SWNOVELS Chapter Upside Down
Viola
Since our little stroll in the park with the charming Lord Spencer, we’ve spent nearly every day together, which has been surprisingly wonderful. He gave me the room and freedom to unleash more of my mind and speak freely to him—it was easy to converse with him, and he listened to what I had to say without waiting his turn to speak—something I’ve noticed men do.
When he proposed marriage just yesterday, however, I could not respond. Despite anticipating this step in our courtship, fear and panic overcame me at his words—I feared that saying “yes” would irreversibly change my world and set me on a one-way path there would be no coming back.
Everyone I’ve confided in—Sophie, Polly, even Laura, who unexpectedly visited to reconcile our past—insists I’d be foolish to reject him, except for my father. Annoyingly, he hasn’t expressed his opinion one way or the other.
Now, seated across from him in his office, I wait for him to answer the big question—should I marry Lord Spencer?
I watch as he finishes scribbling on a document before putting his pen down and lacing his fingers while peeping at me over his spectacles. “Viola, my dear, what are you looking for? What would make you happy?”
I can hardly tell my father that my dreams mostly consist of exploring exotic lands, getting entangled in as much fantastical trouble as possible, and being ravaged by a handsome werewolf in some wild place no human has ever ventured.
I shrug and try to hide a smirk at the inappropriate thoughts rushing through my mind. “Reading books and eating pastries? I don’t know.”
My father chuckles and shakes his head. “Those are the dreams of a child, my dear.”
I sigh, glancing around his bureau. “I truly wish I were born a man, free from all this nonsense. I could inherit your business and be a man of business.”
He chuckles. “It’s a tad late for that, Viola.”
“Maybe I should cut my hair, dress as a boy, and stow away on a ship to America? Doesn’t that sound inviting?”
“Sounds like a recipe for disaster,” my father mutters.
“You should find some contentment in any situation you’re in, Viola. The grass isn’t always greener on the other side. People search for better pastures only to regret and waste time, and what do we say about time?”
“It’s limited, and we can never make more,” I reply.
“The grass is greener where you water it, Viola,” Father says as he takes up another document.
I study my father, wondering about the intriguing and daring tales of his youth that he would never share with his daughter. I struggle to imagine him as a younger man. He often recounts the story of wooing my mother, who worked in a flower shop she could open with her brother’s assistance. Imagining her as an independent businesswoman makes me envy her courage—though the shop was in my uncle’s name, everything he did for her was all according to her grand plan. She loved flowers, and my father wanted her to be securely surrounded by them forever; he went so far as to buy the building her shop was located in to ensure she could run her business in peace.
My name, Viola, was inspired by her love of flowers—the Sweet Violet, a delicate and fragrant creeping wildflower. Despite its small size, it boasts intricate beauty upon closer inspection. While the roots and plant itself are toxic, the flower is edible and sweet.
I like to think it suits me: delicate and sweet on the outside but dangerous when push comes to shove. At least, I envision myself sword-fighting pirates amid battles on ships at sea, but I doubt I could ever harm another living being.
I eye my father. “Do you have any regrets?”
My father looks up at the painting of my mother. “No, I can’t say that I do. I followed my heart, and now I have a wonderful daughter who reminds me of my beautiful Willow.”
He looks at me and smiles softly. “I want the best for you, darling. From my point of view, marrying Lord Spencer is a wise, logical move, and I would feel more comfortable knowing you were looked after by such a man, but I can see your heart isn’t in it. I don’t know what your answer should be. Follow your intuition.”
I spend the rest of the day helping Stanley, our groundskeeper, in the garden. A day of labor is always good for the mind and soul.
It’s so simple for plants—all a flower needs is the warm sun, water, and nutrition. Maybe I’m overthinking things. Lord Spenser could easily be the warm sun I’m looking for, but his eyes—they’re not the eyes from my dream. His voice doesn’t beckon me to him—he doesn’t feel right. But if I stay here in the same place, I’ll never find him.
