CHAPTER TWENTY
Viola’s office was spare, as it held only her desk and a few chairs. The speed with which her father had acted in readying her ranch for sale shocked her. Her decorations had been removed from the walls, and most of her files transferred to her father’s estate.
“You appear as if you only now watched a puppy die. It is not as dire as you fear,” Ruby said from her seat in front of Vi’s desk. “All will be all right…in time.”
Time? It was such a relative thing. Did time ever truly make things better? Dim the pain of a person’s memories? She had heard it said that time heals everything. Vi would like to meet the fool who coined that expression, because the last eight years had healed naught. It hadn’t changed what she’d done, hadn’t dimmed the consequences of her petty actions, and it certainly hadn’t brought her forgiveness.
She hadn’t forgiven herself.
Her father hadn’t forgiven her.
Society had never been a forgiving lot.
And certainly, she could never expect Brock to forgive or forget.
She wished she held an ounce of the fortitude Ruby embodied. Her friend hadn’t blinked at Vi’s announcement that they would depart shortly for London. While Vi was scared out of her wits, Ruby seemed to look forward to the adventure. She continually forgot her friend had never been afforded a season—let alone one in which Vi’s father would provide them new wardrobes complete with parasols, gloves, and dance slippers.
Vi sighed. “Lady Darlingiver has arranged for a modiste to meet with us upon our arrival to be outfitted with the necessary garments needed for polite society. Not that I plan to attend many functions.”
“Do you think I will see my mother while in town?”
Vi sensed the first note of apprehension in Ruby’s voice. “I would assume so, since Lady Darlingiver and your mother are bosom friends.” She eyed her friend. Was that nervousness she saw? “Your mother will be quite happy to see you, I am sure.” Viola dropped her head to concentrate on the letter she’d been writing before Ruby had charged in.
“Oh, I am sure she will be. How are your letters coming along?”
Viola had set about writing her clients to inform them of the closing of Foldger’s Foals. It was proving to be a more arduous task then she had anticipated. She’d completed a total of fifty-three letters with only one more to write, but she found herself stuck. Unable to finish it.
Ruby stood and peeked at the letter Vi was struggling with. “Ah. Lord Haversham.”
“Yes, Lord Haversham.” Vi’s cheeks heated.
“Why is his letter any more difficult to write than the rest?” Ruby asked.
“I fear the next time we meet will be under different circumstances.”
“That cannot be helped. Also, there is no guarantee we will cross his path in London.”
“My hope is that he is at this country seat, but I fear my luck has not run on the positive side as of late,” Viola said. She dipped her quill in the ink pot. Despite everything, she did hope to see Brock again, although she could not tell Ruby that.
“Your father is quite happy with your agreement to accompany him to town,” Ruby said, changing the subject. “He appears years younger, and fully recovered.”
“I do not doubt his exuberance at my agreement.” She set the quill down and looked up at her friend. “You do believe that I did not intend to cause my father embarrassment?” It was important to her that Ruby knew her interactions with Brock had not been a ploy to tarnish her father or their family name further. Perhaps in her youth, she would have instigated such a ruse to garner attention, but that had been long ago.
“Of course, Vi. Anyone who cannot see the changes you have made to yourself and your life is as blind as a newt.”
Viola could not help but laugh. “A newt? Surely you mean a bat.”
“No, I mean a newt. Which is a blind salamander. They live in the New World, do you not know?” Ruby looked at Vi as if she was an uneducated street child.
“I do so enjoy random trivia. I do not know a thing about blind salamanders.” Vi again picked up her quill, determined to finish the final letter and return to the estate to organize the servants in preparation for their departure to London. “As much as I enjoy—”
Ruby held up her hand. “You have work to attend to. I will leave you now and see you at supper.”
She returned her attention to the letter as her friend silently closed the door behind her.
Why was this letter so difficult to write? To answer that question, she would likely need to delve more deeply into her feelings for Brock . . . and to do that, she must admit she had feelings for him that extended beyond mere physical attraction.
The idea of crafting the letter she dreamed of writing passed through her mind. She dipped her quill and wrote: Dearest Brock, I have missed you during your absence. Meet me in London in a fortnight. Lovingly yours, Viola. Yes, she signed the letter Viola. Alas, this was all only a fantasy. He did not know her given name, and if he did he would do anything not to meet her in London.
The parchment crumbled easily in her hands. Idiot, she thought. No man, least of all Brock, would ever endeavor to seek out her attention. Was that what truly frightened her? The thought of being shunned to her face? She had fled London in the wake of the duel and at Lady Darlingiver’s insistence, before meeting any member of the ton. Sarah and the housekeeper had packed her belongings, dresses and hair ribbons never worn, and she had fled before tea.
What a stupid girl she had been . . . and possibly still was.
Vi smoothed her hands across a fresh sheet of paper, quill at the ready. It was time to put words on the paper, not those she wished to say, but something to end their interactions and not prompt him to seek further correspondence.
Dipping her quill in the ink once more, she began.
Lord Haversham,
It is regretfully that I write to inform you of the closing of Foldger’s Foals. Thank you for your recent business transaction. I sincerely hope your stables are a success of the first water.
Fondly,
Lady Posey Hale
Fondly—where had that come from? She quickly sprinkled sand over the wet ink and returned her quill to its holder. It was done, and there was naught she could do but re-write the letter. She blew the excess sand from the parchment, folded the letter and inserted it into the waiting envelope.
Taking out another clean, smooth sheet, Vi again began to write. She wrote of her regrets—not only her girlhood mistakes, the tragedy of her first season, but also all she knew that would never be hers. The words flowed across the page, filled with sorrow, sadness, and sacrifice.
These words were not meant to soothe her—no, she wrote these for Brock.
For his family, who no longer lived.
For his future children, who would never know their uncles or grandfather.
She wrote of her foolishness, her pride, her vanity.
But mostly, the page held the apology she feared she’d never be able to give him. She would, if she could, go back to that day and change everything. In her heart, she wished she could go back even further, long before her first season.
Next, she wrote of Brock’s brothers; how vibrantly alive they had been, how much they’d loved both Brock and their father, how earnestly they had vied for her attention. To say all that, she would also need to admit her need for attention, her lack of caring, and her selfishness. She confessed it all, her hand scribbling furiously to take hold of every sin and commit it to paper before her nerve expired.
Vi stilled her writing. Her whole being ached to write of her life now. The good she was doing, the lives she had saved, the wrongs she spent every waking hour attempting to right. But there was no room for rationalization or justification of her failings—especially to herself. She had destroyed Brock’s family then, and continued her deceitful path by lying to him now.
No, she could not change the past—and neither would
her words, written upon a useless piece of paper. She set her quill aside and read through her unaddressed confessions once more before ripping the paper in two, as if destroying the evidence of her past would somehow fix everything. How she wished anything in life was that simple.
She finished the original note with three simple words, ‘I am sorry,’ written with a heavy heart. But those words could never convey all she wanted Brock Haversham to know.
She sighed and pushed her chair back, grabbed the stack of letters, and stood. Extinguishing the candles as she went, Vi left the office for the last time. She could not bring herself to look over her shoulder as she traversed the empty stable yard and moved down the path to her father’s estate. Her future, whether good or bad, was here.