17. “All False Pretences, Like Flowers, Fall To The Ground.”
“ALL FALSE PRETENCES, LIKE FLOWERS, FALL TO THE GROUND.”
(MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO)
Verity stilled upon the sofa and listened as Jenkins the butler buttled down the hall to answer the knock of a caller.
Her cousin was paying an afternoon visit to the Duchess of Somersby, the two of them having found much in common at the art exhibition as regards fabrics and fashion.
Verity, however, was behind schedule with Lady Rentree’s feline portrait and so had remained at home in order to varnish it.
With the canvas set aside to dry in her studio, she had brought her pastels and notepad to the parlour.
Alas, her muse had been most uncooperative.
A fictitious landscape had been her intention, of rolling hills sheltering a verdant valley, yet nothing had felt right, her fingers clumsy as though the pastel stick was an object foreign to her.
She heard the front door open.
“May I call upon Miss Seymour, if she is at home?”
At Miles’ voice, she gulped. He’d never called before.
Why was he here?
To question her further? She glanced down at herself.
Then jumped to her feet, threw off her smock, dashed to the chest, shoved it in a drawer, hurried back to the sofa, grabbed her notepad and pastels, thrust them into a basket. Then rammed that into a cabinet.
She raced to the mirror, noted a splodge of burnt umber pastel upon her cheek and frantically rubbed at it with her sleeve. Then rubbed at her sleeve with a handkerchief.
Having grabbed a book from the shelf, she flung herself into the sofa cushions, breathed deep, patted her hair smooth and began to read.
Cecily licked her dry lips and the Count’s expression darkened with diabolical intent…
Oh lud.
The door opened and she nonchalantly peered over one shoulder. “Yes, Jenkins?”
“Lord Stonewold to call upon you, Miss Seymour.”
“Oh, really? Do show him in. And please ask my aunt to join us forthwith.”
Jenkins raised a brow… Well, yes, it was an optimistic ask as Aunt Theo was endeavouring to bathe Valmont again. Still, one was required to keep up appearances in front of callers, so she cast a bright smile.
It…wilted somewhat as the man who entered was not the Miles from the exhibition.
This Miles was the grim and determined Captain Firth one. Eyes shadowed and stern. Indeed, one could almost say they’d darkened with diabolical intent.
“M-Miles, I mean, Lord Stonewold.” She stood, turned and dropped the book to the sofa. “Would you care for tea?”
Nothing better than tea in such circumstances.
“No, Miss Seymour, I would not care for tea.”
“Ah.” Verity refused to sit beneath such a glare, so she went to stand by the window that overlooked the garden, felt the comfort of the open space beyond. “N-not a social call then? Is something the matter?”
Slowly, he peeled off his leather gloves, which made her feel most peculiar indeed, and then proceeded to march the room. He was not unlike a spring that had been compressed. Released it would–
“Verity…” He paused, slapped his thigh with the gloves, which made her feel even more peculiar. Perhaps this was how a poor Frenchman felt when confronted by Miles in full battle mien, ferocious and most manly, and an innate sense told her not to move so much as breathe. “Verity, I know.”
“K-know what?” There was so much to know.
Stepping near to her, he stared down, no softness within his green gaze. “I know that you are The Witness.”
A chill dread swept through her as though some unseen hand had drawn dark blinds. She stood motionless.
“Or should I say, the Angel?”
She rammed her eyes shut.
Some of the soldiers called her that, in the hospitals, although she knew not why as she was far from a celestial being. Miles knew…
Her shoulders were grabbed and she flinched.
“Sit, Verity, before you fall.” She was guided back to the sofa and gently but determinedly lowered into it.
Wished it would swallow her up.
For to Miles, she must appear like some…some obsessed devotee who’d painted him over and over, and she did not know what to say.
So she kept her eyes closed, heard footsteps, the clink of a decanter stopper, before a glass was pressed into her hand.
Probably better than tea in this instance.
“Drink.”
She did as bid, the brandy burning its way to her heart, coating it in courage and warmth. Tentatively, she opened her lids.
Miles was kneeled before her like some knight of old.
But his eyes were no longer quite so dark with diabolical intent.
“You’re angry,” she found herself saying.
