The Fire Between Us (#14)
Early September, 1912
It was a small gathering — or rather, smaller than Lady Elowen usually puts on. The sort where every glance is noticed and every name can be heard from across a curtained alcove. There were lanterns strung between the hedges, low enough to make shadows dance across the hem of every gown, swaying gently as if uncertain whether to illuminate the evening or obscure it. The floor was only stone, warmed by the day and dusted with petals, but the orchestra played as though we stood in the halls of Versailles.
I had not truly desired to attend, let alone to dance. But a refusal is a statement, and statements become whispers, and whispers too easily become truths. Lord Bergamot had decided he had made enough appearances this season, and so his absence would not be topical. For the ladies of society, it is never without wonder if we are missing without acceptable excuse — and even then there are usually whispers all the same.
Lady Elowen greeted me at the entrance with her usual elegance, but her eyes moved quickly, too quickly, between myself and the drawing room. She had begun to take note of things. Who was speaking with whom, and who wasn’t. Who was sharing glances, who was finishing their drinks too quickly, and she looked pleased as she excused herself to greet her other guests.
Miss Daldridge descended upon me before I had time to take my place. She was radiant in a gown the colour of sea-glass, her hair adorned with tiny pearls like foam. Her laughter was already moving across the room with dangerous ease.
"Tonight has the air of a story beginning," she said, slipping her arm through mine. "Someone is going to fall madly in love."
I gave her the smile I keep for such occasions, polished and inoffensive. "Let us hope they choose wisely."
She laughed. "Oh, Lady Bergamot, you make it sound as though love were a sword one must fall upon."
I said nothing.
He arrived not long after. Yates Everett. He wore dark blue, almost black, the kind of colour that draws in light rather than reflecting it. His hair had been combed quickly, but not carelessly. He looked like a man who had not intended to participate in the evening, and yet had come anyway with but a moments notice.
He greeted the hostess. He said something to a gentleman I did not know. He turned.
He looked at me.
And then, he did not.
The first dance began. I stood near the window and let Lady Kent speak to me of chrysanthemums. I nodded at the right moments. I said nothing of consequence. My eyes did not stray.
But I saw him ask Isobel Sterling to dance.
She accepted.
They moved easily together. She is light. He is considerate. It was not romantic, not overt. But the sight of them set something tender inside me to aching.
Miss Daldridge returned with two sugared almonds and a sly expression.
"He dances well. Surprising, is it not? One does not expect that kind of grace from a man who speaks so seldom."
I once again, said nothing.
She pressed on. "He and Miss Sterling look rather well matched, do you not think?"
Still, I did not speak.
"Although," she added, tilting her head with innocent speculation, "I wonder if a man like that might be drawn to someone... less polished. Someone a little wild at the edges. Storm-colored, if you will."
"How generous," I said. "To liken unpredictability to charm."
"It is not unpredictability," she said. "It is depth. Some people are novels. Others, mere notes in the margin. But the best are marginalia — the thoughts too wild for the main text."
Her words lodged themselves inside me like a burr.
When the next set began, I excused myself. The hallway was quiet and cooler. The scent of wax and rosewater lingered. I let my hand trail along the wainscoting, each panel as smooth as a good lie.
He found me there.
He did not pretend surprise. He stepped into the space beside me and asked, "You are avoiding the dancing."
"I was unaware it had become mandatory."
"It is not. But you once said music was the closest thing to freedom. I thought you would want to feel free."
"Not all music is meant to be danced to," I replied. "Some is meant only to be endured."
He was silent.
Then, after a moment, he said, "It is difficult to be in a room and not look at you."
"You seemed to manage well enough this evening," I said, not kindly.
His brow shifted, not with surprise but with something darker. "And you seem perfectly content to be admired only from a distance."
"That is the safest arrangement for all involved."
He stepped closer. "Is it safety you want, Lady Bergamot? Or silence?"
My fingers found the stem of the dahlia on the table beside me. It broke under my touch.
"You should not say such things."
"I know."
A pause.
"But I do."
There was a sound behind us. Footsteps. We stepped apart casually.
Miss Daldridge, again. All smile and silk and the ease of a woman untouched by consequence.
"Lady Bergamot, there you are. We are short a partner for the final quadrille. Do come."
I nodded. Always the picture of politeness. She led me away.
He did not follow.
Later, beneath the lanterns, I watched him speak to Isobel once more. She smiled. He did not, but he stayed.
There is cruelty in watching someone you love appear content beside the wrong person.
And greater cruelty in knowing it is you who gave them no other choice.
As I gathered my gloves, he passed by. His steps were slow, measured, as if he too was waiting for the last word to fall.
He did not stop. But he said, his voice low and deliberate, "Where is your dance partner tonight, Lady Bergamot?"
"Engaged in livelier pursuits," I replied, the words clipped before I could soften them.
He looked at me, long enough for something to shift as his jaw ticked.
"I could not imagine a livelier evening than one spent with you," he said, his voice scarcely above the hush of the lanterned garden.
He paused. "Not all men know how to value what they hold. But I would have cherished you, had I been given the chance."
Then he inclined his head, the movement too precise to be casual, and walked away.
I stood still, my gloves in hand, feeling as though I had missed a step in a dance I had not agreed to perform.
Tonight, the flame did not catch. But it leaned close. Close enough to feel the heat of what might have been.
And I am beginning to wonder how long I can keep pretending I do not burn.
—L.B.
You Might Also Love…
Read all of The Violet Letters here:
Copyright Notice:
© 2025 Lady Bergamot's Library. All rights reserved.
This work is the intellectual property of Lady Bergamot's Library (Jessica Jones) and may not be reproduced, copied, pasted, or rewritten without prior written permission.
Links to this content may be shared, but the content itself may not be copied, republished, or distributed elsewhere.
All content on this site, including but not limited to text, images, and original works, is protected by copyright law.
The Violet Letters Continue…
We chased lightnin’ bugs barefoot with jars in our hands. Not to keep them, just to hold the magic long enough to remember. That hour between dusk and dark still feels magical.