It began innocently enough with a single question.
“I have been wondering,” he said, hesitating, “whether you would tell me one thing.”
“Anything,” Viola answered promptly.
A pause.
“Why?” he asked quietly.
The word lingered between them.
Viola tilted her head. “Why what?”
Another beat of silence.
“Why…did you stay away?”
She stared at him. “Why…did I stay away?”
“Well, yes.”
“Why did I stay away?” Her voice pitched high on the last word.
“Nine years is a long time, and I have always wondered?—”
“Why did I stay away? You are truly asking that? After everything that happened?” She trembled.
He shifted in his seat. “Was it truly that bad?”
“Was it truly that…” Her hand shook as she brought it to rub her forehead. “Do you honestly want me to answer that?”
He stiffened. “By all means.”
“How can you even ask that?” she cried. “After what you wrote in that last letter?” Her voice was shaking. “You made your feelings so brutally clear that there was no other recourse for me. And now you dare to ask why I stayed away? And whether it was that—b-bad?”
“Viola. What are you talking about? Sit down. The carriage is still moving.”
Viola had indeed jumped up in the moving carriage, and as it rounded a curve, she was thrown against the wall. She sat down again, rubbing her shoulder. But she barely felt it. His question had torn open a wound so old, so deep, she thought it had scarred over long ago.
“How can you be so cruel?” she cried. “So unspeakably cold-hearted.” She pounded on the door. “Stop. Let me out!”
The carriage came to a halt.
She tore the door open.
“Viola!”
But she ignored him, jumped down, and started walking, losing herself in the crowd. She kept walking, swiftly, blindly, on and on, for what felt like hours, through the London streets. It had begun to drizzle, but she barely noticed.
Finally, she found herself before St George’s Church. She pushed the door open and entered. It was quiet, lit only by candles, and peaceful.
She sat in a pew, staring at the plaque on the wall.
George.
Yes. At first, it had been because of him.
After an unexpectedly passionate wedding night, with both still reeling from the emotional overwhelm resulting from the events of the previous days, she had been consumed with guilt. She had panicked. She had been so young, so immature, utterly incapable of handling what had happened between them. So, she had run all the way back to Scotland, to the far north, far, far away from it all, believing that if she could get as much distance as possible between them, believing if she ran far enough, the guilt would lessen.
