by Nichole Van
Though she despised pretending to be a hapless female, her words were not wrong. Prizefighting was not an appropriate dinner conversation, particularly with Aster and Rose present.
Lord Graham jerked, as if coming back to himself, gaze swiveling to hers.
“I most sincerely apologize, Lady Kildrum.” He shook his head. “I clearly got carried away with my enthusiasm for the sport. You are correct, such a topic should be dropped.”
He smiled then, remorseful, eyes contrite.
Violet believed him to be sincere.
But remorse and apology did not excuse the underlying belief system that had led to his behavior in the first place.
She dared a glance down the table to Mr. Campbell. The man was back to eating his fish, ears still crimson at the tips.
Her pulse was a lump in her throat.
Violet wrestled with her warring impulses. As a lady, she needed to meet the traditional expectations heaped upon her. And yet, she recognized that the culture which dictated those expectations was inherently unfair.
Her attraction to Mr. Campbell was not the reason Lord Graham’s arrogance offended her . . . well, at least, not entirely.
It was just . . . Mr. Campbell did not deserve to be made to feel less than. No one did.
Movement at the far end of the table caught Violet’s eye.
Lady Graham was staring at her, the black satin of her ladyship’s gown glinting in the flickering candlelight.
Oh, dear. Had too many of Violet’s thoughts been painted across her face?
“Harrumph. Thank you for the reminder, Lady Kildrum,” her ladyship said, flicking her gaze to her son. “I must say, you posed a Good Question, Graham. Asking about Mr. Campbell’s tenure here is wise, I daresay. One can never be too Careful when it comes to protecting the reputation of those who might be prone to Foolish Choices and Scandalous Behavior. Disaster inevitably follows. The Judgment of God, if you will. Heaven knows I have witnessed the Horror of younger siblings haring after the Mistakes of their elders, always with similar results.”
Violet nearly gasped at the sheer audacity of Lady Graham’s words. It was one thing to have implied, as she had a week before, that Dahlia’s death was the inevitable result of her behavior.
But then to boldly state that Violet’s other sisters would likely meet—and deserve!—a similar fate . . .
Given how quickly Uncle Joshua’s head snapped upright and Aster’s eyes widened, others’ shared Violet’s shock.
Only her father nodded his head, as if in wise agreement. “Indeed, Lady Graham, you speak from a well of wisdom. We must all play the part the Lord has assigned us. Those who choose to stray from that path must often pay the ultimate price.”
Father spoke the words with a pious solemnity, as if they were mere trifles and not a cruel condemnation of Dahlia.
How could he! His own daughter! And in such a callous tone! But then . . . Father had never shown much compassion for Dahlia, had he?
Violet set down her fork to hide her shaking hands and bit her lip, willing back the angry tears that threatened.
Thankfully, Uncle Joshua came to the rescue.
“Indeed, brother,” he said. “Have I told you all the tale of the time I was called upon to paint the Duke of Marlborough’s prized hunting dog?”
She appreciated Uncle Joshua’s quick actions. His words staved off another painful barrage of sanctimony and allowed Violet time to regroup. She stabbed at her food throughout her uncle’s story, smiling in the appropriate places.
However, the pain of her father’s dismissal of Dahlia continued to ache, leaving Violet repeatedly blinking back the sting in her eyes.
How could he act as if Dahlia’s memory had to be scrubbed of all its beauty and light, condemned to darkness because of her one ill-advised choice? How could his heart be so untouched by the painful sorrow of Dahlia’s loss?
Worse, Violet could do nothing. Lady Graham’s reminder was true. Dahlia’s decisions had tainted them all, and the slightest deviation from decorum on the part of herself or her sisters would be met with instant reprisals.
And still . . . Violet dared another glance down the table to Mr. Campbell.
As if helpless against the pull, his head lifted, eyes meeting hers.
His gaze told her that he had not missed a single nuance of what had been said.
One heartbeat.
Two.
He gave her the faintest glimmer of a smile.
And then looked away, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
Violet felt abruptly bereft.
Like that moment atop the cliff when she had stepped out of his embrace, the shocking loss of his warmth, of the cocoon of his comfort.
And just like then, they were now turning away, taking separate paths.
Paths that could not include one another.
10
Do you require anything else, Mr. Campbell?” Irvine asked.
Ewan surveyed the drawing room. The drapes had been situated to let just the right amount of sunlight in, furniture moved and repositioned to provide a proper backdrop.
“Everything is as it should be,” Ewan said. “Thank ye.”
He likely should not be thanking servants—he inhabited some limbo between the servants and their mistress—but it went against his very nature to not acknowledge thanks where it was warranted.
“Very well, Mr. Campbell. I will inform Lady Kildrum that all is prepared for her.” Irvine bowed a small, stiff movement before leaving the room.
The clack of the door resounded in the silence.
Lady Kildrum’s portrait sitting would begin shortly.
Ewan swallowed, taking in a fortifying breath.
Ye can do this.
She is but a lass like any other.
Yet in that, Ewan knew he deluded himself.
Lady Kildrum was nothing like other lasses.
