Diamonds And Flowers. Both Live Forever In The Heart #2
Sephi stretched on tiptoes to peer over the duchess’ head. “I said that as well. Look at those thighs.”
“Excuse me,” groused Verity. “I am here, you know. And more importantly, Evelyn, what did you discern by listening at the study door?”
Yestermorn, a message had arrived from the duchess suggesting she and Sephi pay a visit at precisely half after four as the Earl of Stonewold had requested a meeting with her husband on the subject of art, and they might…
perhaps…listen in to discover if he knew of The Witness or whether some other purpose lay behind the visit.
Given that it would also allow Verity the opportunity to inform the duke, that with much regret, she could no longer produce her battlescapes, she and Sephi had donned their veils, concealed the phaeton in the mews, met with the duke and then waited in the drawing room for Stonewold’s arrival with bated breath. And biscuits and tea.
“Well…” The duchess bounced their babe of just three months upon her hip. “As we thought, he was asking about The Witness. Who the artist really was and how he managed such accuracy.”
Verity flopped onto the striped sofa with a groan. “If not for the earldom, he never would’ve seen the paintings, but the death of his brother has brought him to London and changed matters. I ought never to have painted them.”
“Of course you should. They are such wonderful works.”
Verity puffed her cheeks. “You are too kind, Evelyn.”
At first, the scenes with Miles had just been something she’d done for herself.
Her way of keeping him close in the only manner left to her, to stand with him the only way she could.
She’d sold a few at a small art gallery and had thought no more of them until the gallery owner had approached her concerning a duke, one who’d been so affected by the paintings that he’d wished to offer his patronage.
The Duke of Rothwell.
An honour indeed.
He’d not cared that she was a female who painted brutal war in oils, and he’d quite understood her request for anonymity. All he’d cared about in life was art. And now his duchess Evelyn and their babe, of course.
The duke had said the works would ensure that Miles and all the brave men with him would not be forgotten about here in London, and that both their glories and the horrors they faced could be brought home in some way.
Sephi sat aside her and linked arms. “Do not worry, Cousin. There are so many reasons he will never suspect you as The Witness. You’re a woman.
” She ticked off her fingers. “A swoon-prone maiden with delicate sensibilities.” She ignored the duchess’ snort.
“One who has never so much as glimpsed a battlefield. You paint cats, for goodness’ sake. ”
“And you can rest assured,” added Evelyn, rescuing a red curl of hair from the clutches of her babe, “that my husband will not tell him anything.”
Verity let the tension ease from her shoulders. Her friends were correct; all would be well.
“However…” Evelyn caught her lower lip between her teeth. “There is one small problem that has arisen.”
Verity tilted her head. “Yes?”
“Well…” Her voice dropped. “I also happened to overhear at the study door that he has…has an invitation to our art exhibition.”
“What!” Verity sat bolt upright. “How?”
“As guest of a guest.”
“Then I cannot attend.”
“Oh, but you must. You promised us.” Evelyn touched her shoulder. “And with your wonderful portrait of Cleopatra on show, doubtless more commissions will follow.”
Verity wrung her hands, noticed a faint smear of grey paint on her palm.
She had promised to attend, ’twas true: to see her painting hung amongst its peers, to support Evelyn and the duke, and to take pleasure in the last of the October sunshine within the exquisite Chesterfield Gardens – to admire the wash of russet and gold trees, the paths dappled with the low slanting light of autumn.
But that was before she’d known Miles would be there.
Sephi’s elbow gently nudged. “And although I would never persuade you into something that you did not wish…”
“I cannot avoid him forever, you are saying.” Verity breathed deep. “Or let him prevent me from attending events.”
“And remember, you will be amongst friends,” Evelyn added softly.
“Thank you. Both of you.” Verity nodded. “I do wish to attend the exhibition – for you, Evelyn, and for His Grace. And the Gardens will be at their most glorious now.”
“And if anything,” said Sephi, “it will quite throw Stonewold off the scent of you being The Witness. After all, who paints war and cats? Only someone really odd.”
