Metaphor, indeed.
Mr. Ethan Penn-Leith currently resided in rural Scotland, nearly the entire length of Great Britain away from Hawthorn and Westacre. How was Viola expected to ‘reel him in’?
“I can see your point, Miss Brodure. A visit must be arranged,” Kendall said, tone decisive. “It will also give you time away to write the short story we require.”
“A v-visit?” Viola detested the breathy quiver in her voice. “Surely, continuing our correspondence is best, not presenting myself on Mr. Penn-Leith’s doorstep?”
Until that very moment, Viola had not realized that a person could literally die from embarrassment. She pressed a hand against her stomach, her lungs closing further, her asthma looming.
Yes, she did want to know Mr. Penn-Leith better.
But not like this.
Not offered up to him on a platter, like a trussed Christmas goose.
Not face-to-face where she would have to talk and converse and somehow not be so hopelessly . . . hopeless.
Viola drew in air, trying vainly to keep her panic at bay.
“We will do both.” His Grace’s voice was that of a general briskly marshaling his troops. “You will continue to write the man, Miss Brodure. Dr. Brodure, do you have any contacts in the area where Mr. Penn-Leith resides?” He looked to Lady Whipple. “Wheredoesthe man reside, Aunt?”
“Scotland?” Lady Whipple said, with a shrug. “On a farm?”
“Fettermill, Your Grace,” Dr. Brodure replied. “I believe I am acquainted with the vicar there, one Dr. Ruxton. We attended Oxford together. Perhaps he would welcome a guest preacher in his parish this summer. My curate would have Westacre well in hand here.”
“Excellent,” Lady Whipple smiled. “And if you hare off to Scotland for the summer, what else can you do but bring your devoted daughter along?” She raised her wine glass in Viola’s direction. “Miss Brodure will be assembling her bridal trousseau before the summer solstice, mark my words.”
Viola closed her eyes, chest heaving, panic gripping her lungs in a steely vise.
To those in the room, Viola Brodure and Ethan Penn-Leith were destined to become another Percy and Mary Shelley, a celebrated couple of theliterati.
Viola did not necessarily disagree with that goal, per se. She simply wished to pursue it in her own manner. Her ownwritten-from-hundreds-of-miles-awaymanner.
Wrapping an arm around her mid-section, Viola tried to breathe in deeply, but the air would not come. A muscle constricted at the back of her throat.
Finally, her father noticed her labored breathing and high color—signs of an imminent attack.
“Do you need air, daughter?” His voice was soft.
Mutely, Viola nodded.
As if from the end of a long tunnel, Viola heard her father apologize to Kendall and Lady Whipple. Then, his steady hand was on her elbow, helping her through the large doors and into the garden, leading her to a bench near a burbling fountain.
The clean, humid air immediately went to work, soothing her lungs.
Viola concentrated on taking in slow, measured breaths, anything to force back thoughts of the momentous conversation in the dining room.
Her father waited patiently beside her, his hand covering hers.
“Better?” he asked after a few minutes.
She nodded. “I’m terribly sorry I caused a scene. But you know how my nerves can be . . .”
“Yes, particularly when Kendall gets a bee in his bonnet of this magnitude.” Her father paused for a long moment. They both stared at the duke’s lavishly-maintained garden, the daffodils bobbing cheerily in a crisp spring breeze. “Do you like the idea of Mr. Penn-Leith, Viola?” her father asked softly. “Doyouwish a further acquaintance with him?”
And there it was.
Despite the panic humming in her blood, the embarrassment that had so thoroughly constricted her lungs, Violadidwish it.
