Chapter 19 #2
She hardly noticed that she’d been walking toward St. James’s until she was inside the park, surrounded by the bustle of nannies and their wards out for their daily perambulation, along with gentlemen and ladies promenading.
The weather was better than usual, and as she had no desire to rush home, she opened her lace-trimmed parasol and joined the throngs.
She was one of the rare women walking alone in the park that afternoon, she noticed.
Most were paired with men or strolling with one or two of their lady friends.
One such threesome passed her by, laughing at something that had been said.
Verbena watched them go with a maudlin twinge in her chest.
She missed Flora terribly. Their letters, their meandering conversations, their shared love of gossip—though Verbena would also be content simply sitting in her company.
That seemed impossible, though, what with the impasse they had reached.
Her slow stroll was punctuated with ruminations on how she could return Flora to her side.
Was it even possible to transform from near lovers to arm’s-length friends?
Perhaps not. Perhaps that was for the best.
So consumed was she with these thoughts, she nearly walked headlong into another lone pedestrian. Only at the last possible moment did nimble hands fly to her shoulders to arrest her with a cry of “Careful, miss!”
She recognized the voice before she saw the face. William Forsyth stared back at her, wide-eyed. His eyes were a very charming shade of hazel, Verbena noted. Very similar to Flora’s, now that she thought of it.
“Miss Montrose,” he said.
“Mr. Forsyth.”
They stared at each other some more before William released his grip on her shoulders, taking a full step backward and nearly knocking into a toddling baby in the process.
A nursemaid, thankfully, grabbed the child by the arm and tugged it out of the way.
Verbena saw all this, though William was too busy gaping at her to do the same.
She was not sure why he was so affected by their chance meeting, but as for herself, she had not seen or spoken to him since that night in the hothouse, where things had been left in a quite unsatisfactory fashion.
“You are returned from Wales?” he finally asked.
“It would appear so.” Verbena winced at the snap in her voice. She did not want to become bitter, though it seemed inevitable. Unloved women often did. “And yourself? Have you returned recently?”
“Yes, rather recently.”
There was an awkward pause.
“What a wonderful place Plas Tan is,” Verbena offered.
William grasped this thread of conversation like a sailor would a lifeline. “Yes! Most invigorating. And the scenery—”
“Oh, second to none,” Verbena agreed.
They smiled at each other, as conversationalists do when they’ve managed a passable volley. Then the tension returned as they both realized they needed to continue somehow.
“Have you, erm, received a somewhat cryptic invitation to a ball at the Calliope Club?” William asked.
“I have!” Verbena had never been so relieved to have an invitation to discuss. The card had arrived the day prior, complete with embossed fleur-de-lis and the winged lion of Venice. Clearly Byron did not intend for anyone to ignore the masquerade theme. “Are you planning to attend?”
William’s face took on a pained cast. “No, I think not. I find myself not in the mood for a masquerade.” He looked down and away. “And yourself? Will you be attending?”
“Ah, probably not,” said Verbena. “The wedding…there is much to do.”
“Right. Yes. My most heartfelt felicitations, by the way. Monsieur Charbonneau is an exceedingly lucky man.” Tragically, he sounded absolutely sincere.
“Thank you,” said Verbena, attempting the same.
The conversation stalled once more. Verbena could not imagine continuing in this manner, with inane pleasantries and nothing of substance.
“Mr. Forsyth,” she said, “I feel I must apologize.”
His entire face fell. “If anyone is to apologize, Miss Montrose, surely I am the one—”
“No, no.” Verbena held up her hand, then glanced about the park grounds. The crowds were so thick that some passersby were obliged to glance their way, if only to avoid a collision. Yet Verbena could not help but feel that the eyes lingered on the two of them specifically.
She was an engaged woman speaking with a single man. In broad daylight, of course, but the picture they made could be interpreted…not so kindly. If they stayed in this spot, they would only attract more looks.
William seemed as attuned to this as she was. “Shall we walk down to the canal?” he proposed. “It’s such a lovely day.”
“Yes,” Verbena said, smiling nervously. “London only has so many.”
It was an old joke, one that Londoners had been trotting out since before the Romans put up their walls, but William still laughed gamely.
