Chapter 18 - Stephen
Late-morning sunlight shone through the waving branches, dappling Stephen’s and Benjamin’s shoulders as their horses plodded along the fence line of the far pasture.
A cool breeze brought the smell of moldering undergrowth and the faint scent of woodsmoke.
Fall was well underway, and soon, grey clouds would cover the landscape like a lid placed atop a pot.
At least this fence line was in good repair, Stephen was relieved to see.
He’d saved this parcel of land for last, as the groundskeeper had informed him it was the newest one, built only three years ago.
This task had fallen to him, as the men of work were completely engaged with finishing repairs to the old groundskeeper’s cottage on the property.
“Cottage” was a bit of a misnomer. It was a spacious two-story house—Stephen had played in it when he was young—though it had been in slight disrepair for some time.
His mother had recently ordered it completely refurbished.
Local craftsmen had repaired one of the exterior walls, and they were endeavoring to complete the roof repair before the first rain.
If the weather held for two more days, they’d make it.
“Are you going to marry Vera?” Benjamin asked, jarring Stephen from his thoughts.
“What?” He frowned. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because she won’t marry me.” The boy shrugged. “I already asked.”
Stephen chuckled. “When did you do that?”
“Ages ago.” His shoulders slumped. “But she said she was too old for me.”
“Did you even bring her a present? Flowers? Anything?” Stephen teased.
“No.” He wrinkled his nose, looked up. “Was I supposed to?”
“Traditionally, a man gives the lady gifts to show his affection.”
“Huh.” He considered this for a few moments. “Well, are you?”
“Going to get her a present?”
“Marry her,” his brother said, as if Stephen were the biggest idiot who’d ever lived.
“How can I, when you’ve already proposed? It wouldn’t be fitting.”
“I don’t think she’d mind. I certainly wouldn’t. I didn’t even kiss her.”
Stephen’s eyes slid to Benjamin. “What do you know of kissing?”
“Not much. Arthur says he practices by licking the back of his hand.”
“I don’t think you should listen to him. It doesn’t sound like he’s ever done it either.”
“That’s the problem.” Benjamin dropped the reins and flopped his hands down on either side of the horse. “Nobody who’s actually kissed a girl will tell us anything.”
Stephen stifled the urge to laugh at the boy’s earnestness. “Because it’s a private matter. A gentleman should never kiss and speak about it afterward.”
“Then how is someone supposed to learn, if everyone’s keeping it a secret?”
“It’s not secret, it’s—”
“Have you ever kissed a lady?”
“I have.”
Benjamin frowned; his forehead wrinkled. “But you aren’t married.”
There was a time when the innocent statement would have set memories of Stephen’s engagement sucking at his feet, memories that would try to pull him into a dark pit of depression. Now, Stephen was happy to realize all he felt was amusement at his brother’s precious naivety.
“I’m not,” he admitted.
They rode for some time while his brother pondered the possibility of that equation, the only sounds the muffled thud of their horses’ hooves against the damp earth.
“Do you think you will marry?”
Vera’s face flashed in his mind—there and gone like a firecracker.
He shook it away as best he could—she was his assistant, under his protection. “Perhaps.”
That afternoon Mr. Douglas said, “Miss Ashbury, the gentlemen must be chasing you through the village. Good for you, telling them all ‘no.’ Tell me, how many hearts have you broken this week?”
Vera laughed in that throaty way of hers, and despite Stephen’s resolution not to sniff in that direction, he couldn’t help that his ears were tuned to her answer.
“None that I’m aware of.”
“Humble, too. What a rare jewel you are.”
From his vantage point in his armchair, the man could see Stephen through the doorway, but Vera could not. Stephen felt Mr. Douglas’s eyes upon him and made a show of rummaging through his bag.
“You mark my words,” Mr. Douglas said. “One of these days, some noble gentlemen will ride through this town, and he won’t leave until he takes you with him. A man would have to be a right idiot not to see what a treasure you are.”
Vera chuckled again. “No wonder I come here so often—speaking to you does marvels for my own esteem.”
“Do you wish to be married, Vera?”
“Only if the right gentleman asks me.”
“Do you have someone in mind?” he asked archly.
Stephen didn’t even bother to hide the fact he was listening now. He stood like a dolt and stared down into his bag.
