Between Two Captains

“Are you certain I can’t convince you to come with me?” Ethan Carrick watched his brother study a canvas he’d just finished. Charles lifted his dark blond head and looked up. “I wish you wouldn’t mock me, Ethan.” He backed up his chair a few feet, turned and wheeled over to where Ethan stood in the doorway of the studio. Behind Charles, the large bay windows showed the late afternoon sun glinting off Carrick Manor’s perfectly manicured lawns. “Need I remind you that you’re going to a ball? People dance at a ball. Women want to be waltzed romantically across the floor. They don’t want…” He trailed off and shook his head. “Forgive me. I promised myself I wouldn’t fall into self-pity. I’m grateful for your concern.” Ethan sighed. His brother’s still palpable grief filled the space between them. Sarita, Charles’ beautiful Indian wife, had been murdered by a fellow British officer during the Mutiny of ’57. Poor fellow. Would that he’d find love again to heal the wounds. “I’m sorry. I so much want you to find someone. But you never will meet her if you stay holed up in your studio like a hermit. The doctor has said repeatedly that you will walk again.” He watched Charles’ expression, feeling the concern for his younger brother that increased with each passing day. The fact that Charles’ injury had been from saving the lives of women and children in India during the Mutiny, the fact that Queen Victoria had knighted him for his valor in service to the Crown was not helping to lift his morale. Unfortunately, Charles seemed to feel that all women would not want to be burdened by a man in a wheelchair, even if the situation was only temporary. Ethan knew his brother told himself that so he would never have to risk enduring more grief than he already had. Instead, painting had become his life. “Besides,” Ethan added when Charles didn’t answer. “It’s not a ball. It’s an engagement party.” Charles lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you disliked Martin Poole.” “I do. But his mother was very good to ours in their day and I feel obligated. In any case, the party is not for him. It’s for his daughter, Violette. It will be interesting to see the girl he’s been hiding all these years.” Charles nodded. “Yes, you mentioned her. She’s been living in France?” Ethan nodded. “Her mother was Sandrine Maynard. She passed away about a year ago.” Charles’ eyebrows shot up. “The Sandrine Maynard? The actress Mother and Father adored?” “That’s the one.” A mischievous gleam shone in Charles’ blue eyes. “Interesting! If the daughter looks anything like the mother, no wonder you want to see her. Who’s the lucky groom?” “Richard Graves. The engagement was only announced a little over a week ago.” Charlie’s eyes widened and his lips curled as if he’d been given rat poison. “Graves? Are you joking? The poor girl!” The blue of his eyes darkened and a shadow passed over his features. Ethan leaned on the doorpost, watching the cloud of grief pass over his brother’s face. “I agree. The whole situation smells a bit rotten to me. Violette’s been living in France for all twenty-four years of her life. I don’t think Martin’s seen her four times. And then, suddenly, she’s engaged to…Graves.” Graves had been a strong supporter of the annexation of Oudh, a political move that had fueled the bloodbath of the Indian Mutiny. As far as Ethan was concerned, Graves was one of the players directly responsible for Charles’ injuries and losses. You didn’t heartlessly oppress and use an entire race of people decade after decade without risking their wrath. The mention of Graves and all the implications reminded Ethan of his own guilt. He too, had served in India and had fought in the Mutiny. He, however, had come out unscathed. If he and Charles had not been such close friends, their relationship would also have been lost from this added bitterness. He sighed. “I apologize, Charlie. I was terribly insensitive even to suggest that you come.” Charles raked a hand through his hair. “It’s all right. I suppose I’ll have to face life again at some point.” Charles leaned back in the chair, rubbing his chin. “At least I’m not the poor waif who has to bed the man. If I had a daughter whom I cared deeply about, I certainly wouldn’t want her engaged to Graves. The mere thought makes me shudder.” Ethan sighed again. “I’ve never had the impression that Poole cares deeply for his daughter. Facing a firing squad would be preferable to facing Richard Graves.” Charlie laughed, a bit ruefully. “Well, perhaps Graves will get what he deserves and Martin’s daughter will have a giant wart on her nose and a penchant for boiling cauldrons, spells and frogs.” His laughter then took on a lighter tone. Ethan joined his brother’s mirth. “One can only hope.” When their laughter had passed, Ethan stood away from the doorpost. “Seriously, though, Charlie, I want to see you happy.” Charlie looked up at him with a meaningful expression. “I’ve wished the same for you many times. You want me to love a woman again and yet, you are as much a hermit as I. Don’t you want to find someone?” Ethan took a deep breath. On this matter, he was as vulnerable as his brother. There hadn’t been someone for him since that first woman. Elizabeth had intoxicated him with her beauty and sweetness. They’d been each other’s first love and lover. Unfortunately, she’d been an unhappy girl and as soon as he’d been shipped to India for his service, Ellie had found she just couldn’t be alone, not even for a day. The last gossip Ethan had caught wind of had reported that Ellie had been married several times since she’d left him and had gone to America with her most recent husband. “All right, Charles. Touché.” He held out his hand. “I’ll be back in a couple of days. I’m going to meet with my solicitor while I’m in London. If you need anything, I’ll be staying at the club.” Charlie shook his hand and a wave of mutual brotherly affection passed between them. “Thanks, Ethan but I can’t think of anything I need, except for perhaps a beautiful model. I’ve yet to try my hand at a nude. I’m sick to death of still lifes and landscapes.” Ethan smiled. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, Sir Charles, take care of yourself and get some fresh air.” * * * * * Mayfair, London   The maid yanked the corset strings. Violette sucked in her breath. She pushed back her tears, not from the pressure of the corset but from her utterly horrifying plight. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, watching the maid behind her work the laces into a tight bow. On the outside, she appeared to be calmly going through the preparations for her engagement party, sham that it was, while internally, her mind raced through her escape plan. Her heart ached for Maman. Had she been alive, she would never have let Father get away with this. He’d lured her here with promises of a London season and the father-daughter relationship they’d never had, only to introduce her to her fiancé on her very first night! Perhaps not all men were to be distrusted but Martin Poole was. Of course, he would never tell her his true reasons for promising his only daughter to that cruel-looking man, Richard Graves but there was no doubt in her mind that he had done so to save his own skin. She should have suspected him from the very first. He had never taken an active interest in her life. He’d only married her mother after getting her pregnant because his own parents demanded it of him. According to Maman, her in-laws would rather she come into society as his legitimate wife than to risk a public scandal should the gossip get out that Martin Poole had an illegitimate child by a French actress. Violette had allowed her grief and her deep desire for a father to cloud her judgment and had made the journey to England. The maid helped her into her petticoats and fastened them. She then went to the garderobe and pulled out the gown Martin Poole had had made especially for the engagement party. Looking at the cream colored taffeta with embroidered roses did not lift her mood. She had always wanted to marry for love. She wanted to choose the man with whom she would share her body in the most intimate way. As the maid latched the hooks on her bodice, Violette’s determination to escape strengthened. She would go through with this party. She would even dance with her fiancé and pretend to like him. However, tucked away in the depths of her garderobe was her satchel, all packed. Above it hung the nondescript dress and hooded cloak she would wear. Come sunrise tomorrow morning, she’d be gone.