Chapter 13
Flora checked that the doors to her cozy guest room were locked—both the door to the hallway and the one that led to Verbena’s room—before opening the first of her trunks.
It was a clever piece of work: while several gowns were packed inside, overflowing in their riot of pretty colors, one could remove them and reveal the false bottom.
Beneath that were William’s best clothes.
He would need to be in top form to catch Verbena’s eye. She began to transform.
William was dealing with the buttons on his placket when he heard the door to Verbena’s bedroom open into the hall, then shut again.
The sound of Verbena descending the stairs in her sturdy walking boots alighted on his ear.
William finished with his trousers, straightened the knot of his cravat, and studied himself in the looking glass.
A fine gentleman stared back at him, albeit red-cheeked and trembling with nerves.
“Nothing to worry about,” he muttered to himself. “She bought your novel, after all. She absolutely hates it, but she did buy it. That’s a sale, at least.” He groaned, covering his eyes with his hands. “Right. Don’t mention the novel. Just—be charming.”
William dropped his hands and gave the mirror his best smile. He looked like a deranged hyena. His face fell. This was impossible.
There was a stained-glass window in his little room facing the wood.
From far below it came the sound of voices, Verbena’s velvety tone among them.
William crept to the window and, careful to keep himself hidden from view, swung open the colorful depiction of Athena in men’s clothing so he could get a good look at the proceedings.
Verbena, dressed in a fresh gown, was chatting with some of the artists who’d been painting Byron earlier.
Their folded easels and boxes of paints were shoved under their arms. William had to hurry before someone else beat him to an invitation.
The house was thankfully quiet, and William crept through the empty hall and down the back stairs without meeting a soul. Penny was in the kitchen at the bottom of the stairs, but she hardly raised an eyebrow at his appearance.
“Did you just arrive, sir?” she asked while stoking the fire.
“Erm, yes,” William said. “The ladies have already shown me to my room. All settled in nicely.” He clacked his fists together, then edged toward the back door. “I’ll just be going.”
Penny was too busy with her work to pay him any mind. He slipped out back and nearly ran directly into Miles and his aunt.
“Oh!” said Aunt Bette, steadying William by the arm. “And who is this?”
Miles rushed to make introductions. “Aunt, please meet my good friend, Mr. William Forsyth.”
“Your maid, Penny, gave me an excellent room,” William said. An odd thing to say, but he felt it best to cover his tracks as swiftly as possible.
Bette frowned. “Oh? We are getting so full here. Which room did she—?”
“The one next to mine, I expect!” Miles looked meaningfully at William. “It was empty last I checked.”
“Yes, of course. The room next to yours. That is where I am staying,” William babbled.
“And now I’m sure Mr. Forsyth will want to partake in a walk through the beautiful woods,” Miles said. “Long journey from London. Must stretch those legs.”
“Exactly correct. Legs!” William laughed nervously. “Woods!”
Bette must have been inured to hosting a variety of odd people, for she gave William only a momentary look of concern before shrugging. “It’s a perfect day for it. Have a wonderful time.” She made her way past him and into the kitchen, greeting Penny as she opened the door.
Miles took a moment to clasp William by the shoulder. “Why don’t you ask Verbena to join you?” With a sly grin, he followed his aunt inside and shut the door.
William made his way around the side of the house, tugging at his coat to erase the wrinkles. Once he rounded the corner, he caught sight of Verbena, still making conversation with some of the other guests. William paused and drew himself upright. He had to be brave. He’d come too far to fail now.
“Miss Montrose!” he called, striding forth from the house’s shadow. “How good to see you again.”
Verbena turned, a faint look of surprise on her features. Better than disgust, he supposed, considering how their last conversation had gone. The artists must have sensed William’s desperation, for they made their excuses and departed for the front door.
At last, they were alone.
“Mr. Forsyth.” Verbena nodded at him, a curious tilt to her mouth. “Did you only just arrive?”
“Yes,” he said, “only just.”
“I did not note the arrival of any coaches,” Verbena said.
“Yes! Well. The driver was terribly quick; hardly came to a trot before I was shoved out. We made short work of getting here, though, I must say.” William attempted a smile, then thought better of it. “And yourself?”
