Chapter 15
“You are looking exceedingly well, dearest,” Sybil greeted Verity with a bright smile as she arrived for afternoon tea to discuss the details of the upcoming Children’s Foundling Hospital ball they were planning together.
“As are you,” she complimented her sister-in-law, pleased to see how very happy Sybil appeared.
She wore a silk afternoon gown in a lovely shade of blue, and there was an undeniable bloom of happiness in her cheeks that was most becoming. Verity was thrilled for both Sybil and Everett. Their marriage had begun in misunderstanding and hurt, but one would never know it to see them together now.
And Verity was beyond pleased at the prospect of soon having a niece or nephew she could spoil and dote upon.
Sybil chuckled. “You are too kind as always, Verity. I am looking tired and as if I cast up my accounts after each breakfast.”
“Oh dear.” Verity wrinkled her nose. “That sounds wretched.”
“It shan’t last, at least,” Sybil said. “Besides, my mother reassures me that all shall be worth it just to hold a babe in my arms.”
“Where are Lady Eastlake and Maman?” she asked as they settled in around the waiting tea tray, noting the absence of their mothers.
“They are paying a call upon a new friend of theirs.” Sybil began to pour. “I was so pleased that Mother wanted to get out of the house again. Thankfully, her invalid chair folds up neatly so that it can accompany her anywhere.”
“I am astounded that Maman isn’t here to browbeat us into using her favorite flowers or telling us which champagne we must serve, but I am pleased to know they are both visiting a friend. How lovely for them. Besides, Maman can be overbearing when planning balls.”
Sybil held aloft a neatly folded sheet of paper that Verity hadn’t taken note of until that moment. “Fear not, your mother has made us a list.”
Verity groaned. “I ought to have known better than to think she could resist.”
“She means well,” Sybil said.
And that was true.
Maman did mean well, but she also possessed a tendency to be both overzealous and overwhelming.
“The list doesn’t look long enough to contain guests,” she observed. “At least she trusts us in issuing invitations.”
“Oh, but she has drafted some recommendations.” Grinning, Sybil held up yet another folded paper, this one thicker than the last. “I do believe this is her invitation list—or several pages of it anyway.”
“It looks long enough to be a Shakespearean play,” Verity commented unkindly, somewhat frustrated over her mother’s tendency to hold the reins.
“Only think, the more people there are in attendance, the more funds we shall be able to raise for the Children’s Foundling Hospital,” Sybil pointed out in her practical way.
“King tells me that I see the best in everyone, but I am convinced that you are far more adept at that talent than I am,” she drawled.
“He is not wrong about you seeing the best in everyone.” Sybil cocked her head. “You are always like the sun, shining brightly on everyone. Speaking of Kingham, how are the two of you faring with Miss Emma in the household?”
“We are all doing well. Naturally, it has been entirely new for us all. But I do think we are finding our footing with remarkable aplomb.”
“And Kingham makes you happy?” Sybil inquired.
“Does Everett make you happy?” she returned, rather vexed by her sister-in-law’s question.
Why did everyone insist that she could not be contented with her husband?
It was as if, at the edge of every conversation, there remained a persistent hint of dubiousness.
Was it King’s reputation? Was it something Verity herself had said or done?
Was the source of their doubt something that had happened in her past but she could not recall?
How Verity wished she knew.
“Of course he makes me happy,” Sybil answered without hesitation.
“Then you also understand the happiness I share with my husband.” She smiled, but her lips felt as if they were stretched thin. “It is my most fervent wish that everyone could simply accept that King and I are desperately in love and that we are not somehow doomed to misery.”
Sybil’s face crumpled. “Oh, my dearest, is that what you think? I know that your brother is having a difficult time accepting your marriage to Kingham, but pray don’t think we all feel as if you have made a misalliance.”
This was decidedly not what Verity had come to discuss.
However, now that she had aired the truth of how she felt, she could not, in good conscience, shy away from explaining herself.
It seemed a burden most unfair that she was carrying, the knowledge her brother was at daggers drawn with her husband, and that no one but Verity trusted her husband to love her and make her happy for the rest of their days.
