by Nichole Van
Violet nearly laughed at the frustration in his voice. “That is all I want, Ewan! I only want your heart. Your clever mind. Your capable hands. I don’t require anything else.”
“I love ye, lass.” He cradled her face with his free palm. “You’re the very heart beating in my chest. I cannae think that I will ever love anything so well as you.”
“Then why do I hear doubt in your voice?”
“Because all the reasons your father stated are true, lass.” She sensed that he laid the words carefully, a painter gently dabbing in color. “We are living a wee fairy tale.”
“Ewan—”
“Nae, mo chridhe. Let me finish. For ourselves, we dinnae care what Society thinks of us. ’Tis likely better for my career as an artist tae be seen as a wee bit of a rebel . . . a dash of Lord Byron or Mr. Coleridge. And ye have been kind enough tae say ye dinnae care what the consequences are—”
“I don’t,” she whispered. “I truly don’t. Any snubbing I might receive is a small price to pay for having you at my side.”
He stroked a thumb down her cheek. “But there is a rub, lass. Our decision doesnae affect only ourselves. Ye have obligations that weigh on ye. How will ye pay off the Manna Loan? How will ye provide for your tenants and your family?”
“We’ll find a way, Ewan. We will!”
“Perhaps. But at what cost? I live with the pain of having bought my future on the back of a sister’s misery. I thought I had set that grief behind me—that I’d put that fire out—and accepted Mhairi’s sacrifice—” He gasped, biting hard on his lower lip to stop it quivering.
He swallowed. Hard.
The actions of a man desperate to hold back an emotional storm.
It was too much.
His pain was her own, and she could not sit helplessly by. That had always been their dynamic, had it not? From that first meeting in the carriage so long ago when she had found him, a tormented creature half-feral with anguish over Mhairi’s actions.
Violet leaned forward and kissed him.
She pressed her mouth to his, threaded her fingers into his hair, and let her body speak her truths.
You are worthy of love.
I will happily bear the consequences of our decisions.
I stand with you.
Ewan returned her affection ten-fold.
The hunger in his mouth, the near desperation in his taste. The trembling of his hands cupping her cheeks.
He pulled back, pressing his forehead to hers before reluctantly removing his hands and sitting back.
“I’ve sat here—” He waved a hand toward the ocean. “—and all I can see is my own self-portrait, over and over in my head.”
“A self-portrait?”
“Aye. But ’tis not a straight-forward image. It’s a cacophonous jumble. Shards of glass and my insides turned out, all reflected in shattered bits. A guttural scream of line and color titled Grief: Man Broken.”
“Ewan, my heart—” She licked a tear from her upper lip.
“Your da is right.” He met her eyes then. “Sometimes the price of love is too high. Sometimes the price of success is too high. My father gave me a sacred duty tae care for my sister. And yet I left Mhairi—” His voice broke. “—I left her in squalor and despair. I purchased success on the back of her pain and disregarded the love between us. How could I do that tae her? How could I think that nursing my hurt pride was more important than her life and well-being?”
“She cast you out! You had no choice!”
“Didn’t I?” He sank his head into his hands. “We always have choice. And in the case of Mhairi, I moved on. I embraced my desires for my own future and, over time, I thought I had accepted Mhairi’s decision—” he gasped. “That the wound of her betrayal did not require action on my part. That in rejecting me, I had to do the same to her. I had to un-choose her. Today . . . today has shown me that I still have an obligation to her.”
He dragged his knuckles across his eyes, the joints bruised and red from his altercation with Lord Graham.
Violet was quite sure her heart looked similarly battered.
“I have paid a steep price for my current life, and it’s destroying me, bit by bit. I ken that now.” He let out a long, shuddering breath. The sound of a giant breaking. “I have tae embrace my duty again. To make things right with Mhairi before I move forward again. I chose the shape of our lives for Mhairi and myself as children. But then she turned the tables, choosing the shape of our future. It is time for Mhairi and I to choose each other. To cease this back and forth.”
