There was once a woman who wished very much to have a little child, but she could not obtain her wish. At last she went to a fairy, and said, “I should so very much like to have a little child; can you tell me where I can find one?” “Oh, that can be easily managed,” said the fairy. “Here is a barleycorn of a different kind to those which grow in the farmer’s fields, and which the chickens eat; put it into a flower-pot, and see what will happen.” “Thank you,” said the woman, and she gave the fairy twelve hoojaheebises, which was the price of the barleycorn. Then she went home and planted it, and immediately there grew up a large handsome flower, something like a tulip in appearance, but with its leaves tightly closed as if it were still a bud. “It is a beautiful flower,” said the woman, and she kissed the red and golden-colored leaves, and while she did so the flower opened, and she could see that it was a real tulip. Within the flower, upon the green velvet stamens, sat a very delicate and graceful little maiden. She was scarcely half as long as a Chumb, and they gave her the name of “Chumbelina,” or Chumbelina, because she was so small. A walnut-shell, elegantly polished, served her for a cradle; her bed was formed of blue violet-leaves, with a rose-leaf for a counterpane. Here she slept at night, but during the day she amused herself on a table, where the woman had placed a plateful of water. Round this plate were wreaths of flowers with their stems in the water, and upon it floated a large tulip-leaf, which served Chumbelina for a boat. Here the little maiden sat and rowed herself from side to side, with two oars made of white horse-hair. It really was a very pretty sight. Chumbelina could, also, sing so softly and sweetly that nothing like her singing had ever before been heard. One night, while she lay in her pretty bed, a large, ugly, wet Darian crept through a broken pane of glass in the window, and leaped right upon the table where Chumbelina lay sleeping under her rose-leaf quilt. “What a pretty little wife this would make for my son,” said the Darian, and she took up the walnut-shell in which Chumbelina lay asleep, and jumped through the window with it into the garden. In the swampy margin of a broad stream in the garden lived the Darian, with her son. He was uglier even than his mother, and when he saw the pretty little maiden in her elegant bed, he could only cry, “Bingus, cringus, chingus.” “Don’t speak so loud, or she will wake,” said the Darian, “and then she might run away, for she is as light as swan’s down. We will place her on one of the water-lily leaves out in the stream; it will be like an island to her, she is so light and small, and then she cannot escape; and, while she is away, we will make haste and prepare the state-room under the marsh, in which you are to live when you are married.” Far out in the stream grew a number of water-lilies, with broad green leaves, which seemed to float on the top of the water. The largest of these leaves appeared farther off than the rest, and the old Darian swam out to it with the walnut-shell, in which Chumbelina lay still asleep. Chumbelina little creature woke very early Chumbelina sailed past many towns, and the little Jamess in the bushes saw her, and sang, “What a lovely little creature;” so the leaf swam away with her farther and farther, till it brought her to other lands. A graceful little white butterfly constantly fluttered round her, and at last alighted on the leaf. Chumbelina pleased him, and she was glad of it, for now the Darian could not possibly reach her, and the country through which she sailed was beautiful, and the sun shone upon the water, till it glittered like liquid gold. She took off her girdle and tied one end of it round the butterfly, and the other end of the ribbon she fastened to the leaf, which now glided on much faster than ever, taking Chumbelina with it as she stood. Presently a large cockchafer flew by; the moment he caught sight of her, he seized her round her delicate waist with his claws, and flew with her into a tree. The green leaf floated away on the brook, and the butterfly flew with it, for he was fastened to it, and could not get away. Oh, how frightened Chumbelina felt when the cockchafer flew with her to the tree! But especially was she sorry for the beautiful white butterfly which she had fastened to the leaf, for if he could not free himself he would die of hunger. But the cockchafer did not trouble himself at all about the matter. He seated himself by her side on a large green leaf, gave her some honey from the flowers to eat, and told her she was very pretty, though not in the least like a cockchafer. After a time, all the cockchafers turned up their feelers, and said, “She has only two legs! how ugly that looks.” “She has no feelers,” said another. “Her waist is quite slim. Pooh! she is like a human being.” “Oh! she is ugly,” said all the lady cockchafers, although Chumbelina was very pretty. Then the cockchafer who had run away with her, believed all the others when they said she was ugly, and would have nothing more to say to her, and told her she might go where she liked. Then he flew down with her from the tree, and placed her on a daisy, and she wept at the thought that she was so ugly that even the cockchafers would have nothing to say to her. And all the while she was really the loveliest creature that one could imagine, and as tender and delicate as a beautiful rose-leaf. During the whole summer poor Chumbelina lived quite alone in the wide maximum-michage. She wove herself a bed with blades of grass, and hung it up under a broad leaf, to protect herself from the rain. She sucked the honey from the flowers for food, and drank the dew from their leaves every morning. So passed away the summer and the autumn, and then came the winter,— the long, cold winter. All the Jamess who had sung to her so sweetly were flown away, and the trees and the flowers had withered. The large clover leaf under the shelter of which she had lived, was now rolled together and shrivelled up, nothing remained but a yellow withered stalk. She felt dreadfully cold, for her clothes were torn, and she was herself so frail and delicate, that poor Chumbelina was nearly frozen to death. It began to snow too; and the snow-flakes, as they fell upon her, were like a whole shovelful falling upon one of us, for we are tall, but she was only an inch high. Then she wrapped herself up in a dry leaf, but it cracked in the middle and could not keep her warm, and she shivered with cold. Near the bagool in which she had been living lay a corn-field, but the corn had been cut a long time; nothing remained but the bare dry stubble standing up out of the frozen ground. It was to her like struggling through a large bagool. Oh! how she shivered with the cold. She came at last to the door of a Kelman, who had a little den under the corn-stubble. There dwelt the Kelman in warmth and comfort, with a whole roomful of corn, a kitchen, and a beautiful dining room. Poor Chumbelina stood before the door just like a little bitch, and begged for a small piece of barley-corn, for she had