by Nichole Van
Violet crossed through the music room and was halfway across the central great hall when murmured voices and a low giggle drew her attention.
Had her sisters returned from town then?
Frowning, Violet followed the sound around the corner, pausing beside an enormous potted fern.
The door to the morning room stood ajar. Mr. Campbell appeared to be finishing his repast and was quietly reading . . . something. Was it a letter?
But that was not the problem, per se.
Aster and Rose were positioned across the wide hall and to the left of the door, allowing themselves a fine view of Mr. Campbell’s back and partial profile.
“ . . . sure he’s not a new gentleman in the neighborhood?” Rose was saying.
“I am certain,” Aster replied. “Were such a man to have appeared, the village would be abuzz with the news. Is it too much to hope that perhaps Violet decided to hire us a dashing tutor?”
“That man is far too large to be a tutor.”
“You are quite right. He likely isn’t a dancing instructor either, more’s the pity.”
Violet’s jaw dropped at Aster’s words. How could her sister say such a thing! After everything that had happened last time—
“Shhh, Aster!” Rose swatted her sister’s arm. “You mustn’t say such things, even in jest. Violet would have our hides—”
“Oh, tush!” Aster interrupted. Mr. Campbell angled his head toward the sound, causing Aster to drop her voice further. “Surely you have already imagined how it would feel to dance a waltz with one such as him.” She rocked a thumb toward Mr. Campbell. “I certainly have.”
Aster’s words sent a tumble of images through Violet’s mind. Red smiling down at her before wrapping one of his enormous hands around her waist and pulling her toward him, encircling her in the security of his arms, the heat of his palm a brand against her spine—
Aster’s giggle stopped the daydream in its tracks—thank goodness.
Violet shook her head.
How was she to guide her sisters through the London Marriage Mart and everything that moving into true adulthood required? She could barely manage her own life.
This situation spelled disaster.
It appeared all three of the Kerr sisters were at risk of developing a tendre for this man.
Mr. Campbell might be in her uncle’s employ, but unless Violet acted now, the situation could rapidly devolve into an absolute catastrophe.
And the Earldom of Kildrum could ill-afford another calamity.
Dahlia’s disastrous behavior and tragic death stood as a warning for them all.
The gossips were possibly right—there was perhaps a baseness in Kerr women that needed to be stamped out.
Mr. Campbell could not be allowed to stay.
Violet pivoted round and went hunting for her uncle.
Though . . . silver lining—
If presented with a dire enough consequence, it appeared Violet could make a bigger decision after all.
Ewan shifted in his chair in the breakfast room, attempting to ignore the murmur of female voices outside the door. He reached for another roast beef sandwich, washing it down with a swallow of excellent tea.
Despite the lukewarm welcome from Lady Kildrum’s staff, they had not skimped in their hospitality.
A sibilant, feminine hush sounded from the hallway. The back of Ewan’s neck pricked. Were the maidservants ogling him? He had found that women generally had one of two reactions to his size—fear or an almost unhealthy fascination.
In this case, either reaction would certainly validate Lord and Lady Kildrum’s concerns about his presence at Kilmeny Hall. It was one thing to welcome a stranger into one’s home. It was something else entirely when said stranger was a looming giant of a man.
Ewan disliked that his physical size could never be a neutral thing.
His eyes drifted to the sheet of foolscap beside his plate—a letter from Alex that had arrived at Kilmeny Hall. The butler had been irked to find it in the morning’s post, likely because it presaged Ewan’s lingering on in the household. Again, he felt that stab of unease, that his presence here might prove a problem for Lady Kildrum.
Take it one crisis at a time.
With a deep breath, he lifted Alex’s letter, rereading the pertinent bits.
I have been kept awake these past several nights, concerned about Kieran. A mutual friend mentioned that Kieran has been unraveling, taking more and more to the bottle. There is even a rumor circling that his preference for whisky caused him to be dismissed from his current ship.
