Christmas decorations and white twinkle lights still festooned the main rooms of Downton. For the past several years, Violet generally allowed these to be left up through New Year's Day, at the behest of her daughter-in-law. Violet made this one small concession to Cora, little else about their holiday traditions having changed since the American woman's arrival.
For the most part, a festive air had prevailed during their dinner hours, the holiday decorations an appropriate backdrop for couples apparently in the mood for celebration. Violet watched as Robert carefully opened a bottle of champagne and poured it into glasses for everyone. What they might be celebrating, Violet really didn't know. Her son had ordered the bottle be brought up after dinner, ostensibly to toast the eve of Patrick's birthday.
Patrick himself, however, contributed little to the merry-making. He took the glass offered him with a sigh and grumble of thanks, and sank back into his chair, his eyes on the floor. The Levinsons shared a concerned look, Violet noted, but the children barely spared a glance for their father. Before dinner Violet had seen Rosamund take Cora aside, where the two spoke quietly, and, obvious to Violet from their grins and the hug they shared before rejoining the others, made up for the previous day. Their reconciliation immediately lightened the atmosphere in the entire room and set the stage for a convivial evening.
Almost.
Her husband's palpable preoccupation and gloom affected Violet more than she would want to admit – even to herself. All through preprandial drinks and dinner, she'd been uncharacteristically close-lipped, vacillating between a disheartened heaviness and a seething indignation, depending upon where her eyes happened to land. The offence of Robert and Cora's afternoon dalliance irked Violet far more than it normally would have, given that all she could think about was how much she would like to have Patrick suggest they do that very thing. Not that she would say yes, of course. She merely wanted them to be in a place where that might even be a teasing proposal – preferably one whispered in her ear when they already found themselves in a compromising position….
In her solitary corner of the library, Violet swallowed hard and closed her eyes, fighting back the image that rose to her mind unbidden once again. She lifted her right hand from where her arms rested across her chest and placed it on her throat, suddenly much too warm.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
Violet jumped, her eyes popping open, startled to see Martha appear at her elbow. The American redhead held out a glass of champagne. Accepting it grudgingly, Violet frowned and snapped out, "What use is a penny to me? And, actually, from what I understand, it's the smallest bit of your American currency. So I'm not sure what use it would be to you either."
Taking a long sip of her champagne, Martha rolled her eyes. "It's a saying, Violet. And I'm fairly certain you knew that. You just wanted to say something nasty to me. Oh well."
"I don't think I said anything 'nasty.'" Violet had a drink of the bubbling beverage and shifted uncomfortably, scowling at the carpet. In reality, she felt grateful for the interruption to her rather painful thoughts.
"Well, it wasn't very nice." Martha leaned closer to Violet, saying in a conspiratorial tone, "Of course, it appeared to me I might need to offer you a larger sum, anyway, the way you were blushing."
Violet's eyes flicked up to Martha's impish grin. "I was not blushing," Violet hissed.
Martha chuckled. "I think she doth protest too much." She tapped a pad of her finger upon her glass and raised her eyebrows.
"And stop butchering Shakespeare," Violet snarled before tipping a good portion of champagne down her throat.
"My, aren't we surlier than usual tonight?" Martha clucked her tongue and pointed to Violet's nearly empty glass. "And perhaps headed toward a repeat performance of last night?"
Although Martha had lowered her voice, Violet treated her to a particularly malicious glare. "I would appreciate it if you never spoke of that again."
Pursing her lips, Martha changed tack. "I was merely trying remind you why you should go easy on the champagne." But she took the glass from Violet and walked over to the others for a refill.
Violet stared after Martha, silently burning with ire. She trained her eyes on her happy children and their spouses, watching until Martha returned with her champagne. She curled her fingers around the proffered glass, but never moved her eyes.
"You're positively quivering, Violet," Martha observed aloud. "Are you sure you don't want to take me up on my offer of counsel?"
But the soft, somewhat worried voice in which Martha delivered this proposition fell upon Violet's ears like nails upon a chalkboard. She turned on the woman, her eyes flashing with temper and impatience. "Stop acting as if we're friends, Martha. We aren't friends. You're the intrusive mother of my American daughter-in-law. Despite your claim that you never said you didn't like me, I am perceptive enough to know that things don't have to be said in order to be true. I also know that you are the most likely culprit behind the latest indecent act to which I've been witness."