“No. Yes.” His shoulders sagged. “More at myself for I’ve been chasing my own tail when from the first one I saw, something tantalised, felt familiar.” He glanced up. “I should have known you’d paint more than cats.”
“I like cats.”
Yet he narrowed his eyes. “Why, Verity? Why paint those battlescapes? And why paint…me?”
“I…”
“And I want the truth.” He reached for her hand and brushed the streak of pastel upon her smallest finger.
She swallowed. Knew only the truth would suffice.
“Because of me, you joined the army. Because of what I said that night, you abandoned your dreams.” She shook her head.
“Your words I will never forget. That I’d snapped your heart in two.
That you couldn’t bear the sight of me. That you had to leave.
Get away. And then a week later… I heard you’d gone.
Left to join the army. It was my fault you joined. ”
“Ah, hell, Verity.” And the next thing she knew, Miles’ face was in her lap.
She buried her cheeks in her hands. “You were supposed to voyage and collect plants, as you’d always wanted.
But because of my cruel words, you, you…
” She tentatively reached out. His hair was so soft.
“I didn’t know what to do… I felt so wretched, so guilty.
You were supposed to voyage as in our dreams, but…
voyage without me. You were so eager, Miles.
To go to the Americas that you used to read about, collect beautiful plants and…
” She wiped a cheek. “But you didn’t. So I would read all the papers, for any news of your regiment, and then get so annoyed at the glorified reports, when all I could think about was you – in the midst of battle, of carnage.
All my fault. And so I… I began to draw, of my fear for you.
” She heard a choke. “I-I understand your anger. Some odd person painting you all the time, discomforting you, but–”
He raised his head.
And she discovered his green eyes were not filled with anger or discomfort but…sorrow.
“Verity, I’m not discomforted by your paintings. I’m…” He rose, swiped a palm over his face, showed his back to her. “We were just such artless dreamers. And I am equally as… In fact, it is I that should apologise to you.”
“You?” she almost shouted. “Why?”
He turned, so tall and magnificent.
“Verity…” He let out a long breath. “The plant-hunting expeditions we dreamed of. How were we to finance them?”
“W-what?”
“Just indulge me, please.”
“Your father. You said he’d be only too pleased.”
“Exactly so.” The bones in his jaw clenched tight. “When my father finally returned home, when at last I had the chance to explain our plans for marriage and expeditions, do you know what he did?”
Verity shook her head,
“He laughed. Thought it all a jest.” Miles grimaced.
“I’d forgotten how pig-headed and controlling he was while I’d been away at Eton and University.
As it turned out, he’d considered my botany a boy’s pastime and had made plans for me.
I was no more than the spare, should anything befall Cameron, so as such, he’d decided I would stay at home and join the Church. He’d marked out a living in Godalming.”
“The Church?” For she’d never imagined Miles suited to that.
Yet he nodded. “We argued. At length. For three nights before I set off to you. But he would not approve. Of botany or us marrying so young. My dreams, our future fell asunder, and I didn’t want a life in the Church, that much I knew.
I had a small inheritance from my grandmother, but it would only have carried us so far and then what?
You could’ve been with child in the middle of nowhere.
We had no endorsement from Kew, no hope of getting it, and I realised we couldn’t…
” He breathed deep once more. “That we had been dreaming a golden summer daydream. It had no reality. No foundation.”
“Oh, Miles…”
He sunk into a chair. “My brother found me. Drunk as a wheelbarrow in the potting shed. He sobered me up and we talked. Cameron had always been good at seeing matters from a different perspective, looking forwards not back, and the army came up as an option. I could work my way up, gain some experience and a sense of purpose of my own. Napoleon was rampaging nearer to our island and protecting it also seemed important and worthwhile to me. Cameron said he’d lend me money and so together with my small inheritance, I looked into purchasing a commission whilst also planning investments for the future. ”
“And this was all before…”
“All before you jilted me for Locksley and his large botanical garden in Devon.”
“Cornwall.”
A small quirk of lip. “So that night, I also had news. I was to tell you all this. And…” He thinned his lips. “And ask you to wait for me. Until I had some money. In hindsight, it was na?ve, I was asking a lot and had no right but…”
Verity felt a tear slip down her cheek, then another. “I am unsure what to say,” she whispered. “I…I thought it was because of me alone you joined the army.”
