never known that her father felt the loss of a son so keenly. Not until today.
Her papa didn’t have the heir he wanted. Instead, he had a daughter who had brought disrepute to the family name.
A pain stabbed at her heart.
She glanced at Adam Beaufort. His back half-turned, he stared out the window, seeming to sense she needed time to collect her thoughts. The noon sunshine coming in from between the velvet curtains outlined his profile. His jaw was strong, but there was no cruelty in it. Perhaps she ought to feel intimidated being alone with him, one of the most eligible men in London society, but she didn’t. She never dreamed she’d find herself in the drawing room discussing marriage with him. She wondered if she ought to pinch herself to check she was awake.
The cherub clock chimed. Yes, she was awake. Adam Beaufort was standing by the window in real life, not in a dream, staring out into that peculiar soft London sunshine that made the streets and buildings shine like marigolds. In spite of their lack of welcome by society, in some ways Violet had enjoyed being in the capital. She’d walked to Parliament Square and listened to Big Ben while gazing at the Houses of Parliament, dreaming of laws that might be changed inside its hallowed walls.
Votes for Women! Now her papa had forbidden her to be a suffragette, all that must be stopped. She couldn’t defy him now. She had already caused enough distress.
Yet the thought of giving up the Cause...
Violet moved towards to Adam Beaufort. ‘Shall we have some plain speaking?’
He turned to face her. There was no doubting his smile this time. His teeth gleamed white. ‘Do you speak any other way, Miss Coombes?’