Martha shook her head. "I can't think what you mean, Violet," she said, ignoring the rest, knowing Violet needed to let off steam.
"Don't pretend you don't know, Martha. You sweep in like the Queen of Sheba, shaking everything up and flirting with my husband." Her low hiss slowly transformed, her voice starting to rise along with the color in her face. "You think you know everything, and you have to stick your nose in everywhere it doesn't belong. And you prod and poke and wheedle your way into everyone's lives."
The entirety of Martha's response to this diatribe was an eyebrow lift.
"If that isn't bad enough, I have to walk into the library – a shared space – this afternoon to see my son and daughter-in-law shagging in the middle of the floor! You're the expert, Dr. Queen of Sheba, so tell me why on earth, if they're getting it on all over the house, aren't there any children yet?"
The sudden hush of the room clued Violet in to the fact that her voice had risen to a shout. She closed her mouth with a snap, glancing around at everyone, her face a deep crimson.
Martha caught one glimpse of her daughter's bewildered and slightly ashamed expression and placed her glass down on a nearby table. Robert had been about to say something, but Martha gave him no chance before snatching Violet by the wrist and dragging her roughly from the room.
Isidore's eyebrows nearly met his hair. "Well," he said to the stunned room. "I suppose that's one way to skin a cat. Leave her to Martha. She knows what she's doing."
"Let go, Martha! You're twisting my arm!" Violet tripped along behind Martha, surprised at the woman's strength. Champagne spilled out of her glass and onto the hall carpet. "What are you doing?"
Martha paid no mind to her and, finding a small sitting room off the main hall, thrust Violet over the threshold and pushed her onto a chair. She stood over her, hands on hips, brow thunderous. "Now, Empress Violet, might you do me the honor of telling me what the fuck that was all about? What the hell is wrong with you?"
Violet's lips twisted into a grimace, and she stared at Martha for a moment. Then she leapt from the chair and slid around the other woman, heading for the door.
But Martha was quicker, sprinting there to lock it and wrench the key from the hole. "No way, Violet. You're not leaving here until we've had all this out." She held up the key, her face triumphant.
When Violet lunged for it, Martha stepped aside, and Violet's shoulder met the door painfully. Martha dropped the key down her cleavage with a nonchalance that made Violet gape.
Shrugging, Martha said, "I would say 'come and get it', but you're really not my type."
Violet rubbed her shoulder and walked to the chair she'd been put into and slumped down, her head bowed.
"Now. Are you ready to talk?"
Violet glanced up, a murderous look on her face, and made a noise tantamount to a growl.
"Fine. Talk or not, but you will listen."
Turning her head aside, Violet let out a "humph" and examined the marks left on her arm by Martha's fingers and nails.
Martha stepped closer to the other redhead, her arms crossed over her chest. "First – and foremost, after that performance just now in the library – I can't imagine what you think you'll accomplish with all the needling you do to those poor children. Don't they have enough pressure to procreate, without you sending them barbs at every turn? For one thing, that sort of stress only hinders conception; it won't hurry it along. For another – and this is quite troubling – it makes me, and perhaps even them, think that you value them only for their ability to produce children. I don't know about you, but that sounds pretty awful to me."
For a few seconds, Violet closed her eyes, remembering her own mother-in-law's insults and insinuations that something was wrong with Violet for several years before she became pregnant herself. She slowly turned her head, meeting Martha's gaze with a face she attempted to make impassive.
"Second, I think you need to realize that you can't control everything. They'll have children – or not – in their own time. And they might decide to fuck all over the house, I don't know. I never suggested that they should – despite what you think. But they're adults. If it offends you that they have sex in the library, talk to them. If you're too embarrassed to, then be prepared for the possibility of encountering them doing just that. You share a house with them. Technically it's yours and Patrick's, but they live here too," she pointed out. "My guess is they live here because you want them to. So you have to take everything that comes with that."
"I don't want to control everything," Violet contradicted weakly.