“How am I meant to feel any other way?” she countered. “Ever since I lost part of my memory, you have all been treating me as if I’ve gone mad.”
“That is not how we intended for you to feel.”
Raw hurt was festering inside her, mingling with outrage on behalf of King.
He had been nothing but a wonderful husband to her.
He was considerate, caring, patient, and sensual.
He put her needs before his own. He welcomed Emma into their home despite the pain of his childhood and the agony of losing his daughter, which haunted him still.
Most importantly, he loved her, and she loved him.
“I may not recall every detail of my past,” she said with such feeling that her voice vibrated with emotion, “but I do remember enough to know that I love King with all my heart. He is the only man I have ever loved.”
Sybil’s face clouded. “But that simply is not true.”
Frustration bubbled up inside Verity, threatening to lash out.
“Why do you say that?” she demanded, losing her patience despite her love for her sister-in-law.
Indecision flashed over Sybil’s face. “There is something I think you should have. The physician suggested it was important to allow your mind to heal in its own time, but perhaps you will better understand this way.”
“What is it that you wish to give me?” Verity searched her mind and couldn’t conceive of a single object that would alter her opinion.
There was simply emptiness where certain aspects of her past had once resided.
“I’ll fetch it and be back in a moment,” Sybil said, rising from her chair.
Bemused, Verity watched her sister-in-law quit the room in a swish of blue silk.
Time stretched, punctuated by silence and the ticking of a far-off mantel clock as their tea cooled.
Verity stared at the tea cakes, thinking she ought to at least eat one to occupy herself, but any peckishness she might have felt upon her arrival had decidedly fled.
The hushed movements of servants in the hall reached her, and still no sign of Sybil.
Had she ventured to the moon to retrieve this mysterious object?
Verity wondered uncharitably. To distract herself, she reached for the lists mother had made and began a cursory examination.
Maman did have a fair eye for flowers, she conceded, even if she was heavy-handed.
There was a list of recommended musicians, along with suggested champagne and an enumeration of supper courses.
“Well,” Verity murmured to herself wryly. “Maman has thought of everything yet again.”
She knew she shouldn’t be bothered by this.
Rather, she should likely be thankful for her mother’s interest. And yet, she was hostess of the ball, and it was her very first as Duchess of Kingham, and Verity would have liked to have been given the opportunity to come up with her own recommendations without Maman’s list.
The door to the drawing room opened then, revealing Sybil bearing a small, elaborately carved wooden box. Verity stared at the box, a deep, instinctive feeling rising within her, sharp and confusing. She knew that box. She had seen it before. But she simply couldn’t recall where.
Her sister-in-law’s expression was somber as she reseated herself and extended the box toward Verity.
“This is what I wanted to give you. It contains letters from Lord Leopold. The physician had asked that we remove them from your room to aid in your convalescence, but now I do wonder whether that was the right choice.”
Verity stared at the box, her heart beating fast. “Whose letters are they?”
“Do you not recall them at all, dearest?” Sybil asked. “They are yours, of course. You kept them close by your bedside before the fire.”
Something about that felt wrong. Like a betrayal.
She shook her head, still not taking the box from her sister-in-law’s hands. “I don’t understand. Why would I keep them so near?”
“Because they were precious to you,” Sybil said gently. “You should have them. Perhaps, if you read them, you will come to understand. I have no notion of whether they will restore any memories to you. But I cannot shake the feeling that keeping them from you is doing you far more harm than good.”
“Precious to me? How can they have been? I do not remember Lord Leopold, although Everett mentioned that he was once an important part of my life. I have tried, and I cannot recall him. Not even a hint. Surely if he were of such great import, I would have an inkling, some fragment of a memory, but there is nothing. King is the husband of my heart.”
“You need not read them now or ever,” Sybil told her. “The choice is yours. But these letters belong to you, and you should have them.”
Reluctantly, Verity accepted the box. The wood was cool and smooth and polished, the weight light in her hands.
But she still looked upon it and felt nothing, save a distressing suspicion that she would betray her husband in reading them.
What purpose would it serve to read the words of a long-lost suitor when she was happier than she had ever supposed she would be with King?