Chapter 4
Baltimore, Maryland - December 1873
Violette stared at the equations scrawled on the board. She'd promised Gabrielle to focus on her studies, but the secrets whispered within her father's journal held a magnetic pull. It was nearing its end, and a pang of loss settled in her stomach.
What if, as she desperately hoped, there were more journals hidden somewhere in the library? Hundreds, maybe thousands of books lined the towering shelves, each one a potential key to unlocking her father's past.
"Violette, are you daydreaming again?"
Mr. Tibbs' voice snapped her back to the present. Guilt washed over her as she stammered an apology and refocused on the equations.
The rest of the lesson crawled by. Numbers swam before her eyes, their meaning lost in the haze of her preoccupation. Violette couldn't fathom the use of mathematics in her life. Universities, the dream Gabrielle had nurtured before their mother's passing, seemed a distant, irrelevant notion. Yet, her sister insisted.
Violette understood. Grief, a cruel hand, had snatched away Gabrielle's dreams of university. Back then, Violette was just twelve, clinging to her older sister as their world tilted on its axis. As dictated by the Laurent family trust, a legal guardian had been appointed, a stranger tasked with overseeing their lives. Gone was the warmth of a mother's love, replaced by a parade of au pairs and private tutors. The vast Laurent manor echoed with their loneliness, a constant reminder of the family they'd lost. Only each other remained, a source of solace in a world turned cold.
James Laurent, had left his entire estate to his daughter, Gabrielle and not his wife Lizbette. Rumors swirled that Mitchell Turner, upon marrying Lizbette, fumed over the trust-controlled funds and their limited allowance. After his wife's death, Mitchell repeatedly petitioned the attorneys for greater access, but he was always denied. This only fueled his bitterness toward his stepdaughter, a bitterness that remained until his final breath.
When Gabrielle turned eighteen, the reins of her family's fortune and vast estate finally fell into her hands. Violette knew Gabrielle could have easily sent her away – a boarding school, perhaps, or even worse, a convent or an orphanage. The chilling prospect sent a shiver down her spine.
Violette wasn't ungrateful. She understood Gabrielle's sacrifice, the dreams deferred for the sake of family. A surge of determination replaced the frustration. She wouldn't let her sister down. She would conquer these damned equations!
The scent of vanilla and almonds drifted through the library doors, a welcome interruption to Violette's studies. She looked up to see Gabrielle framed in the doorway, a silver tray laden with delicate petite fours.
"I think a full day of studies requires a much-deserved reward," Gabrielle announced with a hint of a smile.
Violette's stomach rumbled in agreement.
"How did the lessons go today?" Gabrielle asked, pushing a stray strand of hair from her eyes.
Gabrielle set the tray down and turned to the tutor, Mr. Tibbs, a man whose perpetually furrowed brow seemed eternally at odds with his kind eyes.
"She's a very bright young lady indeed, Miss Laurent," he said, gathering his papers. "But I'm afraid the daydreaming has gotten a bit… excessive."
A faint blush crept up Gabrielle's neck. "Thank you, sir," she said, her voice firm but laced with a touch of sympathy. She turned to Violette, one eyebrow raised playfully. "We'll work on that focus, won't we?"
Violette offered a sheepish grin, already reaching for a pastry. "Yes, ma'am," she mumbled between bites.
Mr. Tibbs' sigh echoed in the vast room before he shuffled out, with Gabrielle in tow as they discussed further lessons. Violette waited until the sound of his retreating footsteps faded entirely before reaching for her father's leather-bound journal, her fingers tracing the familiar inscription on the cover. She flipped to the page marked with a faded ribbon and dove back into the world of her father's erratic script.
The library door creaked open again, and Gabrielle reappeared. Her expression softened as she saw her sister, lost in the pages of the past. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over her – frustration at Violette's inattentiveness and a deep well of empathy for her younger sister's yearning to connect with her father.
Gabrielle herself had only the faintest memory of her own father, a man who died before she could even form a single coherent thought. Her mother, a woman of steely composure and unwavering expectations, never spoke of him.
But the truth, a truth she couldn't quite grasp, was that her childhood had been a cold, sterile landscape devoid of affection. She was six when her mother died and she couldn't remember ever being held by her. "Act like a lady," "elbows off the table," "smile," "look pretty" – these were the mantras her mother had drilled into her, a constant reminder of the role she was expected to play, not the person she was meant to be.
"Violette," she said softly as she sat beside her sister. "I know you're distracted right now, and I understand. After you finish the journal, though, I need you to focus on your lessons, alright?"
Violette looked up, a flicker of gratitude shining in her eyes. "I promise," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She leaned into her sister's embrace, finding solace in the warmth that had become her only constant.