Malcolm paused at Ethan’s side, shaking hands with Hadley and bowing over Lady Hadley’s knuckles before turning to Viola with a rumbled, “Miss Brodure,” that rolled over her like warm summer sun. And similar to a sunflower, her face instinctively rotated toward its comforting heat.
But as had happened earlier at the church door, Malcolm quickly retreated into the background, merging in with his neighbors ringed around. At some point in the last five minutes, the villagers had all stopped pretending to be discreet in their gawking and now watched Viola and Ethan with avid interest.
Lord Hadley asked Ethan about his recent trek into the Cairngorms.
“My pilgrimage to communion with Mother Nature, ye mean?” Ethan said affably, taking a step closer to Viola and placing a hand on the wall beside her.
Needing no further encouragement, he launched into a detailed story about tracking a pair of capercaillie across the moor to Loch Muick, telling the tale for all to hear.
Ethan Penn-Leith was a born storyteller.
And Viola, a natural-born storyteller herself—on paper, at least—admired that about him. Truly, she did.
His words wove through the crowd—hands gesturing, face emotive—as he leapt atop the stone fence to mime watching the sun rise from the top of Ben Tirran.
He was . . . well, what she had expected him to be . . . silver-tongued, captivating, a bit overly enthusiastic in evangelizing himself and his ideas.
And yet Ethan, for all his magnetism, was not the Penn-Leith who held Viola’s attention.
Malcolm Penn-Leith stood unmoving to the right side of the gathered villagers, his left shoulder nearly touching the base of a lichen-covered memorial, jaw firm beneath his beard, a slight breeze stirring his kilt. He gave the impression of steadfast immovability. As if he would face a raging inferno, a blood-thirsty vampyre, or one of Lady Jersey’s gossipy London soirees with the same unflappablesangfroid.
Both brothers had a similar look; anyone could see they were related. But as any good writer knew, the small details told a larger story.
Malcolm rested his palms atop his well-worn walking stick. He wore no gloves. Thin, white scars crisscrossed his knuckles, a silent testament to years of hard labor, of determination and focused duty. Of a life not bound by custom and endless etiquette.
Ethan’s hands, however, were encased in supple kid-leather, protecting his skin from the harsh conditions of life. Such gloves were the mark of a gentleman, of refined manners and a genteel upbringing.
Before this moment, Viola would have said gloves were a necessity, a trait of true gentility. After all, a similar set of soft gloves covered her own hands. A lady always protected her skin from exposure to the sun and elements.
Why, then, did her gloves abruptly feel like a token of her confinement? A symbol of her life adjacent? That instead of allowing her hands to become dirty—worn and used and scarred from the heavy business ofliving—she chose to remain unscathed. Sheltered. Pampered, even.
As in that squalid room with Eloise in Manchester, Viola wanted to cease existing in indecision. She needed the gloves to be stripped from her life, both metaphorically and literally.
As Ethan’s story wound down, Viola squirmed in her silence.
Abruptly, her shyness itself seemed a cage, just one more intangible glove smothering her, causing her to retreat instead of engaging with life.
So despite the press of the people, despite the staring eyes that rendered her nervous and threatened to trigger her asthma—she forced her tongue to speak.
“Your story is most c-captivating, Mr. Penn-Leith.”Heavens!How could her voice still be so breathless? “Was it during your hike that you realized the Cairngorms could be a metaphor for our modern life? That we have removed ourselves from Nature, and therefore, perhaps lost some of our humanity in the process?”
Shehadto know, she realized. She had to see the flashes of genius that glimmered like moonbeams in his poetry.
“That is a most perceptive question, Miss Brodure.” Ethan gave her his signature entrancing smile. “I should love tae call upon ye and recount the whole of my artistic process. I adore nothing so much as communing with a fellow writer.”
A female voice sighed behind Viola and someone else murmured, “What a perfect couple they make!”
“I should be most honored, Mr. Penn-Leith.” Viola curtsied. “P-please call at your leisure.”
6
Ethan Penn-Leith made good on his promise to call upon Viola.
The man appeared in her front parlor the very next afternoon, his sister, Mrs. Leah Carnegie, on his arm. They burst into the entryway in a bustle of hats and overcoats and walking sticks, stripping off those ever-present gloves and handing all to Mary, who hovered in the hallway.
Viola ushered her guests into the parlor, willing her blushes and stammering to remain at bay . . . with only marginal success.
Just as on the day before, Ethan’s exuberance tangled her tongue. His blinding smile and high spirits were a bit like stepping from a dark room into vivid sunlight. Viola expected it to be warm and welcoming, but it mostly left her blinded and blinking.