Vividly, the image of her seated beside Lord Graham at dinner came to mind. She had glowed like a diamond apart, eyes snapping in outrage for the subtle wee abuses Lord and Lady Graham sent his way.
And what did Lady Graham’s comment about ‘scandalous behavior’ and ‘foolish choices’ have to do with the Kerr family? Her ladyship’s words had clearly strung another thread of tension through the room.
Ewan sometimes felt as if he had arrived in the middle of the third act of a play and was now trying to piece together the plot.
Only time would tell if the story was a tragedy or a comedy.
He wandered the drawing room as he waited for Lady Kildrum to arrive. The portraits of previous countesses lined the walls. Large, monumental paintings of women in clothing of the past century. He noted the subtle nods to title and station—a coronet, a scepter, a diamond necklace, the yards of expensive lace and satin. What items would he include for Lady Kildrum?
But it was the painting hanging opposite the fireplace that held his attention—a monumental piece, extending from floor to ceiling, and done in Sir Joshua’s unmistakable hand.
In the middle of the painting sat a beautiful lady of middling years. The style of her brown hair and the cut of her gauzy, flowing gown proclaimed the scene to have been completed around a decade past. Four girls surrounded the lady, each of varying ages, from school girls to late teens.
The former Lady Kildrum and her daughters.
The older woman gazed straight at the viewer, her expression exuding a calm competence, as if to say, I am the lady of the manor, and my daughters are my heritage. In the background, Ewan could make out the shape of Kilmeny Hall and its grounds.
Ewan noted the familiar form of the current Lady Kildrum linking elbows with her mother.
Lady Violet as she had been known then.
Sir Joshua had captured the spark in her green-blue eyes, a sense of adventure and life. She rested against her mother’s arm with a carefree smile, as if she had no worries or fears.
Lady Violet’s smile no longer held that lighthearted ease.
A fourth daughter. Another flower.
Dahlia, he kenned she was called. He had heard servants murmur the name here and there.
The minutes dragged by and Lady Kildrum did not appear.
Ewan paced the room, his gaze returning again and again to the painting.
Why did the family not speak of Dahlia? She was a pretty thing—petite and delicate like her mother—looking out at the viewer with mischief in her eyes.
Was she simply married and no longer in residence?
But, if so, why did no one mention her—
Crack.
The door opened.
Ewan whirled to see Lady Kildrum enter in a flutter of skirts.
Lady Kildrum was a vision.
Her dress was cinched just under her bustline, allowing layers of gauze and silk to cascade around her, all in shades of green-blue that perfectly matched her eyes. A stiffened lace collar stood upright around her neckline and ropes of expensive pearls looped her throat and winked from her coiffure. Her hair had been coaxed into ringlets at her temples, although the droop in the curls hinted that they rebelled at the treatment.
The observation nearly made him smile.
But, given the impact of her on his senses, Ewan feared he was going to need a moment or two to gather his scattered wits.
Fortunately, habit kicked in and he remembered to bow.
“Lady Kildrum.”
“Mr. Campbell,” she replied, turning her head as a maid entered behind her and took up residence in a corner.
Ah. A chaperone. That was wise.
Taking a deep breath, Ewan forced himself to operate in a professional manner.
“If ye please, Lady Kildrum.” He motioned toward the chair he had placed in the middle of the room, draperies hanging behind it. “My intention today is simply tae become familiar with your likes and dislikes. I intend tae do some preliminary sketches that I will then compile together into a plan for the final painting.”
Nodding her head, Lady Kildrum passed by him, her movement sending a wave of fresh lavender rushing over him. Ewan gave a few instructions for her to stand beside the chair, leaning her hip against it and resting her hand along the chair back.
Smiling tightly, Ewan picked up his large sketchbook and a piece of his preferred charcoal.
He began to sketch.
But it only took a few seconds for him to realize that they were both far too stiff.
She stood rigidly, as if afraid to relax in his presence.
Ewan was tense and nervous, his lines jittery and awkward.
She is only a client. Nothing more.
His emotional attachment to Lady Kildrum was surely bleeding into the room, a sort of dingy gray miasma that coated the walls and clung to her, an unwanted guest. Understandably, Lady Kildrum reacted to the tension by stiffening her muscles.
Ewan hated that his own inability to control his infatuation made her feel so uncomfortable. He had to cease this. It served no purpose.
Mentally stretching, he slipped further into his professional demeanor.
“If ye would be so kind, my lady, please describe the elements that ye like in other portraits,” he said. “This will help me ken how tae go about painting your likeness.”
If Lady Kildrum found his question off-putting, it did not show. She did, however, relax a wee bit, the line of her shoulders becoming less rigid.
“I cannot say for sure,” she began.
“What do you dislike then?” he asked. “I know citrus tae be right out.”
A soft snort of laughter. “You will not paint lemons into the scene?”
“Nae, but sometimes ’tis easier tae understand what ye dinnae want.”
A dent appeared between her eyes.
“Understanding is to be found in opposition, not similarity,” she nodded, rephrasing his words.
Clever, lass. “Aye.”
