Malcolm grinned and swept a palm forward. “Please, lass.”
But instead of replying to him, she turned to Ethan.
“I would like to publicly apologize to you, Mr. Penn-Leith,” she said, gloved fingers closing around the rock. “I know that the manner of my arrival here in Fettermill gave rise to certain expectations. Though I consider you to be a consummate gentleman and talented fellow writer, I cannot say that my heart holds anything other than friendly regard for you. I am sorry if you had any further wishes for our relationship. Know that I only want the best for you and your future.”
Straightening her shoulders and giving her head a toss, Viola wound her arm and threw the rock with a wee grunt.
It was utterly adorable and, also, a complete failure.
The rock flew generously . . . maybe twelve feet.
Viola scowled, as if personally offended. She directed a warning look at Malcolm. He tried to still his twitching lips.
“I still don’t understand why I wasn’t told sooner,” Ethan said, folding his arms and facing both Malcolm and Viola.
Viola took the soft blow of Ethan’s reproach with nary a flinch.
Ethan shifted a look between Malcolm and Viola. “How did this happen? When?”
“I scarcely understand myself.” Viola glanced up at Malcolm. “But I have come to realize that what wethinkwe want and what weactuallywant are often not the same thing. Someone very dear to me recently said, ‘Literal death often isn’t the way we die most.’”
At that, she leveled a hard look at Ethan. His eyes widened, and he took a fractional step backward.
He, at least, had the courtesy to understand her meaning—that she knew the identity of his poetic ‘Muse.’
Malcolm took the opportunity to fetch her rock, holding it in his outstretched hand.
She waved it off and turned to the gathered group.
“I am a writer. And as such, I have a metaphor for you.” She looked down at her kidskin gloves. With an exasperated sigh, she pulled them off, one finger at a time.
“Lately I have considered my life to be a hand in these gloves—protected and stifled.” She held the gloves aloft, one end pinched between her fingers. “But gloves are not to be endlessly worn. I refuse to encase myself any longer.” She tucked them away in a pocket. “I want to feel the cool breeze on my skin. I want to stretch and grow without a shell to confine me.”
Viola held out her hand for the stone.
Grinning, Malcolm placed it on her palm. How he adored her like this—resplendent in her determination.
She fixed Kendall with a resolute stare.
“You already know that I do not wish to be your mouthpiece, Your Grace. I must begin writing stories that address the true ills in our society. Immediately. I am tired of waiting. I may not be the Viola Brodure you supposed me to be, but I am the Viola Brodure thatIwish to be. Punishme, if you must. However, I ask you to please leave my father be. My decisions are my own, not his.”
Lord Hadley and Sir Rafe both turned steely glares on Kendall.
The duke narrowed his eyes at her.
Viola pivoted to face the field, stone still in her hand.
“Throw it with all your heart, lass,” Malcolm encouraged, unable to contain a love-struck grin.
Nodding, she wound her arm and again threw the rock. This time it soared in a graceful arc, landing with a softplunk.
Malcolm whistled and hummed his approval.
Ethan stalked off to fetch both stones, picking up the smaller one in his fist and dragging the chained stone through the grass back to the tow board.
“I should like to throw something.” Dr. Brodure stepped to his daughter’s side.
Ethan held out the two options—wee stone or chained boulder.
