Brenda Joyce Read Online Free

stick.
     
    Violet could not sleep. Images of the beautiful plum pudding danced in her mind. Images of the pudding, and her best friend, Ralph.
    Tears filled her eyes, but she refused to cry. Crying was for babies. Not for her. She was grown up.
    She lay in one of dozens of narrow bunks that lined both walls of the room, beneath one thin sheet, shivering. The bobbies had taken her against her will to the closest workhouse.
    Violet had fought them like a rabid dog. She’d been hit again, and tossed into a jail-bound conveyance like a mongrel dog. Upon arriving at the poorhouse, she was forced to endure the humiliation of being stripped naked before the cold-eyed warden and two of his assistants. They’d stolen her clothes. Been shocked to realize she wasn’t a boy. A plain gray shift had been thrown at her, along with stockings and her old, shoddy shoes. For her supper she’d been given a bowl of watery soup and a small loaf of bread.
    Violet choked on a sob. How had this happened? The “union” was a fate worse than death. She’d always heard that once they got you in they never let you out, not even on Sundays to hear the Lord’s Prayer. Violet was cold—not because the workhouse was not heated, not because she was still hungry—cold because she was afraid and alone and she wanted to go home, to Ralph and St. Giles.
    She stared up at the ceiling, which had been painted white a long time ago and was now a distinct shade of yellow. Tears kept filling her eyes. Where was Ralph now? He’d escaped being run over by the coach. He’d escaped capture by the bobbies. Undoubtedly he was sleeping on the stoop he shared with Violet in St. Giles just across from the Hogshead, a gin mill. Would she ever see him again?

    Violet turned on her stomach and cradled her head on her arms. And what about her father? He was going to die. She’d known that for a long time. Ralph hadn’t had to tell her. Would she ever see him again?
    She hugged herself, trying hard not to cry. She thought about the ladies in their brilliant ball gowns, about the man who’d looked and acted like a prince, about the plum pudding and roast lamb spilled on the lawn outside Harding House.
    Violet began to weep.
    She cried for a long time, unable to fight her fear. And then finally the tears were gone. She was too exhausted to cry anymore.
    But she had come to a realization: One day she was going to be rich and fancy, too.
    It was a vow—a vow she made not to God, whom she believed in but knew that would not help the likes of her, but to herself. One day she would wear satin and pearls, furs and diamonds, just like those fancy ladies at the ball, just like that beautiful golden lady. One day she would live in a big, fine house, filled with grand things, with servants attending her, waiting her every beck and call. She’d have a big, fat chef, too, and he’d spend all day, every day, just cooking for her—anything she wanted, from chicken pies and roasted beef to plum puddings, lemon cakes, chocolates, and sweets. Oh, yes, lots of sweets. She would have so much to eat that she would forget what it was like to be so hungry that her stomach caved in, hurting and aching and moaning; she would have so much to eat that she would be big and fat like the chef at Harding House.
    And maybe one day a fine, fancy gentleman who looked and acted like a prince would dance with her across a moonlit terrace, love shining in his eyes.
    And Violet, comforted by her new hopes and dreams, finally slept, images of plum puddings and princes dancing inside her head.

One
    THE SHIRE OF YORK, 1858
     
    THE victoria seated two. Its once plush red leather seats were cracking, and the once shiny brass rails refused to gleam no matter how frequently polished, but Sir Thomas Goodwin would not consider purchasing a new conveyance. Violette did not care. When Sir Thomas had brought his young bride to his home in York six months ago, just outside of the village of Tamrah, she hadn’t