43. Viola
Viola
My time on Uncle’s farm in Wisconsin strengthened my resolve, and I returned home riding a wave of excitement.
I wanted to set everything in motion immediately.
Get started on the details. Today. I ran up the front steps, barely touching them.
Through the door. Where was Father? Down the hall. Library? No time for breath.
The familiar weight of the library door shifted under my hand with a slow, soft creak.
Shelves of books—and men…
The scent of leather and cloves—and men…
Dust motes in sunbeams—and men…
Gray, sandy, dark brown heads—too many men.
I froze.
Silence—except for my heart hammering.
I couldn’t blink. My mind went blank. I gripped the back of a chair. Where had that come from? Where had he come from? Air. Need air. The view was nonsensical. Dark hair, caramel eyes, tanned skin, familiar smile.
A chair scraped as he stood.
But it couldn’t be. I blinked. My mind was playing tricks. I was dreaming… avoid the trials of love and marriage…
Yet he was here.
Jacob—sitting with Father and George.
My Jacob was here.
Remember the plan.
My vision flickered at the edges as the floor tilted. I sank into the chair and tucked my head between my knees. Please don’t swoon. Please.
The sound of three sets of feet rushing about filled the room. Three voices repeated my name.
His voice.
My hand in his, hair rising on my neck. His grip steady and sure. The touch of his thumb, sliding back and forth across my skin, blazed into my hand and burned straight to my heart, increasing the hammering from a single note to a full chord.
Oh, my heart. Protect my heart.
George called into the hall, “Greta, come quickly. Viola needs assistance.”
Father brought a thimble of brandy, crouched beside me, and held it under my nose. The biting scent snapped my awareness back into focus.
After four full, slow breaths, I pushed upright.
I swallowed the sip of brandy and found my voice. “Jacob, how?”
He flooded me with more heat than the brandy, and my thoughts careened wildly.
Why was he here? Did he come for me? He did love me!
Ridiculous. Impossible. What did he tell them?
I glanced at Father and George. Based on the smiling faces and the sense of camaraderie in the room, I decided he had not mentioned the kissing.
Jacob said, “Viola! I’m so happy to see you. Are you all right? You went pale around the edges.”
“Rushed in a bit too quickly. Took my wits a moment to catch up,” I said, suddenly aware of my generally disheveled state. “What are you doing here?”
“Well,” he said, his half-smile drawing my gaze to his kissable lips. “It’s a long story.”
Control yourself, Viola. Look away from the lips. No more kissing. Forget about the blasted kissing. He was a friend. Follow the plan.
He looked back at Father and George, who nodded in response. Jacob said, “I promise to give you all the details at dinner. I have exciting news.” He squeezed my hand, and I glanced down, surprised to find our hands still clasped.
But then he let go.
Greta shepherded me upstairs to wash and dress for dinner. Once we were alone, Greta asked, “Is that your Jacob? Handsome and so attentive. He only had eyes for you. What is it about a man cut lean and dark?”
“Yes, that was Jacob. He’s not mine, though. Why do you think he’s here?”
I picked up the small bundle of purple flowers tied with ribbon from my dressing table, inhaled the alfalfa’s earthy scent, and thought of our time together in the hay shed. What if he was here for me? But I’d decided. I had a plan. We would be friends, not in love, not married.
Oh blast, I needed to make it clear to him. What if I was forced to refuse his proposal? He had exciting news. That could mean anything.
Greta brushed my hair until it shone and pinned it up in an elegant, loose twist atop my head.
She said, “In my opinion, a man does not get on a train and travel hundreds of miles to his lady’s home?—”
“I’m not his lady.” The words sounded less convincing than expected.
“Like I said, he does not travel to his lady’s home to ask whether she’s enjoying the lovely weather. I can think of one logical reason for his visit.” She raised her brows at me. “His purpose will become clear soon enough, I think.”
She squeezed me in a little hug. “Now, we need to make up for that frazzled entrance you made in the library today.”
Thirty minutes later, I looked into the mirror, satisfied with my reflection.
Greta clapped her hands. “Ah, we may have overshot our goal. When he sees how beautiful you are tonight, he will have difficulty saying anything at all.”
I hoped she was right. Striking him speechless would suit me just fine. Silk swished about my ankles as I strode to the stairs. The first word would be mine. Clear. Firm. Strategic.
And that first word was friendship.
Steady now.
I gripped the heart-shaped rock in my pocket and went down.