Martha snorted. "I would like to believe you, but your behavior suggests otherwise."
A long sigh escaped Violet's lips, and she lowered her lashes. Martha's words kept throbbing in her head – unpleasant, but, strangely, not completely unwelcome.
"The whole time Isidore and I have been here, with few noteworthy exceptions, you've been coldly polite at best, thoroughly unpleasant and downright antagonistic at worst." Martha pursed her lips, remembering something else Violet had said, and putting together a few pieces in her mind. "And if you have a particular accusation you'd wish to make toward me, I'd rather you make it to my face." Her hands moved to her hips.
But her expression didn't reflect anger, as Violet expected. It was curious, bordering on amused. "I – I don't know what you mean," she stammered, hoping to put her off, not wanting to prolong the virtual scourging she now received.
"Come now, Violet. You're sitting in front of someone who assesses this sort of thing for a living. And I'm phenomenal at it. It's why they pay me the big bucks." Martha tilted her head. "So. What's it going to be? You tell me what you really want to say, or we sit here staring at each other until one of us dies?"
Violet inclined her head once. "Fine." She averted her eyes, Martha's stare boring into her in a way that made her fidget, the sensation foreign and uncomfortable. But somehow she found herself relieved at the opportunity to unburden her heavy heart and mind. Even to someone as vulgar and crass as Martha Levinson. She took a deep breath. "I mistakenly thought that Patrick was developing a crush on you."
"Oh my God," Martha choked out. Her laughter came before she could stop it, and Violet's eyes flew up to look at her.
"Why is that funny?"
"Look, Violet," she began, her entire body beginning to relax, "I'll admit to flirting a bit with Patrick, but, honestly, he's not my type either. Even if I would – or possibly could – entertain the idea of being in the arms of anyone but Issi. The man is positively starved for affection, so I simply sent some flirting his way. It makes a man feel confident, you know?"
Violet shrugged and blinked sadly, her own body sagging in the chair. "Apparently I don't." Patrick's words from the day before swirled around in her head. It's not as if you have deigned to flirt with me in months, he'd hurled at her.
Martha had not wanted to feel sympathetic toward Violet, but she found that, all of a sudden, she did. The woman evidently hurt, and she took this hurt out on others. Sitting in the chair next to Violet, she addressed her gently, sincerely. "Even if I wanted Patrick, I couldn't have him. And do you know why?"
"No," Violet said, though she suspected she might. Patrick himself had told her.
"Patrick has eyes for no one but you. Sure, he welcomes an innocent flirtation, especially since there seems to be some troubles between the two of you. But he adores you, Violet. As much as this might make him a head case." She shrugged, chuckling.
"Troubles," Violet repeated blandly, her eyes upon her open hands in her lap, the left still bandaged.
"Yes, troubles. Something – hell, Violet, Issi and I could feel it in the air the moment we set foot in this house – is going on between you. Or, more importantly, perhaps something isn't going on." Martha leaned back, knowing a direct question would put Violet back on her guard, but a frank observation might invite a confidence.
Violet realized that she was tired. Tired of carrying all this around with her. Tired of no one understanding her – or, really, pushing away the one person who usually did, and not knowing how to pull him back to her again. "I thought – I thought after the other day, Boxing Day, when we spent the afternoon dancing together, that it might be better, but –" She stopped abruptly, shaking her head, ashamed what she'd thought when she saw Martha and Patrick together that evening.
"Isidore heard something this morning. When Patrick was still asleep in the library. He talked in his sleep, and Issi thought it was a dream. He said something about your being jealous. Violet," Martha said, putting a hand on the other woman's arm, "you don't have to be jealous."
Shaking her head again, Violet blinked against the tears that stung her eyelids, her mind beginning to swim. "But, I don't understand. He said he wasn't bored. He said it, but then he just fell asleep. We haven't… we haven't been together in months." She whispered it, still facing straight ahead, unable to look Martha in the eye as her cheeks flooded with warmth.
Martha patted Violet's arm, holding her breath, waiting, knowing the woman next to her needed to speak, even if it sounded like disjointed rambling to Martha. She knew it wasn't.
