3. Viola
Viola
Father’s voice sawed through Middlemarch like a dull knife. “A word, Viola.”
I propped my book open on the couch, leaving the heroine to weep over her misguided choice of husband. She should weep. Marrying the wrong man was a tragedy. Marrying any man, really—a cage is a cage. Dazed from hours of reading, I yawned, stretched, and crossed the library to Father’s desk.
“Marriage,” Father said, settling into his high-backed chair.
Those eight dreaded letters filled the room.
“Not marriage,” I said, holding his unwavering gaze. “Please?”
He studied me across the mahogany expanse. “It’s past time for you to marry. Why, Viola? Why such bull-headed avoidance?” His exasperation was familiar. “You deserve happiness.”
My resistance felt too much like betrayal, but I wouldn’t relent. “I want to be happy. I am happy. Marriage does not equal happiness.”
“Nonsense.” He leaned forward. “I haven’t pushed you. Haven’t forced you. I’ve waited patiently. Hoped you would meet the right person. That it would happen naturally.”
He looked to the ceiling. “What about Oscar Bergen’s boy? What’s his name? Bert? Bud?”
“Bart,” I said, the name tasting of sour milk. I glanced toward the parlor, where I’d wasted hours in Bart’s boorish company. Who spends twenty minutes discussing cufflinks? He’d discovered me thoroughly unskilled in flirting or flattery.
“He lost interest, remember?”
Father’s fingers drummed. “His loss. Chicago is full of young men. Plenty of fish, as they say. Stop running. Let one of them catch you.”
My lips twitched. Father was usually precise with his metaphors.
“You find this amusing?”
I said, “I think you have it backward, Father. The fish are not supposed to do the catching.”
He groaned.
Father raked a hand through his graying hair, a motion I’d seen my brother perform hundreds of times. Must be hereditary.
“I will always flee from Bart and his kind.” I leaned forward. “The preening, scheming society men with their fancy shoes, shallow characters, fragile egos.”
Father opened his mouth?—
“You can’t see it because you’re my father. Bart only showed interest because of our family fortune, your influence with the paper, and probably because his father forced?—”
“Men do not need to be forced to show interest in you. You’re intelligent, talented, and beautiful all the way through. Usually, you show good sense, but on this, you’re being ridiculous. Any man would be lucky to have you for a wife. You can choose. They can’t all be duds.”
I scoffed.
“Viola—”
“Avoiding marriage is evidence of my sound judgment.”
He waved this away. “It is past time.” His eyes lifted to the portrait behind me. “When she was your age, your mother was pregnant with George.”
“Swelling up so I can’t move or see my toes? Hardly enticing. In fact, it’s a persuasive argument against marriage. I am intelligent and sensible, remember?”
“Maybe George can help. Introduce you to new people. He knows half the city.”
“I do not need my brother to play matchmaker, thank you very much.”
“Fine. The choice is yours. You can base your decision on their shoes, coloring, or character. I don’t care. But you must choose soon.”
I pressed my lips together.
“Your mother believed family was the best part of life. She would want you to experience that joy, too.” His eyes softened as he scanned my face.
If I had a penny for every time someone exclaimed, “My goodness, you look exactly like your mother,” I’d have enough copper to fill Lake Michigan, enough to drown in. I may wear her face, but it’s a mask that chafes. I can’t control my features—only my choices.
“I’m not her. I’m twenty. Not pregnant. Not married. You must let me find my path.” I lifted my chin. “I will not be forced.”
Mother’s eyes bored into my back as she looked down from her portrait in silent censure.
Father challenged my resolve with his stare. “Trust me, your wise old father.”
I didn’t back down.
He came around the desk, pried my hands from the chair, and wrapped them gently in his. “You should be loved, my dear—and not only by me and George. Time to consider the possibilities. No more running. That is an order.” He pulled me into a warm hug.
I relaxed into his familiar embrace and inhaled his clove-scented soap. But I made no promise. I had pursued spinsterhood for six years. I wouldn’t give up now.
I needed a plan.
Fortunately, I was nothing if not a planner.
Ifled the library, though Father’s mandate clung to me like smoke. At the door, I glanced back, but Father’s attention was fixed on the portrait of a woman I could no longer remember.
But he remembered. He spoke to her—or to her picture. He’d probably complain about me the moment I left.
A male voice echoed down the hall. “I say, are you quite all right out there?” I followed the voice to the entryway and found Mr. Muntz standing near the front door.
“Ah, Miss Viola, the exact person I came to see.”
“Good morning, Mr. Muntz. Good to see you, too.” I accepted his offered stack of papers. “More property listings?”
He smoothed his mustache. “Oh, yes. Gems all. Had my missus look over this batch. Had to pry them out of her hands. Now she insists we need a country estate. Occupational hazard, I suppose.” He let out a sonorous laugh. “The perfect listing for your family is in here, Miss Viola. I can feel it.”
“Thank you. I hope you’re right. I’d love to escape the city’s heat this summer.” Open air and freedom. “I thought I heard you call out earlier. Is everyone all right?”
“Your lovely young neighbor arrived as your brother hurried out. There was a collision, but no injuries. They went to check for you in the garden.”
I stepped outside. I needed Sarah’s help.