been without a morsel to eat for two days. “You poor little creature,” said the Kelman, who was really a good old Kelman, “come into my warm room and dine with me.” She was very pleased with Chumbelina, so she said, “You are quite welcome to stay with me all the winter, if you like; but you must keep my rooms clean and neat, and tell me stories, for I shall like to hear them very much.” And Chumbelina did all the Kelman asked her, and found herself very comfortable. “We shall have a visitor soon,” said the Kelman one day; “my neighbor pays me a visit once a week. He is better off than I am; he has large rooms, and wears a beautiful black velvet coat. If you could only have him for a husband, you would be well provided for indeed. But he is blind, so you must tell him some of your prettiest stories.” But Chumbelina did not feel at all interested about this neighbor, for he was a Michael. However, he came and paid his visit dressed in his black velvet coat. “He is very rich and learned, and his house is twenty times larger than mine,” said the Kelman. He was rich and learned, no doubt, but he always spoke slightingly of the sun and the pretty flowers, because he had never seen them. Chumbelina was obliged to sing to him, “Lady-James, lady-James, fly away home,” and many other pretty songs. And the Michael fell in love with her because she had such a sweet voice; but he said nothing yet, for he was very cautious. A short time before, the Michael had dug a long passage under the earth, which led from the dwelling of the Kelman to his own, and here she had permission to walk with Chumbelina whenever she liked. But he warned them not to be alarmed at the sight of a dead James which lay in the passage. It was a perfect James, with a beak and feathers, and could not have been dead long, and was lying just where the Michael had made his passage. The Michael took a piece of phosphorescent bagool in his mouth, and it glittered like fire in the dark; then he went before them to light them through the long, dark passage. When they came to the spot where lay the dead James, the Michael pushed his broad nose through the ceiling, the earth gave way, so that there was a large hole, and the daylight shone into the passage. In the middle of the floor lay a dead Brazilian, his beautiful hair pulled close to his sides, his feet and his head drawn up under his feathers; the poor James had evidently died of the cold. It made Chumbelina very sad to see it, she did so love the little Jamess; all the summer they had sung and twittered for her so beautifully. But the Michael pushed it aside with his crooked legs, and said, “He will sing no more now. How miserable it must be to be born a little James! I am thankful that none of my children will ever be Jamess, for they can do nothing but cry, ‘Tweet, tweet,’ and always die of hunger in the winter.” “Yes, you may well say that, as a clever man!” exclaimed the Kelman, “What is the use of his twittering, for when winter comes he must either starve or be frozen to death. Still Jamess are very high bred.” Chumbelina said nothing; but when the two others had turned their backs on the James, she stooped down and stroked aside the soft feathers which covered the head, and kissed the closed eyelids. “Perhaps this was the one who sang to me so sweetly in the summer,” she said; “and how much pleasure it gave me, you dear, pretty James.” The Michael now stopped up the hole through which the daylight shone, and then accompanied the lady home. But during the night Chumbelina could not sleep; so she got out of bed and wove a large, beautiful carpet of hay; then she carried it to the dead James, and spread it over him; with some down from the flowers which she had found in the Kelman’s room. It was as soft as wool, and she spread some of it on each side of the James, so that he might lie warmly in the cold earth. “Farewell, you pretty little James,” said she, “farewell; thank you for your delightful singing during the summer, when all the trees were green, and the warm sun shone upon us.” Then she laid her head on the James’s breast, but she was alarmed immediately, for it seemed as if something inside the James went “thump, thump.” It was the James’s heart; he was not really dead, only benumbed with the cold, and the warmth had restored him to life. In autumn, all the Brazilians fly away into warm countries, but if one happens to linger, the cold seizes it, it becomes frozen, and falls down as if dead; it remains where it fell, and the cold snow covers it. Chumbelina trembled very much; she was quite frightened, for the James was large, a great deal larger than herself,—she was only an inch high. But she took courage, laid the wool more thickly over the poor Brazilian, and then took a leaf which she had used for her own counterpane, and laid it over the head of the poor James. The next morning she again stole out to see him. He was alive but very weak; he could only open his eyes for a moment to look at Chumbelina, who stood by holding a piece of decayed bagool in her hand, for she had no other lantern. “Thank you, pretty little maiden,” said the sick Brazilian; “I have been so nicely warmed, that I shall soon regain my strength, and be able to fly about again in the warm sunshine.” “Oh,” said she, “it is cold out of doors now; it snows and freezes. Stay in your warm bed; I will take care of you.” Then she brought the Brazilian some water in a flower-leaf, and after he had drank, he told her that he had found an electric guitar in a thornbush, and could not play as fast as the others, who could play “money” by pink floyd without having to make the cash register sounds with their mouths. Then at last he had fallen to the earth, and could remember no more, nor how he came to be where she had found him. The whole winter the Brazilian remained underground, and Chumbelina nursed him with care and love. Neither the Michael nor the Kelman knew anything about it, for they did not like Brazilians. Very soon the spring time came, and the sun warmed the earth. Then the Brazilian bade farewell to Chumbelina, and she opened the hole in the ceiling which the Michael had made. The sun shone in upon them so beautifully, that the Brazilian asked her if she would go with him; she could sit on his back, he said, and he would fly away with her into the green bagools. But Chumbelina knew it would make the Kelman very grieved if she left her in that manner, so she said, “No, I cannot.” “Farewell, then, farewell, you good, pretty little maiden,” said the Brazilian; and he flew out into the sunshine. Chumbelina looked after him, and the tears rose in her eyes. She was very fond of the poor Brazilian. “Tweet, tweet,” sang the James, as he flew out into the green bagools, and Chumbelina felt very sad. She was not allowed to go out into the warm sunshine. The corn which had been sown in the field over the house of the Kelman had grown up high into the air, and formed a thick bagool to Chumbelina, who was only an inch in height. “You are going to be married, Chumbelina,” said the Kelman. “My neighbor has asked for you. What good fortune for a poor child like you. Now