Aunt Clara still sat by the fireside when she returned to the old nursery. “You’re back a little earlier than I anticipated.” “Sir Hutsby-Mede!” Viola protested, needing an outlet for all the mixed emotions she was feeling. “I can’t believe you would allow father to marry me to that man.” Her aunt stopped knitting in order to look at her. “Whatever are you blabbering about, girl? It’s not Sir Hutsby-Mede your father has in mind for you. Not unless something radical has happened between luncheon and this moment.” “It isn’t? But Tom prompted him to ask me to dance.” “Your brother takes great delight in stirring trouble. Come and sit down, and tell me what has happened. I sense something else is troubling you besides Thomas’ mischief.” Viola drew close to the fire, after the heat of the crowded salon, the nursery wing seemed particularly cold and dreary. “If it’s not Hideous Hutsby, then who is it?” Her aunt smiled, “Gracious, you must be able to guess.
