by Nichole Van
He turned in a circle, waving an arm as he lectured her, his lean shoulder blades pressing against the fabric of his coat. When had her father become so thin? Was he eating enough? She disliked noting these tiny instances of his humanity.
She wanted to remain angry.
She wanted her father to be strong enough to bear the burden of her anger.
“I shall find a way, Father.” Violet threw her hands in the air. “But hurling myself upon the altar of marriage as some sort of barbaric sacrifice to a man I do not love will not be the solution—”
“You must cease with this selfish thinking, Violet! As I have repeatedly said, true love is built upon a foundation of similar upbringing, breeding, and expectations. Burning passion is fleeting, quickly reducing itself to caustic ash. The earldom has already experienced the devastation of one profligate daughter. Do not think to add your name to the score. We cannot bear another scandal. Your behavior, more than anything, will set the stage for us all. You are being willfully blind to reality!”
The conversation had gone on in circles.
It ended with Mr. Kerr storming out of the room and Violet flushed and angry, bruised by the truths buried in his loud words.
She found herself pacing the empty drawing room, the paintings of the past scrolling by in a sequence of powdered wigs and gilt scepters. The cumulative judgmental eyes of her forebears weighted upon her.
She finally paused in front of the portrait of her mother with Violet and her sisters.
Violet’s gaze lingered on Dahlia, staring at her sister’s vibrant face.
Had Dahlia truly been happy in her marriage? And even if she hadn’t been, it did not follow that Violet would regret her own path, did it?
Surely, Violet and Ewan could find a way. They had to.
She could not imagine life without him.
Regardless, the entire experience forced Violet to act. As she had said to her father, she could not marry Lord Graham. She simply could not.
She wanted more from a marriage than Lord Graham could offer her. She had merely been too afraid to reach for it.
As for Lady Graham and her sponsorship of Aster and Rose, Violet would simply have to find another solution.
And so before she did anything else, she penned Lord Graham a polite letter, kindly but firmly refusing his offer of marriage. She told him the truth—that she could not envision a future with him.
And then she slipped out of the house to sneak a kiss with her painter in his studio.
Life had never been so glorious.
For Ewan, the weeks passed in a sort of hazy, dream-like wonder.
He spent his days as he always had: painting, drawing, modeling when needed. He laughed with Sir Joshua over lunch and trekked up to Kilmeny Hall most evenings for dinner. The meals were boisterous affairs, everyone blithely ignoring Mr. Kerr’s stern glances. Ewan told tales of his travels, and Lady Aster and Lady Rose eventually dragged out a large atlas, insisting he show them everything on the map, from Loch Carron where he was born to the likely location of The Minerva’s wreck.
Once a week, Ewan would arrive with his supplies at Kilmeny Hall and continue his portrait of Violet. He had finally decided how he wished to paint her, but he kept it secret, refusing to show her the painting in progress. As a bonus, the chaperoning maid often fell asleep in her corner, allowing Ewan to steal a kiss.
But it was the truly private moments with Violet he treasured most. Nearly every day, she would slip away from her duties and meet him—painting in his greenhouse studio, walking along the cliffs, kissing in the leeward side of the castle and hidden from view.
Every day he fell a wee bit further.
Violet told him that Lord Graham had proposed marriage, but she had refused him. For Ewan, knowing that his Violet was actively choosing him, just as he chose her, set him to smiling for days on end.
She regaled him with stories of her hours spent studying agriculture. He saw her tromping the fields from a distance, talking with Mr. Shambles and learning from him. She had hired another steward and was taking tentative steps toward managing her own lands.
And Violet finding her footing inspired Ewan to push himself harder and higher.
His painting for the Royal Academy Exhibition poured out of him, a frenzied burst of creativity sprawling across the canvas in vivid color. It was painful and anguished and brutally honest.
The only spot of darkness came in the form of a letter from Andrew about a month after his visit:
My Runner has confirmed that Cuthie accepted command of a ship and, along with Massey, has sailed for Jamaica. So until they return, answers will be difficult.
Additionally, Kieran has utterly disappeared. We cannot find him, at the moment. I’ve sent my Runner after him, so hopefully he will resurface somewhere. There is nothing we can do until then. As you can imagine, we are all greatly concerned . . .
But even worry over Kieran could not dampen Ewan’s spirits.
Violet shone too brightly.
Once she knew the shape of her future, Violet found herself expressing opinions and giving instructions with surprising ease.
Miss Compton returned—as her mother’s health had improved—soothing Violet’s worries over her sisters. Their governess cum lady’s companion was a positive influence on Aster and Rose.
Violet took up Sir Rafe’s advice and began actively learning from Mr. Shambles and other farmers in the area. The hours were often long, but her mind whirred from the possibilities.
So when Mr. Lawyerly asked her, yet again, what she wished to do with the unsold tack, she had an answer—I wish to manage it myself.
She knew that such a decision meant she had to find another way to pay the upcoming Manna Loan. But the note was not due until autumn, and she still had time to arrive at a solution. Perhaps she could mortgage the London townhouse and simply economize further at Kilmeny Hall to make up the difference. She kept tallying the numbers, trying to find a way to make it all work.
