by Nichole Van
“Father!” Violet jumped in front of Ewan.
“Go back to the house, Violet. I will deal with you later.” Her father didn’t even look at her, his blue eyes slicing over Ewan. “I wish to speak with this . . . man.” He all but spat the last word.
“No.” Violet folded her arms.
“Lass,” Ewan’s voice was soft behind her, “perhaps ye should—”
“No,” she repeated. “If you have something to say to Ewan, Father, you can say it with me present. I will not be shoved aside. Whatever you say to him, clearly pertains to me as well.”
Now her father turned his head to stare at her.
Resentment clogged Violet’s throat. Her father was always like this. Quick with an opinion about how she should be behaving. Quick to judge her choices. Just as he had with Dahlia.
But never one to help. Never one to listen.
She hated that, to him, affection only moved in one direction—from a child to her parent, never the other way around.
Worse, she could feel age creeping up on him. That he would continue to rage, his mind forever stamped along one track, the volume of his threats eventually growing weaker and weaker.
Their relationship did not need to be like this. There could be understanding and love.
She reached behind her, a silent plea for Ewan to take her hand. The warm weight of his palm slid into hers, their fingers interlocking. A bond of support and love.
“You foolish, idiotic child,” her father began, blue eyes snapping.
“I would be careful how ye speak to Violet,” Ewan rumbled behind her.
Her father was a tall man, but he still had to raise his head to meet Ewan’s gaze.
“That is Lady Kildrum to you!”
“Enough!” Violet said.
Her father continued on, as if she had said nothing. “You will be the ruin of us all, you foolish, selfish chit! The family barely survived Dahlia and the scandal she tossed on our doorstep. But two daughters behaving in such an unseemly matter? I am still guardian to the twins. It is my duty to ensure their future happiness.” Her father made a slicing motion with his hand. “How many times must I say this? Society will never forgive it. Are you so lost to propriety that you would condemn your younger sisters to lives of penury?”
Violet rolled her eyes, squeezing Ewan’s hand. “Father, you are being a bit melodramatic. They have dowries—”
“Money is not everything. You think me old-fashioned and controlling, but I am neither. If anything, I am an oracle, prophesying doom.” Her father’s gaze morphed into a weary anger. A nearly desperate pleading that tugged at Violet more than his rage ever would. “What respectable man will marry your sisters after you and Dahlia so thoroughly tarnish the family reputation by cavorting with men of such lowly status—”
“Father, I will not have you disparage Mr. Campbell.”
“Mark my words, child. If you continue down this path—” He jabbed a finger over her shoulder at Ewan. “—you will doom your sisters to spinsterhood. Their dowries are not large enough to encourage a respectable gentleman to overlook the scandal. Moreover, you haven’t the funds to increase their dowries.”
Violet clutched Ewan’s hand tighter. “My sisters are beautiful, charming girls who surely can commandeer a man’s affections without having to pay excessive coin.”
“Like Dahlia did?!” Her father snapped upright. His tone was belligerent, but Violet could see the pain lingering in his eyes. “And how did that end for her? Was she happy in the lowly squalor of her marriage?”
Violet gasped at the vitriol in her father’s voice.
Mr. Kerr continued, “And what about your own financial obligations, daughter? Where is your promised solution to pay off the Manna Loan? Marriage to Lord Graham would have been the answer to all our prayers, but you are selfishly putting your own personal wishes above the larger collective needs of your family.”
“This isn’t helpful, Father. There are solutions. I simply need to decide which—”
“Violet, you are being willfully blind to reality. You believe that there are these mystical decisions just waiting for you to pluck them down. But you are wrong. Reality offers you no such choice.”
“I beg to disagree—”
“Enough!” her father all but roared. “You think that you are strong enough to weather the storm that such a misalliance would bring.” He looked again between Ewan and Violet, his chest heaving, but his eyes held a grim sadness. “But I tell you, daughter, you are not.”
He took a step back, his eyes dropping to their hands, still clutched together.