Verity frowned.
The duchess frowned also, her hand to the babe’s derriere.
“I think…I think I have to go and change…both of us.” Her nose twitched.
“Do finish the biscuits and no need to wait for me.” And with haste to her slippers, she darted from the drawing room, leaving a faint but unmistakeable whiff of urgency.
Verity reached for a biscuit before an elbow nudged her side once more – this time with a little more force.
“But I think you should tell him, you know. About you being The Witness.”
With a sideways glare worthy of the duke, Verity ignored her cousin and commenced rummaging in her satchel.
“Well?”
“Oh, I didn’t realise it was a question.”
Sephi rolled her eyes. “You’ve been a grumpy miss ever since those swingboats. What did happen?”
“Nothing.” Verity drew out her sketchpad, flipped a page and let her pencil glide of its own accord. “He just… Miles questioned me about Locksley again. I think he suspects that I…I lied all that time ago.”
“Hmm. Is that…all?”
“All what?”
“What happened after that?”
“Nothing.” And she smudged the paper with her thumb.
Sephi narrowed her eyes.
“Well, not…not much.”
“What then?”
“Well, maybe he… We…”
“Yes?”
“We just…happened to kiss. By mistake.”
“By mistake?” Sephi sniggered. “In a swingboat? How? You fell on top of him?”
“Well, yes, actually.”
Sephi’s eyes crossed. “But then surely that reveals he still has feelings for you?”
Verity sighed and absent-mindedly drew another line.
“It was passionate, I concede, that old desire still binding us, but…but it is useless to allow it to develop. For nothing has changed and if I let slip that I am The Witness, or that Locksley is a lie, questions will roll and roll until I am smothered by them.”
Sephi’s elbow was replaced by a comforting hand. “I know I’ve said this before but as I come to know your Lord Stonewold, the more I think you should tell him all. I’m certain he would understand.”
“I spent weeks thinking about it after…” She swallowed hard, her pencil stalling on the paper.
“I wanted Miles so much at that time, to be with him, but… I knew then that I could never be enough for him.” She wiped a senseless tear that had fallen.
“And now he’s an earl with obligations to his title that demand a bride untouched by the world’s weight, unblemished and undamaged, not a spinster with more baggage than a stagecoach bound for Scotland.
No. I am even more not enough for him now. ”
Sephi placed an arm around Verity’s shoulders, hugged her tight, the soft scent of violets wrapping about them.
“You are enough, Verity Seymour. You have a core of strength that astounds me. I…I myself am full of fears and mistrus–”
“Oh, Sephi, no, it wasn’t your fa–”
“But then I think of you, of what you have coped with, and it…it steadies me. Makes me feel braver.” She drew back and wiped Verity’s cheek. “And it is because of your strength that I say you should consider telling him. Just think on it. You are stronger than you know.”
“If I’m stronger, it is only because of you, Cousin.” Verity smiled. “Very well, I will think on it. But I promise nothing.”
“That will do.” Sephi smiled also. “For now.”
“And you, Sephi?” Verity whispered. “Will you try to believe in yourself? And be open to what the future might hold?”
Sephi nodded and flopped back into the cushions.
“According to Mr Madrigal at the fair who asked my birth date, ran a finger over some incomprehensible charts, smoked some strange tobacco and then mumbled to himself, my future is to bring life to a man who thinks himself dead.” She sniffed.
“I think Mr Madrigal had overdone the tobacco.”
They both softly laughed and Verity closed her eyes, felt a sense of peace descend.
Then opened them to her sketchpad, as she oft just drew without thought.
Would it be a wearied soldier? A blackened cannon?
That was odd.
For it was a primula flower. With its finely serrated leaves and pretty petals. Just as she used to draw when young.
Sephi peered at the paper and then grinned. “We should leave for home before Aunt collects another cat, but maybe we’ll pass by Mr Hockliff’s art shop and buy you some new watercolours. Then you could finish that primula.”
With a frown, Verity closed her sketchpad.
She no longer drew flowers.