"I don't know how to talk to him about it. We never had to before. He was just always there. I don't know the words or even what is wrong or what are the right questions to ask. I just thought – I thought I might not excite him anymore. And I didn't – don't – know what to do." Violet tilted her face even farther from Martha's view, not wanting her to see the tears slipping down her face.
"Well, being a surly killjoy doesn't really help."
Violet's head jerked to Martha, a frown pulling down the corners of her lips. To her astonishment, Martha grinned. "Neither does your sense of humor," Violet retorted. But the words had less bite than usual.
"There's the Violet I know," Martha said gently. "And that Patrick loves. Because I'm convinced that he does love you for you. I told you that I like a challenge, Violet. I'm certain he does too."
"But," Violet's eyes went wide as she uttered the words, "but what if he's tired of it?"
"I don't think he is. He might be tired of whatever this is keeping you apart, but not of you."
Taking a deep breath, Violet shook her head. "Perhaps he's bored of me, and he only said otherwise to spare my feelings."
Martha squinted her eyes at Violet. "What would make you think he is? I mean, other than not having been intimate in so long?"
She watched as Violet colored, her head turning away. "We can't all be experts, Martha. It's possible someone would get bored with more of the same."
"You're not serious," Martha said. "Please don't tell me that your repertoire consists of the missionary position and nothing else."
"Of course not!" Violet looked again at Martha. "There are a few other things as well…." Her voice trailed off as Martha shook her head slowly.
"Just a few things? Violet, there's no harm in having favorite things, but there's so much more you two could be doing. It would open up a whole world of pleasure, for both of you."
Setting her jaw, Violet stared at Martha with narrowed eyes. "Are you saying it is my fault then?"
"Well, has he asked for things that you've refused? Not that you have to do everything he asks of you, of course, but there are plenty of variations on a theme that I don't think even you would object to."
Violet's face relaxed somewhat, and she sighed. "No. No, he hasn't asked for anything different. He's always seemed satisfied with what we've always done."
Martha hummed for a few seconds, lost in thought. "Well, it could be because he doesn't know how receptive you'd be to, um, alternatives. Or, he may simply not know of them himself."
"I – I don't know." Violet shrugged, the realization stealing over her that she was talking about her sex life to Martha Levinson. Willingly.
"I'm going to give you some advice. Whether you want it or not." She paused, giving Violet's arm a slight pinch. "You are going to have to take on the dominant role. For whatever reason, he's hesitant to engage in that particular activity with you, and you're going to have to let him know what you want."
"Martha, I don't know about that." Her eyes grew wide again. "I've never done that. I wouldn't know how to begin, even if I felt comfortable –"
"Violet, snap out of it. You're a vivacious woman with needs. Needs that obviously aren't being met. So ask for what you want – what I'm sure he wants. Break through all this nonsense!" Martha chuckled. "You might even want to try something new."
Shaking her head a little, Violet opened and closed her mouth several times, a trifle overwhelmed at the thought. "But – I have no clue how to ask, and I certainly don't know anything 'new.'"
"I could give you some instructions, you know."
Violet drew back from Martha. "No, no. God, please don't." She blinked at her in slight disbelief and, yes, awe.
Martha's shoulders raised and lowered in a shrug. "Alright, I won't. I still have one of your Christmas gifts in my room for you anyway."
The American woman stood and walked to the door before Violet caught on to what was happening. A bewildered expression painted her face at what she thought was an abrupt change of subject and Martha's departure.
Although Violet felt much less like she sat in that room against her will, she got up and turned the door knob. Or, she tried to.
"Bloody hell, Martha!" she shouted to no one in particular. "You locked me in?" She banged her palm on the door several times, perfectly aware that no result would come of it. But it made her feel better. Dropping back down in her chair to wait, she crossed her arms in a sulk.
Not even ten minutes passed before Martha swept back in, locking the door once more behind her.
"Just a precaution," Martha commented brightly when she got a look at Violet's scowl.
"Hardly necessary," Violet muttered.
"Hey, you're the one who tried to sneak past me earlier."
"So I'm to be a prisoner in my own house?"
"Until I have finished having my say, yes."
