Her smile drifted into something softer, more seeing. “Then I think I would describe a man with the gift to find light in even the darkest of circumstances.”
His breath caught at her words.
Thatwas how she saw him?
And how bitterly ironic, as he chose to dwell in those shadows.
The silence stretched between them.
“I would have saidpurpose, myself,” Malcolm finally said. Was his voice a wee bit hoarse? “A man who can find purpose, even when all reason has been lost.”
She nodded. “That would work, too.”
How achingly lovely she appeared in that moment, pert chin tilted upward, intelligence thrumming in her gaze.
“And then what would ye do?” he asked. “Tae turn that recognized desire into a character?”
“That is quite a lengthy discussion, I fear.”
He waved them forward along the lane again. “Then we shall walk slowly.”
Malcolm listened as they strolled along, adoring the featherlight weight of her hand in his elbow, the rustle of her skirts against his calves.
Yes, indeed, Viola Brodure was a light beckoning from overhead, tempting him to climb upward and behold the brilliant luminosity of a world outside his grief.
Religious experience, indeed.
Aileen would not want him to stay in his shadowed chasm, hidden away, his existence narrowed to this wee space of living. She would berate him and insist he leave his abyss once and for all.
He knew this.
And yet . . . even if his crevasse was no longer entirely comfortable, it wassafe.
After all, what further depths could loom ahead for him? In losing Aileen and their child, Malcolm had suffered the worst catastrophe. He already dwelled at the bottom.
It was only if he climbed out, if he reached for that sun-drenched world, that he risked falling again.
And he simply didn’t have the courage to face that possibility.
Viola stared downat the letter she had just received, her heart hammering so hard, she feared the entire household could hear it.
She darted a glance across the parlor to her father, blissfully reading before the fire. Morning light streamed through the bow window at her back, rimming his gray head and gleaming off the pages of his book.
Without a doubt, Viola was the worst of daughters.
First, her secret infatuation with Malcolm Penn-Leith.
And now . . . this.
Seated at a desk to the right of the window, she closed her eyes for a brief moment and plead for divine forgiveness. Opening them, she looked down at the letter that had come in the bundle of correspondence from her solicitor in London.
. . . the power of your story, Mr. Twist, cannot be denied. Our journal has received copious correspondence regardingA Hard Truth. I have taken the opportunity to transcribe some of our reader’s comments for your perusal . . .
Viola had already scanned the enclosed snippets. Some praised her writing, her insight, her courage in speaking out. Others, in shaky unschooled penmanship, told of living through years of similar hardship. Like her characters, these readers had been forced to make unspeakable choices in order to survive. Each one thanked her for addressing such urgent issues.
The editor continued:
Our readers are clamoring for more tales likeA Hard Truth, Mr. Twist. I recognize that you write these stories under a pseudonym and wish to hide your identity, and therefore, might be loathe to continue writing for us. But we must advocate for change, to improve the lives of our fellowmen. Please consider submitting further items for our consideration.
