Page 25 of Beyond Her Manner
Anger and sadness pushed their way forward inside of Viola. “What do you know about it?” The words erupted sharply from her lips. “Your husband died a few months ago, and you appear to grieve only for your damn manor. Isn’t that a little heartless?” Viola’s eyes filled with warm, unbidden tears, and she made no effort to hide them. She was tired of hiding behind a facade of strength, and it would do Gillian Carmichael good to see what effect her cruelty could have on someone. Viola sniffed as she wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.
Then Gillian did something Viola wouldn’t have expected. Reaching into her pocket, she extracted a cotton handkerchief and handed it to Viola. Surprised though she was, Viola took it and wiped her eyes, noticing the letters GC embroidered onto one corner. Who even used handkerchiefs these days, let alone embroidered ones? As her eyes cleared a little, Viola noticed Gillian’s hands were twitching and her body fidgeting in her seat.
“I’ll… erm…” Gillian mumbled and then stood.
Viola watched in surprise as the woman hesitated, her words trailing off into an awkward silence as their eyes locked. Her gaze lingered on Viola, a little too long for her comfort, the crackling tension causing her to hold her breath and her heart to pound in her chest. It was as if Gillian was studying every detail and imperfection until she finally turned and walked away.
Viola’s eyes followed the infuriating woman as she strode down the path. Noticing a hint of jasmine coming from the handkerchief, she placed it under her nose. Inhaling deeply, shesmiled as a sense of calm washed over her from the pleasant scent — the scent of Gillian.
Although she was grateful for the gesture, she couldn’t help feeling a little apprehensive at the prospect of facing Gillian again to return the handkerchief. The thought of seeing the woman again filled her with even more conflicting feelings, even a hint of longing. She quickly tucked the handkerchief into her pocket and pushed all thoughts of Gillian Carmichael from her mind.
CHAPTER 8
Awave of nausea hit Gillian’s stomach as soon as she woke the next morning. She’d hoped the lack of sleep from the previous night would have seen her off to a deep sleep, but instead she’d tossed and turned, playing over her altercation with Viola.
She couldn’t blame the woman for buying the manor; it was Jonathon’s fault it was on the market. She also couldn’t blame her for not meeting the standards required of her. Not everyone was born for the role the way she was.
A pang of regret sat inside her too. She hadn’t intended to make the woman cry. It had pained her to witness it, and it had weighed on her since. She may have had a firmness about her, but she hoped she never strayed into heartlessness as Viola had suggested.
Offering comfort didn’t come naturally to Gillian. Emotions were an unknown territory for her, and the idea of reaching out felt foreign and uncomfortable. A stiff upper lip was her motto, a shield against raw emotions. It hadn’t stopped her wanting to offer solace to ease the woman’s suffering, though. The unfamiliarity of the urge confused her, and the instinct to retreat had won out in the end.
There had been something attractive about Viola in that moment of vulnerability. Something was captivating about the woman, full stop. Was it her strength and determination to fulfil the vision of her late mother despite how raw her grief must be? It couldn’t be anything else; she wouldn’t let it be anything else. Gillian simply admired strength wherever she saw it.
In the past, Gillian had grappled with grief. It was a suffocating shadow that had threatened to consume her when death took away her soulmate in her late teens. The pain was relentless, a constant ache that left her hollow inside. She was given no emotional help from the person she needed it from the most — her mother.
In her darkest moments, Gillian found a flicker of resilience inside her, a stubbornness to endure. Endure she did, but she was never the same again. She packed her identity away and pushed herself forward, set on building a new life and a new relationship with grief. She had vowed never to let it pull her down again. With little affection for her late husband, his loss had been bearable. The loss of the manor and the added magnetism of the woman who owned it, however, were beginning to lift the lid on a hard-won battle from the past.
With Bridget due for elevenses, she needed to buck up her ideas, yet her body was failing her. Whatever dark cloud weighed on her brain was weighing over her body too. Removing her silk pyjamas, she scrutinised her slender frame in the mirror with a critical eye for its traitorous imperfections. Who would even want her body with all its ridges and furrows, marked by the passage of time and the trials of life? Would it ever find fulfilment from what it desired? Could she even allow it to? Shaking her head, she breathed out hard, pushing the thoughts away as she dressed.
Her darkened state must have remained with her, for by the time Bridget arrived later that morning, it was the first thing she commented on.
“You look rather glum today,” she said, not even clearing the front door. “Are you coming down with something?”
“Sit yourself down,” Gillian said, directing her to the sitting room. “I’ll make the tea, and then I can fill you in.”
She needed to prepare better for answering the front door. When Bramingham was around to answer it, she had had a few moments to ready herself, slipping on a hostess’s face and looking ready to welcome whoever entered. It was a skill acquired over the years. She may have felt born for her role, but she had been ill-prepared for it in the early days. Her mother-in-law was well versed in being lady of the manor and had taught her well. She learned quickly, driven by the fear of being looked down on in Jonathon’s social circles.
“I had another run-in with Viola Berkley,” Gillian admitted as she placed a tea tray on the table in front of Bridget a few minutes later. “It left a rather bad taste in one’s mouth.”
“Oh, Gillian,” Bridget said as she took a cup and saucer of steaming hot tea. “You two should really try to get along; you are neighbours, after all. Why don’t you go over and apologise? Clear the air.”
“Apologise?” Gillian choked out. “That’s a bit extreme. I said nothing that didn’t need saying. I’m not even sure it was me who made her cry. She appeared contemplative when I got there.”
Bridget narrowed her eyes. “And at that point, you decided to raise your issue? She has just lost her mother.”
Gillian squirmed under Bridget’s scrutiny, struggling to justify her actions even to herself.
“What was your problem anyway? The party?” Bridget’s question lingered, her eyes fixed on Gillian, whose expression at the mere mention of the word must have given her away. “Wasit the noise or the fact you weren’t invited?” Bridget took a sip of her tea before adding, “For what it’s worth, she didn’t seem to be having a good time.”
“It’s not about the party,” Gillian replied, thankful her friend didn’t push for an answer to her second question.
Did she feel snubbed by the lack of an invitation or put out that the woman invited Bridget? Either way, she didn’t appreciate the reminder that Bridget had attended. Or that her approach to the situation may have been less than considerate. She always prided herself on her consideration for others. When it came to Viola Berkley, though, she struggled.
“Bridget, do you think I’m heartless?” Bridget’s floppy jaw and gaping mouth said everything, leading Gillian to add with some mild trepidation, “You can be honest.”
“Really?”
Gillian nodded and braced herself.
