“Hmm. I’m afraid you may be right, Nellie. My mother could never be accused of subtlety. But I am not quite ready to fall for the first handsome face that graces our parlor.”
Nellie shrugged. “That is not for me to say, miss.”
Verity’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Shall I put in a good word for you with our mysterious visitor?”
The young maid’s eyes grew wide. “Oh,no, Miss Lockhart. He is far too grand a gentleman for the likes of me.”
“A grand gentleman from the village, and you don’t know who he is?” Verity tapped her chin. “Who can he be?”
“Best to come and find out, miss, before Mrs. Lockhart becomes impatient.”
“I suppose you’re right. Go ahead without me, Nellie. I will be there soon, I promise.”
Nellie hesitated, but—short of dragging her young mistress along by the arm—there was nothing she could do.
“Mrs. Lockhart won’t be happy if you take too long,” she warned.
“I know, Nellie. Tell her I am going to my room to fix my hair and I will be right down.”
The maidservant turned, and her stout legs fought the rise of the hill. With her back to the pond, she did not see Verity uncork the jar and watch the shimmering wings of a dragonfly reclaiming its freedom.
*
With shoes andstockings in hand, Verity snuck into the house through the back entrance. Cook took one look at her and shooed her back out again.
“You’ll not be tracking your mud through my kitchen, young lady,” she said, pointing a long, wooden spoon in her direction.“Nellie, bring her a jug of water and a cloth to clean up before the mistress sees her. Honestly, as if I don’t have enough to do!”
“Sorry, Mrs. MacTavish, it won’t happen again,” Verity mumbled from the back step.
Cook snorted, wiping her hands on her bleached apron. “I find that hard to believe.” She lowered her voice, but Verity could hear her mutter, “Her poor mother. She’ll never get that wild thing married.”
Verity stiffened. She had heard it before. It was her mother’s constant refrain. And because it was true, it was hard to hear. She did try her best to be everything they wanted of her, but, well, all of that just wasn’ther.
There was no time to dwell on it now. She rose to her newly-clean feet and raced up the stairs, two at a time. She was barely through the door of her bedroom when she began to tug at her wet-hemmed dress, pulling it off over her head. It fell on the floor, and she stepped over it to collect a new one from the wardrobe. With stockings clipped neatly in place once more, she slipped into her shoes and ran a brush through her hair—like starlight, her father had described it when she’d been little—almost colorless and yet agleam with reflected light. There wasn’t time to pin it fashionably. A tidy bun would have to do. At least her fringe had not lost much of its curl. Whoever their visitor was, he was not worth fussing for any further.
She adjusted her skirts so that their deep-green folds fell smoothly, then she descended the staircase rather more demurely. It was time to be the vicar’s daughter everyone expected.
The bottom landing creaked as she stepped onto it. Her father had wanted to replace the warped board, but her mother enjoyed knowing when someone approached the parlor. Unsurprisingly, therefore, Verity now heard her mother’s voice declare, “I do believe that is our daughter at last.” A clatter ofchina suggested Mrs. Lockhart had set down her tea. “Verity,” she called, “come in here, dear.”
As if I would greet a guest anywhere else.She wished she couldbeanywhere else. With that option not currently available, Verity now stepped into the parlor, her hands clasped together, her head lowered.
A movement across the room made her look up. Their guest had risen to greet her. Verity sucked in her breath. He was—there was no other word for it—magnificent. Nellie had not exaggerated at all. His frame was neat and slender, his clothes tailored to perfection. The eyes of the stranger were dark and penetrating beneath his black, short-cropped hair, and his mouth lifted slightly at the corners in a secretive smile.
Verity caught herself staring.
Mrs. Lockhart proceeded briskly with introductions. “Verity, I wonder if you remember Mr. William Cole. You played together as children. Of course, that was a long time ago. Perhaps you do not recognize him now.”
William Cole. Verity’s heart sank. Why did this sublime creature have to be William Cole?
Her mother continued, as if the disparity between the Williams, past and present, mattered not a jot.
“The last time you saw each other must have been, what, about five years ago?”
Mr. Cole nodded. “Before I left for university.” His voice was soft and deep and seductive. It was impossible not to notice. But Verity remembered a different version of him. One that was not nearly as irresistible.
“You were the last to leave,” she stated flatly.
“And you never did,” he remarked.