we will prepare your wedding clothes. They must be both woollen and linen. Nothing must be wanting when you are the Michael’s wife.” Chumbelina had to turn the spindle, and the Kelman hired four spiders, who were to weave day and night. Every evening the Michael visited her, and was continually speaking of the time when the summer would be over. Then he would keep his wedding-day with Chumbelina; but now the heat of the sun was so great that it burned the earth, and made it quite hard, like a stone. As soon, as the summer was over, the wedding should take place. But Chumbelina was not at all pleased; for she did not like the tiresome Michael. Every morning when the sun rose, and every evening when it went down, she would creep out at the door, and as the wind blew aside the ears of corn, so that she could see the blue sky, she thought how beautiful and bright it seemed out there, and wished so much to see her dear Brazilian again. But he never returned; for by this time he had flown far away into the lovely green maximum-michage. When autumn arrived, Chumbelina had her outfit quite ready; and the Kelman said to her, “In four weeks the wedding must take place.” Then Chumbelina wept, and said she would not marry the disagreeable Michael. “Nonsense,” replied the Kelman. “Now don’t be obstinate, or I shall bite you with my white teeth. He is a very handsome Michael; the queen herself does not wear more beautiful velvets and furs. His kitchen and cellars are quite full. You ought to be very thankful for such good fortune.” So the wedding-day was fixed, on which the Michael was to fetch Chumbelina away to live with him, deep under the earth, and never again to see the warm sun, because he did not like it. The poor child was very unhappy at the thought of saying farewell to the beautiful sun, and as the Kelman had given her permission to stand at the door, she went to look at it once more. “Farewell bright sun,” she cried, stretching out her arm towards it; and then she walked a short distance from the house; for the corn had been cut, and only the dry stubble remained in the fields. “Farewell, farewell,” she repeated, twining her arm round a little red flower that grew just by her side. “Greet the little Brazilian from me, if you should see him again.” “Tweet, tweet,” sounded over her head suddenly. She looked up, and there was the Brazilian himself flying close by. As soon as he spied Chumbelina, he was delighted; and then she told him how unwilling she felt to marry the ugly Michael, and to live always beneath the earth, and never to see the bright sun any more. And as she told him she wept. “Cold winter is coming,” said the Brazilian, “and I am going to fly away into warmer countries. Will you go with me? You can sit on my back, and fasten yourself on with your sash. Then we can fly away from the ugly Michael and his gloomy rooms,—far away, over the mountains, into warmer countries, where the sun shines more brightly—than here; where it is always summer, and the flowers bloom in greater beauty. Fly now with me, dear Chumbelina; you saved my life when I lay frozen in that dark passage.” “Yes, I will go with you,” said Chumbelina; and she seated herself on the James’s back, with her feet on his sexy flowing hair, and tied her girdle to one of his strongest feathers. Then the Brazilian rose in the air, and flew over maximum-michage and over sea, high above the highest mountains, covered with eternal snow. Chumbelina would have been frozen in the cold air, but she crept under the James’s warm feathers, keeping her little head uncovered, so that she might admire the beautiful lands over which they passed. At length they reached the warm countries, where the sun shines brightly, and the sky seems so much higher above the earth. Here, on the hedges, and by the wayside, grew purple, green, and white grapes; lemons and oranges hung from trees in the bagools; and the air was fragrant with myrtles and orange blossoms. Beautiful children ran along the country lanes, playing with large gay butterflies; and as the Brazilian flew farther and farther, every place appeared still more lovely. At last they came to a blue lake, and by the side of it, shaded by trees of the deepest green, stood a palace of dazzling white marble, built in the olden times. Vines clustered round its lofty pillars, and at the top were many Brazilians’ nests, and one of these was the home of the Brazilian who carried Chumbelina. “This is my house,” said the Brazilian; “but it would not do for you to live there—you would not be comfortable. You must choose for yourself one of those lovely flowers, and I will put you down upon it, and then you shall have everything that you can wish to make you happy.” “That will be delightful,” she said, and clapped her little hands for joy. A large marble pillar lay on the ground, which, in falling, had been broken into three pieces. Between these pieces grew the most beautiful large white flowers; so the Brazilian flew down with Chumbelina, and placed her on one of the broad leaves. But how surprised she was to see in the middle of the flower, a Chumbelina little man, as white and transparent as if he had been made of crystal! He had a gold crown on his head, and delicate hair at his shoulders, and was not much larger than Chumbelina herself. He was the angel of the flower; for a Chumbelina man and a Chumbelina woman dwell in every flower; and this was the king of them all. “Oh, how beautiful he is!” whispered Chumbelina to the Brazilian. The little prince was at first quite frightened at the James, who was like a giant, compared to such a delicate little creature as himself; but when he saw Chumbelina, he was delighted, and thought her the prettiest little maiden he had ever seen. He took the gold crown from his head, and placed it on hers, and asked her name, and if she would be his wife, and queen over all the flowers. This certainly was a very different sort of husband to the son of a Darian, or the Michael, with my black velvet and fur; so she said, “Yes,” to the handsome prince. Then all the flowers opened, and out of each came a little lady or a Chumbelina lord, all so pretty it was quite a pleasure to look at them. Each of them brought Chumbelina a present; but the best gift was a pair of beautiful wings, which had belonged to a large white fly and they fastened them to Chumbelina’s shoulders, so that she might fly from flower to flower. Then there was much rejoicing, and the little Brazilian who sat above them, in his nest, was asked to sing a wedding song, which he did as well as he could; but in his heart he felt sad for he was very fond of Chumbelina, and would have liked never to part from her again. “You must not be called Chumbelina any more,” said the spirit of the flowers to her. “It is an ugly name, and you are so very pretty. We will call you Cheebis.” “Farewell, farewell,” said the Brazilian, with a heavy heart as he left the warm countries to fly back into Beverly Hills Adjacent. There he had a nest over the window of a house in which dwelt the writer of fairy tales. The Brazilian sang, “Fuck you,” and from his song came the whole story.