“I haven’t met him yet,” she teased. “But you will be one of the first to know should that change.”
“Don’t settle for less than a viscount, my dear.” The old man sounded satisfied. “Though I think you’d make a splendid duchess, myself. It’s too bad that Canterbury’s married, or I might suggest you trot on over there.”
Stephen clenched his jaw. He knew the old man was needling him on purpose, but all he could hear were Vera’s words. I haven’t met him yet.
Why on earth should her statement bother him at all? It was the fact that it did bother him that was so very arresting.
“What on earth are you doing?” Vera said from his elbow.
Stephen jerked. “Looking for the camphor.”
She frowned, glanced into his bag, and plucked a bottle from one of the fabric compartments. “It’s right here.”
“So it is. Thank you.”
“Are you feeling quite well?”
Before he had the chance to answer, she reached up and placed a cool hand against his brow. His head swam. Concern flickered at the corners of her eyes.
He jerked away on reflex. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You look quite flushed.”
“I assure you I know my own person.”
But did he, really? For he felt with that single touch of her delicate fingers to his forehead that she’d bewitched him somehow.
Or rather, that the innocent touch had been a key that unlocked something within him—something he might never have otherwise admitted to himself.
Something he’d been actively avoiding and rejecting for weeks now.
Vera gave him a sidelong glance and frowned again. “Why don’t you step out and get some fresh air? I can make the steam bath; I know how.”
Stephen nodded and fled out the back door without another word. Behind him, he could have sworn that Mr. Douglas was laughing. At him. For the man had seen the whole exchange and surely knew what was running through Stephen’s mind as he paced the small garden at the back of the house.
Vera.
She was amazing. Beautiful, kind. Compassionate. She was everything he’d thought that Samantha was. He groaned and rubbed at his temples. What a mess he’d made of things! If he’d started off right, she might have one day looked at him with something more than friendship.
Now—because of his own actions—friendship was all they would ever have. They’d made excellent progress these last few weeks, but their relationship was far from what it could have been. If only he hadn’t acted as a paranoid lunatic!
If only he’d realized that the reason he’d been suspicious of Vera wasn’t because of the danger she posed to his mother, but because of the danger she posed to him.
To his heart.
Some deep-down part of him must have realized it from the beginning. And drat it all—how had Mr. Douglas figured it out well before Stephen had?
Stephen took a deep breath and tried to reorient himself to this new reality. It didn’t change anything, him knowing what he knew. Just because he felt a certain way didn’t mean she ever would. It certainly didn’t absolve him of his duties as a physician.
On that thought, he took another deep breath, steeled himself, and ducked back into the house. Vera sat very close to Mr. Douglas’s chair. The man had a steaming bowl on his lap and a towel draped over his head, but upon Stephen’s entry, he looked up.
“All right there, Dr. Winthrop?” Mr. Douglas asked, a twinkle in his eye.
“Yes, thank you.”
“How was that fresh air?”
Stephen frowned at him—how did the man make a mockery of such a simple question?
“Very pleasant.”
Mr. Douglas nodded. “I bet that fresh air got you all sorted.”
“Enough chatter,” Vera chided gently. “You’re wasting the steam, Mr. Douglas.”
“All right, girl. If you say so.”
He pulled the towel back over his head, and Stephen was relieved to be free of the man’s cunning gaze.
“Are you truly feeling better?” Vera’s eyes were wide, guileless. “You certainly felt a little warm.”
A little chuckle from beneath the towel, which they both ignored.
“Much better. I think the kitchen was stifling.”
“Vera certainly wasn’t warm,” Mr. Douglas said gleefully.
“Perhaps you should loosen your collar,” she said. “I usually have to do the same when I’m near the fire.”
“I doubt that thought will help,” came Mr. Douglas’s muffled voice.
“Pardon?” Vera said.
“Breathe the steam,” Stephen ordered, perhaps a bit too loudly. “If you’re talking, you’re not breathing deeply enough.”
There was a muffled grumbling from beneath the towel, but thankfully it was too low to hear.
On the way back to the house, it felt very crowded. There were now four passengers in the small cart—Hortense, Stephen, Vera…and his newfound knowledge of how he felt for her.