Chapter 8 #2
He shook his head and put a hand to his heart. “I swear it. The name Stoneleigh House shall not cross my lips.”
She nodded, a tightness in her chest in spite of his promise. “Then please.”
“I thank you.” He fell into step beside her, and Hannah, for some reason of her own, dropped back, leaving Viola sharply aware of him at her side.
For a long moment he said nothing, and her nerves climbed higher for the silence.
When at last he spoke, it was low, with a heaviness in his face that worried her.
“I received a letter two days ago,” he said, drawing a folded sheet from his coat. “The same day I returned from calling on you. I think it best that you read it.”
He held it out. Her instinct was to draw back, as from something unclean.
“Please. I mean no harm by it — though the words will be hard to read.”
She took it, hearing the gentleness in his voice and hoping it was real.
The moment she began, heat climbed her face, for each line stripped a little more of her dignity away.
It spoke of deception where there had been none.
It hinted at threats made against Lady Warrington, as if Viola had wanted Stoneleigh House all along.
To read such accusations in his presence was so great a humiliation that she could scarcely lift her head.
“I do not believe a word of it, of course.”
Her head came up, though she did not look at him. “I see.”
“I wanted you to know of it. To see that there is someone in society who wishes me to believe this of you.”
Her eyes stung, and she stumbled. Hannah gave a swift exclamation, but it was Lord Carrington who caught her arm and, after, settled her hand upon his sleeve, giving her the silent support he seemed somehow to know she needed.
A different heat turned over in her chest, and she let out a slow breath, still struggling to meet his eyes.
“Are you quite all right?”
She nodded. “To read those words has been a shock, my lord. I cannot imagine why anyone would think it of me.”
“Because they believe Lady Warrington would not have changed her will without reason.” He said it at once, as if he had waited for the question. “It does not make their suggestion true. But even I cannot understand why she did it.”
Her shoulders dropped. “This may surprise you, my lord, but I cannot understand it either. You are quite right that she would not have changed her will without purpose — that is just as I see it. Yet I cannot know what reason she had to grant me two such generous gifts. Her letter did not explain it, and try as I might to be simply grateful, there are too many questions in my mind for me to be at peace.”
He ran a hand along his jaw, his gaze on the path ahead, thoughtful, with no hint of anger. That, she supposed, was a relief in itself.
“Might I be bold enough to ask what the letter contained?”
The question gave her pause. But he had come to her and shared this cruel page, and so she chose to be truthful.
“It was very simple. I can quote it for you. I have read it so often I have it by heart.” He nodded, and she drew a breath.
“Lady Warrington wrote: ‘You must trust that I have acted with purpose and intention. You will be surrounded by those who do not understand; bear their scrutiny with courage and determination. Kindness has been far from your family. It is my hope that this gift offers you some of what you have lacked, and brings about a change in a great many things.’”
A silence followed. Viola looked at him a long moment, sensing some barrier give way between them as he took in her words. His brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he took in what his cousin had meant.
“Kindness has been far from your family,” he repeated.
Heat rushed up her neck and into her face, and she pulled her gaze away.
“I do not mean to shame you,” he said quickly. “Forgive me. I only meant to ask — ”
“I am surprised you do not know that my father, Viscount Tyne, is an impoverished gentleman. He has long been so, since the death of my mother.” She swallowed, the path curving beneath a row of elms whose leaves gave them a moment’s shade.
“He invested heavily, and the investments were lost. None of it was his doing, but he was very near ruined by it. Our circumstances have been hard, and he has borne them with dignity.” She paused, wondering why she told him so much.
“All this to say, my connection to Lady Warrington was only ever small kindnesses, here and there. She never turned from my father for his circumstances, as so many did. I was too young to know the particulars then, but I believe he lost a great many friends when his troubles came to light. The Warringtons were not among them. I know how grateful he was for that.”
Lord Carrington nodded slowly, his arm steady beneath her hand.
“To have inherited Stoneleigh House now is a kindness I scarcely understand,” she finished, her throat tightening. “And a heavy responsibility I cannot help but fear.”
“Fear?” He sounded surprised. “What is there to fear?”
Her lips curved ruefully. “Failure. The house remains mine whatever my circumstances. I may live there alone all my days, and I fear failing Lady Warrington, and the care she gave it for so long.”
They walked on, the distant voices and the rustle of leaves and the birdsong filling the quiet between them. He said nothing for some time, and Viola began to feel she had spoken far too openly for so brief an acquaintance.
“I do not think you will fail, Miss Trent.”
The softness of it startled her.
“You have already taken the responsibility to heart. Many a young lady, many a gentleman, given the same gift would not have done so. They would have thrown a grand ball by now, triumphant, caring nothing for what had gone before. You are still lost in the wonder of it — nay, the shock. You understand what the house means, and what it means to have been given it. That is why I am certain you will not fail.”
The fervency in his voice, the sheer certainty of it, drew a long breath of relief from her before she had thought to hold it back.
It nearly made her smile. Her shoulders came down, the tightness in her chest easing, and she found she could look into his face without difficulty now.
“To hear you say so, my lord — when I know the house was something you had thought to call your own — is valuable indeed.”
“I might — ” He stopped, frowned, shook his head, and brought his gaze back to hers.
There was an intensity in his blue eyes that gave her pause, that set her heart quickening in a way she did not understand.
“This is bold, Miss Trent. But you have said you wish to find the reasons behind Lady Warrington’s kindness, and I feel the very same, the more so for that letter.
Might we not discover the reason together? ”
Viola blinked. “I — ”
He stopped and turned to face her, taking her hand in his, his eyes earnest upon hers. “I assure you, it is not because I seek to challenge her decision, nor to persuade you to exchange the house for my one in Scotland.”
She pressed her lips together, a tension drawing about her chest again — though not the same as before. It did not come from worry over the house, but from the strange warmth beginning to rise in her as she held his eyes.
“You have no reason to believe me, I know,” he went on, with a slightly rueful smile, “after our last conversation, and my brother’s remarks at the ball. But the letter Lady Warrington left you is proof enough that she was clear in her own mind.”
Something shifted in Viola at the words. To be believed, to be trusted, steadied her more than any easy reassurance could have done.
“Let me come alongside you, so that you are not alone in it,” he said, taking the smallest step closer as Hannah made a faint, indistinct sound behind them — whether to urge acceptance or refusal, Viola could not tell.
“We can find the truth together. Think what I know of Lady Warrington, what I can tell you of her. I am certain we shall discover all of it, in time.”
Her heart gave a small, unsteady turn, and she nodded. The smile that spread across his face drew her own lips upward in answer. “Very well, Lord Carrington.” He offered his arm again. “I accept your offer of help.”
“Capital.” He said it with feeling, walking on with Hannah still a few steps behind. “Thank you, Miss Trent. I am grateful for your trust.”
“And you for mine,” she replied, and felt, for the first time since she had come to London, the weight she carried grow a little easier to bear.
He took his leave at the park gate, and the sisters walked on toward the carriage in a silence that lasted precisely as long as Hannah could make it.
“For a gentleman you did not trust an hour ago,” she observed, to the middle distance, “you have granted him a remarkable number of minutes.”
“Hannah.”
“I say nothing. I am a model of discretion.” Her sister tucked Viola’s hand through her arm, and her voice softened beneath the teasing.
“He behaved well today — better than I looked for. I only ask that you remember the house makes you a prize as well as a target, and that you cannot yet always tell the difference between a man being kind and a man being clever.” A pause.
“Though I will own that when you stumbled, he caught your arm before I had even seen you falter. Clever men are rarely so quick.”
Viola said nothing at all, and was glad of the bonnet that hid her face.