Nothing.That was the worst possible reply. It meant her mother knew she would not like the plan and was keeping it under wraps until she was ready to spring it on her.
Verity pulled herself free of her mother’s embrace.
“Tell me.”
“There is nothing to tell. I merely had a thought. That is all.”
Verity closed one eye and squinted suspiciously. “Will this thought become a reality in the near future?”
“I cannot possibly say.”
Verity groaned. Her mother—despite being a habitual gossip—could be utterly tight-lipped if she chose to be. There was no use in attempting to pry anything from her which she did not wish to share. The only way Verity was going to discover her latest epiphany was when her mother chose to reveal it.
So that was it. She could now stop fretting about William Cole and the courtship that had ended before it had quite begun. Instead, her mother had given her an entirely different cause for concern.
Just marvelous.
Her worries were further exacerbated when Mrs. Lockhart rose with quiet determination and murmured something about a letter she needed to write. And would Verity mind putting her sewing away in the basket for her?
An alarm sounded in Verity’s brain. Her mother hated writing letters. She often dictated them to Verity, declaring herself too easily worn out by the demands of the quill. But this particular correspondence was to be written by Mrs. Lockhart’s own hand.
Verity watched her mother leave the room. A cloud of doom settled over her as she imagined the private scribblings and to whom they might be addressed. What scheme was brewing in her mother’s mind?
The room grew close. It stifled her. Outside, the branches swayed under a cold wind. There was no escape to the pond. So, painting it was, then.
Verity plodded up to her room, the weight of decision upon her. Which of her pictures would she have to give up looking at so as to paint upon the back of it? She scrutinized the multitudeof choices. A ladybird upon a daisy drew her attention. It looked a little lost in the middle of the otherwise-empty page. She could fill in the background with more detail. The existing picture could remain, only better.
She began to set up the colors she would need. She did not want to overwhelm the image of the ladybird. It was still the focus. The flowers and leaves she would add would be small, delicate. She selected white, yellow, and green. These would offer a suitable backdrop for the bright-red shell of the beetle.
She pulled an old, stained smock from a drawer and drew it over her bodice, tying it deftly behind her waist. Choosing a fine-tipped brush, she captured her first new stroke upon the paper. The glass jar tinkled softly as she swirled her brush in water to rinse it before dipping the hairs into a darker shade of green.
A minute slipped by. It was enough. Her thoughts stayed only on the brush and the paper. All other cares slid from her.
An hour passed. A blessed hour with only her painting for company. It restored her equilibrium. When her mother called her to come downstairs and read to her, she did not mind. She thought no more about what schemes were being concocted on her behalf. For the rest of the evening, Verity knew peace.
