Wicked Little Secrets (16 page)

Vivienne’s heartbeat sped. She couldn’t leave now or everything would come crashing down. “No! My father wanted me to be with Mr. Vandergrift. He told me not to leave him alone in London.”
Don’t let that gentleman even glance at another woman,
he had ordered. Of course, he didn’t say anything about early wedding presents. “And I… I just got here.”

“I didn’t want to upset your father. He was so insistent that you come. I just… simply need my rest. It is all too much for me now.”

Vivienne lowered her voice and edged further down her chair. “Is something wrong?” she said slowly. “Something maybe you feel you can’t talk about?”

“I-I don’t know what you mean.”

Vivienne swallowed and continued tiptoeing into dangerous terrain. “Just that you can trust me with anything you need to say.” She darkened her voice. “Anything.”
Such as your husband was a lascivious profligate.

The older woman’s eyes creased in the corners.

“But perhaps you feel you can’t say something, because admitting it might be…” Vivienne paused, trying to choose the correct word: mortifying, horrifying, revolting, disgusting, “…painful like when one is
spanked
or… or
lied
to
about being, you know, spanked.”

“What are you talking about? You make no sense. Spanking and lying? You’re not thinking p-p-properly.” Her aunt attempted to wag her finger but only swiped the air. “I shouldn’t allow you to attend nude gardening lectures in the future.”

Vivienne came to her feet. “I just want you to know that you shouldn’t feel you need to keep silent. Because you can trust me with… with whatever you feel you can’t trust me with.”

Her aunt pressed her palms to her temples. “How you do babble on, hurting my head.” She ambled across the carpet and picked up a tiny booklet atop her Bible. She handed it to Vivienne. “Harold gave me this train schedule. He will accompany you home. You may leave on Tuesday after Bible lessons.” She lifted the edge of her hem and started to leave the room.

“No!” Vivienne cried, jumping in front of her aunt. “I’m not going home! Not until you tell me what is the matter!”

“I have prayed and prayed to the Lord and this is His decision. I am merely his faithful, suffering servant.” She walked from the room, whispering “my poor nerves” as her guardian dog trotted beside her.

Vivienne’s lips twitched. She couldn’t very well argue with God.

She trudged up the stairs. Her head throbbed and she had to somehow manage to contort her hair into perfect ringlets in the next hour. She just wanted to put on her robe, climb into bed with a book, nibble on biscuits, and pretend that the entire fate of her family didn’t rest on her shoulders.

The door to her chamber was cracked, and she could hear the soft hiccupping sounds of someone crying. In the corner, sitting in the rocking chair, was Miss Banks. Tears poured down her face. Vivienne clutched her belly. She couldn’t handle any more drama today.

“Oh, miss. ’Tis been a dreadful day.” She rubbed her dribbling nose on her arm. “But don’t you worry about a th-thing.”

“What has happened?” Vivienne asked, though she didn’t want to hear.

“We got our wages today.”

Vivienne shook her head. “I don’t understand. Isn’t that a good thing?”

“The missus tells me to take the s-silver sugar spoon to the pawn shop while you were at your lecture. I only got a pound for it. ’Twas your great-great-grandmother’s.” She wiped her eyes. “But you needn’t be a’frettin’ about that. You just enjoy yourself at the opera.”

Eight

“What’s wrong with you tonight, Vivienne?” John asked. He gripped her hand, pulling her through the crowd milling about the lobby of the opera house. “You seem distracted.”

How was Vivienne supposed to answer that question?
My
father
is
inches
from
ruin, my uncle was a crooked lecher, my aunt is being blackmailed by a detestable madam, Dashiell—that scoundrel whom I kissed behind your back—spilled my problems to a solicitor, and there’s the issue of your wedding present at Seven Heavens. And to top it all, I’m supposed to make an endearing impression on the Montags this evening. So yes, I’m distracted.

