Chapter Eight
Verity waited invain for Mr. Cole’s return. After a week, she stopped waiting.
So, he was done with her. She could hardly blame him. She hadn’t made it easy. She had never been very good at pretending. He could not possibly have been under any illusion that they were a love match. Seeing him flounder in his attempt to please her had only driven that home. To be honest, there was a measure of relief in his rejection.
Still, she had hoped for the possibility of friendship. They could both use a little of that—some support rather than further demands. Though ill-suited to each other for marriage, they still had enough in common for something simpler and, in her opinion, more meaningful. She wished she had had a chance to tell him that.
Despite that awful moment in the parlor, when the words had stuck in her throat, she had come to think of William Cole as the one gentleman with whom she could speak freely. That was a privilege she did not want to lose. She had planned an apology and an explanation and the polite return of his gift. Perhaps he could recoup a decent portion of his money—he should not be out of pocket for her sake. She did not want to be the cause of any further regret for Mr. Cole.
But his continued absence told her it was too late for any of that. Clearly, he did not have the stomach for her.
He’d been markedly absent at the little party her parents had hosted after church for her coming out. She had not wanted anything glamorous. What was the point if she did not seek a match? She did not hope for a dance as an excuse to touch hands. Nor did she desire to be presented before eager potential mothers-in-law at a large dinner. Her parents had insisted thatsomesort of event should mark the occasion, and Verity had relented at the offer of a small tea for close friends and neighbors.
Mr. and Mrs. Cole had attended, though their shame at their wayward son’s absence had been clear.“A little under the weather”was the excuse they’d offered for the lack of his company. Only Verity and her parents had known this to be a lie. So they’d offered their sympathies and wished him a speedy recovery as if, they, too, had believed him to be ill.
It seemed, however, that his “illness” persevered.
“Should I not at least send the butterfly back?” she asked her mother when another week had passed. “He knows I do not want it. I could offer my regret for my reaction on that day and try to heal some wounds.”
Her mother looked up from her sewing.
“Returning his gift would renew the injury,” she said firmly. “You have bruised his sensibilities, Daughter. And, I suspect, even if he did return, you would do it again, however unintentionally. Unless you intend to welcome him into your heart without reservation, you should not offer him hope.”
“I don’t want to encourage a romance,” Verity replied firmly. “I only wanted to undo some of the harm I did. I hadn’t meant to offend him.”
Mrs. Lockhart put the shirt she had been stitching down upon her lap.
“Verity, as unlikely as it seems, there exists the possibility that young Mr. Cole is taking his time licking his wounds, butthat he may return to us now that you are out in society. The idea of courting you more formally might be all the encouragement he needs. If he is willing to brave the obstacles that your eccentricities present, would you not be willing to at least give him a chance?”
Verity felt the panic rise in her throat.He mustn’t. He can’t!The words burbled up before she could stop them.
“No, Mama! It wouldn’t be right!”
Her mother sighed. “What is it you want, then?”
“Just to be myself.”
“Is it not possible to be yourself and find happiness with a family of your own?”
“I don’t know. I think I will know when it feels right. And it doesn’t now.”
“How can something feel right when you don’t let anyone in?” Her mother’s voice had taken on a slight edge to it.
“What do you mean?” Verity was already tiring of the conversation. Her mother could go on so!
“If you don’t give anyone a chance, how can they win your heart?”
“They might break it instead.”
“Or you could be missing out on the one great love of your life because you did not recognize it in its infancy.”
“Like you did?” Verity answered sulkily.
“Pardon?” Her mother tilted her head sharply.
There was a note of warning in her voice, but Verity ignored it. She was sick, sick, sick of the constant harassment. Her mother had let her own parents talk her out of being with the man she loved because they’d wanted her to marry someone more respectable. She was sure of it. Nothing else made sense. And here she was, lecturing Verity on making a similar mistake. Well, she wasn’t having it. Concern for her well-being was one thing. Hypocrisy was something else entirely.
“I saw your letters,” she blurted out. “The ones from a man with the initials T.L. The man you loved before you married Father. You cannot tell me to open my heart when you closed it so firmly to him all those years ago.”
