Sweet Flowers Are Slow And Weeds Make Haste.
(W. SHAKESPEARE)
Ameadow beckoned, its knee-high hotch-potch of wildflowers and grasses waving their welcome in the nimble summer wind.
So Verity darted onwards.
But not alone.
For Miles held her hand. Green eyes blithe.
And barefoot, they rushed through the azure cornflowers and viper’s bugloss, skirted the thistle heads and jumped the white yarrows.
His grip was firm, skin warmed by the sun, and she laughed to the cerulean sky, happy as the larks that darted over their heads, while far, far off was naught but the slow arc of earth meeting sky.
Effortlessly, Miles swung her into his arms, around and around, white skirts winged, Miles the core, the unshakeable heart around which everything spun.
Before he kissed her.
Soft and tender as a whisper – the hand to her nape belying deeper passions, claiming and caressing.
Toes slipped to the ground and she smiled into his fervid eyes. Kneeled and fell back to lie in the indulgent meadow grass, closed her own eyes and held out her arms, could feel his shadow blocking the sun.
Yet he did not join her.
Such teasing. She opened one eye.
No Miles.
Just a lead-grey cloud swallowing the sun whole.
Frowning, she sat up, twisted, but of Miles there was no sign – just the expanse of meadow which increasingly dimmed as further opaque clouds scudded across the sky, coupling and gathering.
She was…alone.
The daisies began to shield their yellow faces with white petals of lament and the larks dropped from the sky.
Verity stumbled to her bare feet, smoothed her rumpled skirts but her hands came away viscous and she stared down…
Her white dress was stained.
Dark blood smothered the cotton, dripped into the meadow like black poison.
Dripped from her hands. Relentless.
Staining her.
The flowers shrivelled; the day slammed into night.
And her silent screams ricocheted back from the walls of darkn–
Verity slammed upright, heart crashing in her chest.
And immediately twisted her head.
Her Carcel oil lamp sheltered her in its globe of light, the mirrors of the bedchamber reflecting its flame.
A dream. It had just been that dream.
Verity shuddered nonetheless, clasped her hands together to cease their tremble.
These dreams affected her less of late but every once in a while, this same one besieged her and she swallowed, shut her eyes.
But all she saw was the blood-drenched meadow, so she shoved back the counterpane, seized her nightrobe from behind her pillow and rose.
Five of the morn, by her mantel clock. Little sense in returning to her bed as dawn would soon chase away the dark and the household servants would rise for their day, so she donned her robe, then grabbed the heavy and costly lamp with its clockwork heart that could burn unattended for sixteen hours and departed her bedchamber.
The oil lamp bathed the hall in as much light as three candles but nevertheless Verity scuttled to the landing and up the stairs to her art studio.
Here, she placed the lamp upon her drawing desk and commenced opening the shutters. The sky held the faintest wash of dawn in the distance, night not yet surrendered but retreating with reluctance.
She lit a few sconces and then opened the biscuit tin kept for such occasions. This morning, the offerings from Werringtons of Oxford Street called to her so she snaffled three and went to peruse her work in progress.
A touch of flake white and marble dust would now be required to banish the deep shadows beneath Miles’ eyes. And she must also lend a fullness to his cheeks. And she’d have to do something about his empty stare…
Just as in the meadow of her dream, a sudden bleakness settled upon her, so she bit into the biscuit, enjoying its crunchy texture.
After the fair today, she should avoid Miles.
Avoid the questions she would not answer. Avoid the past she would not unveil.
But why had he kissed her with such passion? The passion of their youth.
Although perhaps therein lay her answer – Miles had been kissing the girl he once knew. The girl who had dreamed of distant shores and reckless adventures. The girl who had once believed love could be seized with both hands, never slipping from her grasp.
He obviously harboured a curiosity for the past, but Miles was an earl now and soon enough he would forget such stolen kisses and attend to his future.
Juliet Tait would be the perfect bride for him – young, amusing, pretty and rich to boot, and Verity would find solace and be content knowing he was content.
And…and this would be her last painting of him, she knew.
For although he would never suspect she was The Witness, the time had come. To lay this to rest.
Miles was home. The war had ended. He was safe.
Instead, she would keep it for herself, a portrait of him that was true, and as he was now. A last treasured piece of him.
She sighed, her gaze lingering on her muted oils of grey and black and red.
Her muse, after all this time, now silent.