“But . . . but what of . . . us?” Violet all but cried the words.
“Ah, my love. That is the problem, is it not? Choosing me means un-choosing others. Like me, you have obligations to your own. You—my beautiful, precious lass—need tae look at those lovely sisters of yours and decide if ye can choose an uncertain future for them. Can you purchase your happiness at the expense of theirs? Because, I can tell ye from my own experience, it is a terrible cross to bear.”
The anguish in his voice nearly broke her.
Her heart pounded a frantic panic in her chest.
“I cannot lose you,” she gasped. “I cannot! I will not!”
“Ye say that now. But what will ye do when your sisters are poor and cast off because of whom they marry, like Dahlia? Or when they are forced tae marry men who use them ill, like Mhairi? How will ye feel then, when it’s their hardship on your head? How will ye feel when your own children suffer the same?”
Violet hiccupped and pressed a fist to her mouth.
She could not answer.
Dahlia had chosen that life deliberately, and had it given her happiness in the end?
“I cannae bear the thought that ye will suffer the same pain over your sisters’ future as I have borne for Mhairi,” he continued. “For myself, I cannae accept that I, once again, will choose happiness on the back of others’ misery. I cannae do it.”
He paused, gazing out over the sea, swiping those red knuckles under his eyes, pressing the wetness of his tears back into his skin, as if absorbing their grief.
“I love ye, mo chridhe.” He turned to her, his hazel eyes glossy “But I will be leaving in the morning to find Mhairi. The journey to Loch Carron is not a short or easy one, so I cannae say when I will return.”
“Ewan, p-please. P-promise you will return to m-me?”
“Violet.” Her name left his lips in an anguished rush. “I know we had hoped tae find a third way down the cliff, to secure ourselves with ropes or some such. But in that vision, we failed tae understand that we were both already tethered to others. That our fall topples them with us. I fear there is no rope strong enough to hold us all together. That no matter what we do, we will all be dashed upon the rocks.”
He trailed a finger down her cheek.
“I choose you. I will always choose you. But . . . I choose all of ye. Even the parts of ye that must adhere tae duty and protect those in your care . . . the part that includes not choosing me. Sometimes, mo chridhe, love is truly not enough. And knowing that,” he hiccupped, his parting words nearly a sob, “. . . I cannae see a happy ending for you and me.”
26
Violet woke the next morning with a pounding headache and an aching heart.
Ewan said he would be leaving at first light, determined to track down Mhairi on the banks of Loch Carron.
Her lungs constricted at the thought of him leaving, of the real possibility that she might never see him again.
Why had she not pressed him harder?
Violet dressed quickly. Perhaps he had not left yet. Perhaps there was time still.
An hour later, she ran up the main stairs of Old Kilmeny Castle.
“Violet, I wondered if I would see you today.” Uncle Joshua turned from packing his masterpiece for the journey to London, a rueful grimace on his face. Though his waistcoat was as colorful as ever—a vibrant green shot with silver thread. “I could pretend that I don’t know why you are h
ere, but that would be futile.” He sighed, wiping his hands on a nearby rag. “Ewan is gone.”
“Truly?” She made no attempt to hide her devastation.
“Yes. He left before the sun rose. I am sorry, child.”
Violet lifted her head to stare at the ceiling, willing the tears back.
But it was no use. They tumbled and spilled free.
“Here.” Uncle Joshua pressed a handkerchief into her palm and led her to a chair before the hearth. The air was warm again today, so no fire was lit.
She dabbed at her cheeks, sniffling.
“Did Ewan tell you?” she asked.
“Some.” A pause. “Enough.”
Violet hiccupped. What was she to do? Ewan’s words would not let her be.
“He wouldn’t stay.” A hitch in her voice. “He left.”
“I understand that he felt there were matters that needed to be resolved.”
