Mr. Cole.
He was either an incredibly talented liar or a misguided fool who had learned his lesson. She could not remain friends with a dishonest man. But a fool she could forgive. A once-selfish boy who was finally becoming a man could earn her respect.
Then again, was friendship enough? Maybe it would be a mercy to despise him. She would finally be able to let him go.
“Sandwiches, anyone?” Miss Kinsey inquired. She looped her arm through Verity’s and the other through Dr. Westbridge’s. He did not protest. He did not withdraw his arm. The man was completely indifferent as to who should lean upon him. It mattered not. Nor did Verity want his arm. The chance to brush his hand or breathe in his manly scent did not entice her. All she cared about now was to confront William Cole. To love him or loathe him as the truth would dictate.
But how? When?
The picnic! Mrs. Trenton would be there and her brother was staying with her. He would most likely attend with their family.With so many people there, it would be easy to speak to him unaccompanied while still in public, where all could see them without hearing their words. Yes, that was it. She had a plan. The wait felt more bearable with a plan.
Today, she would nibble on crustless sandwiches and talk about tansy beetles. They would paint and revel in the freedom of the outdoors. She would have uninspired conversation with Dr. Westbridge and one-sided interactions with Miss Kinsey.
But next week, there would be a reckoning with William Cole. If he was not the man she thought he was, they were done. It would be a disappointment and a relief. Still, he might have answers she could understand, points of view she had not considered. They could remain friends. Excellent friends. Only friends.
It did not seem to Verity that either outcome was preferable. But she could not look him in the eye again without knowing who he really was.
Perhaps, if he was brave enough to share the truth of his past, and it did not repulse her, she would be bold enough to share her hopes for the future. That she loved him. That she wanted so much for him to be worthy of such feeling. That the thought of losing him—to war, to another woman, to a reputation she could not respect—cut her to the quick.
Next week, she would know. Would she be encouraging William Cole, whose passion may have driven him to great foolishness, or Dr. Westbridge, whose passion had yet to reveal itself?
From deep within, a voice she had forgotten, a whisper she had ignored here in the strangeness of the city of Munro, spoke to her in a moment of clarity.“First,”it said, with a love she should not have discarded,“you must choose yourself.”