Verbena scanned the drive, no doubt already bored with this talk of routes and travel. “Our party came earlier this afternoon,” she said, distracted.
William swallowed. It was now or never. “I met Mr. McDonald a moment ago. He suggested I take a stroll through the woods,” he said.
“Sensible.” Verbena turned and smiled serenely at him. She was as beautiful as a poem. “Would you be amenable to company? I should like to see more of the surroundings.”
William’s heart surged forward. “Exactly what I was about to suggest.” He did not want to appear so eager as to be off-putting, but he could not help the excitement that colored his voice. He stuck out his arm. “Shall we?”
They walked across the grounds until they came upon a quaint, sandy path that led into the dense forest. In only a few steps, the world outside fell away.
Close stands of oak and ash and sycamore trees flanked them on either side.
Birds flitted between the branches, calling to each other in silky songs.
Great green bushes with clusters of bright red berries bobbed in the pleasant breeze.
William was comforted by the idea that Nature herself approved of his plans.
She had provided him with the perfect setting in which to woo.
Verbena tipped her head back, one hand atop her bonnet, the other still grasping William’s elbow. Her red hair escaped in wisps. It caught the sunlight that filtered through the trees and turned it to flame. William watched her in profile, entranced.
She looked over at him, and he quickly averted his eyes. “It’s exquisite, don’t you find?” she said.
William cleared his throat and stared at his feet.
“It’s not difficult to see why so many artists come here to find inspiration.
” He reminded himself that he would need to look Verbena in the face if he was to conduct any real sort of conversation.
Oh, why was this so much easier when he was Flora?
She was not so frightened of Verbena’s grace and wit; she met it with her own, an accomplishment William could not hope to replicate.
Then Flora’s voice came to him, whispering inside him as gently as the breeze itself: There is nothing within me that is not already within you.
The sentiment nearly made William stop in his tracks, so vital was its message of exquisite unity, yet he managed to compose himself. The air was crisp and clean, and he took it inside his lungs. Verbena was saying something. He forced himself to concentrate on her words.
“…would not surprise me in the least if the assembled guests leave here with two or three great masterpieces,” she said. “My good friend Flora Witcombe, for instance, will likely write a whole tome whilst we’re here. She’s extremely talented, you know.”
That bolstered his spirit, even if the compliment was not wholly directed at him. William drew himself to his full height, which was only an inch or so more than Verbena’s. “I would love to hear how your own work is progressing sometime,” he said, “if you want to share it with me.”
Verbena’s mouth opened, then closed, pursed, then opened again. “I do not think I’ve written anything worth sharing. Not yet, anyway.” Her cheeks pinked and her eyes darted to the wooded shade. She seemed embarrassed by his interest in her art, and that, he could not allow.
“I suspect that’s not true.” William steeled himself. Boldness, said his inner spirit, which sounded suspiciously like Flora again. That is what we require. “In fact—” He dared lift his free hand and place it atop hers where it lay on his arm. “I am certain of it.”
She looked at him, startled.
He plunged ahead. How he managed to continue walking without stumbling over a rock or branch, he had no idea, but he did.
“Perhaps it is only your skill that frustrates you. An untested and untalented poet is always content with what they produce. If you are not content, it only means you have an innate understanding of the work’s potential. This is proof of your skill.”
Verbena gave a surprised laugh. “So to be skilled in these arts is to be always discontented? That sounds to me like a terrible existence.”
“Not at all!” He tightened his hand on hers, curling his fingers around her soft palm.
She did not, he noticed, pull away from him.
“It is the force behind all our efforts, the thing that keeps us alive. To be forever striving does not mean we are forever unhappy; it means we are afire with passion with every breath. The search for meaning has no end, I think, nor does our quest for improvement in our chosen arts. I myself—” William paused, biting his tongue to cease its prattling.
Verbena’s wide-eyed look spoke volumes. This was all too much. He was speaking thoughts that rightly belonged to Flora the poetess, not William the novelist. Oh, if he could fuse the two halves of himself together, if only for a moment!
He released Verbena’s warm hand, bringing his palm instead to his breast, where it rubbed against his pounding heart.