I must be honest with you, Ewan. I find Kieran’s conduct to be somewhat baffling. We all know that he felt Jamie’s loss most keenly. ‘Twas only to be expected. But Cuthie’s survival appears to have shattered Kieran’s peace in ways I do not understand. Do you ken there might be something else influencing his behavior?
I know you and Kieran have always been close. Perhaps you could send him a few words of encouragement. Anything to stem the tide of this destructive behavior . . .
Ewan set the foolscap down, scrubbing a hand over his face.
Ah, Kieran.
Things must be bad indeed for Alex to lose sleep over Kieran’s behavior. Alex was basically unflappable.
Ewan did not pretend to fully grasp the emotions assailing Kieran. But he could empathize with his friend’s wounds.
They had all loved Jamie. Vividly, he remembered that afternoon on Vanuatu, charcoal pencil in hand, sketching Jamie from life. His friend had laughed at the antics of the village children, head back, eyes glowing with that joie de vivre that was so distinctly Jamie. The carpenter’s mate had been like a sibling to Ewan.
But Kieran’s bond with Jamie was unique, moving toward family in truth. Ewan could only think that Kieran’s burden would be lightened if he shared the full extent of it with the rest of the Brotherhood.
“You should tell them your secret, about the future ye planned, what it meant for ye and Jamie,” Ewan had urged him before leaving Muirford House a few weeks ago. “It would help. I know it.”
“Nae, I dinnae want their sad looks. Yer pitying mug is bad enough—”
“Kieran, ye ken there is a difference between compassion and pity. I feel compassion for ye, ye know that.”
Kieran nodded and looked away, his eyes glassy. He blinked twice, swallowing over and over.
“Jamie would not like to see ye destroying yourself like this,” Ewan pressed his point.
Kieran nodded again, jaw clenched, hands fisted at his side.
“It’s just—” His voice broke and he swallowed. “It’s just that . . . with Jamie’s death, I feel like I possibly lost a son.”
Another giggle from the hallway had Ewan shifting in his seat.
He would write Kieran and Alex as soon as he was shown to his room.
Assuming Lord and Lady Kildrum allowed him to stay.
The former prizefighter in him knew not to count his punches. But right now, they seemed to be coming one after the other.
“Uncle, Mr. Campbell simply cannot stay.” Violet had cornered Sir Joshua in the entrance hall and ushered him into the large drawing room so they could converse without being overheard.
“Pardon, child?” Her uncle looked at her with fond amusement. Violet often thought of Sir Joshua as her father’s alter ego. The men looked alike—both tall with salt-and-pepper hair and bright blue eyes. But whereas the whole came off as moralistic religiosity on her father, it hummed with bohemian vitality on her uncle.
Of course, that could also be due to her uncle’s love of brightly-colored waistcoats. Today’s choice was orange silk embroidered with purple filigree.
“I know you heard me the first time, Uncle. Mr. Campbell cannot stay here.”
“Of course, the man can stay. I hired him, did I not? I’m fair desperate for the help.”
“Uncle—”
“Now, now, Violet, Ewan is a remarkable talent—”
“Ewan?”
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“Mr. Ewan Campbell.” Sir Joshua rolled his hand—please keep up.
Ah. Red’s Christian name was Ewan.
Violet batted it around in her head—Ewan, Ewan, Ewan.
She was terrified to examine why she liked it so much.
Her uncle continued on, “They say he is the next Ingres. His talent is boundless, and the lad is only at the beginning of his career. He simply requires someone to push him into greatness.”
Violet closed her eyes, seeing the quick sketch now resting in her box of treasures in the bottom drawer of her desk. No doubt her uncle was correct about Mr. Campbell’s skill.
Unfortunately, Uncle Joshua was missing the finer point of the conversation. But then, her uncle held unconventionally egalitarian views on class and the interaction between the sexes.
In short, the societal implications of the situation did not occur to him.
Her mother had insisted it all began with Joshua’s own past. At twenty, her uncle had fallen deeply in love with a farmer’s daughter. Naturally, Violet’s aristocratic grandfather refused to allow his son to marry so far beneath himself. Joshua and his lady love had stolen away, intending to elope to Scotland. But her grandfather had interrupted their plan, dragging his son away from the ruinous influence of such a ‘lower-class hoyden,’ as he referred to her. Months later, Joshua had discovered that his father had all but forced the girl to wed another man.
