Her mother sighed. “No, you do not complain. But you do not thrive, either. Oh, Mr. Lockhart, do talk some sense into her!”
Verity stared equally helplessly at her father. To her surprise, he reached out his hands and cupped her face in them, his eyes warm and soft.
“Your mother and I have had a good and happy life together. And our children have been blessed to follow suit. All but you. The time has come for you to find your own happy future, my child. It is time you stepped out from beneath our shadow and shone forth your own light.” He tucked a wisp of her hair behind her ear and smiled wistfully. “Shine forth just like the starlight in your hair.”
It was a term he had not used since she’d been a little girl. Verity remembered the years when she had been free of care and infused with the wonder of life. As the years had passed, her world had shrunk, layers of rules and expectations winding tighter and tighter about her. Her dreams had become suffocated by the weight of reality. Notherreality, she corrected herself silently, but the one that had been foisted upon her.
Would Munro offer anything new? Her parents’ optimism in this regard was endearing. They truly wanted her to find happiness in a match that did not compromise her hopes. Or at least, not compromise themtoomuch. But Verity was skeptical. What if Munro was just a larger version of Fernbridge? A greater variety of gentlemen did not guarantee a greater range in their thinking. When all was said and done, regardless of their interests and idiosyncrasies, didn’t all men want a wife who fell in with her husband’s wants and needs?
At least, in Fernbridge, she knew everyone, knew their strengths and flaws. Munro would lay open a bountiful array of choice—all strangers—whose chaperones would suggest they could be trusted. But was that enough? How often would she have to open her heart and hopes before she found someone who did not disappoint? Because they always did. Oh, they would be charming at first. But sooner or later, her own desires would be discovered and discarded. That had been her experience during conversations with their many neighbors and fellow church attendees. Now that she was out in society, it would be worse. Her oddness would not simply entice a bemused smile. No, there would be outright rejection. She would be labeled unsuitable. Mothers would keep their sons from her. Friends would whisper warnings in the ears of keen suitors. She would bethatwoman. The one they whispered about behind fans. The one their eyes followed knowingly, eliciting a sad tutting from mothers who pitied hers.
Verity released a deep sigh. “I suppose I should begin packing. Could Nellie fetch me the trunk from the attic?”
Her mother, who had been wearing a worried frown while she waited for Verity’s response, now lit up with inspiration. “Oh, I had quite forgot! Hope says you shall have your very own lady’s maid when you are with them in Munro. And she has convinced her dear Daniel to provide funds for you to have a new wardrobe. No more country clothes for you. You will be a proper lady of Munro. Isn’t it exciting?”
Verity pictured her own frequently muddy hemlines, reminders of her happiest hours. The last thing she wanted was to primp and preen in unnecessary finery. It would be a lie. Such garb would draw exactly the wrong sort of interest. Who would accept her as she was if she did not dress as herself?
Ugh! It was yet another battle she would have to fight against good intentions.
As always, though, Verity forced herself to smile and say, “That is very generous of them. I will thank them in person.”
“Indeed,” her mother replied, “Hope is fortunate to have made such an excellent match. Daniel is a good father and a man of means. And he is kind. She could scarcely have done better.”
It is easy when you are not considered odd, Verity grumbled to herself. Frankly, she would be happy as the wife of a farmer if he would let her wander about the countryside, sketching, and gave her leave to study her books on science. Then again, she had to admit, he would likely struggle to afford the paper.
Verity hated that her mother was right. She would need a husband with a decent income or allowance. The practical considerations could not be ignored. And Munro had a far broader selection of such prospects. Might one of them also care for her as she was? She only needed one…
Trying not to ponder how elusive that one man might be, Verity trudged off to her room. The floorboard at the landinggroaned its familiar greeting. How many times had she skipped over it, shoes and stockings in hand, portfolio tucked under her arm? It was unlikely she would be able to manage similar escapades at her sister’s home. Hope was not judgmental, but Daniel would likely disapprove of such a poor example for his children. Their Aunt Verity would have to behave herself. It would need to be portraits and landscapes if she were to paint at all.
In the sanctuary of her room, Verity began the painstaking task of collecting her insect art from the walls. If she was not to create new paintings, she could at least find comfort in those already in her possession. She paused with each, recalling the occasion of its creation, before lovingly laying it in a growing pile upon her bed.
The tansy beetle was next. Verity beheld it with a small degree of dissatisfaction. Its iridescent jewel tones had been hard to capture on paper. It might have worked better with oil paints than watercolors. But that had not been possible. Oils were expensive.
Maybe she could try again in the summer, when the beetle was easy to find. Verity wondered if she would still be in Munro then. If she had not found a husband in the next three months, would she be allowed to return to the vicarage and resume her quiet life? Or would she become an unofficial companion for the Sinclair children, a means to compensate for the burden her presence created upon their father’s purse? She shuddered. No more pond. No more hidden books beneath her bed. No more barefoot escapades.
Her mind’s gaze cast back to the day she had sketched the beetle, its discovery a wonderful surprise, just like the red admiral on Mr. Cole’s hat the week before. Both times he had been present when nature had offered her a late-season wonderment. He had been patient with her as she’d marveled,even a co-conspirator as she’d sketched. And he had kept her secret safe. He had revealed a tender side that day, despite his attempts to hide it with playfulness. And if that had been the end of it, they would certainly have been friends.
Verity clenched her jaw. That accursed butterfly! She shook her head in frustration. The gift, a failed attempt at thoughtfulness, was lying in the very trunk Verity had asked Nellie to bring. She really must rid herself of it.
There was a simple solution. She would take it with her to Munro. She could deposit it—and a letter—with Mr. Cole’s older sister, Charlotte, now Mrs. James Trenton. He would certainly visit with her and be able to reclaim the item. It didn’t matter now whether returning it brought up hurts from the past. He clearly wanted nothing to do with her, anyway. And, being in Munro, he may well be able to sell it back to the Entomological Society. Or give it as a gift to a less-demanding woman. Mrs. Trenton might like it, now that Verity thought on it. She was wonderfully easy to please. Verity had always liked her, even though their age difference had made a childhood friendship impossible.
More importantly, Verity thought, she must make peace with Mr. Cole. She would not presume a meeting, but a letter would offer some means of reconciliation. If nothing else, she needed him to understand thathehad not been rejected. He had misjudged, certainly, and she had reacted with shock and dismay, but she believed that a frank conversation could have mended it. And he was the one person with whom she knew she could have such a frank conversation.
She might not want to marry him, but he deserved to know that she valued him nevertheless. She suspected this was something he had not been told often enough.
The tansy beetle was, at last, added to the pile of watercolors upon her bed. Her fingers lingered a moment upon the page.With all her heart, Verity prayed that the next sketch would be with someone who accepted her as Mr. Cole had done that day. A man who understood what it was to be different and gave her the space to voice it.
Until then, Verity would continue in silence. And, preferably, alone.
