Chapter 13 #2
“Apologies, Miss Montrose,” he said. “You probably think me a fool. A writer of tawdry novels, expounding on the nature of art and truth and the soul. What right do I have?”
Verbena made a sound of perfect sympathy, a little gasp that threaded through William’s bones and settled in his chest. She stopped in her tracks, which meant William was obliged to stop as well.
She clasped his hand in both of hers, creating a shield upon his breast where they were joined altogether.
William nearly expired. She was touching him.
“You have every right,” she said. “Truthfully, your writing is excellent.” She looked up at him through her lashes. “I’ve been reading Colleen, you know.”
William feigned a measure of surprise. “Have you?”
“I am absolutely rapt,” she said. “Were I able to read whilst riding in a coach without feeling queasy, I would have spent the entire trip from London devouring it. As it is, I have your book to look forward to before I sleep tonight.”
She sounded sincere enough…but Verbena’s earlier condemnations of the book plagued William’s memory. He swallowed. “There is no need to lie to me. I know my books do not appeal to a lady of your quality.”
Verbena looked as taken aback as William had ever seen her.
Her eyes widened and she dropped his hand to prop her fists on her hips.
“Sir, I assure you, I could not conceive of a work more aligned with my very specific interests. Murder! Mayhem! A possible haunting! And that twist in the middle, with the servant girl?” She gave an impressed exhale.
“I admit, I have not made a habit of reading fiction before now, but if your work is any indication, the appeal is obvious. I will read whatever you write.”
“You will?” Either she was the most accomplished actress of the age, or she was being candid. William felt a thread of hope alight in his heart. “You don’t think Colleen…silly? Common? It is not, I admit, a masterpiece of literature by any stretch.”
Verbena scoffed. “Who needs a masterpiece? Is it not enough for a story to capture the imagination and bring some joy? If the only worthwhile writing is that which is destined for immortality, I fear we shall be poorer for it.”
There are no sweeter words to a writer of a certain genre. William would have married her on the spot if he could.
Steady, his conscience told him. This is a conversation, not a marriage proposal.
And anyway, his delight was tempered by the fact that Verbena must have been lying to Flora, who was supposed to be her bosom friend.
That stung, though it was difficult to feel such stings when one has attained a reader for life.
He fell back, as he sometimes did, on modesty. “Not everyone would agree with you. I have received several strongly worded letters from gentlemen who worry my books are poisoning the minds of their wives and daughters.”
“Ah, yes, Bowdler and his ilk.” Verbena smiled.
“Despite all the sermons on the subject, I assure you that women can and do indulge in popular literature without tumbling into disrepute. As if I cannot countenance a story of murder and intrigue whilst keeping my head—I read the broadsides, you know!” She bit her lip, then added, “Actually, I tend to linger over the more morbid details of the day’s news. ”
William tried and failed to keep his expression blank. She was trusting him with something she had heretofore told perhaps only to Flora. “Is that so?”
“Mm. My mother says I am a ghoul.” Was she blushing or was it merely a trick of the dappled sunlight? “I suppose she’s right. Who but a ghoul would devour every printed word about murder and kidnapping?”
“Perhaps it is ghoulish to dwell on such things,” William said, “but when one is fascinated by human nature, why should that fascination be constrained to light topics? There is so much to humanity; it is a—an overlong bolt of cloth that we will never finish unraveling.”
Verbena lit up at his words. “Exactly! You understand.” She peered at him with the same calculating look she often aimed at Flora. “How is it that you understand?”
William went cold all over. Was she making the connection in her mind, that William and his feminine half were one and the same?
No, no, no, this would not do. He needed to bring her to the subject gently, and only after time and familiarity had softened her enough to accept his dual nature.
If Verbena came to the truth on her own, he could only pray she did not hate him for it.
But the moment of suspicion morphed into happiness. Verbena smiled, wide and pleased. “You are a most uncommon sort of gentleman, aren’t you?”
William felt the faint sheen of sweat overtake him beneath his clothes.
Every iota of his body wished to protect his secret, but he calmed himself with the thought that Verbena couldn’t be commenting on his hidden nature.
She wouldn’t be so cruel as to tease him about that; she was more likely to state her mind with no mincing of words.
Yet William could not accept the praise of his person; he instead grasped on to the praise of his work.
“Thank you for thinking my writing good. Very few people do, so it’s gratifying to know at least one person enjoys it. And a fellow wordsmith at that!”
“About that.” Verbena leaned in, her eyes bright. “Can you be trusted with a secret?”
William considered the question with all due seriousness. “Yes, I think so.”
“I am no wordsmith,” Verbena said. She lifted one elegant shoulder and let it drop. “I’ve never penned so much as a couplet in my life.”