In the meantime, with Mr. Shambles’ help, she hired another steward and tasked him with employing a group of tradesmen—carpenters, glaziers, laborers—to assist in maintaining the hundreds of tenant properties and lands attached to the large tack.
Though Ewan did not help her with any of it, she could feel the steady presence of his support at her back. He listened patiently, offered sound advice where he could, and most importantly, expressed his belief in her abilities to conquer the problems she encountered.
This, Violet realized, was the truest essence of friendship and love. Providing words of encouragement, a kind shoulder to lean on, a strong arm to support her when she was bone tired. It was rather shocking, to be honest. She had been alone in her burdens for so long that having a sympathetic ear felt akin to a revolution. Having a true friend who cheered one on was life altering.
Of course, Ewan’s support came with the added bonus of being snuggled against his mammoth chest and drowned in the heady delight of his kisses.
If Violet thought she was retaining at least some portion of her heart, that was quickly dashed one beautiful day in mid-June. The deadline for submission to the exhibition was rapidly approaching, and Sir Joshua was in a frenzy to finish his painting in time.
Violet had sneaked away from Kilmeny Hall, desperate for a few moments alone with Ewan. She had to be careful when she visited, as she did not wish to set tongues wagging (any more than they already were, to be sure). And so she usually would visit Sir Joshua first, knowing that there was no harm in paying a call upon one’s uncle.
On this day, she slipped into the great hall quietly. Not that she secretly longed to observe Ewan in a state of undress.
Oh, gracious. Who was she fooling?
She absolutely wished a repeat performance, but she had yet to experience one. And given how far along Sir Joshua was on the painting, it was not likely to happen.
So Violet wasn’t too disappointed to find the great hall deserted when she stepped through t
he door. But she was surprised to see Sir Joshua’s enormous canvas leaning against the wall. Her uncle, after all, was notoriously secretive about his works.
But today, the canvas stood front and center.
And it was magnificent.
Figures writhed in the foreground—Greek men in armor, horses trampling soldiers . . .
. . . and Ewan’s body everywhere.
A bare shoulder on a Persian captain. The chiseled pectoral of a Greek’s chest. The clenched thigh of an officer. It was like seeing Ewan in a room lined with mirrors. Every turn reflected another part of him back.
But her eye was drawn to the dying soldier in the foreground, the exact image she had witnessed Sir Joshua painting that day—Ewan sprawled across rocks, the red silk of a cloak wrapping his hips. Her uncle had captured the curves and sinuous shapes of him. Violet raised her hand and traced the round slope of Ewan’s shoulder with her fingertip. A blush burned her cheeks as she imagined doing the same with the flesh and blood man.
She left Kilmeny Castle with one thought:
She did not want life to be a choice between dull duty and brilliant desire. As her knowledge of land management had grown, so had her interest in it.
Perhaps she should apply that same logic to her relationship with Ewan in earnest—
Find a way to meet her obligations and still enjoy the glory of love.
23
Ewan’s work on his submission to the Royal Exhibition consumed him. It was as if once he let loose the floodgates on his memories, a tidal wave of pain poured out of him.
Sir Joshua had not been wrong.
We bleed every time we paint. Never forget it.
Every day Ewan dabbed his paint in the blood of his grief and spread it across the canvas. A vivid physical rendering of his pain.
Some days he could not see for the tears.
But the farther he progressed, the more the entire process became a catharsis. In facing his demons, he was also taming them, easing the horror of his memories.
The painting fought him, though. He struggled to get proportions right—the angle of the arm here, the twist of the fingers there.
So much so, that he finally asked Sir Joshua’s advice.
The older man traipsed down to Ewan’s studio to view the canvas. Sir Joshua stared at it for a solid five minutes in utter silence, his expression impassive.
“You are to be commended,” he finally said. “This will be your first masterpiece.”
Ewan basked in the compliment for a full two minutes and then buckled down to listen as Sir Joshua pointed out minute problems with his proportions on an outstretched arm and how to address them.
Ewan rushed to make adjustments to the canvas, completing the revisions Sir Joshua had suggested. He and Sir Joshua would leave in just four days to transport their respective paintings to London for submission.
Two days later, Violet arrived just as he finished pulling down the gauze blocking direct summer sunlight from the skylights overhead. He needed the light and heat of the greenhouse to help the painting dry before the trip to London.
Violet bustled into the studio in a windswept burst of skirts, hand clapped on her bonnet to keep it from sailing away.
“The wind never ceases,” she laughed, tugging the battered hat off her head to survey the damage.
Ewan was at her side in a moment, bending to drop a kiss on her upturned lips.
How he adored this—the privilege of kissing her.
“How fares your painting today, Sir Ewan?” Her voice rang with playful teasing.
She had taken to calling him that—Sir Ewan. His Violet was convinced that it was only a matter of time before he was knighted for his ‘artistic prowess.’