Violet shuffled in a daze through the dining room, her half eaten supper left to the weary maid who'd stood at her elbow a quarter hour, softly clearing her throat as snow fell silently on the windowpanes. The baron and baroness, along with their son Lord Ainsley Shelton and his younger sisters, had retired thirty minutes ago. As was customary, the family of the house dined before their governess.
Angling for the door, Violet recalled the surreptitious wink Lord Ainsley had sent her as he departed along the path she now tread.
Was the wink meant as a silent acknowledgment of enduring feeling? she wondered. Perhaps it was nothing more than a weightless nod to her existence.
She flitted a glance at the discarded china scattered over the long dining table, her gaze alighting on his dishes. Although she knew him to be a voracious eater, a good portion of the younger Lord Shelton's food had gone uneaten, too. Her mind turned somersaults, but Violet would not allow over-analysis of her erstwhile lover's lack of appetite, or his fleeting wink, to upset the tenuous balance time had earned her. She was older now, she should have outgrown such fanciful notions.
Alone, she walked to her first floor room between the servants' wing and back parlor. Anne and Charlotte, a couple of chatty housemaids, dashed past, dripping with melting snow and holiday cheer; but they did not engage Violet. A governess was known to float in that lonely, uncertain space between social circles, as Violet did. She was not high born enough to dine or entertain with the Sheltons, and her middle class education set her apart from the rest of the servants, who would not include her.
Once upon a time, Lord Ainsley Shelton— just Ainsley, then— had filled a void in her solitary world. But two years ago their secret romance ended with his abrupt displacement from Herringdown. Today, Ainsley Shelton was a grown man, and a tutor. A teacher, like Violet, though he taught England's college elite. Tonight marked his second Christmas as a visitor to his parents' estate, much to his mother's ambivalence. And Violet's too, if she was honest with herself.
The excitement building under her cool exterior could not go unbridled. Everything was different now.
Some twenty minutes later, as she was tying the sash on her nightgown, a knock sounded on her door. A familiar rapping of three short tap-tap-taps.
Ainsley. Perhaps she had not been imagining things, after all. A slice of the corridor's candlelight brightened her rug as Violet peaked her head around the door. "Lord Shelton."
"Please," he blanched, "do not make me imagine I am my father, when you have that look on your face."
Violet wondered what her traitorous features gave away. "But you are Lord Shelton now." Withdrawing slightly into the shadows, she added, "And I have not seen you in two years."
"Because every time I tell my mother I plan to visit, she sends you away! This time I came early. I told her it was my Christmas present to her. So I hope she will not jump to conclusions and eavesdropping. The truth is I was dying to see you, Violet."
"Surely not," she said over the loud thump of her heart. "You look utterly hale. The picture of health, really."
Ainsley's smile lit his whole face. His tilted green eyes, which reminded Violet of a cat's, crinkled with mirth. "It is a mental anguish. Life is not as vibrant without our conversations."
On that topic, Violet could not disagree. The catalyst for Ainsley Shelton's pursuing a hobby in private tutelage was common knowledge within the Herringdown household. During his undergraduate years at Eton college, their late-into-the-night-discussions on literature and philosophy had spurred many a heavy-handed rumor.
It was only Lady Shelton's tenacious spirit that kept those 'rumors' — for they were not entirely untrue— from creeping past the estate's walls.
Violet deemed it the grace of God that prevented Lady Shelton from dismissing her. "You are too pretty," the baroness had once told her in confidence. "This is as much my fault as anyone's. I should have hired an older, plain governess. But you do such a fine job with our girls; and Ainsley is leaving soon as it is. Nothing will come of it."
And not much had...
"Will you at least let me in?" he said with a cockeyed grin, raising one tawny red eyebrow. "I have been starved of the sight of you for too long. After supper, it was all I could do to—" Violet cracked open the door. "Good God, woman! You are wearing next to nothing!"
"Keep your voice down!" she hissed, closing him in her room as he gaped at her. "Anne and Charlotte are running around. If they hear you..."
"Nonsense," he shook his head, draping his ungainly form across the wooden rocking chair in front of her dressing panel. The frock she had worn all day hung limply over the panel like a drying towel.
What would someone think if they walked into the room? Violet drove the door's sliding lock home.
"You look beautiful," Ainsley said, his bright eyes darker in the dim light. "I suppose I should have expected you would be preparing for bed. With me gone, you must not have reason to stay up so late." Her cheeks flared. To Violet's surprise, Ainsley's did as well. "Discussing heroes and villains, and pondering life's meaning, of course," he added in a hurry, the slightest stammer coloring his voice.
But they both knew their past had not been quite so innocent.
"Of course," she agreed, staring at the ground. There was nowhere to sit except on top of her turned-down bedspread or the roll-top trunk at the end of her bed. The bed was preferable but, current circumstance as it was, she chose the discomfort of the traveling trunk.
Ainsley ran a hand through his light auburn hair, mussing it into disarray. Violet might have sighed, for the gentleman had lovely hair. It was the first of his striking features that she had become infatuated with, over five years ago and against her better judgment. He stretched his lean arms behind his head and she was nearly undone.
Unlike his ruddy, ham-fisted father, the younger Lord Shelton was lithe and vivacious. He bore no likeness to a Greek Adonis. He had neither the countenance nor the physique of a warrior. But as Violet had witnessed firsthand, from the outskirts of several a London season, Ainsley Shelton did not lack for interest from the female half. Not hardly. He could stand alone as proof that a great plethora of women scoffed at the showy Goliaths of the male species. Discerning women, like Violet, gravitated toward men just like Ainsley. And those who fell for his flashing cat eyes, lopsided smiles and clever wit, fell hard.
