With a sigh she dropped onto the chair near the hearth and poured herself a glass of port. What were the odds the dowager would be upset? Viola had always admired the dowager duchess’s levelheaded approach to things, but there was no telling what she might do when one of her children was in trouble. The poor woman was still ill, growing frustrated at her inability to recover, and every day she peppered Viola with ever more detailed questions about the party’s progress. She was very annoyed that Frye had not arrived yet. The match between Serena and Frye had been arranged by their fathers years ago, and the dowager duchess still clung to hope that Frye would arrive, fall on bended knee to apologize profusely for breaking the engagement, whereupon Serena would graciously forgive him and fix a date for the wedding.
Now Viola faced the possibility that the dowager was about to be greatly disappointed by two daughters instead of one. Serena displayed no interest in Frye’s attendance, and Alexandra was sneaking off to kiss a young viscount she’d only met last week. Anyone would be upset in these circumstances, and Viola knew she was the most likely person to bear the blame.
What would she tell Stephen if she got sacked? She took a large sip at the thought. Her poor brother. If she could have held on for another two years, he would have been able to finish his studies and become eligible for a post at the university. That was where Stephen belonged, among the books and scholars and ancient stone buildings that had harbored the likes of Isaac Newton. What would he do, out in the real world? He was brilliant enough to be a professor and witty enough to be a dean . . . except when his brain went off on some wild and wonderful journey through the realm of astronomy and mathematics. She’d known him to stay awake for three days straight, barely eating, working away until his hands were black with ink and he looked like a wraith from the grave. She’d given up scolding him about it years ago; he told her it was like a hurricane in his head, and he would have no peace until it blew itself out. Nor did he want peace from it—on the contrary, he reveled in those storms of thought that swept him away from her and everyone else on earth, into the exotic and thrilling world of numbers and stars and all sorts of things that enchanted him, but bewildered everyone else.
Alas, hurricanes of thought didn’t pay well. James, her dear James, had been so fond of Stephen. His affectionate kindness for Stephen, then only a gangly lad, had been what initially endeared him to Viola. When she married him, James had pledged to pay for Stephen’s schooling, and off her brother went to Cambridge.
But that came to an abrupt end when James’s heart gave out. His income was only for his life, and it turned out he hadn’t saved much for his widow—not that he’d had time, dying before his thirty-seventh birthday. Viola had been staring poverty and ruin in the face, and Stephen the loss of his place at Kings College.
The Duke of Wessex offered her a small stipend when she applied to him for help, as James’s most illustrious relation, but it wouldn’t have been sufficient to support both her and Stephen. Viola had swallowed her pride and asked for a position instead, with a regular, higher salary. As a secretary, she was able to send to Stephen enough for his school fees and books. If she instead had to pay for her own lodging and keep . . .
The tap on her door roused her from her growing anguish. She went still, suddenly gripped by fear that the dowager duchess might be sending for her already.
“Mrs. Cavendish?” called a low voice. “Viola?”
She gasped in relief, and went to open the door. “Good evening, sir. Do you require something?”
The Earl of Winterton stood there, looking penitent. “I wanted a word, if I may.”
Viola dipped a shallow curtsey. “If you please, sir, perhaps Mrs. Hughes or Withers—”
“No!” He lowered his voice and ran one hand over his hair, ruffling it into unruly dark curls. “I wanted to talk to you.”
She gripped the doorknob. The servants at Kingstag Castle were expected to be as respectable as the family. Socializing and romantic attachments were permitted, but only when conducted with propriety and decorum—and inviting the earl into her private rooms would be neither proper nor decorous. And she had just scolded Alexandra for doing much the same thing with Lord Newton.
On the other hand, letting the earl sit on her sofa for a few minutes could hardly make things worse, if the dowager duchess decided to sack her. She opened the door wider. “Then you might as well come in.”
Winterton frowned. Viola gave a small shrug and went back to her chair. She propped her foot upon the fender and waved one hand toward the tiny table by the fireplace. “Have a glass of port, m’lord.”
Slowly the earl stepped into the room. “You’re upset.”
Viola tilted her glass at him. “No,” she corrected him, “I am resigned.”
“To what fate?” He closed the door behind him.
Viola looked hard at that closed door, decided it didn’t matter enough to protest, and sipped her port. “The duchess left me in charge of the household. Yes, Lady Serena is acting as hostess,” she acknowledged as his brow dipped. “But she’s not accustomed to maintaining order in a household this size. Naturally Her Grace the dowager duchess is, but she’s still stricken in bed. Hence, the duchess entrusted me with the running of the house in her absence.”
“That’s a weighty responsibility.”
She laughed weakly. “Isn’t it? I assured her I could manage, even with the guests and the snow and Lady Sophronia being let off her lead. And I was managing well enough, until—”
“Until my nephew and I
