The Violet Hour (9 page)

Behind them is the Shoot-the-Chute, almost complete by the look of it. My eyes steal across it; a long stairway climbs the back to the tallest tower I have ever seen, where passengers may wait beneath a roof for the ride of their life.

My eyes jump down the greased boards where the boat will plummet and
splash
into the sound and my heart immediately pounds with fear at the prospect.

I am not fond of heights.

“How many more, Brighton?” Jones calls, startling me.

I ease myself behind the tree till only my eyes peak around.

“Why, you tiring out on me friend?” Brighton’s tone teases.

Jonesy wipes his forehead, and halts chopping the massive tree he’s apparently going to fell. “I can go as long as you. Longer. Just wondering so I can pace myself—”

Craaak!

My head whips to the sky, searching for lightning. Nothing. Still clear.

Craaak!

The tree lurches left. But there’s no wind?

The trunk splits.

“Jones!”

The next moments blur. Brighton bounds across the clearing, leaps over the downed logs and is over Jones before I’ve had time to bellow a warning.

The tree is sailing towards his head. Jones dives to the dirt, but his legs are still in its crushing path.

And somehow. I blink, shaking my head, my heart vibrating my ribs with the staccato beat—Brighton stands over Jonesy.

The tree
slams
across his shoulders, buckling his knees, sinking his feet ankle-deep into the clay, and I cry out—instantly covering my traitor-mouth.

I hurry toward them, forgetting myself.

The trunk snaps in half as it strikes his shoulders, the top half heading towards Jonesy’s head.

“Jones!” he screams again.

Jonesy’s eyes widen and he rolls right as the evergreen top collapses so close an outlying branch slashes his face.

Brighton pitches off the massive trunk, sending it flying,
no cartwheeling
, as if it he were flicking a bloody matchstick.

He extends his hand to Jonesy, still supine on the ground.

They clasp hands and soon Jones is righted, vigorously dusting mud and wood from his trousers.

Joney’s eyes narrow. “That was entirely too close. Apparently I shall not trade my violin for the lumberjack circuit.”

Brighton pulls him into a quick, fierce hug and releases him. “No, my friend. No more felling trees for you.”

I come to my senses just as I’ve reached the forest threshold, one more step and I will be starkly visible in the moonlight and lanterns.

Chest heaving, I lean against the tree, waiting.

Jonesy’s gaze is serious, but does not match the wild fear and awe I feel pinching my own.

That blow would’ve, nay should’ve, killed
any
man. Yet here he stands.

My conscious whispers, ‘Witchcraft’.

I shake my head, willing away the words.

“You weren’t exaggerating,” Jones says, bending to pick up his axe.

Brighton’s face is grim. “No. I wish I were. But it certainly came in useful today, no matter how odious its origins.”

“Sorry about the tree.” Jones says sheepishly. “It has been awhile since I left the farm.”

“Not to worry my friend.” Brighton’s eyes are sweeping the forest line and I take another step backward, fear filling my mouth.

“What is it?” Jones says, his posture immediately shifting to attention.

Brighton’s eyebrow rises. “I don’t know. Never you mind. Let’s finish this.”

I spin and bound through the thicket, ignoring the tear and hot sting of thistles against my arms.

LeFroy really may be a witch.

And my friend, my very dear friend, is a party to it.

* * *

I cluck to the horse, and angle her down the cobblestones, heading toward the bay and the shipyards. The customs house, situated at the pinnacle of a very long stretch of road, I suspect was no accident. It’s message; all roads lead to commerce here in Charleston.

The sky is a clear, cloudless blue and the clops of the mare’s feet are attempting to lull me into security. But I will not hear of it.

Vexation is as much a part of me as breathing, this I have come to accept as my newfound reality.

But recently, worry and angst have thwarted any other emotion that used to reside inside me.

My mind is full of her once again. This may be my greatest vexation. I need my mind to be focused. It is selfish to want her.

I have done something despicable, completely unthinkable. I have eavesdropped on Allegra, fabricated reasons to be in her proximity.

As I worked on arc lamps, I have heard her teaching her charges to play. She was so utterly kind to all of her students. So patient. There is no falsehood in her.

My mother once said, Judge a person by the way they treat those who can do nothing for them. Allegra’s heart beats true. Too true. This world is not a place for the kind. Her goodness reminds me of George.

I run my fingers roughly through my hair and grip the reins tighter. My mind breaks free of my careful self-control—releasing an onslaught of images through my mind; I wish to know everything about her. To touch her, to never have her out of my sight. To protect her. My heart stops when I see her…

“For the love of all that is holy. You are a lost cause,” I murmur.

I grind my teeth and force my wits to the task at hand.

My shipment of chemicals, necessary for the oh-so-vital pyrotechnic, should’ve arrived weeks ago. But with the political climate…with talk of succession, impending war, shipments had been late, if arriving at all.

As the carriage rattles by the local pub, my eye is drawn to the multi-colored flyers; advertisements are plastered all about the windows.

One is for Charleston’s Fancy.
Orchestra! Moonlight! Magnificent!

A faded poster titled,
Come See Miss Mary Marvel-The musical crown-jewel of Europe. One Night Only.

My eyes skip across several others and click back as my breath catches.

“Brighton.” I cock my head, confused. Someone calls again, “
Brighton
!”

My head quickly swivels away from the advertisements. Indeed I cluck to the horses, putting as much space between me and them as possible.

Silas
. Perfect.

“Whoa.” I tug on the reins and the team halts before him, his white walking stick swinging.

