Violet - Book Two

eighteen

A woman enters through the garden gate, closely followed by an olive-skinned gentleman with dark hair and a stubble beard. He rests a hand on her back, and smiles down at her. It takes me a while to realise that the woman is my sister.

"Rosie." I exclaim amongst a content sigh, before trotting along the path into her arms. She wears the most wonderful peony-coloured dress with a peachy cardigan draped over her shoulders. Rosanna doesn't appear like the meek student I had last seen, but a woman - every inch a lady. "How are you?" I ask, holding her close.

"Wonderful, Violet." She smiles broadly, flashing her pearly teeth. "I bet you didn't expect to see me."

She's right - I was fully anticipating the whirlwind arrival of the two medics, likely stocked with snide comments or embarrassing questions.

"No." I reply, taking her hands. "Where are they?"

"Father was on duty and mother said she had guests." Rosanna replies with raised eyebrows. She is not convinced, and neither am I. They are afraid. Nevertheless, I am happy to see my sister, and intrigued to know who is with her. Not especially wanting to ask upfront, I flick my eyes from the tall specimen of a man behind her, then return to her gaze. Thankfully, she understands my non-verbal enquiry.

"Violet, I'd like you to meet Sebastian." She steps aside to allow me to have full view of the man. He too has a fabulous smile, and dark eyes deeply set beneath his brow-bone. Rosanna turns back to Sebastian. "This is my little sister, Violet."

I am forced to tilt my head back in order to look this Sebastian in the eye - he is fantastically tall. He continues to smile with a sparkling white smile which could rival those of the stars of Hollywood as he sticks out a large, bronzed palm for me to acquaint myself with.

"Rosanna told me all about you, Violet - it's fantastic to finally meet you." His throughly British accent surprises me, as I expected him to originate from Europe because of his tanned complexion and dark hair common in the beautiful Iberians.

"Charmed." I eventually spit out; I feel Rosanna deliberately tread on my toes when my speech ceases abruptly. "I'll take you through to the garden."

I lead the way up the steps and we pass quickly through the house. The conservatory doors sit open and reveal the newly-decorated area. The walls have been adorned with colourful bunting which Olive had helped Miss Peregrine make by hand and a long, rectangular table takes centre stage in the middle of the grass. The white cloth which had been picked up from the village a while ago by Olive and I has been spread creaseless over the surface and three tall vases of dainty bouquets split it up into almost equal thirds. Tiny triangular structures made from ivory-coloured card read each individual guest's name and sit before on of the mismatched chairs which stud the perimeter. A few already have taken their seats.

Bronwyn still speaks to her mother - they sit at the two seats closest to the conservatory door. I notice that a few short sentences are contributed from mother to daughter, but not much. A few empty seats away is Hugh, sat between his mother and father. They too talk amongst themselves in hushed tones.

Opposite, sitting in complete silence, are the undertakers and their son. Enoch sits between his parents; his eyes glance up quickly, but shoot back to their original position.

I turn to Rosanna, who watches on at the table with a definite alarm, which is understandable in the bizarre circumstances. Holding my hands at my middle, I begin to circle the table in search of my parent's names, seeing as they were supposed to be here today. Conveniently, they are not far away - the three seats which separate Hugh's father and Bronwyn are labelled for Peter and Martha le Doré and myself.

"Here." I say to my sister and Sebastian, even though they are already taking their seats.

We are closely followed into the garden by a rather glamorous pair; a young woman and a much older man. The lady is immaculately dressed and has almost certainly had somebody fix her hair for her into the flawless brunette waves which tumble about her shoulders. The man wears a pinstripe suit, tailored to the millimetre and steamed free of imperfections. His silver hair catches the light as he steps out onto the patio with the woman on his arm.

"Come along, Horace! Show us where we shall eat." The gentleman's voice booms across the garden, inevitably gaining attention from his fellow adults scattered about the seating area.

This exclamation is followed by a significantly less self-assured Horace stumbling from the conservatory and scuttling to the seat opposite me.

"Your seat is here, father." He squeaks meekly, yanking the chair to his left from beneath the table and standing out of the way behind it.

The older gentleman looks down his pointed nose at the seat, then places an arm around the woman's shoulders and pushes her body towards the chair. Her lips press together, forcing her face to look less uncomfortable than she clearly is.

"How about you sit there, Emily dearest?" His mouth curls at the sides into some sort of smug smirk whilst he forces this Emily onto her chair with firm hands on her. There was most certainly nothing 'dear' about that 'dearest'.

My attention is drawn away from the events opposite by a female voice ringing from inside the house. The noise was more reminiscent of a bird squawking excessively.

"Ain't this all lavlay!" The voice is thick with a London accent, misshaping the word 'lovely' into the screech meeting all of our ears.

Olive creeps out into the patio and is quick to take her seat close to the end of the table, opposite the Bruntleys. We make eye contact briefly, and I notice her eyes are wide and her face even paler than usual.

"Look Jerry! It's a proper little tea party out 'ere!" This time the screech has a body. She is tall, with a head of bleached hair and a messy fringe spread across her large forehead. She is followed by a stout man in a waistcoat which is almost bursting at the buttons. His hair is flaming orange - and it becomes obvious where Olive got her colouring from.

I turn to Rosanna; her eyes are scanning the odd bunch before her. Very strange indeed.