“She merely said that herfathermay contrive a visit,” Malcolm said. “That is hardly the same thing as Miss Brodure presenting herself on our doorstep.”
Ethan scoffed. “It is precisely the same thing and well ye know it.” He picked up the chain and began dragging the rock back to the throwing line.
Malcolm kept silent as he followed in Ethan’s wake. His brother was likely correct. Though, unlike Ethan, Malcolm would welcome Miss Brodure visiting Fettermill.
Whether he realized it or not, Ethan needed a lady like her.
Malcolm had noted the tautness around Ethan’s eyes that never quite subsided. The jittery bounce to his brother’s knee. The late nights spent slumped over the desk in his bedroom, pen scritching.
Yes, Ethan had achieved remarkable success, but that success came with its own weight—the never-ending letters from his publisher, the heavy expectations of being Uncle Leith’s heir, the endless stream of correspondence from enthusiastic readers demanding his attention.
Ethan had returned to Thistle Muir ostensibly to find the inspiration and quiet needed to finish his next book of poetry. His publisher had set a deadline and Ethan was floundering to meet it, claiming his well of poetic inspiration had dried up.
But Malcolm wondered if there wasn’t more to it than that.
He had never considered that fame would be isolating. That Ethan, having risen to heights that paltry few did, would find life at the top so very . . . lonely.
But . . . how could Ethan not? Everyone demanded something from him—Play the Highland Poet! Entertain us! Write faster!
It had to be exhausting.
To Malcolm’s purview, his brother needed love, trust, and long-lasting support in order to successfully navigate his future.
In short—Ethan needed a wife.
Though Malcolm’s own marriage had ended far too soon, he knew the soul-satisfying bliss of sharing life with a partner—the strength and comfort that such a bond could give. How his wife, Aileen, had rubbed his back as he wept over the death of a farmhand. How, on a cold winter’s night, she would giggle helplessly as her cold feet chased his warmer ones under the counterpane. How she would pause her sewing, lift her head, and listen to him blether on about drainage problems in the north pastures.
A similar relationship, particularly with a lady so well-acquainted with Ethan’s world, would help him navigate the ups and downs of life and fame.
Miss Viola Brodure fit the bill in every sense.
Honestly, if the woman decided against a visit to Fettermill, Malcolm would be sorely tempted to journey to England and plead with her in person to reconsider.
“The more I write her,” Ethan said, pulling the stone to rest at the throwing line, “the more I appear to wish a deeper friendship. I do not want to give rise to false expectations where Miss Brodure is concerned.” He squinted at Malcolm. “Why are ye so insistent on this point?”
“I dinnae like ye disrespecting Miss Brodure with your silence,” Malcolm lied with straight-faced aplomb.
“A delay in replying is hardly silence, brother. Besides,” Ethan gave Malcolm a wry side-eye, “if you’re going tae be so bizarrely insistent upon this, perhapsyeshould write Miss Brodure. Tell her how much ye admire her writing and strike up a friendship. Ye know ye would enjoy sparring wits with her.”
Malcolm’s breath froze in his chest.
The very thought was so . . . . so . . .
“Your answer tae that can be your next truth,” Ethan smirked at him, every inch the taunting wee brother. “Go on then. Throw the stone.”
Gritting his teeth, Malcolm stared down at the chained rock.
He hated that Ethan knew him so well. That he had easily intuited Malcolm’s deep admiration of Miss Viola Brodure’s work.
Yes, the snippets of her letter to Ethan were charming, clever, and shrewdly insightful. Yes, her novels of pious orphans and clever servants were beloved the kingdom over.
But it was the lady’s possible hidden depths that fascinated Malcolm most.
Several months ago,The Rabble Rouser—a liberal journal Malcolm subscribed to—had published a story written by one Mr. Oliver Aubord Twist. The story itself,A Hard Truth, detailed the plight of a poor mother living in the slums of Manchester and scathingly attacked the inadequacy of the Poor Law reformation.
He had not admitted as much to his brother, but Malcolm had read enough of Miss Brodure’s novels to recognize the voice of her writing. AndA Hard Truthsounded more like Viola Brodure than . . . well, Viola Brodure. When he had looked at the author’s name again, Oliver Aubord Twist, he wondered if the surnameTwistwas a prompt to do precisely that—twist all the letters around.
And so, Malcolm had.
