Kendall’s frown deepened. “Even a short story printed in a popular publication likeThe Gentleman’s Magazinewould be effective. And surely such a paltry thing could be written quickly, don’t you agree Miss Brodure?”
Viola took in a slow breath and nodded her head. What other response was left her, after such a manipulative question?
“I shall consider it done then, Miss Brodure.” Kendall studied Viola for another heartbeat—as if assessing her acquiescence—and then turned to her father. “In the meantime, I feel that a sermon on this very subject next Sunday would be advisable, Dr. Brodure. Perhaps your words will inspire your daughter.” His eyes dipped sideways to her.
Dr. Brodure agreed to Kendall’s request, accepting the duke’s demands with a nod.
Everyone in the room understood that her father, as the fourth son of Viscount Mossley, had his ambition firmly fixed on being appointed a bishop.
Viola supported him wholeheartedly in his goal. As a vicar, her father rushed to comfort a grieving father or assist a hungry child. She could only imagine the greater good he could do as a bishop.
But, as with everything, being elevated to a bishop required Kendall’s help and support. And so Viola and her father bowed to the necessary evil of his demands.
When the elder Duke of Kendall had died on the heels of Viola’s trip to Manchester, Viola’s father had hoped for a possible improvement in his own fortunes. The old duke had been reluctant to use his clout to see Dr. Brodure elevated. The new Duke of Kendall, however, appeared more amenable.
But Viola had returned from Manchester full of revolutionary zeal. She longed to act, now, now,now.
Dr. Brodure, to his credit, had not been dismayed at the change in her political leanings. Instead, he had listened as she told him about her new ambitions for her writing and then had urged her to proceed carefully.
“We rely too much upon young Kendall’s grace to upset the cart,” he had said, head shaking. “If you deviate too sharply from His Grace’s strictures, I might be relieved of my duties as vicar and have to seek another living. I certainly would lose the opportunity to become a bishop. Either of those outcomes would grieve me. That said, I do understand your wishes and desires, daughter. Perhaps we can find a compromise that will allow us both to achieve our aims?”
If her father had become angry and dismissive, Viola could have perhaps felt justified in writing something revolutionary anyway. But anger was not her father’s way. He had reached out to her in love, asking for her understanding.
And shehadunderstood.
He proposed she delay publishing anything too incendiary. Just long enough for Kendall to put forth Dr. Brodure’s name to Queen Victoria for appointment to bishop.
Once Dr. Brodure was a bishop and no longer reliant upon Kendall’s patronage, Viola would have the freedom to publish what she liked, including stories that opposed the duke’s parliamentary goals.
And so, Viola promised to bide her time and carry out Kendall’s decrees.
Or, rather, shetriedto. Truly, she did. Granted, theremighthave been (translation: there absolutely were) one or two notable exceptions, but—
“As Miss Brodure writes, we must plan.” His Grace’s words pulled Viola back to the dinner table and the unappetizing trout still staring up at her. “I shall instruct my secretary to contact the editors ofThe Gentleman’s Magazineimmediately and have them prepare for Miss Brodure’s work. Then, she and Mr. Penn-Leith will embark on a courtship. Once that occurs, the broadsheets will be full of Miss Brodure and Mr. Ethan Penn-Leith’s romance. This will ensure that Miss Brodure’s short story is widely read, further cementing public opinion in our favor. From there, we can use the added publicity and support to stave off those who attempt to reform the Poor Laws.”
Viola had to give the duke some credit. His plan was actually rather ingenious. Diabolical . . . but ingenious.
Granted, there was one rather gaping hole.
“Though I do sincerely appreciate your concerns for my m-matrimonial happiness, Your Grace,” Viola began, poking at her trout with a trembling fork, “I must point out, once more, that I am entirely unacquainted with Mr. Penn-Leith. I haven’t the foggiest n-notion how I shall ‘begin a courtship’ with him.”
She had absolutely no experience in matters of courtship. Hence her thirty-years-old-spinster-wallflower status.
“But you have corresponded with the man, have you not, Miss Brodure?” Lady Whipple asked.
“I have recently received a few kind lines from Mr. Penn-Leith thanking me for my homage inPolly Pettifer.”Deep breath.“Hardly enough to term a correspondence.”
And yet, even that was a lie, was it not?
Much of his letter had felt like more than mere correspondence, the words humming a merry tune in Viola’s memory.
Thank you for your expansive praise of my humble poems. I find the creative turn of your mind most fascinating. I do not wish to seem impertinent, but I beg you to indulge me—from whence do you draw your inspiration?
Viola had not yet responded. The very thought made her hands shake. With nerves? Anticipation?
“Nonsense!” Lady Whipple harrumphed. “A man replying at all is always a sign of interest. Gentlemen are lazy correspondents. You have him on the line, girl, best to reel him in.” Her ladyship cut into her trout, as if the metaphor needed more emphasis.
Flummoxed, Viola wheezed for breath, mouth agape and, well, fishlike.