“No. I would have purchased the commission anyway, Verity. I had to. Father had refused to support me unless I joined the Church so it was the only way for me to stand on my own two boots. That night with you… I said words in the heat of a young man’s hurt so that you would feel as heartsore as I.
So that you would feel guilty. But it was my wounded pride talking and I should have known better.
” He puffed a breath. “And…your paintings are magnificent, even if you’ve put some bone-headed oaf in the middle. ”
She gave a watery chuckle. “I painted you too thin.”
“I repeat, they are magnificent. As though you were there. And now I know how you did it.”
“Well, I had no idea at the beginning.” Her shoulders squared.
“But then I began talking to a blacksmith who’d been sent home injured from the light infantry.
He didn’t mind reminiscing about his time in the army.
It seemed…cathartic to him. And I would draw his battles.
I would imagine you within them. I read all I could, mapped positions.
Then when we came to London, I searched for soldiers that had been with you and… ”
“You began to witness my battles through their eyes.”
“Yes. I displayed a few in a gallery and then Rothwell saw them, offered to be my patron. At one time, I considered giving them up, but he told me the work moved him so, said my paintings helped bring the terrible conditions to the attention of others. But…forgive me. I never meant to embarrass you.” And it had been so necessary for her in those days.
To atone. To be with him in that small way.
“All the money from the paintings goes to charities for soldiers. The Duke of Rothwell sees to it.”
Miles rose to his feet and began to pace. “And there was no Locksley, was there?”
Verity closed her eyes. “No.”
“Why invent him then? Did you think using him as reason for your change of feelings would be better?”
“No! That wasn’t it. My feelings had not chan–” She slammed her lips shut.
He paused, eyes glittering. “Then what was lie and what was truth? Why can’t you tell me?”
“I…” Verity faltered, tongue tied, emotions tumbled and jumbled. How could she tell Miles of the past, a weight that still pressed upon her chest like a boulder. He was a damn earl and she ought to push him out and direct him next door – to Juliet, who was everything Verity was not.
“That night we last met,” he said softly, “I was dog-tired from four days in the saddle, was still trying to come to terms with the upheaval my life had become, the turmoil of the future, the harsh words exchanged with my father still ringing in my ears. And then your rejection, the cacophony of it all left me unable to think. But now I know I should have asked more, pressed you for more. Your change of emotion was too…abrupt for the Verity I knew.”
“I was no longer that Verity,” she whispered.
“Did…” He thrust a hand through his hair. “I do not know, and perhaps ’tis presumptuous of me, but…did your rejection of my suit have to do with your father’s death?”
Verity swallowed, throat dry, wits shattered by the past and the misunderstandings. She pushed back a lock of hair, noticed her hand was trembling and grimaced, loathing such weakness. “I…”
He kneeled once more, caught her hand, held it firm. “No. I should not have asked. No more for today as I never meant to upset you. Join me for an outing the day after tomorrow. Please. Bring Miss Nash, your aunt and that mad phaeton. Let us just…enjoy ourselves as we used to.”
“No, I–”
“Kew Gardens? It’s closed for renovations but I’ve been granted access through members of the Horticultural Society. No crowds. The place all to ourselves.”
Her eyes flicked up. “That’s bribery.”
He leaned close, placed a finger beneath her chin. “I’ve learned to do whatever it takes to win a battle.”
Then he kissed her.
Those stern lips so soft, shifting like silk.
But as ever, their passion rose like flames fed oil, and she leaned in, heard him groan and felt his hands cup her cheeks.
The kiss deepened and she flung her arms around his neck, any sense of control lost to his touch, pressed closer and–
Laughter, a thud of the main door and they abruptly drew apart, Sephi’s voice sounding as she sped up the stairs.
“I should go,” he said quietly. “I will see you in two days’ time.”
Head bowed, she nodded. Let him leave. Listened to his footsteps cross the room.
Her voice was mere breath… “You were supposed to follow your dreams, Miles.”
The footsteps halted.
Surely he’d not heard her?
“Verity.” He paused. “You were my dreams.”
And the door closed behind him.