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Viola
Some six months after Viola’s arrival in London.
Out of my bedroom window,I could see the frost on the streets. It was January, which always reminded me of my father’s death. Inexplicably, I wished for the evening when, with girlish romanticism, I had watched my parents, loving mates, sit on the sofa, their hands clasped while they listened to us recite our lessons before telling some mad story of seeing sea lions in the surf.
I sighed with longing for those happy days, with weariness for my current situation. But life moves on and I must face facts: Even after six months, nothing had improved at Weymouth Street. I learnt from the housekeeper that my aunt’s health was genuinely poor, but even at my uncle’s urging, she refused to see a doctor, preferring instead to bear her illness stoically. I’d begun to suspect that there was a battle of wills between her and her mate but could not find the cause except that they were unhappy, perhaps even disliking each other. It made for long, boring days and interminably long, silent evenings, with my uncle almost always out and my aunt bent over her embroidery. My sanity remained intact, thanks to correspondence with my sisters and mother, and my hours spent writing about the subjugation of omegas and the inequality of the dynamics. It was solitary work, and I missed the company of like-minded people. It was only when Iris returned to us for Christmas that I finally realised quite how lonely I’d become.
My boredom found some relief in my sister and her friends. One such friend was Arthur Jones, who had gone up to Oxford with my sister and had haunted our doorstep since the Christmas vacation. They returned for Hilary Term in a week’s time, but today we discussed the new bill being considered by Parliament.
“It will give unmated and unmarried omegas the rights to own property without an alpha co-signer. Not so free as betas, but an improvement, is it not, Miss Viola?” Mr Jones smiled. Of course, I knew this. I’d been following its progress as closely as an omega watched over a newborn.
“What is the bill’s chance?” I asked, pretending enough ignorance for him to feel superior to an omega. He was a handsome alpha even if he considered my interests in politics shallow rather than deadly serious—though I hoped I would never have to kill someone for my politics. In short, I liked him because there was no one else to like better.
“They lack the votes, but it will be close. Ten would do it. There are several on the fence waiting to see where certain peers will sit on the topic.”
“Which ones?” I pressed.
“The Duke Orley has not expressed an opinion, and he’s six seats under his patronage. Though, he is in Town, so we might expect him to sit silently in the House of Lords. There is a hope he will follow Bedford, but the duke spends his time in the country and rarely comes to town so we don’t know which way he will go.”
“Perhaps the Parson Duke will demonstrate that he isn’t quite so parsimonious with the votes he controls,” Iris laughed at her own joke. The duke, however, was serious business—six votes was nothing to sneer at.
“He would not be enough,” I frowned. “He has six seats under his patronage. We’d need to be certain of all Gale’s and persuade at least a few more of the governments’ less settled members… What shall we—”
“We? You keep your nose out of it. Exile would not suit you, Vi,” my sister frowned.
“You would take up and campaign for this bill? That is very admirable, Miss Viola.” Mr Jones spoke with a great deal of warmth. My omega, however, did not respond to his blatant overture—his scent made no secret of what he desired. Though handsome, we did not think him powerful enough.
“Thank you,” I managed and glanced at my sister, who grinned like a Cheshire cat. Did she think to play matchmaker? But my twin was neither so crafty nor much interested in my personal affairs. Which could only mean she enjoyed my embarrassment. Damn her. Dammit, again because I was suppressing myself in front of a strange alpha. That was when I noticed they were both dressed for riding. I’d added cabin fever to the long list of complaints I’d begun in my latest letter to my mother. “I suppose you want to be on your way…”
“Next time, Vi, get permission from our aunt and join us on our ride,” she said with a friendly flick to my nose. “I’m surprised you’ve not gone mad cooped up as you are.”
“Not until the weather is better,” I said with regret. “It seems we omegas must only ride on fine days, lest our hair becomes wet and our appearance ruined by the wind.”
“I expect you would look brilliant in any weather,” said Mr Jones as he took my hand and held it a little longer than was strictly necessary.
I murmured my hope that they had a pleasant if damp ride. Dammit. What was this place doing to me, that I must act like a girl just out of the schoolroom? That I bit my tongue around alphas I knew I could tie up in knots with my words! I could not pick the problem apart and it was no gorgon knot to take a sharp blade to. Dammit.
But now I had something to think on—The Duke of Orley and his votes. They called him the Parson because he was a vegetarian, teetotaller, and seemed allergic to gambling. That being said, he was a noted sportsman—or at least that is what Iris had let slip one afternoon after watching him box at Jackson’s some weeks before our conversation about the bill. Iris didn’t practice the Fancy but had gone along to watch a bout between the duke and the war hero Colonel Jack Fordom. The duke had won, but it had been a near thing. The crowd had declared the bout would be remembered one hundred years from now.
“He’s a bruiser and ugly,” she’d reported. “But there is something about him that commands the room, and it don’t have anything to do with his title, for he doesn’t throw that around. Wouldn’t have known it was him if our uncle hadn’t pointed him out.”
I’d no interest in boxing or the duke until I knew that he had votes for the taking. My mind tripped along as I began a new letter to Mama. Within a fortnight, I had her reply.
My darling Viola,
I am pleased to hear from you and that you are no longer in a murderous rage at the modiste for making your dress too much in the modern style. It is not her fault you have long legs and that current fashions make you look taller. If you chose to wear men’s clothes, I would not stop you. Beatrice does.
I rolled my eyes. I liked wearing dresses. They were often the only things that made people remember I was an omega. Compared to most omegas I was a giant, matching the height of a tall beta woman. It was not fair. Everyone had expected both Iris and me to be alphas, especially when I did not have my first heat until I was sixteen. Instead, I’d presented as an omega, and felt awkward in a body that did not match my dynamic’s ideal.
As for Orley, there isn’t much to tell. I never knew his parents. We were already in Edinburgh. However, his grandmother was a fixture in society her whole life. She raised him. Dearest, I would not, however, approach him about votes. Viola, consider your own feelings if he refused to see you. Consider that going too far…
I crumpled up the letter and tossed it over my shoulder. She meant well. I looked to where it had landed on the floor, then rose and smoothed the page.
Consider that going too far, rushing your fences, will do nothing but frustrate you. Instead, perhaps find other alphas who are more out in society and easier to approach. Gloves off, Orley will not speak to a young, unknown omega about politics, nor would he like being bullied into doing what you want. Some tact, my dear, is what I recommend. Then…
I heaved a sigh and stuffed the letter into my desk drawer knowing I would only get frustrated as she urged me towards a different path. I’d honour my Mama’s advice by not burning her letter as I desired.
While I tried to cool my temper, I absently traced my finger over the cover of the book of poetry I had found amongst my aunt’s few books, and a plan began to form, designed to convince His Grace of Orley to support the bill. The greatest hurdle: getting close to him. If I wished to approach him, I needed to hide my dynamic. Perhaps I’d take on Iris’ identity, borrow her alpha scent by wearing her clothes. She would be in Oxford, and I in London. The duke did not know us, did not go out into society, so the disguise would be perfect. And I, as Viola, was not out. If he chose to go to a ball, I would not be there. Yes, it could be done.