“Yes, but he refused to say when or if he will return. He fears he will make me unhappy. Do you disapprove of a match between Ewan and myself?” She had to ask it.
“Heavens, no! If anything, I have been encouraging it.”
“You have?” Violet’s head snapped upright. “Despite our difference in station?”
“Of course.” Sir Joshua smiled fondly at her. “Ewan is a remarkable man. I can think of no one who would be better suited for you. I’ve been trying to convince him of that fact. He can be a bit stubborn at times, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“But . . . why? Why would you encourage us?”
“You know my past, Violet.” Her uncle shook his head, a tired sadness there. A glimmer of an ache that had never healed. “I find it distasteful to separate two kindred souls over something as paltry as parentage or social station. I know your parents both wished you to marry Lord Graham. But I do not like him . . . well, not for you at least. He would always see you as an object to be protected, not a woman to be loved. There is a meanness in his lordship that will only grow over time. More to the point, I wish you to have greater freedom than I was given.”
Oh! Her uncle’s kind words sent her tears tumbling again.
Violet wiped her cheeks. “Ewan fears we will claim our happiness on the backs of my sisters’ misery. That in choosing him, I will also choose an uncertain future for Aster and Rose.”
“Ah.” Sir Joshua’s chin went up. “That is a valid concern. I hadn’t thought of it in precisely those terms, but . . .”
“But?”
“But Ewan is not wrong to be worried about it.”
“Dahlia’s choices nearly destroyed us as a family,” Violet whispered. “I encouraged her, you know. She was so in love with Mr. Martinelli, and I hated seeing her turmoil. I wanted her happiness—”
“And she was happy, Violet. She was.”
“But was she truly? In hindsight, I have often wondered. Did I encourage Dahlia because it was the best decision for her? Or was I caught up in the romance of her forbidden love, too? Was I so stifled in my role as heir that I pushed her to rebel and elope because I could not? So in the end, her choice was more mine than hers.”
“I hadn’t realized that you still suffered so from Dahlia’s decisions. You cannot lay her choices at your feet, Violet.”
Violet sat back in the chair, gaze drifting upward to rest on the plasterwork ceiling. “I regret that she suffered. I regret that she may have regretted her decision—”
“Dahlia never regretted her decision, Violet.”
His tone caused Violet to snap her head upright. Uncle Joshua’s expression was deadly earnest.
“You were not the only one who encouraged her decision. I did so, too.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I wished to give Dahlia and her husband the support and understanding that had never been shown to me. And so I wrote to her often and sent money when I could. I can say, unequivocally, that your sister was luminously happy in her life. She never regretted her choices. I visited her, you see, about a month before she died. They were living in a row house on the edge of New Town in Edinburgh.”
“Why have you not told me this?”
“I did not think it mattered, child. You grieved Dahlia, as we all did. I feared describing my visit would only serve to remind you of all you had lost, and I did not wish to add to your pain.” He sighed. “I can see now that I erred.”
“Tell me. Tell me everything.”
“Dahlia was well when I visited. Mr. Martinelli had acquired several new patrons, and they had been able to hire a second maid. Dahlia was . . . radiant.” Uncle Joshua spread his hands, as if trying to capture the emotion. “She laughed and chattered gaily. I dangled her son on my knee and stayed long enough to ask her more serious questions, to truly gauge how much of her attitude was mere playacting and how much was genuine.” He fixed her with an intent stare. “Violet, you must believe me in this: Dahlia was sincerely happy. She loved her husband wholly. She was excited about his prospects. Money had been tight here and there, but she wasn’t troubled by it. Her wants were simple, and she had all she needed in her husband and son.”
Violet buried her face in her hands, her body shaking with sobs.
Why had she needed to hear this so badly? Why did this feel strangely like . . . absolution?
Uncle Joshua waited for her weeping to quiet.
Finally, she felt equal to raising her head and meeting his gaze.