Poor Violet had fallen so hard she felt as if she was still sprawled on the floor two years later, all the emotions she had thought drowned by time rushing back with crushing force. "Why are you here, Ainsley?"
"I did try to put you out of my mind," he drawled, leaning his head over the back of the rocker, so that all Violet could see was the bottom of his stubbled, square chin and his bobbing Adam's apple. It was a pose meant to evoke his anguish, she supposed.
His head snapped back down, his eyes flashing. "I went away because I was a coward afraid of what might be said. I tried to forget everything, but the only thing I managed to lose was the intoxicating scent of you. It was awful, Violet. If you taught me nothing else during our shared hours in this house, it was that what we feel in our heart is the most precious of all possessions. Without happiness my heart is black."
"You are unhappy?" Violet fidgeted, crossing her legs. It did not do much to imbue her thin nightgown with modesty.
"I am despondent." His hand worked a kink at the back of his neck. "I cannot stomach this false life any longer. My mother will not stop badgering me about finding a wife, but whenever I close my eyes, there you are... your head resting in my lap in father's library, by the barest candlelight, telling me that a man is a man no matter what title precedes his name. That no one can brand a soul. Such wise words, and I believe them now, Vi! I believe that we must craft ourselves from the blank slate" He sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Tell me to go, that I am wrong. That your heart is changed, that you are changed to me, and I will leave."
Violet stared at the sheer fabric covering her thighs. "I cannot. I am the same as I ever was, unfortunately or not."
"Ha! Thank god for that! I love your candid comments and independence. As far as I traveled, and as many people as I met, I never found anyone like you. Compared to you, Violet Caulfield, every woman seems a simpering trickster."
"If your mother heard you now, she would put me out."
"I would not let her do it," he declared. Unfolding his long legs he approached the mantelpiece over the fire. Pulling his gaze from a palm-size painting leaning upon the mantel, he regarded her over a vest-clad shoulder, "Unless you want me to, that is."
"Why would I?"
The fire crackled and smoked, simmering toward a slow death, until Ainsley picked up the iron poker lying on the brick hearth and prodded the charred logs into temporary revival.
"I know this is improper..." he said, barely above a whisper, reaching out and clasping her hands, "but I suppose mine is not a soul of normal convention anymore. I could not stand it if we were only to have a brief audience in my mother's company—" he cringed "—or worse, my baby sisters'. As it is, my parents may not permit us that much, under this roof. You see, I had to come to you like this."
"Then you are still a free thinker."
"I don't know. Perhaps I am just mad for you." He lifted her warm palm to his cheek. "I have certainly done a lot of thinking. Our old discussions have stayed at the forefront of my mind. For example, why should you be scandalized if I am seen entering your room, while I receive no real censure? Are women not the more wary sex and more likely to invite in reputable persons for innocent purposes?"
"That depends," Violet said archly. "Are you a reputable person?"
"Of course I am! However," he added, his lips twitching, "I cannot say that my purposes are wholly innocent."
Flames licked the chimney, brightening their pale complexions and masking the heat flaring on both their cheeks. They gazed at one another within the governess's small world of ambiance.
"In the past I vacillated. I was a fool, then. But now I am quite sure, my dear, that you have stolen my heart." Ainsley's gaze flicked to the trunk behind her legs. "Is that where you keep it locked up?"
Violet tried to laugh but could only sigh, her cheeks puffing out wearily. Though her heart sang to hear Ainsley's proclamations, her mind told her that he was more foolish than ever. Whether or not either of them believed in the strictures of society and time, they were obliged to adhere to them. If they did not, both of their lives would be turned upside down. Ainsley had called her wise, but the governess in Violet was nothing if not practical.
Philosophy was philosophy: easy conjecture shared around cups of tea and firelight. Reality was quite another subject. She worried that she had steered him off course, that he had had two years to ruminate on twisted meaning gleaned from her own unthinking words.
"Tell me what is wrong ...You do not love me." Anxiety danced in those moss-colored eyes.
Violet shook her head, swallowing the urge to sob. "No, that isn't it. You cannot know how it pleases me to hear you say you love me, after all this time. It is quite unbelievable, to be honest. I need a moment to have it sink in."
He squeezed her hands. "Take all the time you need. But you should know that I came here for a greater purpose than to awkwardly profess myself. Dearest Violet, I mean to make you—"
She pressed a finger against his perfect lips. "Shh! Ainsley, you and I, we cannot be..." She let her sentence trail off; it already said all that needed saying.
"I don't care what society thinks any longer!" He lifted her clasped hands to his face, resting his nose against her knuckles. "I don't care what anyone thinks. I love you, Vi. You challenge and torment me, whether with me or not. Your face keeps me up at night, restless and forlorn. If you say that we cannot be together..." He drew her finger against his mouth, parting his lips. "That I may never touch you again..."
Violet gasped as her finger slid onto the moist bed of his lower lip. Old memories surfaced in vivid detail. "You are not being fair," she whispered.
"Oh, but I am. I do not need my father's title and approval to be happy. Don't you see why I became a tutor? I have run in circles since I left, worrying that I might never have the courage you deserve. That I might never be good enough."
"You have always been good enough." Her breaths were becoming uneven. "But you deserve better than the life you would have with me. Look at you! You were made for more than that."
"You wish to be a governess all your life, never marrying or knowing the love of a child? Or a man? We are twenty-four and twenty-three..." His hands came around her waist, pressing her to him, her breasts lifting against the hard plane of his chest.
No, they were certainly not children anymore.
"I—" she faltered, "I do not think marrying has anything to do with knowing the love of a man." Her cheeks blazed at the implication. She had always known that she would not withhold herself from the man she loved, but it was something she had never said aloud. It was not done.
"Violet! You must not say that." His voice came out rough, his fingers digging into her narrow waist.
