Page 9 of Beyond Her Manner
Having completed her shutdown checks, Viola Berkley opened the helicopter door and jumped down onto the expansive grassy lawn clutching a small box. Giving a nod of gratitude to Douglas, her concierge pilot who would be returning the helicopter for her, she grabbed a Louis Vuitton Keepall and shut the door.
Stepping away from the landing site, she covered a yawn with her hand. Despite the short flight from London, the intense concentration required to pilot the helicopter always left her drained.
As she walked across the lawn toward the house, she noted the need for proper lighting to make nighttime landings possible. Her thoughts were interrupted by a woman striding toward her with determined speed. As she drew closer, her stiff posture, clenched fists and contorted expression made Viola’s steps falter. The woman stopped abruptly a few metres away.
“I demand to speak to the pilot of this ghastly contraption!” The woman’s voice, seething with anger, easily projected overthe sound of the idling helicopter blades. She glared at Douglas, who was manoeuvring himself into the pilot’s seat.
“That would be me,” Viola replied, raising an eyebrow.
“You!” The woman sniffed. “You can’t be the pilot.”
Viola tucked a strand of her long, wind-blown auburn hair behind her ear. “And yet I am.”
The woman glared, blue eyes piercing into her. “But… but you’re a woman.”
“Well observed,” Viola replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Amazingly, it doesn’t stop me from flying a helicopter. My ovaries are cleverly concealed, and even the helicopter is fooled.”
The woman’s gaze lingered on Viola. Her stern expression wavered, almost softening, as she studied her.
“I see being a woman doesn’t prevent you from being misogynistic,” Viola continued.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the woman snapped back, her face hardening again.
“I’m not the one who is being ridiculous.”
“You threw my horse. I could have been seriously injured or worse. This is the countryside, not Monaco. You can’t land here!”
“Why can’t I?” Viola demanded.
“I own the place,” the woman retorted, lifting her chin.
Viola arched a brow and folded her arms across her chest. “That makes two of us.”
The woman pulled back in surprise, fiddling with her riding gloves. “Oh! You’re the new… owner.”
“Viola Berkley. You must be the old one.”
The woman’s twitching upper lip told her she may have chosen the wrong word, using ‘old’; her reply confirmed it.
“Previous… owner, yes,” she replied through gritted teeth. “Gillian Carmichael.”
“I hope your horse is all right,” Viola said gently, feeling she should at least try to diffuse some of the tension.
“Yes. He’s in the stable.”
“Ah, yes, that would be my stable too.”
“Yes. I’m grateful to you for allowing me to stay on whilst I seek alternative suitable arrangements.”
Viola shrugged. “I don’t ride, so feel free to continue.”
She was torn about giving such an offer, but she’d always believed in killing people with kindness, and right now, it was clearly having that effect on Gillian. She could have been petty and told the woman to fuck off, yet the look on her face was far too satisfying.
Gillian finally responded, her smile stiff and reluctant. “Thank you.”
And that was the icing on the cake. Viola sensed those words were rarely uttered by the woman. Gillian Carmichael struck her as more of a ‘giving orders’ type, who was more likely to chastise you for doing something wrong than thank you for doing something right.
“You’re welcome.” She hitched her luggage up on her shoulder. “May I go now? It’s been a tiring journey, and I have a lot to do.”
