It was intolerable. Unconscionable.
“You’ve read my cousin’s works then?” Eloise asked.
“Aye,” Martha nodded. “Mr. Fredericks downstairs has a copy ofLittle Lottie. And he can read, he can. He’s already read it to us twice.”
“Cor, Lottie was right plucky, standing up to her wicked aunt like that,” a girl at Martha’s shoulder said, gaunt eyes wide.
Eloise gave Viola a look that said,Say something! You cannot disappoint a child!
Viola swallowed. “Th-thank you,” she managed to stammer. “That is v-very kind.”
Viola wrote moralizing stories about pious orphans and virtuous maidens who held to their principles even under trying circumstances—characters who saw the world in crisp shades of black and white.
But after everything Viola had witnessed this week, writing about pious orphans felt ridiculous.
Orphans, she knew now, did not have the luxury of piety.
In the tiny tenement room, hung with filthy linen and stinking of unwashed bodies and mildew, Viola faced the reality of her own inadequacies.
Not just her asthmatic lungs and nervously stammering tongue.
No.
It was her silence—spokenandwritten.
Her inaction.
Because even though her prim tales were beloved the country over, they did nothing to measurably improve the lives of others.
Abruptly, she saw herself from above—a mute, marble statue in the center of the room, silence and indecision damning her.
Eloise, however, had scarcely ceased moving. Touching the babe. Laughing with Martha. Smiling at the other children. Speaking gentle words of comfort.
Shame flooded Viola’s chest.
She needed toact.
She should be writing stories thatmattered. Stories that challenged traditional notions, not reinforced them. Stories that demanded change.
Resolve burned within her—a primal vow beating in time with her heart.
Neveragain would she be a rigid bystander.
Neveragain would she remain silent in the face of another’s suffering.
Upon returning toEloise’s townhouse, Viola retreated to her bed chamber.
But the elegant room was too much. Too lovely with its fine linens, Italian wallpaper, and velvet curtains. Too warm with its cheery fire. Too comfortable with its feather-stuffed cushions, thick Savonnerie carpet, and pillowy bed tick.
Unable to face her own hypocrisy, she slid down the wall beside the bed, sinking onto the hard floor, her head resting against the wooden paneling. Her lungs felt tight. She bit her trembling bottom lip and stared up at the pretty yellow chintz bed curtains.
After a moment, her eyes drifted to the book of poetry on her bedside table.
Poems from the Highlandsby Ethan Penn-Leith.
Though they had never met, Viola admired Mr. Penn-Leith intensely. He was one of the most celebrated poets of their day, praising the moors and braes of the Scottish Highlands with such skill that even the Queen lauded his work.
His first and only book accompanied Viola everywhere, a comforting symphony of rhythm and profundity.