Beyond the great closed doors to the theater, the production had already started. The sound of a powerful yet muffled mezzo soprano rang in the air. Vivienne winced. Her head throbbed so fiercely that she was afraid the memory of her first opera would be of her retching all over the shiny polished floor. They were late because John hadn’t approved of the gown she had chosen. So he made her change into the silver one she had worn the first night they’d met. She and Miss Banks worked fast, but still the switch of gowns took thirty minutes. A white lace ruffle ran across her satin silver bodice, exposing the tops of her breasts and hanging off her shoulders. Her white gloves came just shy of her elbows, leaving her upper arms cold beneath the lace. All Vivienne had brought to London was the green cloak. The poor thing was beginning to wear and the earthy fern color would not do against the pale silver gown, so she went without an outer garment. Now her skin was covered with bumps brought out by the cold, damp night.

They hurried up two flights, and the attendant guided them down a dim corridor. As the man opened a door, John leaned in, his musky cologne filling her nose. He whispered, “Make me proud.” He gave her a hurried peck on her temple.

The door opened onto an overwhelming panorama of stacks and stacks of theater boxes, each a little scene of finely dressed people in conversation. On the stage, the set of a rustic village nestled among a painted backdrop of craggy hills with a vista of the sea painted behind it. The chorus, dressed as ragged peasants, surrounded an expansive woman in a shimmering rose gown who stood downstage, her arms extended, fingers curled, as if she were baring some soul secret to the enormous theater with her powerful voice.

Then a man clad in formal black and a woman in a midnight blue gown stepped into Vivienne’s vision.

“Oh, darling, here she is,” said the woman. Despite the age lines on her face, she retained a fragile beauty. Her dark hair, curled in puffs, was streaked with pure white strands. She wore a permanent smile and had a quivering frenetic energy, like a tiny excitable dog.

Meanwhile, the gentleman moved in a slow, unrushed motion. He was tall with wide, imposing shoulders. The skin on his face had begun to sag, softening his features, but his gray eyes were sharp and gazed out from under a heavy mantle of gray brows.

Without an introduction, the lady grasped Vivienne’s hands. “Isn’t she the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

Mr. Montag slapped John’s shoulder. “Well done, son.”

John made the introductions. Vivienne’s muscles eased, and her headache lessened. The Montags weren’t the demi-gods she had feared. The evening might not be as bad as she’d originally thought—perhaps even enjoyable.

Her gaze met John’s. He smiled, and at that moment she saw something new in his eyes—a tender glow. He loved her. He was proud of her. Her heart felt light and airy, like gossamer. This marriage could work after all. Then she realized he wasn’t looking at her, but over her shoulder.

Vivienne whirled around, coming face to face with a young lady wearing a pale silvery blue dress, similar to Vivienne’s yet significantly finer in fabric and detail. The girl’s green eyes were darker and smaller than Vivienne’s, her face thinner, her features more delicate. Dark curls fell from a knot on the top of her head and framed her pale cheeks.

“Oh God,” Vivienne whispered, staring at a version of herself. Or was she the version of the other?

The young lady blushed and shyly gazed away.

“Miss Taylor, this is our daughter Elise,” Mrs. Montag said, pride warming her voice.

Both ladies curtsied and Elise murmured a greeting too soft to be heard. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Vivienne replied, managing a reasonably pleasant tone, though her nails dug into her palms.

John stood transfixed, lips parted, staring at Elise, his adoration for her evident to all the opera glasses now turned to the Montags’ box. No doubt Vivienne’s humiliation was far more entertaining than the production on the stage.

Mrs. Montag squeezed Vivienne’s arm, pity in her eyes. Having the Montags feel sorry for her was not the endearing impression she had intended to make.

“Why, I think every gentleman in the opera house must be looking at you,” Mrs. Montag said, trying hard. “John, you should be jealous.”

“I-I am,” he managed.

Several long, embarrassing beats passed in the music before someone spoke again. “Now, why don’t you and Elise take the first row and get to know each other,” Mrs. Montag suggested. “We love John like a son, so you two will be practically sisters.”

“Wonderful,” Vivienne said through gritted teeth. Just what she needed, another perfect sister she couldn’t live up to.

She and Elise sat next to each other like odd twins: the rich one and the desperate one. Mrs. Montag took the seat on the end, beside her daughter, but Vivienne could still smell her perfume, pungent in her nostrils. John and Mr. Montag hid in the shadows at the back of the box and adopted the deep tones of business conversation.

