“I am slowly crafting the story,” she hedged—praying God did not strike her down for lying—and then changed the subject. “And please tell His Grace that Scotland agrees with me very much.”
That, at least, was the truth.
Viola’s unexpected meeting with Malcolm Penn-Leith the day before lingered—a morsel of sweet toffee that stuck to her teeth and gums and commanded her attention. The rumble of his Scottish brogue. The rueful twist of his mouth as he repeated Beowoof’s name. The quiet reassurance of his gaze.
And still, a full day later, she marveled how calm she had been in his presence. None of the shy anxiety she normally experienced with strangers had emerged.
Was it a Scottish phenomenon? She crossed the border into this wild, untamed country and her social nervousness decided to holiday elsewhere?
Surely, the elder Penn-Leith was similar to his younger brother. If she felt so at ease with Malcolm Penn-Leith, certainly conversing with Ethan would be comfortable.
And what a delicious thought that was, to speak freely—to be her truest self—with the handsome poet whose words had inspired her own courage.
Perhaps stepping from the shadows of her life—moving from two-dimensional words to the three-dimensional world—would not be as trying as she had supposed.
A hopeful sort of giddiness bubbled in her chest.
Feeling her father’s eyes upon her, Viola lifted her head from her notebook.
“You needn’t pursue this acquaintance, you know.” He peered over his glasses. “If Mr. Ethan Penn-Leith isn’t to your liking, no one will force you into a courtship that—”
“Please set your mind at ease, Papa. I am genuinely interested in becoming better acquainted with Mr. Penn-Leith. You haven’t cajoled me into being here.” Viola laid her notebook and pencil down. Sliding from her chair to the floor, she took his hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “I am glad we are come.”
Soveryglad.
Dr. Brodure clasped her hand in his. “You are the best of daughters, Viola. I know that this arrangement with Kendall is not entirely to your liking, no matter how brave a face you put on it. But I appreciate your sacrifices for me.” He patted her cheek and pulled off his spectacles, polishing them with a handkerchief.
Viola rose to sit on the edge of her chair.
“Nonsense, Papa.” She would find a way to write something for Kendall, truly she would. After all, she couldn’t remain a lying liar forever. “We are partners, helping one another to reach our aims.”
“I would like to think so, yes.”
“Kendall wishes to harness public interest in my potential courtship with Mr. Penn-Leith to gain public support for his own aims in Parliament. And you, dearest Papa, appear well on your way to securing Kendall’s help in petitioning Her Majesty to appoint you as a bishop.”
“Yes. I am hoping His Grace will see the matter settled come autumn.”
“Precisely. Once that happens, I will have more freedom to publish as I wish. We all achieve something we want.”
Compromise, particularly in this instance, was a necessity.
No matter her own desires, Viola wanted her father to realize his goals, too. He sought to be appointed bishop of a diocese—not just for himself and all the good he could do in such a position—but for his mother and grandfather, to honor a family legacy.
Viola’s grandmother, Lady Mossley, had been the daughter of the Bishop of Gloucester. Her dying request had been for her fourth son, Charles Brodure, to pursue the same profession as her father.
Dr. Brodure had taken his mother’s wishes to heart, and Viola would do anything in her power to assist him.
Viola’s own mother had died when Viola was yet a babe. Her father had never remarried. Every memory she had of parents and family involved only her father—just the two of them united against the world.
It had been her father who held her when she crawled into his bed at night, terrified of the scratching bats in the attic. He had nursed her through measles and influenza, scarlet fever and chicken pox.
When a doctor recommended that they move from London to improve Viola’s asthma, Dr. Brodure hadn’t hesitated. He had quit his prominent post as a Mayfair vicar—a position perfectly situated to an appointment as bishop—and had immediately removed to Wiltshire.
Dr. Brodure had encouraged her tentative attempts at writing and had doggedly pursued selling her first manuscript to a publisher.
And even now, he supported her desire to write more politically charged stories, despite the threat it posed to his own livelihood.
No one believed in Viola more than Charles Brodure.