“Father—”
“No.” He gave his head a final, decisive shake, as if the pain were too great. “In the folly of youth, you think that love will be sufficient. That it will overcome. But I tell from the wisdom of my years, it is not. Sometimes, child, . . . love is not enough.”
24
Ewan woke the following morning in a truly foul mood.
Love is not enough.
Mr. Kerr’s refrain rattled in his head, an irritating pebble of noise.
Love is not enough. Not enough. Not enough.
Ewan knew this. He had known it from the beginning, had he not?
Violet was a countess. Her life encompassed strata he could never lay claim to. Did he think to be Cinderella rising from his hearth to claim his princess?
He rolled his eyes at his naiveté.
A princess did not marry a peasant, no matter what fairy tales said. And if she did, the princess would be cast out of the palace . . . if not literally, then at least figuratively.
If they continued forward together, how dire would the consequences be for Violet? Not to mention himself, always looked upon as less than, as the man who sullied Lady Kildrum.
Worse, their relationship was driving a wedge between Violet and her family. Would her sisters truly suffer as her father had said? Ewan rather thought that they might.
And why had he not connected marriage to Lord Graham with the repayment of the Manna Loan? How could that obvious detail have escaped him? How was Violet to pay off the loan when it came due in the autumn?
The more he pondered it, the more the words would not let him be.
Love is not enough.
Vividly, Ewan recalled a morning in Rio de Janeiro. They had stopped there to resupply, and Andrew had requested a fine suite of rooms and luncheon for them in a local inn. Maids had brought in platters of food and two pitchers of cheery orange juice.
The drink was deliciously sweet and impossibly tragic.
Because even as Ewan sipped it, he knew. He knew this would be the one and only time in his life that he would taste orange juice. The fruit was far too expensive to acquire in Scotland.
So he drank it, knowing the memory of its sweetness would linger. That years on, he would long to have the moment back, to experience it once more . . .
Would this be the fate of Violet, as well?
An impossibly sweet memory that haunted the edges of his future attempts at happiness?
Love is not enough.
The problem, of course, was that the painful thudding of his heart seemed to disagree with the idea. His heart felt like love would be enough. That if he and Violet faced the world together, side by side, they could overcome anything.
He knew such thoughts were insidious. Wishful thinking had never altered the nature of truth.
Yes, Ewan may have noble friends, but he would never be a member of the peerage. He would forever be an outsider.
He and Violet had been living in a dream world.
Now, he needed to view the situation through the harsh light of reality.
After his angry words, Mr. Kerr had insisted Violet return with him to Kilmeny Hall. Ewan had no idea when he might see her again.
And so, he did what he always did when upset: he painted.
He left his Royal Exhibition piece to dry in the greenhouse and joined Sir Joshua in the great hall. He worked feverishly
on finishing Violet’s portrait, mixing pigments and layering in colors until late in the evening. And then he began again the next morning after only a few hours’ sleep.
He could feel Sir Joshua’s eyes on him as he worked, the older man’s gaze heavy and pensive. Finally, as the sun climbed to its zenith, Sir Joshua tossed down his palette and paint brush.
“Well, I have had about enough of this brooding. Care to talk about it?” The older man stretched, knuckles cracking.
“Not particularly,” Ewan replied because he was . . . well . . . brooding.
“I don’t know precisely what happened yesterday,” Sir Joshua said, “but given how David all but dragged Violet back to Kilmeny Hall, I can imagine.”
“Can ye?” Ewan winced at the sharpness of his tone. He tossed down his own palette, setting his brush beside it. “I’m sorry, Sir Joshua. I shouldnae take out my foul mood on yourself.”
“Don’t apologize, my boy.” Sir Joshua waved a hand, that same pensive look hanging in his eyes. “I understand a little too well the pain of being separated from one’s love.”
Ewan managed a weak smile and stepped over to the basin and pitcher against one wall. He washed his hands, scrubbing with soap and a bit of turpentine to get the pigments off his fingers.
