He Who Would Have The Rose Must Not Fear Its Changing Seasons
Breathe.
The word raged in Verity’s mind. Eyes closed and covered with her palms.
For if not, she would see the carriage walls closing in, the darkness, the smallness, suffocating her.
No air.
No breath.
Tucked in a corner on the floor with knees drawn up, she felt something stir but would not move, could not move, not even a shiver, numb, mouth parched and such a tightness to her chest.
“Verity?”
Oh, no…
And sank her head further into her knees. Would not look up.
“Verity, you’re shaking.”
A hand at her shoulder. She flinched.
“Did I hurt you?”
She endeavoured to shake her head but naught worked – not limbs nor lips.
The hand slid towards her neck, warm yet it made no difference.
Rough fingers curved around her chin and with firm assurance but gentle guidance shifted her head upwards.
“Can you open your eyes?”
All she managed was the barest shake of head.
Her lips moved but no sound came.
When first pushed in here, she’d tried to subdue it, she really had.
To just lift herself from the floor and sit upon the doubtless plush cushions.
It was simply a carriage. One with the curtains drawn. She knew Miles would tend to Daniel with all care. And it was better than the chaos of the horses and the storm outside.
Yet an uncontrollable terror had descended nonetheless.
A fear of being in. A fear of being out.
Icy slithers had impaled her skin, then her breathing had shallowed.
She’d tried to kneel, to reach the door.
Rain on the roof like pistol shots…
Nausea had loomed and her hands had trembled.
She’d endeavoured to imagine the carriage as large – large as a ballroom – yet instead she had felt it closing in around her like the shadows of her nightmares that she could not wake from.
There was no air and the more she fought for it, the more she could not breathe.
A light-headedness had beset her.
She’d struggled to lift, reach the handle…
Then collapsed into a heap upon the floor. Curled in upon herself.
“Tell me what’s wrong?”
And she so hated this.
For Miles to see her. Pathetic and wretched.
She gritted her teeth and, for a brief moment, fought with all her might to imagine…to imagine they were on an island, just Miles and herself. A beach with wide open spaces and she opened her mouth… “Ca…Can’t breathe…” It was a whisper, nothing more.
“Oh, Verity.”
Then she felt an arm wrap her shoulders, another beneath her knees, the hard carriage floor gone as she was lifted from it.
Still she could not open her eyes, despite the warmth that seeped from Miles, despite the motion that told her he was taking her from the darkness.
Dull daylight flitted behind her closed lids, red seeping into the black, and she felt Miles’ breath on her cheek as he gathered her closer, a bench creaked and she was settled onto his lap.
“Breathe deeply, Verity,” he whispered. “Such short breaths make you light-headed.”
Drizzle smote her face like lace and she flung her head back, needed to feel it…
Then gulped – vast breaths, hiccupped and shook, all the while, Miles smoothing a palm over her back and shoulders.
“I should have damn well realised,” he murmured. “The open phaeton, the dinner in the conservatory, your avoidance of the tents at the fair. I’ve seen this before. When captive men were returned. You fear smallness and darkness. No, it is worse than that, they terrify you.”
Every nerve bunched within her, every muscle. She had thought that perchance this affliction had gone or that it could be controlled, it had been so long, but she had been fooling herself.
And it rekindled such darkness, a darkness that whispered the deep truth: she was not fit to share a life with any man, but especially a man such as Miles.
He would perhaps understand the fear but…
“Verity, speak to me?”
“Daniel?” she rasped.
“He is well. Told me he was whole as a nut.”
She opened her eyes, smiled.
Grey light filtered in. They were seated on a small bench a little distance from the gate. Beads of drizzle clung to Miles’ drenched coat, mud upon his cheek. His green eyes were narrowed with concern. The moment suspended in the hush of silvered air.
The storm had passed.
But another would come.
Then she blinked. Had not the strength. “Take me to Sephi,” she whispered. “T-take me home.”
“Are you well enough to walk?”
She nodded and squirmed to rise against the band of his protective arms.
“Let me go, Miles,” she whispered. “Let me go.”
Miles had no intention of letting Verity go – in this moment or, as he rather feared she’d meant, for good.
Hell, when he had first seen her there, slumped in the corner on the carriage floor, his heart had nigh given out, fear cresting and crashing.
Had he hurt her with his roughness? Had she been caught by a hoof?
Then he’d heard her breathing, laboured and shallow, eyes jammed shut so hard that it seemed they would never open again.
A gust of autumn wind blew, a shiver seizing her, so he stood from the bench and lowered her onto her feet, keeping one arm at her waist, another at her shoulders.
Her breathing had steadied but she was soaked as a widow’s veil, skin ashen white, eyes so empty. Miles had seen such a look before in soldiers, when they’d closed out all emotion in order to face the next battle, the act of placing one foot in front of another requiring all strength.
He said not a word, just gently guided her back through the gate, noticed that Lynch had returned with the phaeton and Daniel, who’d a bandage under his cap. But they couldn’t travel in his carriage so–
“Verity!”
Miles turned his head to the two ladies dashing towards them from the direction of the Gardens, Miss Nash ahead, holding onto her hat.
“Oh such rain, Lord Stonewold, I’ve never seen the like and…” Miss Nash’s eyes widened. “Verity? Oh, no…” She placed hands to her cousin’s cheeks. “No… Not this. We must get her home. To a bath and rest.”
Miles shifted. “It was my fault. I put her in the carriage during the storm. Maybe we could all–”
“No,” Verity stuttered. “It’s just a fine drizzle now and S-Sephi can take the reins of the phaeton.”
Miss Nash nodded. “I am quite able, my lord. We have our oiled coats in the seatbox.”
He frowned but felt a gentle pat on his sleeve.
“You were not to know, my lord,” soothed Miss Hamilton. “Be at ease. Our Verity is stronger than you know.”
Purposefully, the ladies readied themselves with waterproofed cloaks and coats, their manner grave and quiet, so different to the joy in which they’d all met in.
Verity gave a weak smile but not in his direction and he sensed it wasn’t just because she needed all her strength but that an intense wretchedness had taken hold of her. And all he could do was stand helplessly by as Miss Nash and Miss Hamilton fussed over her.
When had all this begun?
Verity had not suffered such fear that summer they’d fallen in love. They’d kissed in the darkened stables once and she’d giggled at the forbidden location. They’d explored a cave in the hillside and she’d been fearless.
He assisted her into the carriage but her cold hand slipped from his.
Then she turned and looked to him, defeat writ in her eyes.
“Don’t follow us,” she said softly.
And after Miss Hamilton had piled more blankets upon her lap, Miss Nash ably set the horses in motion, while Miles could only watch on as the phaeton trundled away up the lane, Daniel perched on the back with half a crumpet in hand, the drizzle falling straight and steady upon the hood.
Lynch’s brow knitted tight. “What do we do now?”
With a thrust of hand through his drenched hair, Miles strode over to his equipage and checked the harnesses. There was plenty to do: dry themselves out, get the horses rested, make a plan.
But…
“Now?” Miles stroked the horse’s mane. “We take the carriage and follow Miss Seymour.”