“As far as I know,” she said, “you are the only person who has uncovered that I am the writer ofA Hard Truth. No one else knows.”
“No one?”
“No one,” she repeated. “Not even my father.”
Abruptly, Malcolm felt the magnitude of what he had discovered.
“Why?” he had to ask.
“In case you somehow missed the overtones of the earlier discussion”—she glanced from the ravine walls to the path behind them—“Kendall sees me as his mouthpiece. He wishes me to be Virgil to his Augustus. I had hoped that he might be less arrogant than his father, but today has confirmed, once and for all, that the Dukes of Kendall are an eerily similar breed.”
“So the old duke told ye what tae write, too?”
“Yes, after a fashion. Hewasencouraging and his support helped my father to sell my first book to a publisher. And initially, I didn’t necessarily find fault with what Kendall recommended. I was simply ecstatic to have people reading my novels. It was only last year, after a trip to Manchester, that things changed.”
In halting words, she told him of her visit with Cousin Eloise, the Duke of Kendall’s expectations, her father’s hopes, and her own ambition caught in the middle. Of Kendall’s demands that she write a short story according to his dictates. Of the pact she had made with her father to hold her tongue and wait to publish her more radically reformist ideas. Of howA Hard Truthbroke that promise.
“Papa would be devastated if he knew I had broken our agreement,” she said on a sigh. “That I did not keep my promise to support him in his pursuit of a bishopric.”
“But I ken your reasons, lass. Staying silent in the face of such injustice can be impossible, particularly as ye feared the old duke would live on, thus stilling your pen for years. I saw traces of your reformist spirit inPolly Pettifer, in the passages describing Polly’s living situation. ButA Hard Truthbrought it all into sharper focus. The story is aptly named, as it lays out the terrible choices women must make to survive, particularly when every last bit of their existence is a commodity for purchase—virtue, body, and soul.”
“Yes! Evil and abuse thrive when we, as a society, refuse to discuss such things openly.” Her voice rose, vibrating with passion and conviction. She stopped to face him. “And knowing this, how can I write this wretched story for Kendall that ignores truth and glosses over injustice?”
Ah.
She stared down at the dark flowing river, clenching her fists over and over, as if the flood of emotion scouring her matched the torrent below.
Viola Brodure and her magnificent heart.
This, right here, was why Malcolm was falling for her. Why against his better sense, society’s opinions, and his own fears, he kept seeking her company.
Though their lives differed vastly, there was a sameness in the way they saw the world.
A harmony of thought.
And by meeting now, at this juncture of their lives—with his brother adoring her and the entire kingdom urging her toward that adoration—they inhabited the same sphere.
Adjacent but only just.
He smiled at the thought.
But the insight was not wrong.
Malcolm studied the gorge. At the jagged slabs of rock pushing up from the earth, as if the ground itself had once cracked in this very place.
And he rather supposed it had.
This was the precise dividing line between the Lowlands and the Highlands, after all.
Like the precise line dividing the social class, breeding, and education that separated himself from Viola.
How long could they walk this line before one or both of them tumbled off the edge?
They resumed strolling and soon reached the end of the path. The cliffs stretched around them, a waterfall cascading down the wall opposite. The air felt laden and green . . . the scent of possibility.
Abruptly, Viola turned to him, skirts whirling. “Oof!I am so heartily sick of gloves!”
That had Malcolm rearing back his head. “Pardon?”
