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“I have an errand in the city. Would you escort me?”
Arthur touched his right hand to his left shoulder questioningly, and his sister nodded.
“Very well,” Arthur said, pushing back his chair. “It is urgent, I presume?”
“Promptness is valuable, yes,” Violet said.
Arthur nodded and got to his feet. “Then let us go.”
Arthur watched his sister demur over the box, smile shyly at the officer, voice her seemingly idle queries, affect her indecision about seeing the scene of the crime, and all with no one but he appearing to be the wiser, to see her as anything more than a naive debutante, curious and guileless.
He didn’t follow her upstairs when she went, but when he heard her voice rise, pitched just slightly in a way he knew well, he called for her, and allowed himself a breath of relief when she reappeared on the stairs. To his knowledge, her endeavors had never thus far placed her in danger, and she had only ever used such a signal to communicate expedience, never for fear, but the possibility was never far from his mind.
She gave orders to their driver, to the office of their family’s lawyer, and Arthur wondered what she might have uncovered in those grisly mysterious rooms, though he did not ask. Instead he watched the light in her eyes as they drove, the flicker of fierce, quiet thoughts across her face, unmasked in his presence as they could not have been in the house. He watched her as the carriage drew to a halt, and her face became earnest with both urgency and charm, and she swept out of the carriage.
Such a stop, evidently, called for another, and on they went, Violet’s excitement growing as surely as she tucked it away before leaving the carriage. She emerged from this office very sober, but she had been successful, by the steely look in her eyes and the careful voice with which she directed the driver to take them back to their own townhouse.
When they had arrived, she said quite demurely, “I shall rest myself in the study for a while, I think, perhaps a quarter of an hour. Will you check with Father that nothing of importance has transpired while we have been about our errands?”
This too was a familiar tact, and Arthur bowed his head, and made his way to their Father’s office, to talk of whatever was proper for the son of such a distinguished man to discuss, while his sister flirted with that which was most definitely unsuitable for a daughter.
There was money in it, Arthur knew, and though he was not certain of the purpose of Violet’s careful savings, he sought to add to them, as opportunities presented themselves. Beyond such sums, however, there was her satisfaction in a job well done, even when it had meant exposure to things more ghastly than those to which her delicate nature should be subjected—but no, therein lay the root of her struggle, did it not? Or at least so Arthur presumed. It was her delicate nature—or rather, her nature that was prescribed delicacy by their society, of which their father was no outlier—that forbid her from applying herself openly to such work. Their father would be displeased, Arthur was certain, to hear that his son had been cavorting with a common detective and seeking to study grisly scenes, but he would have a few stern words, and then a thoughtful musing that perhaps it was for the best; a reputation for intelligence and a small air of adventure about him would surely help his appeal to the ladies, and then talk would turn to the next concert or ball and the ladies who might be there, and wasn’t Arthur ready to lay claim to one yet? Discretion and deliberation was all very well, but many of his peers were in serious courtships already, some even joyously married, and was Arthur not eager to experience such joys for himself?
He had not yet met a lady with whom he could quite envision such joys, he would say, which was of course quite true. Perhaps the next introduction would be to such a lady, he would add, with an optimism entirely affected, but that would appease his father.
For Violet though—Arthur did not know what, if anything, might appease their father if he were to learn of her discreet dealings, and that she persisted in them despite her own thorough knowledge of their father’s character —it was this that had moved Arthur, when he first overheard her hushed tones speaking of thefts and scandals on the study telephone, to confront her, not to impede the treacherous path she appeared to be taking, but to insist that she consider his aid hers, should she require it.
He had asked what that path entailed, of course, and she had shared enough to put his mind at ease that the risks were far tamer than he had been imagining. He had asked why, and to this she had gone deathly quiet, and after a few seconds of terrible silence, when Arthur feared she might withdraw from him forever rather than answer, he asked if it would bring her happiness. She had smiled, then, the first smile since he had approached her that afternoon, and indeed brighter than any he had seen on her in many weeks, and that smile had been answer enough.
Was her heart of a kind with his? She seemed happier to flirt and mingle than he, though how much that happiness was affected he was unsure. But perhaps she liked the mingling only, and did not care for what a marriage would entail. She had not expressed a preference for any of the young men among their peers, as far as he knew, but perhaps a man outside them—or perhaps, not a man at all—had caught her eye. Or perhaps she only wished to lay up security for herself, against some future unknown faux pas.