Uncle Joshua had never married, whether from a broken-heart or disillusionment, Violet could not say. But her uncle had a strong dislike for ‘aristocratic narrow-mindedness,’ as he called it.
Violet stifled a sigh. “I am not doubting Mr. Campbell’s innate talent, Uncle. I am merely pointing out that the man’s presence is a problem.”
Sir Joshua reared back his head. “How so? I fail to understand your logic, child. I am desperate for help. He will assist me with my magnum opus and earn a nominal wage. In return, I will continue to act as Mentor to his raw talent, leaving my stamp on the next generation. Ewan will be part of my legacy. It all makes perfect sense—”
“He is an artist, Uncle. He will live here and eat here and be among us every day—”
“That gives me an idea.” Joshua snapped his fingers. “We must inveigle him to paint a portrait of you. Mr. Campbell is a talented portraitist.”
“A portrait?”
“Of course.” He nodded, his eyes developing that gleam of inspiration she knew all too well. “Every previous title holder has had their portrait done. Why not you?”
He waved a hand, indicating the enormous portraits lining the wall opposite them.
The first earl, Violet’s great-great grandfather, in his armor from the Nine Year’s War, a sword in his hand.
His daughter, Violet’s great-grandmother, in an ermine-lined cape and gold-shot brocade, a tiara on her head.
Her daughter, Violet’s grandmother, in a pink powdered wig and wide rectangular skirt, a scepter of justice in her hand.
Her daughter, Violet’s mother, in the loose fashions of the French Revolution, a ledger on the desk beside her and children’s toys at her feet.
All the subtle trappings of authority and domesticity. The power and prestige Violet needed to pass along to the next generation, unblemished by her own actions.
“The tradition must carry on,” Uncle Joshua continued. “It is about time we celebrated your investiture as the new countess. A formal portrait is an excellent place to start. I have heard Mr. Campbell painted a remarkable work for Lord and Lady Hadley—”
“Uncle, this is ridiculous. I am not going to sit for Mr. Campbell. Should I require a portrait, I would have no one but yourself paint it.” Violet glanced pointedly at the life-size painting behind her, the last one Uncle Joshua had painted of the Kerr women—Violet’s mother with her four daughters.
She generally avoided looking at the painting.
Uncle had captured them all so well, particularly the former Lady Kildrum’s maternal gaze. What Violet wouldn’t give to have her mother here? To solicit her advice?
And then there was Dahlia with that mischievous fire in her eyes, almost taunting the viewer. The very spark that had been Dahlia’s downfall. Though Violet had played her own part there, had she not? The guilt of her own behavior forever lingered—
Violet swallowed back the lump in her throat, turning away.
She was a barely healed wound, and as usual, the painting was a painful reminder of what it had felt like to be whole.
“You are very kind, my dear,” Uncle Joshua was saying, “but it is good to have another artist’s vision. Besides, I haven’t the time at the moment. Why are you so set against the idea? Mr. Campbell is here. I am certain he would welcome the prestige of the commission. Do you doubt Mr. Campbell’s skill?”
“Uncle, Mr. Campbell’s abilities as an artist are not my concern here. As I keep saying, I am troubled by his presence in this house.”
“His presence? How so? Your father and myself are also in residence, so propriety is being met.”
“Yes, perhaps in the strictest sense of the word. However, my sisters living in proximity to Mr. Campbell is an entirely different matter. The man has Peril! scribbled across his broad chest.” She swiped a hand in a broad arc. “He is an unequivocally handsome artist who gives every appearance of being kind-hearted and well-spoken.”
“Broad chest. Unequivocally handsome,” her uncle nearly crowed, slapping his knee in delight. “Has the Highland laddie caught your eye, lass?”