“Listen, Violet.” He sat forward. “Early on, I suffered the pain of having the love of my life torn from me. From there, I spent my life as a painter. And being an artist for me meant living my life with a foot in two worlds: the world of Society and privilege, and the world of bohemian creativity that resides outside of that. As you well know, those who live in Society judge those who willfully choose to leave. They prefer to dispense cruelty to the rule-breaker, as the only alternative is to feel discontent for their own safe—and often regretted—choices.”
“But that cruelty has acutely real repercussions, Uncle.”
“It does. Had I been permitted to marry my love, I know I would have spent more of my life on the fringes of Society. But . . . I would have had the other half of my soul every hour of every day. Ewan and yourself face a difficult decision: do you willing to bear the consequences for choosing to have a foot in both worlds?”
He paused, sitting back and tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair, as if lost in memory. Finally, he shook his head and met her gaze, his own eyes shining and intent.
“If you hear nothing else, child, believe this from an older man who has seen much of sorrow and regret.” He sucked in a tight breath. “Life is long. Hardship is guaranteed. Suffering is certain. The only gift we’ve been granted is the ability to choose who will be at our side.”
Violet sniffed, taking in a stuttering breath. “For myself, I would choose Ewan in a flash—he is my heart’s desire!—but duty demands that I—”
“Ah, child, I do not like to hear you frame this choice as a difference between duty and desire. They are not opposing viewpoints. They are two sides of the same coin. Desire fuels duty and duty fuels desire. They must go hand-in-hand.”
“Perhaps, Uncle, but my sisters will suffer—”
“Ugh! Enough about us!” Aster’s voice came from the doorway of the great hall.
Violet swiveled around to see Aster and Rose stomp into the room.
“We saw you sneak out,” Aster began. “Miss Compton has a headache, so we were at loose ends.”
“And we’re so tired of being left out of all the delicious goings-on,” Rose continued.
“So we followed you.”
“And lucky we did! Miss Compton never tells us anything.”
Violet frowned. She had perhaps overestimated Miss Compton’s control over the twins.
Her sisters sat down in the remaining chairs before the fire.
“You need to go after Mr. Campbell, Violet.” Aster’s face was deadly earnest.
“Yes,” Rose agreed. “It’s
imperative.”
“We won’t tolerate any other solution,” Aster continued. “You and Mr. Campbell are perfect for one another. And you will be miserably unhappy without him.”
Violet sniffled back more tears.
Ah, her sweet sisters.
“Aster, Rose, you do realize that me marrying Mr. Campbell isn’t wise, correct?” She rested her head against the back of her chair, a tiredness settling into her bones. “You and Rose will face genuine problems if I choose to marry him. I’ve already destroyed the chances of Lady Graham sponsoring your Season in London—”
“Thank goodness!” Rose exclaimed.
“Amen,” Aster shuddered. “That woman is an utter harridan. We’re both most glad that you refused Lord Graham. It shows your good sense.”
Violet resisted the urge to massage her pounding temples. Her sisters were appallingly feather-headed at times.
“Violet,” Rose said, “I know that you think Aster and I are terribly feather-brained at times—”
Violet snorted. They had no idea.
“—but we have truly thought about this, you know. We do understand that there might be consequences to ourselves based on your choice of husband.”
“Yes,” Aster continued. “But the reality is this. First, we like Mr. Campbell.”
“He is good for you.” Rose leaned forward. “And he is good to you. And you deserve that. You need happiness in your life.”
“But you will suffer.” Violet tried to help them understand. “I will be choosing that hardship for you.”
“So?” Aster shrugged. “You suffered after Dahlia’ elopement, did you not?”
Violet sat back, not sure she liked where this was heading.
“Did you hate Dahlia for that?” Aster pressed her point. “Did you hold a grudge against her for making a choice that added difficulty to your life?”
“Of course not,” Violet all but sighed. “Dahlia was happy.”
Tears welled again at the words.
Dahlia was happy.
Her sister’s choices, though unconventional, had won her that happiness.