Arthur shook his head gently. What the money meant for her was freedom, and that was a purpose he would gladly aid. What she did with her freedom, if she did not confide in him, he would be content to wait and see.
A few days after their visit to the late Mrs. Doolittle’s home, there was a most interesting story in the paper. Arthur read it and felt his heart warm with pride, and then left it casually by the chair his sister usually claimed.
A gleam of satisfaction filled her eyes as she read, and a smile graced her face as she carefully replaced the paper on the table.
“What news?” Father asked. “A good story, I take it?”
“Yes, though it rests upon a sadder one,” Violet said, “but they have found the man who killed poor Mrs. Doolittle!” She shivered delicately. “I confess I was uneasy with the knowledge that he might still be about to strike who might guess next! But I am glad to see that some detectives have put it right, and caught him after all.”
“Good news, indeed,” Father said. “Justice always is, of course, but you were not the only one unsettled, my dear. Mrs. Collier was telling me at Friday’s soiree that the incident had struck fear into many a heart. Her own young friend, a young woman she was hoping to welcome to the city next week and present mid-summer, was now thinking to delay or even cancel her entrance to such society.” His eye fell shrewdly upon Arthur. “Doubtless now she will proceed as planned. This young friend of Mrs. Collier’s is a country girl, from what I understand ignorant of the city, but of good blood and wealth. She would surely welcome a patient young man willing to help her learn what is expected of a young woman in the city life.”
Violet sighed then, a quiet, wistful sound. “Alas,” she said, her eyes wide and forlorn as she regarded them both. “I have heard that Mrs. Collier has her sights set on the young Mr. Duvall for her young friend! The young Miss Duvall confided in me when she and I met by chance at the seamstress.” Her expression morphed into one of wonder. “Did you know Miss Duvall’s recent gowns are nearly all Chinese silk? It seems the elder Mr. Duvall’s business has been booming, if such luxuries are now commonplace for his daughter!”
“Are they indeed?” Father remarked with interest. “Perhaps I am overdue for Mr. Duvall’s company. We have done some business in the past, and perhaps it is time we do more. An excellent observation, Violet. If you will excuse me…” Father rose and retreated in the direction of his study, his scheming almost visible in the set of his shoulders and the cadence of his steps.
“Does Mrs. Collier truly have her sights on the young Mr. Duvall?” Arthur could not help but ask when Father had fully withdrawn, and Violet had watched him go with another small smile of satisfaction on her face.
“Oh, I am sure she has her eye on every eligible bachelor in the city,” Violet said. “Whether she has her eye on one more than another? I confess I do not know, but I should hate to see you made a particular target.”
Arthur chuckled softly and shook his head. “Was the part about silk a truth, at least?”
“Oh yes,” Violet said. “He would have discovered that soon enough if it weren’t. Well, two of the eight gowns with which I saw her were of Chinese silk, and the rest can be attributed to a silly young girl’s excited imaginings.”
“Or to a brilliant young woman’s subtle devices,” Arthur said wryly.
Violet tossed her head. “I hold that it was a very pardonable subterfuge,” she said haughtily, and then laughed, dimpling. “Do you know that is what my employer called his little scheme, with the note scrawled on my parcel so that I would be summoned there? ‘A very pardonable subterfuge highly conducive to the public’s good.’ She shook her head. “But I suppose it was, after all.”
“It seems a fitting description of your employment on the whole,” Arthur remarked.
Violet sobered then, considering. “I consider it pardonable of course,” she said slowly after a few moments. “Father would not, I think, and…well, I am not sure it is quite for the public’s good. Not for the public’s ill,” she added hurriedly, as Arthur’s brow creased, “but…oh I wish I could tell you! Only it is not my secret only, and—”
A suitor, after all? Arthur wondered. Or perhaps a friend. But it matters not. I cannot let it. “It is for the good of one you think worthy of it,” he said, and his heart ached to see the answering relief in her face, to know that such relief necessitated a burden of equivalent or greater size.
“So I firmly believe,” Violet said quietly.
Arthur nodded and smiled at her. “Then so shall I,” he said, and he raised his glass towards her.
Her glass met his, and the sound was like the tinkling of a bell above a doorway, and Arthur thought with a burst of gratitude, that if he was not yet quite being welcomed into the full life his sister was surreptitiously building, he was at least being allowed to linger on its threshold.