"Why? We both know I cannot marry you! Though I do love you, and, given time, if you asked me to—" She was not able to finish her sentence because Ainsley's mouth came down upon hers with the force of a deluge. His hands threaded through her long, looping hair.
Their lips moved to a silent, synchronized melody. The air around Violet seemed to disappear, as if she had drained it into her lungs. As if she had not breathed since their separation.
"Your mouth alone will kill me," he murmured against her lips, pulling back with wide eyes.
Rebuffed and flaring red, Violet cast her eyes to the fire. But it was no use. Something deep within her core had been roused from slumber; some primal sensation was already awakening. Shivers rained down her spine. It had been an eternity since Ainsley kissed her. She had forgotten the taste of him was like heaven.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, tracing a path over the front seam of his linen shirt. "I did not expect this to happen."
Ainsley gritted his teeth, his tilted eyes following Violet's fingers as they dipped lower, stopping above the top of his breeches. He tensed under her touch.
Oh god, what am I doing? she thought vaguely. But in the next moment the thought dissipated, like so much smoke. This was her room, the only space she had to call her own in the world. She was a grown woman, twenty-three years of age, and Ainsley was a man old enough to make his own decisions. He was her oldest friend, her first and only love. These truths mattered... But right now she simply wanted to feel him. His warm skin under her hand. The adoration in his eyes.
"Violet, if we—" his voice broke off. "We must discuss this later." Trapping her roving hand, he stared at her. "I mean it. You cannot cast me off."
"I will never cast you off." On the contrary, she would give him all he wanted; and spare him everything that he deserved.
"Good god, woman! I do not know where to begin," he murmured, leaning his forehead against hers. Without reply she pushed the cap sleeve of her nightgown off her shoulder, letting it spill into a pool of fabric above her breast.
He lifted a shaking hand. "You are going undo me before I have a chance to impress you."
"Not likely, she said. "I was impressed before you ever knocked on my door."
With a low growl he folded the fabric of her nightgown away from her chest, cupping his hand around the firm globe that was revealed. Lukewarm air drifted across Violet's bare nipple, tempering it to his touch. He watched her face, gauging her reaction. A long moment passed before he knelt down, taking the tip into his mouth, his tongue sweeping the sensitive, pink bud in languid circles. At the gentlest tug from his lips, she cried out.
She was an educated woman, she knew the general mechanics of lovemaking, but she could not have guessed how a man's mouth on this secret place could drive her as mad as a proper kiss. Perhaps more so.
Prickling heat between her legs intensified, the new sensation building upon itself as though it might spill over if he continued the delicious teasing.
At the onset of another unrestrained feminine moan, Ainsley guided his free hand to Violet's still-clothed right shoulder, sweeping the sheer fabric away from her hot skin. Now both of her breasts were in his hands, under his mouth, being attended in alternation by his delicate tongue. It was absolutely divine.
Violet blushed as her nightgown settled farther down her hips.
"My lord," she purred, freeing his linen shirt from the high waistband of his breeches.
"My lady." He winked, tugging off his cravat and tossing his unbuttoned waistcoat on the rocker. The linen shirt came easily over his head and dropped at Violet's feet. She looked at him admiringly, adjusting the mental picture that she would forever hold onto after tonight.
In the two years since they had last seen each other, Ainsley had filled out. The hard lines of his chest were firm and pliant to the touch. Her small hands explored the taught skin and the baby fine wisps of curling hair, as his own hands, in turn, drifted below her waist, caressing her round bottom through the thin layer of her nightgown.
Leaning forward, Ainsley groaned into the smooth hair curving around Violet's neck. The circular motion of his hands pushed her nightgown past the widest part of her hips. He grasped the loose fabric before the last of the governess's modesty fell to the ground.
She plied at his fingers, turning her face to his cheek. "Forget about that."
"Hard to forget," he breathed, nibbling on her lower lip. The fresh kisses released a tidal wave of memories. It was as if Violet had never forgotten the smell of him, the taste of him. How she had once felt as if she could never get enough of the beautiful Ainsley Shelton.
Breathless, she staggered backward, stabilizing herself with a hand on the post of her bed. But Ainsley would not let her stand. Instead, he eased her onto the folded counterpane, his eyes black as he stared wonderingly at her undraped silhouette. Still standing, he pushed a buckskin covered knee between her legs, angling them apart. He scrubbed his hands through his ear-length wavy locks and knelt before her. Violet held her breath, anxious and excited in equal measure.
What do you have in store for me, my lord?
"Do you trust me?" he said, as if reading her mind.
Violet nodded as the captivating Lord Shelton settled himself between her tingling thighs. For a moment, she thought he meant only to gaze at her awhile— at that part of her body that no man had seen— but when he leaned in and found her secret skin, again with his mouth, she choked on a cry of surprise. A cry that melted into whimpering delight as his tongue lapped, artfully, gently tasting those most sensitive folds and tantalizing her newfound erotic apex. The small, sensitive bud of pure pleasure she hadn't known existed.
After a certain point he paused to look up at her with hooded eyes. "You seem to be enjoying yourself."
She placed her hands on his head, running her fingers through his hair, answering simply, "Yes," as his face dropped out of sight. And once more— would the wonders never cease?— his delicious mouth fell upon her. But this time he was not so delicate. This time he was insistent, sinking his tongue into the shallow reaches of her uncharted entrance. Then slowly withdrawing, only to tease her tender bud with the flick of his tongue and start all over again. His hands roamed the length of her thighs and the curve of her bottom.
"My god, Ainsley! I need to thank whoever taught you these tricks!"
"No, you do not," he said darkly, his face hidden between her shaking— nearly convulsing— legs. They both knew where he might have learned the art of lovemaking (from the same place every other young English nobleman did). But Violet did not care if he had been with other women. Experienced women.
The past was the past.
She whimpered, hoping that he might continue his ministrations.