“David is a bit of a firebrand,” Sir Joshua said behind him. Ewan glanced over his shoulder at the older painter. “He and I may be opposites by nearly every measurement, but we are similar in our dedication to our passions. Mine, obviously, is to create brilliance.” He swept a hand over the masterpiece leaning against the wall. Ewan smiled despite himself. “My brother’s passion is to moralize us all to death. Don’t allow him to put you off.”
“Put me off?” Ewan said, reaching for a towel and turning fully around. “You understand that Violet and I . . . that we . . .”
“Of course, lad. I have eyes in my head. I see how you look at my niece. How Violet dotes upon you in return.”
Ewan hung the towel up to dry. “And ye don’t . . . disapprove?”
“Bah! My niece needs someone who will always put her interests first, who sees her as Violet and not just Lady Kildrum. You discount yourself, my boy, but you are a rising star. Though you feel unequal to Violet’s station in life, I predict that will change. Your work will be recognized and sought after. Give it a decade and instead of you being known as Lady Kildrum’s husband, she will be known as Mr. Ewan Campbell’s wife.”
Ewan placed his hands on his hips, wanted desperately to believe the truth of Sir Joshua’s words. He wanted Violet to be known for Violet, but oh!—how he wanted her to be his wife, too.
Sir Joshua continued, “My brother in his moralizing fails to understand this. Despite his gruff ways, David does love his daughters. The problem, of course, is that he equates security with happiness. I disagree.”
“Ye do?”
“Indeed. Security can bring contentment, which is a close cousin to happiness, but not quite the same thing. True happiness results from giving love and being truly loved in return. Something I’m not sure David has ever experienced.” Sir Joshua paused, a bleak blankness touching his eyes.
“But you have?” Ewan knew the question was probing, but it tumbled out nonetheless.
“Yes. That I have, lad.” That same bleakness settled over Sir Joshua, his eyes turning inward to some painful memory. He shook his head and clapped his hands, as if banishing thoughts. “Well, I think we’ve both had enough maudlin talk today. We will have plenty of time to discuss this further on our trip to London. Right now, if I know you, that enormous stomach of yours is desperate for some food. Let’s head into the village and find ourselves some lunch at the public house.”
Outside the castle, the air hung motionless and stifling.
Scotland was perpetually cold. But one afternoon a year, the country decided to pretend to be a more tropical place. A clime with blinding sun, dripping humidity, and heat that bordered on sweltering.
So given that Ewan felt figuratively confined to purgatory, he considered it a rather poetic irony that the weather chose to echo the sentiment. Standing in solidarity with him, as it were.
Granted, the solidarity had Ewan mopping sweat off his brow long before they reached the village.
The cool interior of the inn was a welcome respite. A cold pint even more so. Given the crowd of men in the inn’s dining room, Ewan and Sir Joshua were not alone in their thoughts.
But they eventually settled into a corner table with pints of ale, crusty bread, and a hearty smoked fish pie. Sir Joshua had been right, of course. Perhaps this whole mess would look better on a full stomach. To that end, Ewan ate with systematic intensity.
As Ewan mopped up the last of his pie with some bread, commotion at the entrance to the inn drew his attention. Men were gathered in a cluster, talking to someone.
Lord Graham appeared, pushing his way through the crowd, striding toward their table.
“Sir Joshua,” Lord Graham said affably, motioning for them to remain seated. “I see your would-be artist is still in residence.” Lord Graham nodded at Ewan, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Mr. Campbell.”
“Lord Graham.” Ewan kept his tone even, meeting the older man’s gaze straight on.
“I admit to being rather surprised to find you still here, Mr. Campbell.” Lord Graham snapped a pair of riding gloves against his thigh. “I thought perhaps you would take up my advice like the sensible person you seemed to be.”
Lord Graham continued to stare.
Violet had refused this man, but how much did Lord Graham know about Ewan’s involvement with Violet? Given the hostility Ewan could sense rolling off his lordship, Lord Graham suspected enough to wish Ewan gone. As if removing Ewan would somehow lead to Violet liking Lord Graham more. Anyone with half a brain knew that love simply didn’t work like that.
