by Nichole Van
While sitting for her portrait, Lady Kildrum had become Violet for him—a rare treasure of a woman with the cares of the world on her shoulders.
He was helpless to think of her any other way.
Two days after that portrait session, Ewan stood in the damp coolness of his glasshouse studio. The sun had cleared the horizon only an hour previous, and its warmth had not yet evaporated the condensation trickling down the inside of the windows. Ewan’s breath left him in white puffs.
He would be helping Sir Joshua after luncheon, but this morning was for him alone.
He tapped his fingers against his kilt, surveying the canvases leaning against the stone wall opposite the bank of windows.
Ideas and thoughts pounded him, creative bursts of scenes and compositions.
His eyes dipped to the clifftop painting . . . the blackhouse with its amorphous smoke, the golden sand of the beach echoed in the silver-gold crest of the ocean waves.
How had Violet understood the profound depth of this scene? The gaping hole it left in his heart?
He lifted the painting up, tracing a finger along the figure walking toward the house.
Mhairi . . . a basket braced on her hip with an earasaid wrapped around her head, the wool woven in the brown and russet tartan of their village. He could nearly hear her singing Fear a’ Bhàta as she walked, the Gaelic lyrics mingling with the hiss of the waves—Mo shoraidh slàn leat ‘s gach àit’ an téid thu.
My farewell to ye where’er ye go.
Ewan’s throat closed, and he abruptly found himself blinking.
This was why he did not linger on such memories. They rendered him weepy and suffering and filled with such helpless anger . . .
Hurt from the wounds of Mhairi’s betrayal.
Fury over his powerlessness to help her.
Eight years. Eight years of living his life without her. Of being unable to reach her in any way. Eight years since he had broken that promise made long before—
Care for Mhairi. Keep her safe.
He had done a piss-poor job of both.
The guilt of it would forever be his burden, like Atlas, doomed to carry its weight.
Ewan scrubbed a hand through his hair, shaking away the morose thoughts.
He had begun the painting as an exercise based on Sir Joshua’s words from that first night in the castle:
We bleed every time we paint. Never forget it.
The problem, of course, was that such metaphorical bloodletting was agonizingly painful. Was it truly necessary to create great art?
If you wish to be great, find the courage to paint your demons.
Ewan sighed again.
He wanted that greatness. He ached for it.
He had sacrificed everything for it.
Mhairi had as well, in her way.
He had to honor that sacrifice, to give this everything he had.
But thoughts of Mhairi sent him winging through the past, landing on the one memory he wished most to avoid—the leaping flames, the ghastly screams echoing through the night—
No!
He shuddered, running a shaking palm over his face. He braced his hands on the work table near his easel, chest heaving, that salmon-colored emotion swamping him. He could feel the tense quivering in his muscles, the same bloody reaction.
Would that night never cease to haunt him? Was the trauma of it embedded in the very sinews of his body?
He swallowed, over and over.
Violet’s voice rose in his mind, her bravery in telling him about Dahlia. The quiver in her words as she faced the pain.
He may not be ready to face the memory of that night, but he could still be brave and examine other painful memories.
As if the dam had been burst, image after image assailed him.
He snatched up his sketchpad and began drawing.
It felt as if the ghosts of women he had lost were looking over his shoulder.
Violet tried to avoid Mr. Campbell.
Well . . . she thought about trying, at least.
Or rather . . . she felt guilty for not thinking upon trying.
She genuinely did. Honest truth.
She was hand-caught-in-Cook’s-biscuit-tin guilty over her lack of concern.
The problem, of course, was that even as a child, such guilt had not stopped Dahlia and herself from raiding the kitchen every time Cook’s back was turned.
Guilt, as it turned out, was a terrible motivator.
Worse, Aster and Rose had taken to calling Mr. Campbell by his Christian name—Ewan.
Not to his face, of course. But Violet overheard their comments:
“Ewan was looking terribly fine this morning. Did you not see?” and “Did you hear Ewan and Uncle are coming for dinner tonight? You mustn’t monopolize him this time.”
Naturally, Violet corrected her sisters every time—He is to be referred to as Mr. Campbell or sir, nothing else!—for all the good it did.
Their father was nearly apoplectic.
“Have you no sense at all, daughters?!” he railed against the twins one morning after breakfast. “Are you deaf to Lady Graham’s censure? To the very real consequences that this nonsense leads to? You were old enough when Dahlia ran off to comprehend the repercussions of her actions.”
Violet bent her head over her egg cup, not wishing to be drawn into the argument.
“We are not planning on running away with Mr. Campbell, Father,” Rose attempted to reassure him. “It is merely talk that Aster and myself consider humorous.”
“Humorous? I fail to find anything jovial about it, young lady. Behavior leads to habit. And I cannot imagine the scandal should you behave like this in front of a gentleman.”
“Well, Father,” Aster joined in, “it is fortunate that there are no other gentleman about besides Mr. Campbell—”
“I would scarcely categorize Mr. Campbell as a gentleman.” Their father’s fork clattered to his plate. “He was certainly not born to it.”
