“Will you take a turn about the room with me . . . Aunt Viola?” she asked.
Aunt Viola. Viola was no such thing, but Matilda and Mildred and Louise, her former sisters-in-law, certainly were Anastasia’s aunts. The young woman had chosen to call her that, Viola supposed, albeit hesitantly, rather than address her by the only alternative, Miss Kingsley.
“Of course,” Viola said, and they set off side by side. It was hard, so very hard, not to resent the girl, of whose existence Viola had been aware for years when she had assumed the girl was a by-blow of her husband’s. She had even arranged for a generous settlement to be made on her after her husband’s death, a gesture that had probably precipitated the discovery of the truth.
“I believe,” she said stiffly, beginning the conversation, “I have you to thank, Anastasia, for the fact that my dowry has been returned with interest, enabling me to set up a home for myself and my daughters where we may live independently.”
“You must know,” Anastasia said, “that you are entitled to at least that much. What happened to you was insufferable.”
“I will accept,” Viola said, “because I agree that the dowry money ought to be mine. However, I doubt Mr. Brumford was the one to think of it. I believe that was you, and I thank you.”
They were interrupted by two ladies who wished to pay their respects to the Duchess of Netherby . . . and of course to Miss Kingsley. The Duchess of Netherby returned their greetings amiably but showed no inclination to engage the two ladies in conversation. They moved on.
“I live at Morland Abbey with Avery,” Anastasia said. “I will continue do so for the rest of my life, or at one of his other numerous homes, including Archer House in London. Yet I am the owner of Hinsford Manor and of Westcott House in London. I believe I have persuaded Alex that it would be appropriate for him to stay at Westcott House whenever he is in town since he is the holder of the title. But Hinsford, which is extremely pretty, is uninhabited, and the people who live in the neighborhood are unhappy about it. They look back with nostalgia to the years when you and your family lived there.”
Viola stiffened. “They would hardly be delighted to see the return there of Miss Kingsley and the Misses Westcott,” she said.
“I do believe you are wrong,” Anastasia said, nodding to a couple who would have detained them with the smallest encouragement. “Forgive me, but I understood from my one visit there that my father was never well liked. I equally understood that you were. Sympathy and understanding are very heavily on your side. Some of those I spoke with were cool toward me, a fact from which I took comfort rather than offense. Their loyalty lies with you, regardless of the change in your status, which they quite firmly attribute to my father.”
“They are kind,” Viola said, almost overcome with a great surge of nostalgia for home, or what had been her home for more than twenty years. And for her friends and neighbors there.
“Aunt Viola,” Anastasia said, and then paused. “Oh, do you find it offensive when I call you that? I do not know what else to call you. I cannot address you as Miss Kingsley.”
“I am not offended,” Viola told her.
“Thank you,” Anastasia said. “Aunt Viola, will you go back home? Please? It would mean so much to me. I do not suppose that argument will weigh a great deal with you, but . . . for Abigail’s sake? I met some of her friends there, and they were genuinely melancholy about her absence and the reason for it. One of them even shed tears and dashed from the room while her mama tried to convince me that she was suffering a head cold. For Camille’s sake too, though it would not surprise me if she chose to remain here rather than go with you.”
Viola frowned and shook her head. “You will have children, Anastasia,” she said. “Your eldest son will, of course, inherit from Avery eventually. But the younger ones will have to be provided for too.”
“Avery will provide for them all, no matter how many children we have,” Anastasia said. “He is quite adamant about it. He warned me you would be sure to use that argument. He told me to tell you to think of a more convincing one—if you could.” She smiled, but there was anxiety in her eyes. “Please will you go home and consider it your own? I have drawn up a will, Avery having insisted that what I brought to the marriage remain mine to be done with as I choose. I am leaving Hinsford to Harry and his descendants. There will be no point in his arguing against it. It is done and it will remain so. So if you go home, you will be merely keeping your son’s future home in good order for him.”
Viola drew breath to speak, let the breath out, and drew it in again. “You have made it nearly impossible for me to say no,” she said.
“You must say no, though,” Anastasia said, looking stricken, “if you truly do not want to live there. But, please, do not refuse for any other reason. Do not punish me to that degree.”
“Punish you?” Viola frowned. “Is that what I would be doing? But I suppose you are right. I wish you were not such a . . . pleasant young lady, Anastasia. It would be a great deal easier to dislike you if you were not.”
For some reason they both laughed.
“Yet the offer is made for selfish reasons,” Anastasia said. “I want to feel happy about everything in my life, but at the moment I feel happy only about almost everything. I cannot close that gap unless I can somehow make amends for what I know was neither my fault nor yours. Think about it, Aunt Viola. Talk to Camille and Abigail about it, and to Mrs. Kingsley, if you will. Talk to Avery and all the others. It is your right to live in the home my father provided for you. It is not right that it be taken from you because of his wickedness. He was wicked, sad as I am to say it.”