Vivienne was the first to venture into the dangerous conversational waters. “What a lovely gown,” she told Elise.

“Thank you,” the other replied, but didn’t follow up with a similar comment about Vivienne’s dress, which looked almost the same.

So the conversation lapsed back into silence as the chorus started to sing. When they were done, the soprano, now draped in white and clutching a rose, launched into a mournful aria.

Vivienne tried again. “This is my first opera. It’s very exciting.”

“We come almost every week when we are in town,” the other said. “I adore the opera.” Her words came out flat, like a bad actress saying her lines.

“How wonderful for you,” Vivienne battled on. The seat cushion would make better conversation than this lady. “Which is your favorite?”

Elise shook her head. “I j-just like them all.” She said nothing more. Either she was ignorant of the art of conversation, or perhaps it was too taxing on her delicate mind.

Fine, then
. Vivienne had tried her best to talk to the lady. She blew out a long breath and lapsed back into the comfort of her headache and the hammering vibrato of the soprano.

Then Elise decided to pipe up.

“I’m engaged as well.” Her face brightened like a small child given a toy. “To a viscount.”

“Ahh,” Vivienne said and waited, thinking this viscount might have a name or possess some distinguishing feature beyond his title, but obviously he didn’t. “Congratulations,” she finally said. “That’s nice.”

Elise snuck a glance over her shoulder at John. “John didn’t tell you?”

Vivienne shook her head.

“D-does John ever talk of me?” Elise asked.

Vivienne held her breath. She didn’t want to answer this question for what she might hear next. “A few times, yes,” she said.

“It’s just that he asked me to marry him, b-but Papa said we couldn’t because he didn’t have a title.” She gazed down at her hands and brushed her thumb over a sapphire engagement ring.

“I see,” Vivienne replied, trying to sound pleasant through gritted teeth.

“He said he could only love me, so I… I was shocked when I heard he became engaged so quickly after I had to turn him down.” She looked at Vivienne with troubled eyes, like an upset puppy’s. “I wish that Papa had said yes.”

Vivienne stared at the woman-child. Perhaps Elise thought that with her fragile face downcast, with her shy gaze and soft stammering voice—the coveted ethereal grace—she would conceal the true heartless cruelty of her words. Or maybe she was so rich and pampered that she never had to consider the feelings of others.

Vivienne bit down on the inside of her lip so hard, she felt the ooze of salty, warm blood on her tongue. “I… I think I sh-should like to,”
fall
to
my
death
from
this
balcony,
“w-watch the opera.” She turned her attention to the stage and closed her eyes, pretending to listen to the music, while she suffered her headache in peace.

But then the low rumble of John and Mr. Montag’s conversation drifted into her ears.

“Her father owns Taylor Machines,” John said.

“Taylor Machines?” Mr. Montag repeated, his tone darkening. “You didn’t tell me she was
that
Taylor.”

Vivienne’s lungs, heart, and several other vital organs stopped.

“What do you mean?” John asked. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, no, no,” the elder man said smoothly, as if compensating for a verbal slip, and then lowered his voice. Vivienne strained to hear while keeping her head forward.

“Just that I’ve heard things,” Mr. Montag said carefully. “In passing only, about some creditors and fraud. Probably nothing to it.”

Black pain surged in Vivienne’s head, and the entirety of her stomach heaved. “I’m going to be sick,” she cried. She put her hand over her mouth to try and stem the flow of vomit coming up. She stumbled over her chair and then patted blindly at the door, trying to find the knob.

Someone opened the door and she stumbled into the cool corridor and leaned her head against the wall, taking huge gulping breaths.

Around her, she could hear the others inquiring if she were ill, and if they should call a physician.

John put his hand on her shoulder.

“I’m well,” she gasped and turned around. “I’m well.” Behind John stood Mr. Montag, studying her with a knowing look in his eyes.
Oh
God
. Vivienne had ruined everything again, and after she had promised her father she would behave.

“John, the poor child doesn’t look well,” Mrs. Montag cooed. “Why don’t you take her home and let her rest?”

“No!” Vivienne protested. “I-I just needed some air. And I w-want to see what happens at the e-end.” By God, she was determined to make a good impression if it very well killed her.