Truly she did.
She stayed up far too late writing a letter, explaining everything.
Of a certainty, she should have told him the lot face-to-face. Leaving a letter was, in a sense, a craven act. And Viola disliked feeling fainthearted.
But she worried that if she attempted to tell Ethan the truth in person, her tongue would knot and her throat would close, trapping the words behind her teeth.
If she relayed the whole to him in writing . . . well, that solved her primary dilemma.
The second problem was related to the first—she couldn’t bear to watch Ethan as he read the words, to witness every minute emotion flit across his face.
So she devised to leave the letter at Thistle Muir just after breakfast, well before Ethan was expected to arrive from Aberdeen. Malcolm was with Sir Rafe, and the maid and housekeeper had their day off again—Mrs. McGregor’s daughter, Isla, still hadn’t had her baby, as far as Viola knew—so no one would be present to insist she wait for Ethan.
Viola would simply wedge the letter between the door and frame and allow Ethan to read its contents without an audience. It seemed the kindest thing to do.
Or perhaps, the mostEnglishthing to do. Avoiding confrontation was, after all, practically a national sport.
But when Viola walked up the drive to Thistle Muir, letter heavy in her pocket, she found Ethan newly arrived and dismounting from his horse.
“Miss Brodure!” He immediately strode toward her, his handsome face stretching into a welcoming smile.
Viola froze, a rabbit caught in a snare, unsure of what to do. Because apparently, no matter how many times Malcolm had praised her courage and ferocity, she was, at her heart, a coward.
Ethan’s happy grin and enthusiastic greeting shattered Viola’s resolve. He bowed low over her hand and even pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
She couldn’t hand him her letter. He wouldn’t wait to read it.
No.
Ethan would insist on devouring every word as she looked on, no matter how forcefully she demurred.
“Come in!” He waved a cheerful hand. “On the ride home, I remembered a book of translated French poetry that I hoped tae share with ye.”
Still too unmoored to think properly, Viola could do nothing but follow him into Thistle Muir, mind racing through possibilities. Could she somehow leave the letter on the mantle for him to discover later?
Regardless, she sat in the quiet parlor of Thistle Muir for half an hour, declining tea and listening to a summary of Ethan’s week in Aberdeen.
“My uncle likes tae make his presence known in my life, but as I owe him much, I cannot say I chafe too greatly under his care. Though I admit tae some eagerness to return tae your side, Miss Brodure.” Ethan paired this comment with a meaningful glance that caused Viola’s stomach to sink.
She was going to have to tell Ethan herself, wasn’t she? Face-to-face. Withwords.
Her lungs burned at the very thought.
A banging at the front door startled them both.
Frowning, Ethan motioned for her to stay put.
“No need for anyone tae know you’re here,” he whispered as he left to answer the door.
A rush of voices followed from the hallway. Viola caughtMalcolmandIsla laborandcan’t find Callum.
The front door closed and Ethan returned, expression cheery.
“I apologize for the interruption, Miss Brodure. It would seem Mrs. McGregor’s daughter has finally begun laboring to bring her babe into the world. Callum, the lass’s husband, needs to be informed, so I must walk down to the south fields to find him. I apologize for cutting our delightfultête-à-têtea wee bit short.”
Hallelujah!
Relief was a giddy rush in Viola’s veins.