I sigh as I remove my gloves and check the rose bush I’ve been trimming. As I lift one of the flowers, I prick my finger on a thorn. I suddenly get dizzy and see a white light wash over my eyes. It’s so bright I can barely keep my eyes open. For a moment, I get a little dramatic and think this is the white light they talk of when one dies, but it is only a prick on my finger—I can’t possibly be dying.
I feel a voice resonate through every part of my soul, his voice filling me with warmth. “Where are you? I’m waiting for you.”
How is it possible for me to hear him? I’m not even dreaming.
“Where?” I hear myself calling out into the white light that surrounds me. “Where are you?”
“Yes,” he echoes throughout me.
“Yes?” I mutter to myself in confusion—his response answers absolutely nothing. Yes?
“Viola? Miss Viola?” Another voice pierces through the hum in my ears.
I feel myself waking as a hand gently pats my face. I open my eyes and see Stanley looking down at me in a panic.
“Stanley? What happened?” I barely manage to groan as he helps me sit up.
“Most likely the heat, Miss Viola. Best you go inside and rest a bit, drinking some cool water,” Old Stanley says with a warm smile.
I nod as Stanley helps me to my feet. “Yes, perhaps you’re right.”
As I walk towards the house, I examine my finger—nothing there, no prick, no blood. For a moment, I thought it was some guardian angel showing me which path to take, but I brushed it off almost instantly. It must have been the heat, like Stanley said. As I pour myself a glass of water in the kitchen, I try to convince myself that I hallucinated the whole thing.
“I’m just hearing voices and slowly going insane,” I say to myself, nodding.
Yes, that must be it—wonderful insanity finally came to collect me.
I did nothing—I made no choice and gave no answer to Lord Spencer’s proposal for days. He called a few times, but I told the staff to turn him away with lies that I was out of town or visiting friends.
I’m a coward.
Fate intervenes abruptly, turns my world upside down—it’s no longer a matter of choice for me—I am thrust into marriage with Lord Spencer.
The entire week is a blur in my memory, starting the day Sophie delivered the news of my father’s passing.
I’m enveloped in a bubble of noise, my mind unreachable and isolated. No matter how many bodies surround me or how firmly Pollyanna holds my hand, I feel shattered and alone. Nothing seems to hold meaning anymore.
I watch, like a spectator in my own body, as everything around me moves. I’m pulled and prodded like a shell without a soul, stuffed into a white dress.
The wedding is rushed and understated, and my father’s funeral is a distant blur—all orchestrated to swiftly transfer my father’s fortune to my new husband, denying my cousin Larry his rightful inheritance.
I stare out the window as the scenery rolls by—none of it looks familiar. I don’t know how long we’ve been traveling—I don’t even know where we are right now. I vaguely remember Sophie saying my Lord husband would follow us a day later, having some unexpected business to finish up before returning home. Home… I know not what lies in the direction we’re going, but it certainly isn’t home.
We arrive at my husband’s estate late at night. With no moon in the sky, it’s too dark to make out the house or grounds, but looking at some of the illuminated windows within, it’s a grand house, to be sure.
I follow Sophie, who leads me by the hand to a room prepared for me. I’m quickly introduced to some of the staff, none of whom look very friendly. They all look how I feel—downright miserable.
There is one face that stands out to me—a young woman about my age who smiles softly when our eyes meet. One could mistake her expression as pity, but it isn’t—it’s comfort, almost as if she were reaching into the shield I’ve surrounded myself in and trying to send calm my way. She is like me, and she will be a friend.
Sophie, like the wonder carer she is, has me ready for bed in minutes. Once she covers me in my new sheets, which smell unfamiliar, she takes my hand in hers and holds it firmly.
“You will survive this,” she says, patting my hand.
“I don’t know if I want to survive this, Sophie,” I say weakly. “Will you stay with me tonight?”
“Bah! Don’t be so dramatic! You’re English, not French.” Sophie sighs, “Of course, I will stay with you.”
It’s the first time I’ve allowed myself a little smile, the first time I’ve felt anything in what seems like an eternity, but it will be another eternity before I manage another.
That night, I drift off to sleep with Sophie already softly snoring beside me—both oblivious that I had wedded a monster and that our new home would become our prison.