A Greek chorus ofwhatshouldIdoshrieked in her head.
She realized she couldn’t simply ignore Kendall’s demands. To do so would leave her father unemployed and find them both cast out of their home. Where would they go? Throw themselves upon Lord Mossley’s magnanimity? And with all his other concerns, would her uncle help his younger brother defy a duke as powerful as Kendall?
She doubted it.
And if Viola and her father were utterly cut off from friends and family, what would become of them?
Briefly, she pictured herself like one of her own desperate characters, living in a fetid room, cooling her father’s fevered head with a wet cloth.
No. She could not permit events to become as dire as that.
But at the same time, she could not continue like this . . . to bite her tongue and play the demure lady and pretend that she didn’t long to scream her own truth.
Literal death isnae the way we die most.
Malcolm.
Just the thought of him scorched all other images from her mind. All she could see was his strong body standing tall beside their swing, head lifting to look at her.
With Malcolm, she could breathe.
He didn’t care if she came to him bare-handed and bonnetless. Thank heavens, she currently wore shoes.
Because as Kendall’s voice rumbled behind the closed door, Viola simply . . . snapped.
Crossing the room, she gathered up her skirts and, sitting on the sill, dropped to the ground outside, startling the two gardeners snipping back roses who had, yes, been eagerly listening at the window.
She had nodded a greeting to them and disappeared down the lane long before her father and Kendall returned.
14
Later, Viola would marvel that she managed to walk the long distance to Thistle Muir.
Her corset restricted her ribcage, and her asthma threatened to overwhelm her. But, as usual, the damp air of Scotland eased her breathing, opening up her lungs just enough for her to move onward—one step, two, another step. The wind had picked up, darker clouds menacing on the horizon. Viola could practically feel the promised storm nipping at her heels.
She wiped tears as she walked, Kendall’s words like circling black ravens, swooping round and round in her head.
Her father would talk Kendall down from his outrage. She knew this. For better or worse, placating irrational aristocrats was a political game at which Dr. Brodure excelled.
One of the many reasons why he would make a superb bishop.
Was there a path out of the duke’s shadow? A way for her and her father to reach their aims without his assistance?
And even if Dr. Brodure left Kendall’s employ—if Papa could find another suitable patron—would the young duke retaliate?
His sire, the former Duke of Kendall, certainly would have. Viola didn’t know this Kendall well enough to predict his reaction.
And it wasn’t as if she could ask him outright—I say, Your Grace, if I directly oppose your political aims in a decidedly vocal, public way, will you be a good egg and let it slide?
Even as she had the thought, Viola knew her father would never agree to leave Westacre in disgrace. Dr. Brodure loved his parishioners. He loved greeting people on a Sunday—complimenting Mrs. Bell on a new hat, asking Mr. Wright if his mother’s health had improved. He loved marrying the children he had watched grow from babes, of being a ferryman of sorts in the ebb and flow of life.
Another reason why he would make a remarkable bishop.
She skirted the edge of the village, not wanting to be seen in her bonnetless, gloveless state. No need to provide yet another scandalous detail for the gossips to bandy about.
Thankfully, she only glimpsed Mrs. Buchan from a distance and narrowly avoided Mrs. Ruxton as the lady walked up the path to the vicarage. Passing the kirkyard, Viola rounded the final bend to Thistle Muir.
The house appeared in storybook parts—chimneys rising toward the sky, symmetrically placed windows peering out into the green landscape, the white front door standing at attention.