"What? All that you already said wasn't enough?" Violet's mood, though hardly elevated before, started to take a downward spiral. Everything Martha had said to her reverberated inside her head, and Patrick's melancholy countenance kept flashing in front of her eyes. She wanted nothing more than to go to him, to try to make things right again.
Instead, Martha held her captive.
Ignoring Violet's question, Martha stepped closer. "Now, I meant to give this to you on Christmas day, but Isidore wouldn't let me." She held the small package out for Violet to take.
Eyeing Martha askance, Violet unwrapped a slim, colorful volume. Keeping her eyes on the other woman, she opened the book. It nearly slipped from her hands when she moved her gaze to the page. Instead, she slammed it shut, a blush creeping into her cheeks and down her neck. "Wha– what did you just give me?" she asked Martha, who smirked at her.
"It's a sex manual, of course. Complete with pictures." Martha reached down and plucked the volume from her hand, flipping to the front and holding it up in front of Violet's face. "See? It's even the 'beginner's' volume." She grinned without any sort of guile.
"I could be offended by that, you know," Violet barked, snatching the book back.
"I don't see why. I had a feeling you needed some help. Don't ask me how; I just did. And you already admitted you two are, well, how do I put this? Positionally challenged?"
Violet huffed at her, beginning to flip through the pages of the book and blinking hard at some of the things she saw. "Goodness," she muttered. "Well, that's something I wouldn't have thought of…."
Martha let out a low chuckle. "And that's why I gave you the book." She recognized that she'd lost her attention when Violet tipped the book on its side, staring at the illustration with open-mouthed wonder. "Violet," she said, gingerly pulling the volume out of her hands as she attempted to get her attention again. "You can study that later. With Patrick, if you like." She thought it prudent not to mention that he had his own copy. "But for right now, I want to ask you if you're alright."
"If I'm alright?" Violet stared at her blankly.
"Yes, Violet. I didn't bring you in here just to reproach you. I wanted to help. Help you and help Patrick. So. Are you okay?"
"Honestly? You dragged me in here by force, but not everything you said was without merit." She squared her chin stubbornly, unwilling to admit that Martha had given her a lot to think about – things she would actually think about, rather than forget completely once she'd left the room. "I suppose you've been a trifle helpful."
Martha laughed. "I guess that's as much as I can expect from you, eh, Empress Violet? Well, I'll take it."
"May I be permitted to leave now, Queen of Sheba? I have some, er, reading to do." She kept her jaw set and her eyes steady, even as her face flooded with warmth once more.
"Certainly." Martha's eyes twinkled with mischief for a few seconds. Then she drew a deep breath, her expression growing solemn. "Should I send him upstairs when I get back to the library?"
Violet's face softened as she shook her head. "No. Let him decide when on his own, Martha."
Martha nodded and set the book on the table at Violet's elbow. "I hope you know you can come talk to me again if you need to. I know this doesn't make us friends, but I don't dislike you."
"I –" Violet paused, sucking in a sharp breath. "I don't dislike you either." She watched Martha stroll to the door and unlock it. Before the other redhead departed, she cleared her throat. When Martha turned to look at her, Violet gave her a genuine smile. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, Violet." Leaving the key in its home in the open door, Martha meandered down the hallway, grinning to herself.
"So?" Isidore inquired, having latched onto Martha's arm and steered her into a vacant corner of the room as soon as she walked in.
"I hope I've done some good, Issi. Those two suffer from an acute lack of communication. I don't know if that's how it's always been between them, but it's definitely been so in the past several months at least." Martha shook her head and drank some of the Scotch Isidore had pressed into her hand when she'd come back.
"She actually talked to you?" His eyebrows raised briefly before his face settled into a warm smile. "But of course she did. I knew she would, Martha." He kissed her cheek.
Martha leaned into his kiss with a grin and chuckled. "Well, I had my doubts. The woman is uncompromisingly stubborn most of the time."
"Most of the time?" Isidore repeated with a low chuckle of his own.
"I was trying to be generous toward her." Her eyes lowered, and she squeezed his arm in hers. "I think you know as well as I do that often exteriors like Violet's are concealing pain."
"Yes, I do. I commend your generosity, and your efforts to help them – to help them both." He inclined his head toward the chair in which Patrick sat, facing away from them.
