She looked at him questioningly. “Since you like writing, I thought it might come in useful.” He cleared his throat. “Many happy returns.”
She took the package and unwrapped it, turning the notebook in her hands. “It’s lovely,” she whispered. She clutched it to her chest, and suddenly they were back. The starlight in her eyes. The smile. The dimples. “Thank you.”
He nodded gruffly, mumbled something about having to answer some letters, and left, wondering with desperation when George was finally returning.
George. His beloved brother.
They’d been close when they were younger. He’d always been the one with the madcap ideas, and George, the fearless one, was the one who’d execute them. George, who then joined the military and who’d met Viola at an assembly in Inverness while stationed at Fort George.
George, who was now going through hell on the Continent. His letters had been few and far between, and no one could blame him.
Only this morning, Rawlinson had brought in a letter for him. It had been written and sent eight weeks ago. The mail delivery grew slower the longer the war drew on. Oddly enough, George had written to him, not to his bride, who’d watched with anticipation as the butler distributed the mail, and her face fell when there was no letter for her.
It appeared George had forgotten her birthday. But Viola had looked on bravely and pretended it did not matter, when he knew very well that it did.
George said little in his letter. He attempted to be cheerful in the few lines that he managed to send.
“Greet my Viola from me,” he’d ended it. “She is my angel, and I miss her so. Promise you’ll take care of her for me. I entrust her to you, and no one else.”
The words landed like a blow.
He shot out of his chair, took an agitated turn about the room, and read the lines again. Rubbed his forehead, which suddenly felt feverish.
He couldn’t do this.
He couldn’t continue like this. This pretense that it did not matter. That he did not care.
It was unbearable.
He had to leave. Tonight. Now. Right away.
“Hawkins!” he bellowed for his valet. “We are leaving.”
Where the deuce did Hawkins put his travel bag?
Hawkins entered. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir. It is night, and it is storming badly outside. Perhaps we can leave tomorrow, but only if the storm has passed. Besides, your grandmother would like to speak with you.”
Nana.
Of course. He would have to speak with Nana first. She would understand, wouldn’t she?
He arrived in her bedroom, only to pause at the threshold.
Of course,shewas already there . The blood rushed to his face, and for a while he could do nothing at all other than stand there and stare like an oaf.
She looked up briefly, a worried frown on her brow as she helped Nana sit up.
His grandmother looked even frailer. “My time is almost up,” she whispered. He could barely hear her words. “I can feel it.”
“Nonsense, Nana.” He felt something akin to panic well up within him. “You won’t be leaving us that quickly. You can’t just leave like that. I won’t allow it.”
That brought a smile to his grandmother’s face. “My Bastian. Always strong on the outside, trying to carry the burden for everyone. I don’t want you to do it alone. I have called for Athanasius.”
Viola looked at him inquisitively. “Who?”
“The Archbishop of York,” he muttered. “Nana’s brother.”
Her mouth rounded into a surprised O.
