Though how on theme for him, really.
Malcolm Penn-Leith—Fettermill’s resident stoic—would never injure with words.
No. It would be hislackof them that dealt the blow.
And his muted quiet ten minutes past had communicated volumes.
The hesitation in his body. The anguished indecision of his expression. The uncertainty in his dark eyes when considering a life with her.
Although they exchanged barely a handful of words, Viola felt scrubbed raw. And now, something hard and aching had taken up residence in her throat.
She had supposed, despite the rather short time of their acquaintance, that she and Malcolm shared the same page of a love story, united in their willingness to push through obstacles to be with one another.
But if he didn’t desire the happiness and joy and work of a life lived together—if he was content with mere friendship and kisses—well, then . . .
Viola Brodure begged for no man’s affection.
If Malcolm wasn’t interested in her heart, then she would be damned if she would give it to him.
Though as she rushed up the path to her rented cottage—and the painful, likely-heated conversation with her father that awaited—she acknowledged she might be somewhat histrionic in her thinking at present.
Viola threw open the front door and crossed the hall.
Her father paced before the hearth in the parlor, eyes scarcely darting her way as she all but ran into the room.
His brows were drawn down, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders slumped. His gray hair was more askew than normal, poking out from behind his ears. The sight further twisted the pinch in Viola’s chest.
“I take it Kendall found you?” he asked woodenly.
Her father’s tonelessness was somehow worse than anger.
He appeared . . . defeated.
“Papa,” Viola began.
He held up a staying hand.
She stood still, one hand pressed to her abdomen.
“I’ve spent the past hour trying to understand,” he said slowly. “Why would you swear an oath to me one month—promising to wait to publish your more liberal views—and then turn around the next and publish them anyway? We have always been united, you and I. Always in each other’s thoughts and conversation. And yet, in this . . .” He waved a helpless hand. “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t have discussed it with me. Why you felt the need to deceive me.”
Viola swallowed against the remorse pricking her eyes.
How could she justify her actions? He was correct.
“I should have spoken with you about it, Papa,” she said, tears thick in her words. “But those days with Cousin Eloise in Manchester wouldn’t let me be, and I just . . . acted.”
“Yes, I understand the ache to help those in need. It’s what I have dedicated my life to. We are in the midst of a war on poverty and suffering. But as any good general knows, sometimes you must give up short-term ground in order to gain the greater prize. I thought you understood that.”
“Yes, in principle, Papa, but—”
“We agreed to wait.” His voice began to rise. “I can accomplish more good once I’m in a position of power. As a bishop, I could be granted a seat in the House of Lords. There, I could enacttruechange with the rest of the Lords Spiritual. You know this, Viola. So why did you do it? Why not at least speak with me about this before publishing?”
“Because I feared you would talk me out of it!” Viola all but shouted the words and then winced.
She hadnevershouted at her father. This was not their relationship. What was becoming of them?
“Of course I would have!” her father shot back sharply. “Publishing such a story was a poor chess move. Not speaking with me about it beforehand was similarly ill-advised.”