"I do believe, Issi, that if they can figure out how to talk – or communicate in other ways – with one another, that they'll be fine. Though she never said it aloud, I can see she loves him. Even if she hasn't known how to best act on that for a while."
"I'm happy to hear that assessment, Martha. Patrick has been glum all evening. I mean, it's his birthday tomorrow, for fuck's sake."
Martha knew how much he felt for his friend, and this merely confirmed it. Isidore used that particular word sparingly, unlike herself. "We'll do our best to help make it a good one, either way, Iss." She took another drink, and, when Isidore said nothing, she gestured with her glass to the knot of cheerful young people in the middle of the room. "And the others? They look alright to me – unscathed by Violet's comment."
Isidore drank some of his own Scotch, then shook his head. "No, they're fine. I mean, Cora appeared a bit shaken by it at first, but Robert calmed her down. And Rosamund, well, I'm proud of that young woman, to be honest. She rolled her eyes and poured herself and Marmaduke another glass. It reminded me of the Rosamund I remember from when we were here three years ago."
"I wonder," Martha said, beginning to chuckle now that he'd reassured her about the children, "did you get the skinny on Robert and Cora's 'misbehavior' this afternoon? Violet was utterly convinced that I put the idea in their heads, but I really didn't."
"Ah, well," Isidore said, averting his eyes and fidgeting as he took another swallow of his drink. "That might have been my doing."
Martha's chuckle turned into a full-on laugh. "Oh, hell no, Iss, you didn't!"
Looking at her, Isidore chortled a little. "You would have done the same if you'd been the one listening to Cora pour her heart out."
"That's the thing – it sounds exactly like the sort of advice I'd give. Not so much you." She couldn't seem to control her laughter.
"I guess you've been rubbing off on me more than you realize." He grinned at her.
Martha's laughter trailed off at the gleam she discerned in his eyes. "Mmmm, well, I don't mind a bit of rubbing off." She sidled closer and turned her body to face his, mere inches between them. Leaning up, she brought her lips close to his ear. "I think it's time you took me upstairs and put me to bed."
"A most excellent idea, Martha." He drew back from her enough to waggle his eyebrows.
Exchanging a certain look, they each downed their beverages and deposited the glasses upon a table. Saying goodnight to the others, they made their way upstairs hand in hand.
Once Violet got to her room, she put the book on her bedside table and dressed for bed, taking special care in selecting her nightgown. Then she sat propped up against her pillows, her reading glasses perched upon her nose, pouring through the sex manual. It engrossed her so, that for a long time she didn't wonder where Patrick might be.
After a while, though, despite all the tingling sensations the volume evoked in her, Violet started to slide down the bed, her body heavy with exhaustion, her poor sleep from the night before and the emotional upheaval catching up with her. Once she realized she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer, she clumsily reached over and hid the book away in her nightstand drawer. Too tired even to take off her glasses or turn off her lamp, she curled up and fell asleep.
Patrick trudged up the stairs sometime after midnight. He'd been snoozing in his chair, but Robert had woken him, concerned what a second night sleeping that way might do to him. In fact, Patrick's neck had been hurting because of the angle at which he slept in the chair the night before. He imagined Violet giving him one of her spectacular neck massages. A massage that inevitably always led to other things….
Shaking the image out of his head, he put his hand on the door knob with a sigh. He couldn't pretend to be happy with Violet's earlier outburst. And he couldn't deny the elephant perpetually in the room with them. All he wanted was for things to go back to the way they had been. Today was his birthday, and he wanted to spend it with his family, with his wife.
Once he'd shut the door quietly behind him, Patrick couldn't keep a small smile from his lips. Violet looked so peaceful when she slept. He couldn't bear to wake her; even apart from knowing that she hadn't slept well the night before, if she was asleep he could at least pretend that everything was alright.
Bending over her, he gently removed her glasses and placed them on her night stand. He turned out her lamp and brushed his lips over her forehead, tucking an errant lock of red hair behind her ear. Violet stirred, letting out a soft sigh, but didn't wake. Patrick watched her for a few moments, then went about getting into his pajamas and brushing his teeth.