Violet longed to roll her eyes. Instead, she stabbed a toast soldier into her egg yolk.
Rose reached for a warm potato scone. “Perhaps not, but his manners and demeanor are certainly more agreeable than those of many other gentlemen—”
“Then I daresay you have not met enough proper gentlemen, daughter,” Mr. Kerr replied.
“I could not agree more, Father,” Aster said, voice treacly sweet. “Our lack of interaction with gentlemen is truly appalling. Perhaps we could visit the London townhouse this autumn.”
Aster looked at her fingernails as if her suggestion was of no import. But the sheer nonchalance of it made Violet wonder if her sisters had staged this entire scene simply to manipulate their father into taking them to London.
Gracious. The twins were a handful.
“I am not going to London,” their father shuddered. “The very thought is anathema. Young ladies should be able to reside in the country without falling into folly! You will cease flirting with the man—”
“We do not flirt with Ewan—”
“Mr. Campbell! The man is to remain Mr. Campbell to you all. I will hear no more on this subject!”
Of course, Aster and Rose did not change their behavior.
They simply stopped talking about Mr. Campbell in front of their father.
It only took two days before Violet was mentally referring to him as Ewan herself.
Heavens, but it was all such a slippery slope.
It didn’t help that Uncle Joshua and Ewan had begun trekking up to Kilmeny Hall to dine each evening.
“I am weary of eating cheese and toast with cold ham,” Uncle had said, running a hand down his lemony-yellow waistcoat. “And why go to the expense of employing two cooks?”
Uncle was his usual gregarious self during these dinners. But Ewan proved himself an amiable dinner companion. Though not as theatrical as her uncle, he possessed wry wit and a clever mind. Moreover, he was exquisitely mannered and comfortable dining en famille.
Give
n what Violet knew of Ewan’s past—which was, admittedly, not much—she found this a puzzle.
Her sisters were not wrong: Ewan appeared the consummate gentleman. And yet, as her father had noted, he had not been born into the gentry class.
His speech marked him as coming from the western isles, and as such, she assumed his upbringing to be humble. The kilts he typically wore testified of this.
That said, there was significant refinement to him. Ewan owned fine clothing and wore it like a gentleman when the need arose. And he knew how to behave in polite society.
Even more puzzling were the letters that kept arriving for Mr. Campbell.
In all truth, the letters themselves were nothing extraordinary. Everyone received post.
It was just . . . his letters were franked by some rather illustrious persons.
Two came with the Earl of Mainfeld’s signature scrawled across the bottom, supplying the postage. Another arrived with the Marquess of Wanleigh’s name signed.
Violet knew it could simply be a coincidence. Peers often left franked envelopes for guests. It was one of the advantages of having friends with connections to the peerage—postage supplied gratis. So perhaps the letters were from clients with connections to the Peers franking the post.
But there were so many noblemen.
Lord Hadley appeared to be the most prolific. Violet had counted no fewer than five letters franked with the man’s name.
She knew it was none of her business. But still she mused over the puzzle of it.
Ewan could easily be conducting business with connections to these nobles. Heavens, the lords themselves could be his clients.
But Ewan spoke only of clients in Edinburgh. The letters were franked by noblemen living primarily in England. So why would English clients be soliciting a painter living in Edinburgh instead of London?
Ugh.
Ewan’s correspondence was his own affair.
She should feel guilty for prying.
But, again, guilt was a poor motivator.
She should be spending her time trying to make a firm decision about what to do with the Manna Loan coming due.
Meetings with her solicitor were inconclusive.
“The loan is a pressing concern, my lady,” Mr. Lawyerly said on a dreich Monday morning. “Have you pondered selling on the large, southern tack?”
No. She hadn’t. Not to the degree required.
How did she wish to repay the loan?
Sell the fiefdom-sized tack and use the grassum to pay it off, which is what her mother had wished her to do?
Violet could, but doing so left the tenants in another’s hands, not to mention incurred a loss of future revenue.
So . . . perhaps she should retain the southern tack and sell the London town house instead?
But Violet shied away from selling the townhouse in Mayfair. The building embodied her childhood, from the wisteria her mother treasured creeping over the front portico to the scuffed armoire in the study where she and Dahlia would hide from their nurse. The house was a vivid reminder of her mother and Dahlia and the thousands of memories they had made there together.
And, of course, if she sold the townhouse in order to retain the large tack, then she would have to hire stewards and staff and oversee the lot herself. She envisioned endless choices between oats and potatoes.
The thought could give her nightmares.
But it could come out all right, too. She didn’t dislike working with Mr. Shambles to manage the much smaller tack.
Staring at the problem was a bit like looking into the black depths of a sea cave. She could only suppose what lay beyond. It could be just more wet stone and dank air. Or it could be Aladdin’s Cave of Wonders, full of crystal stalactites and wondrous shapes.
But in order to know which it would be, one had to enter the cave.
Violet rubbed her forehead.
“Are there any other solutions to consider, Mr. Lawyerly?” she asked. “Anything at all?”