He did not, Verbena noticed, offer his arm, apparently preferring to keep his distance.
Verbena feigned a need to fuss with her parasol, and so the awkwardness was sidestepped.
She wondered at this attitude of William’s; she knew she had behaved abominably at Plas Tan, but that should inspire confusion or disgust on his part, not—pain.
And he did appear pained, barely able to look her way, let alone hold her gaze.
His face was drawn and pale even as he attempted to smile at acquaintances that passed or the ducks waddling across the lane.
He flexed his right hand open and closed as they walked, making fists into starfish again and again.
Verbena watched this movement with curiosity.
“Is your hand troubling you?” she asked.
“Hm?” William glanced down at his own arm as if surprised to find the appendage attached to him. His hand was splayed out, but he dropped it limply to his side. “A minor ache, that is all.”
“The writer’s affliction,” Verbena said knowingly. “Our mutual friend Miss Witcombe suffers from the same injury.”
“Does she?” William examined the ducks with renewed vigor. “I suppose she must.”
Verbena cleared her throat and faced forward, pretending great interest in a flowering hedge of some kind. “Have you heard from Miss Witcombe lately?” she asked.
The man jolted as if he’d come into contact with a burning lump of coal sans tongs. “Erm, a little. Here and there. You know us writers,” he said with a poorly executed chuckle, “always turning up at the same salons, the usual readings. Why do you ask?”
“I have unfortunately been out of touch with her since we returned from Wales,” Verbena said. “I wonder if you might—that is, the next time you see her—” She stopped at the very edge of the canal, where the water lapped at the mud. Her throat was quite tight.
William hovered at her side. “Might I…?” he prompted.
“Could you tell her I hope she is able to visit me sometime? As she used to do,” Verbena said in a rush. “Or I could visit her if it is more convenient.” She gazed into William’s concerned face; he was short for a man, and so she didn’t need to tip her head back quite so much.
It occurred to Verbena that William’s height was very similar to Flora’s. In fact, she mused, the two of them must be of a height if Verbena could face them on the same level. The thought tickled something in her mind, a thrilling sensation for one who enjoyed puzzles.
William, however, looked ill at her request. “I…will be certain to pass along your message,” he said.
What a paltry thing the message would be! All polite nonsense when what Verbena truly wanted was to clasp Flora in her arms and cry, I abhor the state of us! Please forgive me.
She licked her trembling lips. William very gallantly looked away, she noticed. “Perhaps,” she said, “it might be better if you could pass on a letter. I find I have much to say to our Miss Witcombe, and it would be unfair to expect you to memorize an entire essay.”
William shifted on his feet, the point of his walking stick sinking deeper into the earth as it bore his weight. He peered at her like she was a specimen and he, one of the new scientists who made a study of such things. “You have that much information to impart?”
Verbena looked down at where the hem of her walking dress met the ground.
She twirled her parasol for something to do.
“I could fill a tome,” she said with no sense of self-preservation.
“Several, if I was not interrupted.” She tried to smile, though it slipped from her face as she glanced up at William’s serious visage.
“Please, Mr. Forsyth. I have tried everything else to reach her. I would not make this request of you if it were not terribly important.”
William placed both his hands, one stacked upon the other, atop the brass head of his walking stick and looked out over the canal. A pair of ducks, a drake and hen, splashed in the shallow gray water, and seemed to occupy the whole of his attention.
“Do you not agree,” William said slowly, looking only at the ducks, “that heartbreak can be so painful, so horrid, that some things are best left unsaid? Wounds cannot heal if they are continually prodded, just as our writers’ hands will always ache if we never cease in our work.”
A cold chill ran down Verbena’s spine. Perhaps Flora was once again on intimate terms with William; how else could William know the shape of their separation if Flora had not confided in him? She fought the feeling of betrayal and—yes, jealousy.
Flora had William with whom to share her secret burden, while Verbena had no one.
“A wound unchecked might also fester,” she said. “The afflicted limb may never be the same, but with treatment, one might salvage something of its old use.”
William closed his eyes, his face pinched as he rubbed at the bones of his left wrist. “You will be a married woman soon.”