“No, he has not,” she lied, willing away her telling blush. “Rather Mr. Campbell is practically catnip for a young lady—”
“Catnip?” Uncle Joshua laughed harder. “Perhaps we should say lady-nip, eh?”
“Enough, Uncle! Have you forgotten what happened the last time an engaging man resided under the same roof as a Kerr daughter? Has memory failed you so thoroughly?” Violet snapped and then winced at the echo of her father’s tone in her voice. Though she very much related to his frustration in this moment. “There are currently two other young women in my care. They have certainly noticed your new assistant and are eager to claim Mr. Campbell’s attention.”
She waved a hand at the portrait behind her, the motion invoking the specter of Dahlia’s decisions.
That seemed to finally sink in.
Her uncle’s brows pulled down.
Violet softened her tone. “Uncle, I know you snap your fingers at most societal conventions, but dismissing them does not remove the very real consequences for breaking them. Indiscreet behavior on the part of a young lady is seen as evidence of a wanton baseness of character. This baseness is assumed to be the result of poor breeding. No one wishes to marry into such a family, as others fear this baseness will taint their own bloodline.” How had Violet become this person? Rattling off societal conventions as if she were a stuffy dowager? And yet . . . the stakes were too high to do otherwise. “Because of Dahlia’s scandalous actions, we Kerr sisters are already viewed as potentially damaged goods. We court disaster to have Mr. Campbell housed in the same building ourselves. You must see this, Uncle?”
Sir Joshua sighed. “Dahlia’s so-called ‘scandalous’ actions are not those of yourself or your sisters. People who will judge you are not worthy of your attention—”
“Uncle, regardless of how unjust the judgment, I must still live with the very-real consequences of it. Dahlia’s decisions still affect us and how we are perceived. If we wish to marry well and still be received in society, my sisters and I must hold ourselves to a higher standard.”
Silence hung for a moment.
“I see.” Uncle Joshua pursed his lips for a moment and then clapped his hands. “Well, Mr. Campbell and I will have to remove ourselves to Old Kilmeny Castle, then.”
Violet paused, rebuke on her tongue.
But . . .
Uncle Joshua had suggested a rather sensible solution.
Old Kilmeny Castle was the original seat of the Earls of Kildrum, pe
rched atop a bluff overlooking the ocean, a perfect vantage point to spot would-be invaders.
Family lore had it that the first earl’s wife had detested the cold, damp medieval castle and convinced her husband to build Kilmeny Hall, a more modern building with enormous windows, symmetrical architecture, and light-filled rooms.
But Old Kilmeny Castle still stood proudly on the estate, a quarter-mile away. Though ancient, Violet’s mother had ensured that the castle remained ready for guests. If I am paying the window tax on the structure, I will ensure that the property is, indeed, worthy of habitation, she was wont to say.
“That is . . . acceptable.” Violet conceded defeat.
“Wonderful. Glad to have solved the problem. Though I will continue to insist that Mr. Campbell be commissioned to paint your portrait.” Uncle Joshua smiled, that teasing gleam back in his eyes. “I’ll see to removing the imminent Peril! from your house immediately.”
He winked at her before walking away.
5
I anticipate we will set up our respective studios tomorrow,” Sir Joshua said, sitting forward and extending a poker with a slice of bread on the end over the crackling fire.
“That seems an excellent idea.” Ewan cut a strip of cheddar cheese onto a plate that rested on the small table between their chairs.
He and Sir Joshua were seated before the enormous fireplace in the great hall of Old Kilmeny Castle. Light flickered out from the fire, casting long shadows across the room. The faint sound of waves crashing on the cliffs below the castle filtered through the thick walls, as did an errant draft or two, fluttering the candles.
Fortunately, Ewan and Sir Joshua were tucked into a pair of hooded chairs or, as Ewan would have called them, heided-stuls. The tall-backed chairs wrapped over their heads and captured the heat from the fire, turning their small section of the cavernous room rather cozy.
Sir Joshua had arrived as Ewan finished up the repast Lady Kildrum had ordered for him. The painter had pumped Ewan’s hand enthusiastically, apologizing for his tardiness.