When he slipped beneath the covers and turned out his light, he considered winding his arms about his wife, holding her. But he didn't want to risk waking her and being rebuffed. So he lay upon his back, closed his eyes, and fell asleep as well.
Violet yawned and stretched, looking over to the see the other half of the bed empty. She sighed, her heart plummeting. Then she heard the shower running and allowed herself a small smile. Today would be different. Today she was determined to set things right.
So she got up and went to the closet, carefully selecting her clothing for the day. Just as she had decided upon the blouse Martha and Isidore had given her for Christmas – her iciness toward Martha having melted considerably – Patrick appeared in the bathroom doorway, drying his hair with a soft white towel as usual.
"Why didn't you wake me?" Violet asked, her voice as light as she could make it. "It's an important day."
Sitting upon a chair, Patrick continued rubbing his damp hair and shrugged. "You seemed to need the sleep. And I was going to wake you when I got done with my shower."
Violet tried not to frown at the edge in his tone. "Well, I'm awake now. I thought I'd wear this today. What do you think?" She held the blouse up in front of her.
Patrick draped the towel over the back of the chair and stood, walking toward her, giving her a little smile. "I think it will look nice on you." He kissed her cheek briefly as he passed her, standing in front of the closet to choose his own attire.
Hanging the blouse and a pair of dark grey trousers on the wardrobe door knob, Violet closed her eyes, her heart pounding. The kiss had been perfunctory at best. But it was something. "Have you decided what you'll want to do while you're out with everyone today?" she asked, turning to him. She tried to make her voice bright, cheerful.
But Patrick's mind had caught upon something, and he gaped at her, his hands frozen upon his half-finished shirt buttons. "Wait – you're not coming with us?"
The part stunned, part hurt tenor of his question struck at her. She blinked several times before answering him. "No – well, I can't. I have so much work to do here…." She shrugged, attempting to sound less of a horrible person than she felt herself to be. He wanted her to be there, and, more than almost anything, she wanted to be there too.
"Work? Are you serious, Violet?" His expression conveyed a mixture of incredulity, upset, and anger as he stared at her.
It took her breath away – but not in the pleasant manner. The wounded look in his eyes pressed down upon her like an enormous boulder. She felt pinned into place there, unable to move. And as much as she'd been craving to make things right between them, she could do nothing; she had to be in the house to get everything ready for the surprise party. Even more than she'd been last night in the room with Martha, she felt trapped, the situation impossible. She endeavored to sound her usual self, haughty and stubborn. She straightened her back and squared her jaw. "Yes, of course I'm serious, Patrick. Do you think this house runs itself?"
Patrick lowered his eyes, resuming buttoning his shirt with shaking fingers. "It's my birthday, Violet. My birthday. And all I wanted was to spend the day with my family – and that includes you, my wife." He finally got the shirt fully buttoned and lifted a face reddened with temper. "I can't decide whether you really do think you have to do whatever work you've got on your list for today, or you're just avoiding me because you don't want to be with me anymore."
Violet's resolve threatened to crack at his words. But she hadn't successfully kept the secret from him simply to reveal it now, only hours from the party. "I can't believe you would say something like that to me. After everything we've been through."
"Yes, well, I think you would remember that yourself." He stepped into his shoes and turned to thumb through his clothes. Selecting a tie and a sport jacket and folding these over his arm, he spun around again to face her. This time he didn't sound angry; he sounded sad, heartsick. "But if you can't, I suppose you need to add one more thing to your list for today."
"What's that?" Violet asked, a sense of foreboding filling her.
"To have a room fitted up for me and someone put my things in there. Because I can't stay in here with you anymore. Not when you're like this. It hurts too much." Without letting Violet say anything in reply, Patrick went out the door, slamming it shut.
Violet dropped heavily onto the bed, her eyes wide with disbelief at what had just happened. They fixed on the bouquet of flowers on her dressing table. Had it really only been the other day he'd brought them to her? For a split second she thought she'd go after him. Then she heaved a deep sigh and got up. There were things to do. Blinking back tears, she slipped into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Right now, all Violet's faith centered on the hope that when Patrick walked into the party that evening, he'd understand. And that he would forgive her.