Brenda Joyce by The Finer Things

furnishings were so tired and worn. Why hadn’t Sir Thomas refurbished the room for his bride, as was customary? If Violette were not about to nap, Catherine would have opened the yellowing muslin drapes to brighten the interior.
    Violette sank into a chair covered with faded magenta brocade. “I think I’m tired.”
    “I would imagine so,” Catherine said, studying her. She wanted to understand why Blake was so interested in her. She was, Catherine thought, terribly beautiful, yet there was also a waiflike aspect to her. Was that the reason Blake was so intrigued? She was so different from Gabriella.
    Catherine had been friends with Blake and Jon since they were children. She knew both brothers as well as they knew one another. Her father was an earl who had acquired both his title and Dearfield Way some dozen years ago. Catherine still remembered as if it were but yesterday the first time she had met the two brothers—they had all been astride, Catherine in pigtails, accompanied by a groom and riding a fine Arabian mare. Blake and Jon had been breaking rules and riding about the countryside unescorted on two handsome hunters. The boys had been twelve and fourteen, respectively, Catherine only seven years of age. Somehow they had raced across the moors, and Catherine had given both boys a run for their money. She hadn’t won, but she had crossed the finish line on the brothers’ heels. And they had all become instant friends.

    She had known of Blake’s three-year love affair with Gabriella, who had then been widowed for several years and apparently in no rush to wed in spite of the numerous suits she had garnered. Blake had been eighteen in the beginning of their liaison, Gabriella thirty. Everyone had known of the affair. They had been quite inseparable.
    Catherine had debuted five years ago, and since then become somewhat acquainted with Lady Cantwell. She was, of course, quite beautiful, but it was her extreme intelligence and outspokenness which was outstanding, that and her generous, warm nature. No two women could be more different than Gabriella Cantwell and Violette Goodwin. Blake’s interest in Violette, which was glaring, almost made no sense.
    Yet there was something about Violette Goodwin that even compelled Catherine, and after a moment’s reflection she realized that it might be her stubborn pride, which was clearly at odds with her vulnerability, both the result of her being miscast as the elderly knight’s young wife. Catherine could not help but admire Violette’s courage, both in transforming her life by marrying so upwardly, and in clinging to her new life now with Sir Thomas dead. And Blake, she knew, admired traits like courage, honesty, and pride far more than he did either gentility, decorum, or mere beauty.
    Perhaps, Catherine thought suddenly, Gabriella and Violette had more in common than one might assume at a first glance. “Can I help you out of your gown?” Catherine asked kindly.
    Violette smiled wanly. “Thank yew. In truth, I ain’t in the mood to struggle meself.”
    As Violette stood, Catherine began undoing the numerous buttons down the back of Violette’s black serge dress. She helped the younger woman pull the heavy wool garment over her head, then began to unfasten the tapes holding the crinolines in place. They whooshed to the floor when released.
    Violette stepped out of the cage, clad in a plain petticoat and chemise. “I’m fine now, thank yew, Lady Dearfield.”
    Catherine smiled. “Lady Goodwin, you may call me Catherine if you wish.”
    Violette blinked. A smile spread over her face. “I would love to call yew Catherine,” she said slowly. Then added eagerly, “Yew may call me Violette.”
    “Can I help you with anything else?” Catherine asked. Violette appeared dazed and lost. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked gently, referring to the death.

    Violette met her gaze. Her eyes were moist. It was a moment before she spoke, as if trying to