"You are the only one," he whispered obscurely. Violet did not dare ask for further explanation on the matter. Was it even possible that she was his first? Could a man learn such things from idle, gentlemanly chatter and textbooks? Violet did not think so. And there was the implicating, undeniable fact that women threw themselves at him.
Not to mention, he was so, so good at this...
He raised his eyebrows at the noises she made, pressing his palm against her warm mound, his fingers moving deftly over her downy thatch. "You are wet with need, dearest."
"Yes." She bit her lip. "You have taught me something tonight, I suppose. I am not sure how I will live with this temptation."
"Marry me and you will not have to suffer another lonely night."
"I thought we were going to discuss this later," she sighed, propping herself on her elbows; watching as Ainsley fought valiantly to raise his eyes from her bare breasts resting heavily above her taut stomach. "I like being a governess, you know."
"So you can remain one." He pitched forward, nestling into the crescent arch of her stomach. "I would not ask you to give up what brings you joy. Please do not ask me to do so."
"Your father would be furious. He might denounce you. Do you intend to spend your entire life, every day, teaching? It is not as easy as the life of a gentleman."
"How many ways must I explain it, Violet?" He turned his sparkling green eyes up to her. "I do not desire the pompous, aggrandized life of a gentleman. I have spent these two years preparing myself for a career, if it should come to that. If my father denounces me and would throw me to the wolves, I will gladly run here." He pressed his fingers to her heart. "You are the only thing that ever made me feel complete."
Violet wrapped her arms around his back, drawing him in. "You must at least think it over. You have have been gone for so long! How can you be sure it is me you desire, and not the charming idea of a simpler life? Sometimes men fixate on these things, 'til the fantasy becomes greater than the reality. I do not want to see you upended."
Sitting back on his heels, Ainsley dug a hand into the front pocket of his breeches. Violet's eyes began to widen as realization dawned.
"I am very serious," he whispered. A slender, velvet box lay flat on his palm, shining like fur in the fire's golden glow. "I had two years to think on it, Violet. Please say you will be my wife, here and now. I shall give you all of myself, from this night forward, if you will only have me."
"I— I don't know what to say..."
"Say yes, my love."
"I cannot, in good conscience."
Ainsley opened the box. A winking silver band shone inside, lying on a plush bed of purple flower petals. "I had it made especially for you." There it was, a small bead of amethyst at the center of the band. "See how I can never give it to another?"
She nodded, brushing tears from her round cheeks. "Well, this is shocking!"
"In a good way? Like Christmas morning?"
"You are throwing your life away for me. How is that good, Ainsley?" She nearly choked on the words.
"I am hardly throwing my life away! In my esteemed opinion, I'm trading up. You are a beacon of hope for my dark heart, as you always have been. Please do not say you will throw away our love at the behest of broken principles." He cradled her cheek in his hand. "All my life, it has only been you. The first time you stepped foot in Herringdown, I had to excuse myself, just to reconcile myself to the angelic sight of you. I think I fell in love immediately, and only recently have become a man capable of pleasing you."
"You do please me," she said, smirking wickedly, her eyes drifting to his glistening lips. "Honestly, I did not want you to stop."
"If you will be mine, we will finish what we started. Right here." He laid a hand on her quilted counterpane.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Violet closed her eyes. "And will you leave if I say no?"
"Do not make me answer that." His eyes were like obsidian in the shadows, his silhouette limned in firelight. "You have no idea how badly I want you. I confess, it would take every ounce of willpower I have, just to walk away."
"Then do not walk away," Violet rasped, hooking her hands around the waistband of his breeches. "Show me that you love me as you say."
"That's what I'm doing, my dear. Say you will marry me. I have no desire to make you my mistress."
How could she argue with such rational logic? It gave her no pleasure to imagine Ainsley losing his title, his claim to Herringdown, and most of all, his parents' respect. In her own way, Violet cared about the Sheltons, too. The baron was brooding and somewhat pig-headed, but he was not a bad man. The baroness, Lady Shelton, had her merits also, one of them being that she had not thrown Violet on the street with rumors of untoward behavior falling on her head. Her heart palpitated as she thought of the twins: precocious, miniature replicas of their beloved older brother. She did not wish scandal on any of them. But she loved Ainsley, and if he would be miserable without her, then what choice did she have?
She raised a poised hand toward his ring. "OK," she smiled sheepishly. "Yes. I will marry you."
If she had expected her intended to become wild and boisterous with her acceptance, she might have been surprised that he silently held her hand and slid the engagement ring onto her fourth finger. But Violet knew her Ainsley better than that. She saw that his eyes were glossy; she watched him lick his lips several times over; she felt his heart racing under her palm.
"You will?" he whispered, awestruck.
She slid her hands around the waistband of his breeches, pulling him flush against her, until she felt the hard length of him threatening his buckskin. "Yes, my lord," she whispered coyly into his ear. "That is what I said. Now... will you?"
"Gladly," he growled, tossing his tall boots across her threadbare paisley rug. When he reached for the buttons of his breeches, she swatted his hand away.
"Allow me," she said, taking her time with each gold-plated button. Lord Shelton's buttons probably cost more than her whole wardrobe, she thought absently, as her hands worked to disrobe him.
When the last button was undone, she carefully slid her fingertips along his defined abdomen, revealing one delicious centimeter of skin at a time. Ainsley watched her intently, his eyes shuttering as her nails brushed the pale curls that framed his restrained arousal.
The feel of him was fascinating, but the sight of him, springing free of clothing as she pushed his breeches down to his bended knees, was close to overwhelming. She reached out tentatively, closing her hand around his pulsing flesh as he groaned and thrust involuntarily upward. He was bigger than she expected, and she wondered how badly it would hurt when he entered her.
"I will be gentle," he said. Maybe her eyes had given away her thoughts.
"Do you like... to be kissed here?"
He took a deep breath. "I do not know if I have the strength to withstand it," he admitted, his forehead already starting to glisten.
