Sprocket rolled her eyes surprisingly well for a tickerkin. “There’s a note. Shall I read it for you?”
“Absolutely not,” answered Verity, voice firm. “I’ll take it.”
Sighing, Sprocket presented the bouquet and the note, then slowly made her way towards the hall.
“I have everything I need, thank you. Close the door behind you, would you?”
Sprocket grumbled, but obeyed, and the door shut with a thunk, leaving Verity alone with a bunch of lovely flowers and a sealed note.
There were already one or two vases of fresh blooms on the mantelpiece, tokens of gratitude she accepted as part of her world. Still, Verity couldn’t help wishing those kind folks had put their money into a donation rather than a bunch of roses.
Nevertheless, she had taken a brief count of last night’s proceeds and was extremely pleased to see that it was more than she’d anticipated.
Putting the flowers down beside her, she opened the small envelope.
“It was a pleasure renewing our acquaintance.” The fragrance was already permeating the atmosphere. Lily of the valley. A favorite.
She glanced at the signature. “Ashcombe”. The note fell from her nerveless fingers as she reached out to touch the blooms, now realising that there were delicate white and fragrant bells tucked carefully between an assortment of tiny roses and ferns.
He’dremembered. How could he remember when they’d had so little interaction so long ago? Of course her memory was clear as a bell when she thought of that day.
“Hello,” he’d said. “I thought you might like these.”
She recalled the sun shining on him, turning him into something god-like to her barely seventeen-year-old eyes. She’d stuttered something, feeling the fire rise in her cheeks as he’d offered his arm politely. It was almost impossible to believe that her parents wanted her to wed this amazing man. The Lord knew they’d pushed her in front of more eligible bachelors than shecould recall. Most were indifferent, some were unpleasant, and none seemed inclined to any interest in a young girl her age.
She couldn’t blame them. She’d been innocent, gauche, shy, and unused to society events. It had barely been a year since her father had come into an inheritance that had bought him respectability. Her mother had believed that it would also buy Verity a husband, who would add to their coffers. Lucas Ashcombe had been the only one to touch something inside her. He’d conversed sensibly, quietly, treating her like a person, not a piece of property he was considering buying.
A shiver brought goosebumps to her skin, something she’d not experienced in a long time. Not since...
Oh dear.
They’d shared a few real conversations, oddly enough. He’d been attentive, and didn’t change the subject when she’d asked questions that most men would have found both unexpected and uninteresting. She’d plucked up enough courage to ask Sir Lucas Ashcombe about the financial system he had built, which was being tested and installed. He’d looked surprised, then smiled, and taken the time to answer her questions.
Perhaps that was when she fell in love with him—a seventeen-year-old girl bewitched by a man who seemed to speak the same language she did. A young woman developing her own interests that did not mesh with her parents’ expectations, but resounded with Lucas, who seemed to appreciate her fascination with the financial world.
And that was probably also the reason she was so shattered when word came that he’d shuttered his cottage, closed his office for good, and left Arcvale.
He was, she heard, never coming back. That day, she had packed her heart and her emotions away in a strong box and locked it tight. She’d not gone near it since.
Verity stood, squared her shoulders, and marched to the pile of donations. “Work. I need to work, not sit here and recall times long gone.” She glanced at the flowers. “He’s changed. I’ve changed. We’re different people than we were back then.”
Memories threatened to creep back into her mind, so she resolutely pushed them away, and took her donations with her to her study.
There, she could leave Lucas Ashcombe where he belonged—in her past. And there, at her desk, she could begin to sort out her current financial situation, and make some decisions as to where the proceeds from last night’s “do” should be assigned.
For an hour or so, she worked diligently, very pleased indeed with the amount she’d raised last night, and already budgeting out the funds for the most important projects.
Then there were the accounts to be checked, and she rose, heading for her PCE unit, and accessing the current market figures. If she was completely honest, there would be justification for a great deal of pride and satisfaction. She was still under thirty, and already commanded a portfolio many Arcvale businesses would have envied.
Her interest in finance had never diminished, and she’d taken advantage of her somewhat lackadaisical parents, spending time not at the library or the park hunting for a husband, but at the Exchange, listening, watching, reading the weekly newspapers when she could get hold of one.
She’d even bribed the newsboy with a few coins, telling him she’d be more than happy to take the leftover or misprinted papers off his hands.
Her passion expanded, her reading kept pace, and although she’d finally been married off, she never lost her passion. Sadly, she never found any with her husband, a man more interested in his dinner, his brandy, and his racehorses, than his wife. He wanted a son, of course, and the first year, made a point of tryingover and over again. Verity, while finding no pleasure in any of it, did her duty.
But no child appeared, and then, not too many years into her marriage, he fell while hunting and broke his neck. A year of mourning followed; no hardship to the bereft Lady Turner-Yardley, who spent most of that time poring over investment prospectuses, and everything she could get her hands on that concerned the Ashcombe banking system.
Now, years later, Verity was in control of her life, extremely well-versed in the things she cared about, and quite happily independent.