He pursed his lips. “I suppose, if your ladyship is truly opposed to selling the tack or the townhouse, we could consider mortgaging the townhouse to pay the Manna Loan. Of course, such a mortgage would negate any increased revenue from retaining the tack, so in the end, it feels rather pointless.” He cleared his throat. “It is why I have not suggested it as a solution up to this point, my lady.”
Mmmm. Yes, incurring another loan to pay the first would be . . . unhelpful.
Mr. Lawyerly laid his next words carefully, “I must be honest with you, my lady. If you wish to retain both the tack and the townhouse, you will likely need to marry.”
Violet barely managed a nod.
That was the third solution, was it not? Marry someone wealthy. Someone who would manage the tack for her and pay off the Manna Loan without anything having to be sold.
Someone meaning Lord Graham.
Not that the man had officially offered for her.
Not that she necessarily wished to marry him.
“It would be wise to begin making decisions, your ladyship,” Mr. Lawyerly continued.
Ah, yes . . . decisions!
Her nemesis.
In the end, she begged a few more weeks to ponder the problem.
Of course, the only questions she wanted answered were those pertaining to a certain Highland painter who sent her thoughts down forbidden paths.
And so, when yet another letter arrived from Lord Hadley for Ewan, Violet called for her bonnet.
She needed some exercise, after all, and the weather was lovely. A short walk down to Old Kilmeny Castle would allow her to stretch her legs and perhaps clear her mind.
Even better, it meant she could deliver the letter herself.
13
Violet found Ewan in his greenhouse-turned-studio.
The large, glass door was ajar, likely to let out heat as the day had warmed considerably.
Sunlight filtered down through gauze-draped skylights and bounced from the wall of windows facing the ocean, creating a symphony of glowing light in the space.
Ewan stood with his back to her, concentrating on the canvas in front of him.
That same russet-and-gray great kilt wrapped around his hips, but he had loosened the upper half that normally swathed his chest, causing it to drape behind, the weight of the plaid hanging nearly to the heel of his scuffed leather boots. He had shed his coat, too, and therefore painted in his shirt sleeves. No cravat or waistcoat. Just a shirt and kilt.
It was a state of dishabille that should have had Violet retreating back up the path—or, at the very least, blushing cherry red—but instead, she stared from the greenhouse doorway, drinking in the sight.
Her greedy eyes skimmed the flex of muscle underneath the shirt linen—the faint color of his skin, the ripple of his shoulder blade as he brushed paint onto the canvas.
He held a palette in his left hand. The few times a governess had forced a palette into Violet’s palm, it had felt enormous. A giant, unwieldy fan of a device.
However, like everything else about him, Ewan’s hands were mammoth-sized. And so his palette became a child’s plaything in his palm. His brush strokes were similarly incongruous, dainty and delicate.
She remembered Lord Graham’s words from the dinner party a week past.
Seems a shame for so much brawn to be wasted on daubs of paint.
And as it had then, indignation rose in her chest.
From the bit of the painting she could see peeking out, nothing about the man’s talent was squandered effort.
As if feeling the weight of her scrutiny, Ewan turned.
Something flashed across his face—surprise? dismay?—and then vanished behind a polite mask.
“Lady Kildrum.” He set down his palette and dropped his brush in a cup of turpentine before snagging a rag and wiping his hands. He gave a small bow. “Tae what do I owe the pleasure?”
“A letter came for you.” Violet stepped fully into the greenhouse and extended the letter in
her hand, abruptly aware of how flimsy her reasoning sounded. “I was walking this way and thought to deliver it.”
She might as well have said, I was desperate to see you, and so I snagged on this paltry excuse.
If he agreed with her thoughts, he didn’t show it.
“Thank ye.” He took the letter from her, glanced at the front, and then merely held it at his side.
Violet chewed on her cheek.
Drat.
What was she hoping he would do? Read it to her aloud? Confide all his secrets?
Ugh.
Worse, her eyes snagged on the neckline of his linen shirt, the V of the open collar acting like an anchor to her gaze, dragging it down to the exposed skin there. The feeling of being tucked against that very chest flooded her, sending heat chasing along her skin.
She nearly swayed toward him, so strong was the pull.
Before she could make an even greater fool of herself, she spun in a circle, as if taking in the greenhouse.
Paintings leaned against the walls. The canvas she had seen him painting atop the cliff was placed in front. But there were snippets of others. A hawk-nosed profile here. The glimmer of pink satin and a frilled bonnet there.
Soon she found herself lost in russet horizons and green trees and boundless oceans.
Eventually, she circled back around.
Ewan had opened the letter, reading it with furrowed brow.
Violet seized the opening. “All good news, I hope?”
He lifted his head, eyes a question mark.
She motioned toward the letter.
“Aye,” he nodded. “It seems I must away to Aberdeen tomorrow.”
“Aberdeen?”
“I’ve some business to attend to. It willnae take long.”
He turned from her and tossed the letter onto his work desk as if it were of no consequence.
Mmmm, business with Lord Hadley? What could that be?
Violet swallowed, pushing the thought away.
Stop this.
Let it be.
Her eyes drifted back to that tantalizing V of skin, the hollow at the base of his throat.