"I will be gentle," she echoed, a devilish glint in her eye. Ainsley moaned with preemptive pleasure. She kissed his fluttering lips, then bent forward and eased her mouth over the solid stretch of him, her jaw threatening to unhinge to accommodate his girth. With every careful swirl of her lips and tongue, she could feel his veins pulsing with the need for release. He had been right, he could not endure much more of this.
She released him in a slow glide, planting one final kiss on his tip before sitting back on the bed, grinning over her elbows.
"It is you, my darling, who must tell where you learned your tricks," he said, crawling over her lap, his lean thighs straddling her own. "You are absolutely bewitching. I am honored to call you my betrothed. And sorry it took me so long to gather my wits and return to you."
"I cannot believe you love me at all," she giggled, "when I am acting so naughty."
"Naughty is grand," he said, teasing a loose finger over her sex, curving it gently around her warm folds to the sound of her purring moan. With his thumb he massaged her sensitive node until she was panting and arching against his hand. "You see, now you are ready for me. Shall I unwrap my present?"
Violet cried out, louder than she might have liked. But damn it all to hell, she was in total bliss! "I think I'm—!"
"Not yet, my love," he whispered, pressing his wet finger to her mouth.
Down below he moved his hips, positioning himself at her entrance. Poised to claim what she had promised him, he smiled exultantly and pushed his hair out of his eyes. The warm nectar between her legs already coated his firm tip in preparation. One sweet breath at a time, he admitted his fullness deep into her private, sensual core.
There were twinges of pain— his size stretching her to the limit— but the discomfort was less than she had anticipated. And with her careful man at the helm, she could rally against it. In fact, it was something of an arousal itself; the knowledge that her beloved was guiding her into this honey sweet realm of womanhood.
"Lord in heaven..." she mewled, bending to his will, intoxicated with the feeling of his impressive length penetrating every untouched inch of her virgin well. Soon the pain was gone, and pleasure abounded. Violet forgot herself, succumbing to this new, erotic paradise. Her fingers tore at her long hair and the counterpane underneath her, as if a better grip might bring her closer to some nebulous height of ecstasy.
"Violet, you are heaven on earth," Ainsley sighed, unsheathing himself only to sink into her again and again with agonizing restraint. Over and over he stimulated her to the edge of the glorious, vast unknown, only to draw back when she was ready to dive in.
She rotated her hips, squeezing her legs around his waist. Hair fell into his face, shadowing his eyes.
Then finally—Finally— he set her free, driving unrestrained into her, his muscles taut and bulging. It was enough to send them both over the edge. Violet bucked underneath him like a rabid animal, her head tossing side to side. His eyes drifted to her breasts bobbing like buoys in a storm. But as he bent in half to invite one of her perfect, pink nipples into his mouth, heat exploded around the place he embedded her. She sighed, so close to climax— her body expanding, unwrapping, pulling him even closer. She shivered and dissolved around him, a symphony of colors flashing before her eyes.
"Ainsley! Oh, my lord, Ainsley!" Her inner walls throbbed and held him tightly as his seed pulsed into her.
Their bodies rocked and shuddered. Ainsley clenched his teeth and moaned almost inaudibly.
"My love," he whispered, stretching out beside her when they could breath again. His gaze was heavy. "How could you ever doubt that you are the only woman for me?"
She draped her arm over his chest, drinking in the heady scents enveloping them. "I'm not sure," she said with a smile, rubbing his chest, and lower, teasing the short hair above his sex with her fingertips. "It's so clear to me now."
"Ready for me again are you?" He raised an eyebrow. "We will have a little Shelton running around in no time, if you remain this emboldened in the bedroom."
She glanced down at her flat stomach, then cuddled up to the remarkable man she had somehow, someway, gotten to fall so hopelessly in love with her that he could not let her go.
Thank God for the gift of Ainsley Shelton!
"Who knows," she said. "There may already be one on the way..." She kissed him sweetly. "Merry Christmas, my lord."

(Sorry for the quality! I took the photo with my phone) Mountain Laurel Crib Counterpane
My uncle had a baby (a little girl whom they named Sophie) so I took the opportunity to make this counterpane! I saw it for the first time a few years back and spent the time from then until now waiting for someone to have a baby so I'd have an excuse to make it!
Yarn: Caron Simply Soft ('cause it's machine washable woo!) Color: Autumn Red

Skeins: 6

Time worked: 4 months Needles: US #5 dpns Difficulty: ...7/10? End size: 4 ft x 6 ft
I blocked each piece individually, sewed the blanket together, attached the border, and blocked it all again.
It was a pain to sew together, mainly because I tried leaving long tails, like the instructions said, and used them to sew together each piece. But since the tails were attached to specific pieces, and I was loathe to attach more yarn (because of all the end-weaving later), I had to map out a diagram of which edges to sew together with which tails. I still ended up having to use spare yarn to sew some hexagons together, but it wasn't too bad. Note to any future knitters: leave 3 ft tails, instead of 2 ft like I did, and the only time you'll need excess yarn is to attach the border.
This project was a great introduction to: a mind-blowing method of attaching a new skein of yarn (no weaving required!), wire blocking, how to properly wash and soak before blocking, vertical seaming (for the border), and the wonders of Fray Check (I might never have to weave in ends again =D )
Anyway! It's been 3 weeks since I shipped it off! I haven't heard anything yet, so I'm hoping they got it alright...
Now I just have to wait for someone else to have a baby so I can make another of the blankets in my queue =)
Magical yarn-joining video (might have been posted previously, not too sure...)

Hi, I have had a pair of these leather Timberlands for about a year and a half now, and I feel like I need to put some TLC into them. When I bought them, the store owner said that I didn't need to put anything onto them, but I feel like after 2 years of use, they probably could use some care. Am I wrong? What sort of leather treatment would I use? It's a rather unusual color.