Was Lord Graham like Mr. Kerr then, broken in his understanding of what love was?
“Your advice, my lord?” Ewan kept his own tone light, as if he deliberately missed the implied threat in his lordship’s words.
“Yes. I still insist that you should pursue a career as a prizefighter. Why, I would even put a tenner on you to win under certain circumstances.”
Ewan gritted his teeth. The slight sneer in Lord Graham’s tone indicated that he thought Ewan’s life only worth a tenner.
This man represented everything he detested about prizefighting—the arrogant talk, the loud posturing. The attitude that some men were objects first, people second.
“I should think Ewan worth more than a ten-pound bet, my lord,” Sir Joshua interjected with a coughing laugh, as if Lord Graham had told a joke. He kicked out the chair opposite with his foot. “You seem like a man who could use a drink. Allow me to buy you a pint.”
Lord Graham ignored Sir Joshua’s offer, his eyes still riveted on Ewan.
“I have a theory, you see,” his lordship continued. “Mr. Smith! Come join me,” Lord Graham called over his shoulder.
The group of men at the door broke apart, and a strapping fellow separated himself from them, joining Lord Graham.
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Thomas Smith.” Lord Graham motioned toward the man. “Though you perhaps have heard tale of him through his moniker—the Menace of Cornwall.”
Sir Joshua nodded a greeting. Ewan followed.
Ewan had heard of the man. The Menace was said to be a rising star, having won a recent high-profile bout in London.
What was Lord Graham about? Trying to set up a fight?
Ewan sized up Mr. Smith, looking at a man in a way he hadn’t done in years—
Tall and broad, loose-limbed. The Menace would be quick on his feet. But did he have the muscle mass necessary to deliver a punishing blow?
The Menace appeared to be doing the same with Ewan. A faint, puzzled dent appeared between the man’s brows.
“Mr. Smith has been kind enough to assist me in perfecting the finer points of pugilism,” Lord Graham said.
“I figured it was only sporting to offer his expertise for yourself, Mr. Campbell. Perhaps spar a bit together.”
“Pardon?” Ewan’s eyebrows shot upward.
“I believe you have potential, Mr. Campbell, and the best way to suss out that potential is in a trial match with Mr. Smith.” Lord Graham said the words lightly, but the hardness in his eyes belied them.
Ewan took in a slow breath, his mind quickly piecing together the situation.
Lord Graham was out for blood, it seemed. He had paid a well-known fighter to travel the length of Britain with him, all for a chance to humiliate and perhaps seriously hurt Ewan in a rather public fight.
The entire dining room had gone quiet, heads swiveling, men leaning forward in their chairs.
“Come along, Mr. Campbell,” Lord Graham continued, turning to note the listening crowd. “Don’t make me call you a coward for refusing this. I am trying to help, you see.”
Cleverly done, your lordship, Ewan mentally congratulated him.
Challenge Ewan in a public place. Use a condescending sense of noblesse oblige to make it seem like a favor. Call Ewan’s manhood into question.
But Ewan had never been one to be moved by manly posturing. He would not fight merely because Lord Graham decreed it.
This would be your life, a quiet voice in his head pointed out. Were you to marry Violet, this would be your life. Endless wee abuses. Small set-downs intended to cut and harm. Worse, they wouldn’t only be directed at you. They would be aimed at Violet, too.
Ewan stared at Lord Graham and then transferred his gaze back to the Menace.
That puzzled dent between the man’s eyes had deepened.
There was nothing to do but make the situation clear.
Slowly, Ewan stood, rising to his full height. The Menace was tall, but Ewan still had at least six inches on the man.
The Menace watched Ewan stand, his eyes going wider and wider.
“Do you not see, Mr. Smith?” Lord Graham motioned toward Ewan, as if showing off a prize bull at the village market. “He is a marvelously strapping specimen. Do you think you could make a fighter out of him?”
