Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(38)

Marcel groped for the handle of his quizzing glass.

“Good afternoon,” Viola said. “I am Viola Kingsley.”

“Edna Prewitt, ma’am,” the housekeeper said, curtsying again. “And pleased I am to make your acquaintance and to have someone staying at the house again. It has been too long a time, as I am always saying to Jimmy. Maisie can give you a hand if you do not have a ladies’ maid with you. She does hair a treat. And she doesn’t chatter all the time, which I daresay ladies don’t always want to listen to.”

Marcel had his glass halfway to his eye.

“A cup of tea would be very welcome, Mrs. Prewitt,” Viola said. “And perhaps a scone or two. No more, though. We would not wish to spoil our appetites for your stew, which smells quite heavenly from here.”

“It smells better from inside,” the housekeeper said. “And what am I doing keeping you standing out here when you must want to be settling in your rooms and washing your hands? Jimmy always says I talk too much, but I wanted to welcome you properly and make you feel at home, even though it is your home, isn’t it, sir? You haven’t been here for so long, though, that I felt I needed to—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Prewitt,” he said. “We would indeed like to wash our hands.”

Good God.

She bustled upstairs ahead of them and indicated one room for him before taking Viola into another. They were side by side, both rooms facing out over the valley. “I will have Maisie bring up two pitchers of hot water, Mrs. Kingsley, ma’am,” he heard her say before she bustled back downstairs. “It is all ready. I always keep plenty on hand because you never know when you are going to need it, and if there is one thing I hate it is having to wash in cold water. And do dishes.”

Marcel went into Viola’s room after the woman had left. She was standing at the window, looking out.

“She did not seem offended,” she said.

“Offended?” He went to stand beside her at the window and dipped his head to look into her face. “Offended, Viola? Why should she be? She is a servant.”

She did not withdraw her gaze to look back at him. “Is there a color more soothing than green?” she asked. It sounded like a rhetorical question, and he did not attempt to answer. “Flowers would be superfluous here, would they not, when nature is so prolific with greenery. They would look almost gaudy. This is all far lovelier than I imagined.”

Marcel had heard the girl going into his room. Now she came into Viola’s and set a pitcher of water on the washstand before bobbing a curtsy. She did not launch into a chat, however, which was something of a relief.

“Thank you, Maisie,” Viola said, turning toward her, and the girl bobbed another curtsy before leaving. She looked like a younger version of her great-aunt even down to the rosy cheeks. A silent version of her great-aunt. Though come to think of it, she was not a blood relative of Mrs. Prewitt’s, was she? She was Jimmy’s great-niece. It must be a wholesome country look they shared.

“Viola,” he asked, “are you regretting this?”

She glanced at him before turning back to the window and opening one half of it to let in fresh air and birdsong and the distant sound of flowing water. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. She had been generally lighthearted during their journey, willing to enjoy herself and enjoy him.

“I have never done anything like this before,” she told him. “Virtuous women do not, you know. We are taught that our happiness is to be found in virtue and in doing our duty with cheerful dignity. Only men are allowed to do what they want while their women look the other way and . . . endure.”

“Why do more women not simply shoot themselves?” he asked.

“Because we know no different,” she told him.

“You believe you have become an unvirtuous woman, then?” he asked.

“Oh, I more than believe it,” she said. “I have quite knowingly abandoned virtue and stepped into the unknown. All this is . . . normal to you, Marcel. It would not occur to you to regret it or wonder about the moral implications of what you are doing or the effect it will have on your character for the rest of your life. It is not at all normal to me. I do not regret what I have done. Neither do I applaud my boldness. But I do not deceive myself. I am doing this. For myself. The future will decide how I will be affected by it all. I will not think of it until I reach that future. It would be better if you do not keep asking. I am here. By choice. Your servants here do not appear to be scandalized. And I am enchanted with this cottage and everything that is out there.”

“Are you enchanted with me?” he asked.

When she looked at him this time, her eyes were laughing. “You sound like a little boy begging for approval,” she said.

The devil he did! He reached out a hand and pulled her into his arms before kissing her thoroughly.

“Yes,” she said against his mouth when he gentled the embrace. “I am enchanted with you. But I very much need to wash my hands, behind closed door, if you please. And then I would like that cup of tea Mrs. Prewitt is brewing for us.”

And thus dismissed, he withdrew to his own room until she was ready to go back downstairs.

You sound like a little boy begging for approval.

Good God!



* * *



? ? ?

The window of Viola’s bedchamber had been ajar all night. Now she flung it wide and stood before it, breathing in the crisp autumn air as she drew her shawl more closely about her shoulders. There were trails of mist in the valley and pale blue sky above. It was surely impossible to get closer to paradise than this while one still lived. She allowed her heart a conscious welling of happiness . . .