I have it on authority from local slaves that stick has everything to do with caning and naught to do with walking.

Silas steps toward the carriage, his hand raised in greeting. “What brings the
mysterious
Monsieur LeFroy to the glorious port of Charleston this day?” He flutters his fingers mockingly.

“Your pyrotechnics. And you had better pray the shipment has arrived or your new production will be decidedly less colorful.” I grind my teeth together.

“Ah. Well, good. I shan’t detain you then. Commerce must commence. And more importantly, the show must go on.” Silas steps away, heading toward the water, walking stick swinging jauntily at his side.

I cluck and the team ambles forward. When they try to break into a trot, knowing the water is their destination I pull back on the reins to slow their pace, waiting till Silas’s back disappears into the customs building.

“Whoa.” I flip the reins around a hitching post and vault from the seat, striding down the street as quickly as I can manage without drawing undue attention.

“Mam. Sir,” I say genially, tipping my hat, weaving my way past townsfolk, my eyes fixated on the poster. With a sideways glance, I snatch it from the window, fold it and stuff it into my waistcoat pocket.

Hurrying back to the team, my breath is coming hard and fast as I slide into the driver’s bench.

As each fold opens, dread seeps thicker and thicker into my mouth.

Have you seen this woman?

Missing. Miss Katherine Manners, Cellist and Musical Prodigy.

Miss Manners was last seen performing in the state of South Carolina.

Reward via Lord Lawrence Manners for her safe return to her loving family.

Contact local authorities with any information.

Unmistakable doe-brown eyes stare back.

Allegra’s eyes, from beneath an elaborate hairstyle of upswept strawberry-blonde locks.

Her fingers tightly clutch the neck of a cello, a sad smile on her wide, full lips.

I dab my forehead as the light sheen of sweat breaks out.

I scan the whole street, fervently searching for more pamphlets.

* * *

Allegra

“Alright Tom. You practice now. I shall see you later so that you may assist me.”

The boy’s wide smile is infectious.

“Of course. Thank you so much, mam.”

He steps out of my cottage and onto the thoroughfare, heading back towards the hustle and bustle of Charleston’s Fancy.

The nod and tip of his hat is so utterly adult. The orphan boy has stolen my heart completely.

He turns to go, and I bite the inside of my lip.
Did his limp seem less pronounced today?

That was impossible. Club feet did not mend. The cry of a gull shifts my attention to the sea.

Tom, too, is a slave to the park. Silas recently began ‘
taking in strays’
as he called them. Seeming to altruistically adopt orphans, providing them room and board—but I have seen how he works them. I swallow the disgust thickening my throat.

The morning is clear and bright; the white clouds a fluffy contrast against the baby-blue sky. The breeze puffs in off the bay like hot, salty breath, tickling my hair across my cheek. In the distance I see the red striped poof that is the aerial balloon. I have never dared to alight in one. I am frightened of heights, but the playful bob and weave of it in the breeze, make me wish I was not.

I stroll out into the thoroughfare, breathing deep, filling my lungs with the air’s salty tang. It is early; only men readying the amusements are about. Sarah was up and gone before the sun arose. Silas keeps her bustling each day until the very hour she collapses into bed each night.

My eyes stray across the bay…to the rock-mass beyond.

White gulls swarm the rocks, dipping and diving to the water’s surface and soaring back up as they fish.

I have strategically avoided the isle for a week; steadfastly refusing to admit why.

For instance, ignorance is bliss?

After seeing such tremendous strength, how he discarded a tree-trunk as if flicking a matchstick—my nights have been plagued with dreams of him performing endless feats of strength. They culminated last night in him dressed in a strong-man’s uniform from the carnival.

I smile and cover my lips. It is not a matter for jest, I know. It should vex me more than it does. If I was any other girl, I would’ve told every person I know.

I couldn’t even bring myself to tell Sarah, for fear it might somehow convict him.

It was madness.
Completely out of my character—but for once, I truly didn’t care. My heart seemed to beat in my chest
for him
.

For the moments he regarded me.

When I held his attention, I felt
alive
. Like all things were possible.

It felt…like when I play my music. I swallow with the realization.

Nothing or no-one has ever come close to matching that feeling. The soaring-wonder that fills my soul.

The icy enclosure that keeps my heart in a perpetual winter and hibernation is thawing. I feel the hot stirrings of life within and a renewed beat of hope surging through my veins.

My whole life has been self-denial. Hiding my thoughts, my true feelings.

He does not demand that, nay he discourages it.

I know how rare and precious love to be. And I, like a miser,
must have it
.

“Lost in thought, are we?”

I looked up, realizing in horror I’ve arrived back at the Shoot-the-Chute. The scene of the crime.

The park staff has been buzzing about its opening for weeks. The talk was that Brighton had designed it after riding the first-ever chute in Watchtower Park, Illinois.

I step back, admiring his handiwork close up. The towering wooden ramp, built into a hillside, now housed a large boat, precariously positioned at the top.

“Like what you see?”

Brighton is on the steps, his grin so wide and contagious, I cannot help but return it. I blush at his double entendre. It is the other Brighton. The carefree one.

I nod. “Yes. It’s amazing.”

He rolls his eyes as if this hulking contraption were a mere house of cards, built solely for his amusement. “It’s nothing, a distraction from life. It is, however, ready.”

His eyes sparkle like a child’s. My breath catches and holds, but my brow furrows with confusion. I wonder how long this altogether different Brighton shall stay?