Woof!
Beowoof’s cold nose abruptly appeared between, nuzzling at Viola’s hands and yipping excitedly.
The tension between herself and Malcolm evaporated like so much morning mist, leaving Viola to wonder if perhaps the moment had been in her head all along.
Malcolm swallowed, a long slide of his Adam’s apple, and bent to pet his dog.
“Well,” she finally said, “we shall simply have to ensure that you laugh more often, Malcolm Penn-Leith. Accustom those muscles to the exercise.”
He glanced up at her, his dark eyes wells of chocolate, warm and delicious.
“Aye, Viola Brodure, that we will. That we will.”
In the yearsto come, Malcolm would remember the weeks that followed as snippets of conversation with Viola.
Every day, if possible, one or the other of them would be waiting at the swing. He would leisurely walk with her along the deserted lane, leaving her at the edge of the meadow that backed the Brodure’s cottage. It wasn’t precisely proper perhaps, but as they were outdoors and along a public lane, the situation was hardly compromising should they be seen together.
Their conversations covered a wide range of topics—from Voltaire to labor reform to bonnet styles—almost all involving laughter and teasing.
Most of all, however, Malcolm loved hearing Viola talk about herself.
“Why did ye decide to become a novelist?” he asked her one evening as they strolled arm-in-arm up the lane.
It wasn’t quite the question he wanted to ask—Are ye the author ofA Hard Truth?—but it was a step closer.
She smiled and shrugged. “To be very honest, I cannot actually remember a time when I didnotwish to be a novelist.”
“Aye?”
“Aye,” she said back, causing him to smile.
He did that more nowadays, Malcolm realized, particularly anytime the thought of Viola Brodure passed his mind.
In other words, a smile rarely left his face.
“I fear storytelling is in my blood,” she continued. “Our last name, Brodure, comes from the Frenchbrodeur, or embroiderer. As a family, we have always loved to embellish things. My father said that I came out of the womb spinning yarns and never stopped. My mother was apparently the same way.”
“She was?”
“Well, my father says so. She died of a fever when I was just a babe.”
“I’m sorry ye never had a chance tae know her.”
“So am I, but I did have my father growing up. He is everything to me.”
“I can well understand that. My mother died when I was only three, so I know what it is tae only have one parent. My father passed when I was twenty-two. I suppose ye dinnae truly become an adult until ye bury both your parents. That’s when true adulthood arrives.”
“Are you implying that I still have some growing up to do, Mr. Penn-Leith?”
“Perhaps,” he grinned at her teasing. “But I wonder if it isnae time for ye to call me Malcolm?”
She tut-tutted her tongue. “Such informality, Mr. Penn-Leith. What would all my genteel acquaintances say to such a thing?”
“That ye count me a friend, Viola?”
“Well . . . Malcolm.” She paused, a soft smile upon her lips. “I suppose I do.”
11
