Heaven help her.
Kendall, of course, had picked up the narrative thread as a means to fuel his own political ambitions. He intended to harness Mr. Penn-Leith’s fame and the elevated popularity of Miss Brodure’s work to garner public supportagainstamending the callous Poor Laws.
Her cheeks pinked and her breathing constricted further at the thought.
“What say you to September for the wedding, Aunt?” Kendall asked Lady Whipple, cutting his trout into neat, square pieces. “It would be the perfect culmination of the parliamentary session and could buttress my defense of our current laws for assisting the poor.”
Viola all but squirmed at His Grace’s comment, his aims being the preciseoppositeof her own.
Unfortunately, in the eight months since those pivotal weeks in Manchester, Viola had found paltry few ways to express her views to the empire’s masses.
After all, her father’s employment as vicar of Westacre depended entirely upon the patronage of Kendall—a man who preferred to ‘stoppeth his ears at the cry of the poor,’ as Proverbs so eloquently put it.
Viola found it a terrible disappointment. The new duke had spent most of his formative years away from Hawthorn and Westacre, so she had been cautiously hopeful that his political opinions mightnotalign with his gray hair.
But in that, she had been mistaken.
Kendall most definitely displayed the politics of an elderly man—a nostalgia for eras past, an instinctual distrust of progress, and a hostility toward the working classes. All opinions he had, no doubt, inherited from his recently-deceased father.
Though Viola did not like speaking ill of the dead, she had nothing kind to say about the previous Duke of Kendall. He had been a convicted bigamist who had ruled his dukedom like a tyrant—that is to say, ruthless, with no tolerance for dissent.
But the old duke had been enamored of Viola’s writing—commending the humility of her characters and their praise of the upper classes. His Grace’s support had been crucial to her success, and so she had adhered to writing on the topics he dictated.
Consequently, the current duke considered Viola and her novels to be an extension of his political views. Though young, Kendall was fiercely ambitious. He reportedly aimed for nothing less than the Prime Minister’s seat.
Viola, dearest, you could be Virgil to Kendall’s Augustus, if you so wished it, her father had remarked only the day before.
So tonight, like most evenings dining at Hawthorn, was rather a fraught dance—Viola taking what rope she could, attempting to assert her own wants and needs, but constantly chafing against the tight pull of Kendall’s leash.
Viola gritted her teeth and poked at the trout on her plate. The fish stared belligerently back at her.
“September would also be excellent for the wedding.” Lady Whipple sent her nephew an approving look. “There is much groundwork still to do if we wish to stave off further erosion of the Poor Laws. Unfortunately, Mr. Dicken’s novels have been remarkably effective at swaying public opinion against our aims.”
Yes. A feat Viola herself wished to emulate.
“Agreed,” Kendall said, tipping his glass toward Viola. “Which is why we have Miss Brodure to advocate forus. It is bad enough that the Whigs managed to pass the Poor Law Amendment Act a decade past. The poor must work harder to escape their straitened circumstances, not look to the government to provide reliefgratis. And now that Miss Brodure has used her pen to essentially summon Mr. Penn-Leith to her side, we can use her heightened fame to draw attention to her tales that, in turn, support our goals.”
“Yes,” Lady Whipple nodded in approval and motioned toward Viola. “My nephew tells me that you have begun a new novel to address this very thing, Miss Brodure. Ananti-Dickensnovel.”
Viola’s throat closed further. She had only given token responses to the duke’s suggestion that she write such a novel. No inspiration had come to her yet, for obvious reasons.
She had plenty of ideas for stories thatsupportedMr. Dickens’s ideas, however. Some stories . . . she might have even written.
Lady Whipple looked at her expectantly.
“Yes, I hope to b-begin in earnest soon.” Viola swallowed, prevaricating.
Bysoonshe meantlater.
Much, much later.
As in . . . most likely never.
“I had hoped that you might be farther along the path by now, Miss Brodure,” Kendall frowned. “We first spoke of this before Yuletide last year.”
Yes, and Viola had been dodging the issue since then.
“I am still trying to find my m-muse, Your Grace.” How she hated the nervous stammer in her voice. “The story is proving difficult to pin down.”
