Chapter Four
Verity sat onher bed, poring over an engraving of caterpillars in the bookErucarum Ortus. The door was locked. What her mother didn’t know could not upset her.
She was quite sure the assistant at the circulating library believed her father to be an avid entomologist, based on the frequency with which Verity fetched books for him on the subject. Fortunately, the vicar was always occupied with parish matters and did not have time to select anything for himself, relying on Verity’s good taste. Thus, amongst biographies of great church leaders, or a treatise on sound economic management, there would be a book on zoological classification or the like, which was quickly slipped into Verity’s shawl before being smuggled into her room.
This latest volume was the author’s final work and reflected the usual high standards of Maria Sibylla Merian. However, Verity could not help but experience an odd discomfort whenever she considered Merian’s work. Their lives were strangely similar, despite being separated by a full century. Both were artists and naturalists. Merian had been married at eighteen, and Verity knew her mother harbored similar hopes for her. But Merian’s marriage had ended in divorce, and her life had been filled with financial struggle and resistance to her work. Fears that her own hopes might have a similar outcome lay shallow in Verity’s heart.
She closed the book with athud. She jumped when anotherthumpechoed it.
“Verity? Are you resting, dear?”
Another knock on the door.
Verity sighed. If shehadbeen resting, that would now have come to an abrupt end.
She slid the unsanctioned book under her bed and crossed the floor to the door. Unlocking it, she swung it open to find her mother with knuckles raised and a round “o” of surprise on her lips.
“You’re awake!”
“I was reading.”
“A novel?” Mrs. Lockhart asked suspiciously.
“A collection of art.” Verity indicated the decoy book that lay upon her writing desk.
“Isn’t that the same book you were looking at last week?”
“It’s very good. I am learning much from studying it in greater detail.”
Mrs. Lockhart sighed as her eyes lifted from the writing desk to the walls.
They were covered in watercolors of insects.
Verity was certain that every fiber in her mother’s being willed her to take them all down. After all, they only encouraged an unsuitable hobby. And yet she said not a word. Although Verity steadily added more and more each month, until there was scarcely room to pin up even one new painting, her mother did nothing about it. Perhaps she knew that, as accommodating as Verity tended to be, there was a limit to her compliance. If her parents had forced her to remove the colored sketches, it would have made her miserable. It was the line in the sand, and they would not cross it.
But there was more to it than that. As Verity watched, her mother studied the collection on the wall, her expressionfluctuating between a frown and naked admiration. Verity’s heart pinched with pity. It had to be hard to have a daughter who did not follow the beaten path. She knew her mother loved her. Very much, in fact. And it was that love that kept her from doing what she knew would cause her daughter anguish. So the paintings stayed.
Today, there was something else on her mother’s mind. Verity could see the sadness as she pulled her attention away from the pictures and focused once again on her daughter.
“Verity, dear, we need to talk.”
It was inevitable. She was amazed it had taken her mother this long.
“All right,” Verity answered, resuming her seat on the bed.
Her mother sat quite suddenly, as if the weight of the subject matter overwhelmed her. She had taken the chair at the writing desk, and her fingers absentmindedly stroked the cover of the book of art masters. Then her hands slid into her lap, where they appeared to hold her full attention for some time. Eventually, her head lifted, and she looked with renewed determination at her daughter.
“Verity, you know your father and I are getting on in years.”
A rush of ice surged through Verity’s veins. “Are you unwell?”
“No, no, thanks be to God. But, as you know, you came into our lives a little later than expected.”
Verity breathed a sigh of relief. This information was nothing new.
“You were a lovely surprise to us in our… more mature years. But it also means we are slowing down a bit.”
Verity bit back a grin.Slowing downwas not a phrase easily applied to her mother.