She pursed her lips. “Well . . . I dislike artifice in a painting. I am biased, of course, but I’ve always felt as if Uncle Joshua is excellent at capturing not only his clients’ likenesses but also their spirit. It’s as if he paints a bit of someone’s soul into every work.”
Ah. Ewan’s heart swelled in his chest.
“Insightful,” he murmured.
He found himself leaning into the timbre of her voice as she spoke. He imagined the sound to be lines upon his page, a nearly physical impression that he could outline with his charcoal. His hand moved, sketching the sound into form.
He could feel himself sinking further into that creative languor, where time and space stretched and twisted and all that existed was the scritch-scritch of his pencil on paper.
Mhairi had always referred to it as his ‘painterly state.’
But thoughts of his past were not welcome at the moment, and so Ewan pushed them aside.
His mind was so focused on drawing the shapes and lines of Lady Kildrum, so caught up in his act of creation, that words tumbled out of his mouth before he was able to carefully ponder them beforehand.
“Do ye like the painting Sir Joshua did there?” He nodded toward the enormous canvas to his right.
She followed his motion, pausing.
“My uncle is a remarkably talented painter,” she finally replied, “and the canvas reflects that.”
Ewan froze, his charcoal stilling in his fingers. Her words were polite and yet . . . essentially empty.
He lifted his eyes from his sketchbook. “Aye. I dinnae disagree with ye on that score. But how do ye feel about the painting?”
She met his gaze for a second before breaking the contact and turning back to look at the canvas beside them.
Was it just his imagination that her eyes lingered on the fourth sister?
Ewan knew he should likely drop the subject. Change the topic and move on to safer waters.
But something in her eyes as she gazed tugged at him. There was pain there.
The painting hurt Lady Kildrum. The glittering shades of red and gold that tangled around her dimmed as she looked at the canvas.
Empathy ballooned in his chest, sending words tumbling from his mouth—
“I cannae help but notice there are four lasses in the painting, yet I’ve only met three sisters currently residing in Kilmeny Hall. Does that influence how ye view the painting?”
Lady Kildrum sucked in a sharp breath, as if his question were a blow.
Ewan instantly wanted his words back. He had hoped to help.
Instead, he greatly feared he had abruptly made everything that much worse.
11
Mr. Campbell’s words jolted down Violet’s spine, sending a startled blast of discomfort through her body.
. . . there are four lasses in the painting, yet I’ve only met three sisters currently residing in Kilmeny Hall . . .
Violet swallowed.
The question was inevitable, she supposed, particularly after the disastrous dinner party the other evening.
Her eyes drifted over the canvas. Memories of the hours spent posing for Uncle Joshua assailed her. Aster and Rose had been barely nine years of age and had found the experience a trial. Aster had kept up a non-stop stream of questions. Rose had squirmed and shifted, unable to sit still for even a minute at a time. Dahlia, at a more mature sixteen, had sighed and rolled her eyes at her younger sisters.
Mother had been stoic, admonishing the twins over and over.
Violet had been seventeen, just a few months before embarking on her first London Season. She had stood motionless, following uncle’s orders, keeping her arm looped through her mother’s. How excited she had been. Her whole life before her, on the cusp of womanhood and so much possibility.
How do ye feel about the painting?
The truth?
Violet hated it.
Not for how it portrayed them all, per se.
But for
the happiness it represented.
The paradise lost.
For the bittersweet memory of the time when the two people Violet loved more than anything—her mother and Dahlia—were yet living.
Before she had been left so very alone.
She felt Mr. Campbell’s eyes on her, her skin tingling from the weight, but when she turned back to him, his head was bent over his drawing.
Had he been sketching her as she tumbled into memory? And, if so, what stories did her expression tell?
He was dressed in a great kilt again—this time a blue-and-green tartan—a slightly crisper version of the kilt he had worn when she encountered him atop the cliffs. A lock of his ginger hair tumbled across his forehead. Her fingers itched to push it back.
He flipped over the page and then continued sketching, hazel eyes occasionally raising to skim her.
The sheer intensity of his focus was . . . disarming. Riveting.
Though, he had sketched her once already. And in that moment, he had drawn her as a goddess. But she had goaded—no, dared!—him to capture her. Depicting her as a goddess could have been a gentle jest.
How did his artist’s eye truthfully see her? And why did she fear his answer?
Would he see the teetering imbalance of her? The fractured sense of self and rampant vacillation?
Would he see the jagged wounds of Dahlia’s decisions—
No . . . that wasn’t quite it. Guilt forced her to acknowledge the full truth.
Would Mr. Campbell see the jagged wounds left by the decisions Violet had encouraged Dahlia to make?
There. She could admit as much.
The steady calm of Mr. Campbell’s presence loosened her tongue.
“The fourth figure is my younger sister, Dahlia,” Violet answered after a moment. “I imagine you have heard of her by now.”
“I have heard the name, yes. But little else.” His head remained bent over his sketchbook. “She is the sister just younger than yourself?”
A long pause and then Violet replied:
“Yes. She was. Dahlia was the sister just younger than myself.”
Mr. Campbell’s head snapped upright, as if her words were a physical thing traveling with enough force to push his chin upwards.