His wife gave him alook. “You men. You break our hearts at every turn. What with England constantly at war, poor Harriet might never see her son again. Why could he not settle here in the country? He didn’t have to take on the vicarage. There were other avenues open to him. Why did he have to throw himself in harm’s way?”
“It is unlikely that he will be posted abroad before the spring,” her husband reassured her.
“Winter. Spring. What difference does it make? It is a soldier’s duty to fight. Without a war, he has no purpose. And with a war, he has terrible risk.”
Verity had not thought of that. She had supported Mr. Cole in his goals, believing that, like her, he nurtured dreams others did not understand. She had imagined him, devilishly dashing in his uniform, going forth to conquer his enemies. But in her mind, the enemies had been his parents and anyone else who held him back. She had not considered the battlefield, with cannon fire and bayonets. These were not topics a young woman was encouraged to ponder.
Now the image of his handsome face grew strange in her mind. Bright blood spattered his uniform while his skin paled, cold in death. An icy hand touched her spine and she shivered. The room took on a ghostly chill.
“That window still lets in a draft,” Mr. Lockhart grumbled, looking up. “I’ll ask the Jones boy to have a look at it tomorrow. He is very handy with odd jobs.”
“At least Mr. Cole will have officer’s quarters,” Mrs. Lockhart thought aloud. “I cannot think that the tents for the rank and file would offer much comfort in this weather.”
The room grew quiet.
Mr. Lockhart shifted in his chair. “Let us have another letter, my dear. Different news will take our minds from such somber topics.”
His wife sifted through the little stack on the table. She hesitated a moment, her hand pausing on a particular correspondence. Then she slipped the paper into her pocket.
That was odd, thought Verity.What sort of correspondence needed to be hidden?
Quickly resuming her browsing, her mother selected another letter with a satisfied exclamation.
“Mrs. Harris! Well, now, I haven’t heard from her in a long time. Verity, you read it to us. My eyes grow tired.”
Verity did as bidden, but her mind could not focus on the words before her. Thoughts of Mr. Cole—worried thoughts—would not withdraw from her troubled imagination. And then there was the matter of the letter her mother had not wanted to share. She was up to something. It couldn’t have been worse than Mr. Cole’s news, though, could it? Then again, Mr. Cole’s choices wouldn’t affect her directly. Her mother’s plans, on the other hand, were aimed squarely in her direction. Of that she had no doubt.
And yet… And yet… The idea of Mr. Cole being hurt was doing funny things to her stomach. He wasn’t a nameless soldier. At the very least, he was their neighbor. A very charming neighbor. And a bold one too. One whose eyes were not afraid to look. At her body. At her soul.
Verity stumbled over a sentence for the umpteenth time.
“My goodness,” remarked Mrs. Lockhart. “I do not recall Mrs. Harris writing so poorly that you should struggle this much to read it. Is something amiss? Do you feel unwell?”
Verity wanted to sayyes. But then her parents would fret and send her to bed. She would be alone with her troubled thoughts. At least here, with family and a pile of correspondence, there were distractions. So she merely cleared her throat and said, “I am fine, Mama. Perhaps if I turn toward the window, I will see more clearly what is written on the page.”
She adjusted the angle of her posture accordingly and began to read once more, forcing herself to focus on each word and allow nothing else to enter her mind. In this way, a pleasant hour passed until the little heap of letters was depleted.
A second cup of tea and a sandwich added fortitude against the darkening afternoon. Mr. Lockhart dozed off in his chair. Verity returned to her sewing, a lamp offering guidance to her fingers.
“I will fetch my book from my room,” Mrs. Lockhart announced suddenly as she stood.
“I can get it for you, Mama.”
“No, indeed, it will do me good to stretch my legs a little. I will be right back.”
She disappeared out the door. A creak of the floorboard told Verity her mother had reached the stairs.
A few minutes later, Verity’s thread ran out. She recalled there was an extra spool upstairs that she had not yet unwrapped from her last visit to the haberdashery. She placed her sewing in the work basket and made her way to her room. In a moment of spontaneous playfulness, she skipped over the noisy board by the bottom step and flew lightly up the stairs. As she passed her parents’ room, she turned to ask her mother if she needed help finding her book. Instead, Verity saw herstanding in the middle of the floor, her eyes transfixed upon an unfolded letter in her hand.
The letter. She had quite forgotten about it. That accursed thing—plotting her future without her say-so, Verity was sure.
She stepped into the room, trying to suppress the flush of agitation that surged to her cheeks.
“The light here is not nearly as good as in the sitting room,” Verity said. “Would you like me to read it for you?”
Mrs. Lockhart jumped at the sudden interruption.
“Uh… No, I… Um… I am managing quite nicely, thank you.”
