Their conversations along the lane refused to let him be.
The quickness of her mind, leaping from idea to insight. The laughter in her eyes as she teased him. The gentle kindness radiating from her person.
He had never expected to be in this situation—sitting with one woman while contemplating another.
“She is utterly different from yourself, Aileen.” He glanced at the grave beside him. “She is just a wee sprite of a woman. She spins tales out of fairy dust and sends her words into the world. And then she turns around and teases me in one breath before arguing philosophy with the next. Can ye imagine it?”
Malcolm could practically hear Aileen chuckling over his conundrum.
Aileen, for all that Malcolm adored her, had never enjoyed discussing intellectual topics. She had always attentively listened to himbletheron about Dr. Adam Smith’s take on the accumulation of capital or Kant’s theories ofa prioriknowledge. But she didn’t engage with his opinions. She was a miller’s daughter, after all, and wasn’t given to reading, preferring instead to focus on more practical matters.
Because of this, no matter how close they became, there had always remained a wee hiccup between Malcolm’s intellectualism and Aileen’s pragmatism.
“Miss Brodure has fair bewitched me,” he continued, “which is unfortunate, as she is intended for Ethan.”
Viola might ask polite questions about Malcolm’s life as a gentleman farmer and discuss esoteric philosophy with him, but it did not follow that she thought of him as anything more than the elder Penn-Leith brother.
She had traveled to Fettermill for Ethan, after all.
And just as Malcolm had anticipated, Ethan was utterly taken with Viola Brodure. He had already cornered Malcolm twice that morning, wanting images he could use to describe devotion. Usually, Malcolm was content to offer Ethan what insight he could. Ethan didn’t get all his ideas from Malcolm, after all. His brother was a brilliant thinker in his own right.
Yet in the matter of Viola Brodure, Malcolm was less than helpful.
It was one thing to watch Ethan woo Viola.
It was something else entirely for his brother to expect Malcolm to actively participate in said wooing.
Ethan could damn well court his own lady love.
“Ye always said I had a thick head, Aileen,” he said with a sad smile. “So, aye, this whole situation is a bit of a laugh. IwantViola tae marry Ethan. They would be good together.”
But the idea also rendered Malcolm a wee bitty nauseous.
The snick of the church door had him looking to his left.
Viola strolled around the corner of the parish kirk, as if he had somehow summoned her.
Fairy dust, indeed.
Like him, she had removed her bonnet.
Unlike himself, she had yet to see him.
She paused and turned her face to the June sunshine.
Malcolm drank his fill, disliking how his heart ballooned at the sight of her pert, upturned nose. Her pale hair shimmered in the noon sun, adding to the sense that she was part fey. Her rose-colored pelisse cinched in her tiny waist above the volume of her skirts and matched the ribbons dangling from the bonnet in her right hand. How could a woman be so small and yet so perfectly formed?
Viola lowered her face, her eyes swinging to his. If his presence startled her, she covered it well. Instead, she raised a hand in greeting.
Malcolm pushed his way to standing, watching as she threaded her way through grave markers to reach his side.
“Miss Brodure.” He bowed, hands clasped behind his back.
“Mr. Penn-Leith,” she returned, bobbing a wee curtsy. “How lovely to see you. My father is in an earnesttête-à-têtewith Dr. Ruxton, and as much as I enjoy discussing Aristotelian logic in the Pauline epistles, the day seemed too fair to remain inside. What brings you here on such—”
She broke off abruptly, her eyes dipping to the tombstone beside his right knee.
“Oh.” Her soft exhalation captured a myriad of emotions—realization of what he had lost, empathy for his grief.