“Oh!” William stared at her, trying to make sense of her confession. “But—you—the club in Curzon Street, did you not—?”
She tossed her head, laughing with no remorse. “I lied to gain entrance. I needed to speak to—well, it’s not important. The result, however, is that now everyone seems to think I’m an aspiring poetess. Really, I can’t rhyme to save my life.”
“And you’ve allowed…everyone…to continue thinking you write poetry?” William desperately wanted to ask why Flora in particular had not been taken into Verbena’s confidence regarding this deception, but of course he could not. “Why maintain the charade?”
Verbena’s smile faltered. “It is the nature of lies that one must sometimes cling to them. I’m sure I could come up with some excuse if pressed, but there are certain people I am loath to disappoint.
Certain people who”—she cast her gaze to the side, into the shadows—“are under the impression that we have this thing in common. If I reveal that to be false, I wouldn’t be surprised if I am cast aside. ”
William’s heart was pounding fit to burst. Oh, lord above, please tell me she means Flora.
Yet if she did mean Flora, then it was Flora whom she had so deftly deceived.
Did Verbena’s lies extend to more than poetry and literature?
William wondered where the truth of her began, but then again, what did he care if she had lied, and about such a trivial thing?
Didn’t this world make liars of them all in some respect?
“I can’t imagine anyone casting you aside,” he said. “Not under any circumstances.”
Verbena turned back to face him. “You are a forgiving man. Not everyone is.” Her gaze drifted down to settle on his mouth. “It’s so…convenient that we two find ourselves here at Plas Tan.”
The sweat increased by a magnitude of at least ten. “Yes,” he said, fighting off the urge to swoon. “Extremely, erm. Convenient.”
“Are you staying long?” Her gaze snapped to his as if startled out of some contemplation.
“A fortnight, at least.” Longer if Verbena wished. He would do, he felt, whatever Verbena wished, up to and including swallowing the sun.
“As am I. Excellent,” said Verbena.
Excellent? Excellent! William did not usually give himself to hope, but how could he not when Verbena spoke such sweet words?
Verbena started to say something else, but a peal of laughter behind them made her turn around.
William spied Miles and Monsieur Charbonneau strolling toward them.
Their conversation was animated and their clothing disheveled.
This was especially shocking for Charbonneau, whom William had never seen in anything but perfect dress.
Now, however, he sported a twig in his hair and a smattering of dirt on the knees of his trousers.
Miles, too, had the marks of the forest about him, with several leaves stuck to his coat hem.
The two seemed so enamored with each other that they did not take note of William and Verbena at all.
At least Miles was proving lucky in love.
William glanced over at Verbena to find her already looking at him.
Her silent brow-raise spoke volumes. No doubt she, too, had noticed the twigs and leaves and had also concluded this was evidence of a woodland tryst. William was forced to think about trysts in general, which put into his mind what a tryst might entail with Verbena specifically, which meant he was now rather short of breath.
Miles and Charbonneau were still senseless of their audience.
As William was a gentleman (at the moment, at least), he cleared his throat to announce to the pair that they were not alone.
Miles at last noted him with a surprised yet pleasant smile.
If he was ashamed at being caught out, he did not show it.
“Miss Montrose, Mr. Forsyth! Are you walking through the woods, too? Shall we all go together?” he offered.
“Splendid idea,” Verbena said, and then said aside to William, “As my friend, I hope you will not tell anyone about what we’ve discussed. I would be mortified should the other guests discover my falsified artistic credentials.”
“I would not dream of it,” said William. He joined Verbena in meeting the men on the woodland path. Miles did not seem to notice as William discreetly brushed the leaves from his coat, too busy chattering away.
“étienne—that is, Monsieur Charbonneau and I had the most extraordinary adventure just now,” Miles said.
“We were walking along the grounds when a tomcat streaked by with a hunk of cheese in its mouth! Penny the maid was yelling after him, and so we dove into the brush in an attempt to capture the poor beast.”
“Unsuccessfully,” Charbonneau put in, to which Verbena laughed.
“You would not believe how quick a cat can be!” Miles said before expounding further on the creature’s movements.
He created a sort of model of the supposed feline using his own hand to indicate how it had darted about in a madcap fashion, apparently bouncing off trees and fallen logs like a particularly wild billiard ball.
William did not believe their story for a moment, but they told it with such enthusiasm, he supposed he could forgive them. After all, it was their business. Amorous business, but theirs.
He watched Verbena from the corner of his eye. She had named him a friend. How magical, to have gone from an object of detestation to a friend in the span of a stroll. Even the sudden appearance of others could not diminish his elation.
If things continued in this vein, his success was assured. By the time they departed Wales, William was convinced he and Verbena would be, as the poets said, of one mind.