Chapter 33 - Vera
London was much the same as it ever was.
Only now, Vera wrinkled her nose at the waste in the gutters, at the ripeness of the alleys they passed.
She would never take fresh air for granted again.
In the distance, the bells of St. Paul’s Cathedral chimed noon; birds erupted from the trees in the nearby park.
The carriage pulled up to the familiar brick rowhouse.
Bertrand stepped out first and offered a hand for her to follow.
They rushed up the stone steps and were met by a grim-faced Campton.
“She’s worse—much worse,” Campton said, even as he hugged her. “Vera, so glad you came.”
“Of course.”
“The doctor says it could be anytime now. You both should go see her.”
Bertrand wrinkled his nose. “Is she still pinching? Should I keep my back to the wall?”
“We’re well past that, I think. She hasn’t left her bed these last four days.”
“Oh.” Bertrand frowned. “Let’s go up.”
Lady Callista Ashbury reclined against pillows in her bed.
The thick draperies were thrown back to let in light, and as they arrived, a maid hustled across the room.
Instinctively, Vera inhaled deeply through her nose.
It was an underrated form of diagnosis, the nose.
But she smelled no infection, no sourness or sickly sweetness on the air.
In fact, the room smelled of fresh linens and the sprig of eucalyptus placed on the fire. The staff was doing an excellent job of caring for her mother—it wasn’t easy keeping someone who was bedridden clean at all times.
“Begging your pardon,” the maid said in a low voice, bobbing a curtsy. “She’s sleeping at the moment. The doctor was just here, said she needs her rest.”
“We’ll watch over her for a while.” Vera nodded to the door. “We’ll call if we need anything.”
A look of gratitude passed over the young woman’s face. She bobbed another curtsy and headed for the door.
“Was that wise?” Bertrand said. “Sending her away? What if something happens?”
“What would a maid be capable of that we are not?”
He shrugged and took one of the chairs facing the bedside. “Lots of things. Fetching tea. Changing linens. Stoking the fire.”
Vera smiled. “There’s a bell pull over there, if need arises. But Mother’s color looks relatively good. She’s breathing evenly. I don’t think she’ll shake off this mortal coil in the next thirty minutes.”
Bertrand frowned. “You seem different.”
“I am different. I lived so long frightened of what Mother would do if I didn’t follow her every whim. Then the one time I rebelled, the worst did happen, and I survived.”
More than that, she thought, thinking of Stephen. For the first time, I lived.
Stephen was never far from her thoughts. Certainly not here, in a sick room so similar to the many others where she’d spent countless hours with him. Vera kept turning her head, half expecting to see him sitting in the corner or washing his hands in the basin.
He’d be impressed with how orderly everything was, how much sunlight streamed in. So many people thought death should be a closed-shades affair, as if the act of dying was some secret, shameful thing.
“I wish I had known,” Bertrand said lowly, pulling her from her thoughts. One hand was balled in a fist atop his thigh. “I wish I would have known what she was doing to you. I would have taken you from here. I would have stopped her.”
Vera laid a hand over his. “It all worked out precisely how it was supposed to. Mother would be dismayed, but in the end, I managed to accomplish what she always dreaded.”
“Yes, I’ve already told you your dresses look fetching.”
Vera smiled at the teasing note in his voice.
Bertrand cleared his throat. “It’s that Winthrop fellow, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
He frowned in something that resembled a glower.
It was a shocking expression for one as good-natured as Bertie.
“Now look here, Vera. I know that you might not think you have many options, but if you don’t like the fellow, you don’t have to marry him.
He hasn’t been at all improper, has he? I know you were assisting him, but we don’t have to tell anyone.
I daresay many a thing has occurred in Devon and other countryside locales and not a whisper of it ever reaches London—”
Vera patted his hand. “It’s not that way at all, Bertie. Though I thank you for your protective and practical instincts. I love him and he loves me.”
“Oh, well—”
Bertrand sounded as if he might choke if he ventured further. Vera hid a smile while he cleared his throat again and recovered.
“Has he proposed, then?”
“Truly, you have the worst timing in the history of mankind. If you’d waited five more minutes, the deed would have been done.”
“How much time does a fellow need?” Bertrand said, umbrage clear in his voice. “You’ve been there for months!”
“Yes, but we didn’t like each other the first bit.”
“Why? Is he a cad? Vera, I wasn’t lying. I have a list of gentlemen who’d be delighted to have you. Several of them are quite rich—”
“He’s not a cad, and he proposed that very moment.”
Bertrand frowned down at her hand. “I don’t see a trinket. Gentlemen ought to offer a trinket to seal the deal. Everyone knows that.”
“He asked, and I didn’t have a chance to answer, because someone began bellowing my name from the top of the hill.”
“I didn’t bellow.” He patted his stomach. “Bellowing is something portly fellows do. I’m still quite trim.”
“Not if you keep eating all the biscuits.”
“I told you—I thought there were more. I thought they were divided into two parcels.”
“There were at least a dozen biscuits in the hamper, Bertie, and I didn’t get one.”
“Travelling makes me peckish. ’Tisn’t my fault.
I’d already taken a grand tour of the countryside that morning, trying to find you.
First the marquess—who was in high dudgeons when I rang the bell.
How was I to know his wife was napping? How was I to know her condition? Such things are private for a reason.”
Vera bit back a smile.
“The fellow fed me straight to Canterbury. I had no idea what I was in for, otherwise I would have demanded biscuits from the marquess before I left. Then Canterbury and his wife. Mercy, those fellows are being led around by the nose by their ladies. So tetchy.”
Vera rolled her eyes. “Tell me, brother, what did you get for your wife last Christmas?”
Bertrand frowned. “Now that’s different.”
“What was it again? A new ballroom, I believe?”
“It only made sense. Ambrose Place didn’t have one, and Agatha loves to dance. Besides, we had the room and the funds, and really it’s none of your business what I get my wife for Christmas, anyway.” He punctuated the end of his good-natured rant with a poke to her side.
“Vera, darling. Is that you?” her mother murmured.
They stood and Vera took her wrinkled hand, leaning close. “Yes, Mother. I’ve come to see you.”
“You look beautiful, my girl. Just lovely. Hair just like mine, you know. Before it went grey.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
The words were uncharacteristic of Lady Ashbury. No doubt they were brought on by whatever illness was claiming her, mind first. Still, Vera was affected all the same. She’d always wanted to hear such words from her mother; it hardly mattered what had brought them forth.
Her mother patted her hand listlessly. “My darling girl. I love you so much. I wish you to be with me, always.”
A tear snaked down Vera’s face. “I’m here. I’ll stay with you.”
She smiled and closed her eyes. “I’m just going to take a little nap.”
“I’ll be here when you wake, Mother.”
Vera was there every time her mother woke, for the next four days. And when Lady Ashbury finally slipped into the deepest sleep of all, her three children were gathered at her bedside, and her husband held her hand.