Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Buchan offered Viola a rather shocking amount of unsolicited advice on married life.
Lady Stewart invited Viola and Dr. Brodure to her garden party in two weeks’ time, where she would ensure that Viola learned “everything needed to fix your heart upon Ethan Penn-Leith.”
But, inexplicably, the more others pushed her toward Ethan, the more Viola thought of Malcolm.
How the quiet gruff of his laugh along that foggy lane had pooled in her stomach like warm honey.
How his wide shoulders appeared ready-built to heft a hay bale, carry a laughing child, or support a lover’s head.
How, unlike Ethan and every other eligible man on the Isle of Great Britain, Malcolm eased her shyness and anxious stammer.
Unfortunately, all these thoughts of Malcolm were hampering her potential relationship with Ethan.
Simply put, they had become anobstacle.
The answer to her conundrum was rather clear—
Thirty minutes of dialogue along a misty lane ten days past had landed her in this mental quagmire.
Ergo, a second similar conversation would likely provide the clarity she sought.
After all, Viola shunned novelists who regularly employed miscommunication as a plot device. Any problem that could be solved through a five-minute conversation was hardly a novel-worthy conflict.
Why was she tolerating similar behavior in her actual life?
The simplest solution was to call upon Ethan and Malcolm.
But when Viola and her fatherdidventure to Thistle Muir, Malcolm was nowhere to be seen.
“Och, Malcolm is never at home during the day,” Ethan said over tea, shooting her his infamous smile. “The farm requires his full attention, particularly during the summer months.”
Disappointment was a lead weight in Viola’s chest.
Finally, in desperation, she realized she would need to orchestrate the meeting with Malcolm herself.
And so, she resorted to the best tool in a woman’s arsenal—
The subterfuge of planned coincidence.
Ethan had mentioned that Malcolm kept several prize Highland cattle—Coolius Caesar among them—in a small glen on the edge of the Thistle Muir farmlands. Most evenings, Malcolm checked on his cattle before returning home along a quiet country lane not too far from the Brodure’s rented cottage.
So the evening after her visit to Thistle Muir, Viola crossed the meadow behind her cottage, stepped over a small stile, and made her way down the deserted lane.
Sadly, she did not know the precise time at which Malcolm would be comingupthe lane, so she had crafted a stratagem straight from a hackneyed tale.
All she needed was a place to sit down.
Thankfully, midway down the road, she encountered a swing just a few steps off the path—a broad slab of glossy oak suspended from a sturdy birch by two thick ropes at each end. With its fine workmanship, the swing seemed almost incongruous hanging in such an unfrequented place.
But when she perched atop it, Viola realized she could see a distance down the lane in each direction—from the bend that led toward her cottage on her left to the tree-shrouded hollow that ran to Thistle Muir’s fields on her right.
Perfect.
Bending down, she partially unlaced one of her half-boots.
The entire scenario made perfect sense.
Malcolm would come up the lane, and he would find her sitting on the swing in the process of retying her shoe, making it seem as if their meeting were entirely happenstance.