Realistically, Ewan recognized that such an accolade—were it to fall on him—was decades in the future.
But that did not stop his heart from lurching every time she mentioned it.
“If ye are angling tae see your own painting, lass, you’re bound for disappointment.” He steadfastly refused to let her see it. It rested in the great hall with his other canvases. He only brought paintings out to his studio as he worked on them.
“Very well. Then is today the day I get to finally see this one?” She pointed at the painting on his easel.
He raised his eyebrows.
Grinning, she darted to the right, attempting to get past him.
This was another game they played. Violet tried to see his Royal Academy painting, and he blocked her.
The game ended when he caught her about the waist and pulled her in for a lingering kiss.
Needless to say, the game usually ended very quickly. Ewan was quick on his feet, and Violet was not opposed to being caught.
Smiling, Ewan darted in front of her, preventing her from seeing the painting.
“What would ye do if I said yes?” he asked.
That got her attention, her expression instantly sobering. “Truly? Are you for certain? I know how deeply you have suffered for it.”
“Aye. ’Tis time.” He studied for a moment, her green-blue eyes wide, her lips turned up in excitement. “Close your eyes.”
Obediently, she snapped them shut.
Grinning, Ewan turned the easel around and placed it in front of her.
“Very well. Ye may look.”
Violet opened her eyes, staring at the painting.
Ewan wasn’t sure what he expected from her. A gasp? A squeal of delight?
She did none of those things.
Instead, Violet stood intensely still, her body taut, as if bracing for a blow.
Only her eyes darted—back and forth, side to side—with an almost unholy frenzy.
Was this good? Or bad?
“You’re terribly quiet, lass,” he said. “Do ye not like it?”
Violet wondered if this was how a prizefighter felt after receiving a blow to the head—the buzzing in her ears, the hum in her breathing.
The image before her . . .
Oh, Ewan, her heart sobbed in her chest. What have you borne?
She recognized the scene from his telling of the tale. But seeing it splashed across a canvas in such vivid color . . .
A blue sea.
A cliff.
A different sea and cliff than the ones she knew.
A house ablaze dominated the image. A blackhouse, its thatch consumed in flames of blood red and burnt orange that rose to tangle with the fiery sunset of the sky.
Shadowy shapes of villagers ran in the background, scrambling for buckets.
Two figures dominated the foreground—a tall boy and a slender girl. The girl pulled at his hand reaching toward the house, a dramatic diagonal slash, as if desperate to rush toward the building. But he held her tight, wet sooty streaks raining down his cheeks.
The pain of the moment was echoed in the dreamlike quality of the lines. This was no crisp drawing. The colors bled into one another, shapes blurring at the edges, everything having the suggestion of form but begging the viewer to supply the sharper details from imagination.
But no matter where Violet’s eyes landed in the painting, they eventually worked their way back to one stark, ghastly detail—
A hand stretching out a window of the burning house.
A silent scream for help, for rescue, for mercy.
How had he done that? How had Ewan taken the cacophony of the moment—the color, the motion, the drama—and distilled it down to that solitary, horrific detail?
Something wet hit the back of her hand. She raised her fingers to her cheek, astonished to find tears there.
“Oh, lass, I’ve made ye greet,” he murmured.
“Tears are . . . necessary.” Such an outpouring of emotion could only be met with more emotion.
“Are they?”
“Yes,” she nodded, hiccupping. “The painting is b-brilliant. It will b-be selected, I have no d-doubt.”
He reached for her, and Violet collapsed against his chest, burying her face in the plaid of hi
s great kilt.
It felt too much—the sheer miracle of him.
That he had lived when others had died.
That he and wee Mhairi had been left alone, tossed out into the world like unwanted refuse.
That he had not crumpled, but had instead risen like a phoenix from the ashes of that fire, literally fighting his way free.
All to end up in her carriage that day, beaten and battered, but indomitable.
If he had deviated even the slightest—
“There, now,” he murmured in her ear. “It isnae that bad, is it?”
Violet pulled back with a sniffle. “I cannot bear to think of you hurt. I simply cannot bear it. What if you had not survived? What if you had succumbed to starvation or deprivation or—”
“Ah, lass.” He wiped her cheek with his thumb. “I’m here now, am I not? There were a thousand ‘what ifs’ between the painting and my standing in this place.”
Violet hiccupped.
“But I am here,” he continued, stroking her cheek.
She popped up on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck before even realizing what she was doing.
Her kiss said what words could not.
That she adored him.
That she could not bear being parted from him.
The answering hunger in his lips said he understood. That their souls breathed in synchronized time.
One of his large hands pressed against the small of her back, the other traced her jaw, his thumb continuing to brush her cheek—
A crash sounded.
Violet flinched.
“Unhand my daughter this instant!” A harsh voice cried behind her.
Violet lurched out of Ewan’s hold, whirling around with a terrified squeak.
Her father stood in the doorway, eyes bulging, face turning red. The greenhouse door still quivered on its hinges.
“How dare you touch her!” Her father advanced on Ewan. “I shall have you arrested!”