The Apple Hasteth Not The Autumn
Back and forth, forth and back, Miles marched apace in Verity’s drawing room, his boots still damp.
In truth, he’d expected to be turned away by a haughty butler but Miss Nash had answered his knock, and although her eyes had been anxious, her smile had been kind.
Then he’d been taken up the stairs and placed in this drawing room to stew like a rabbit for over an hour. Tea and warmed towels had been provided by a maid but thankfully, as dusk had deepened to evening, a youngish butler named Jenkins had entered with a decanter of claret.
Miles had told Lynch to take the carriage home as the horses needed a thorough rub down, a bag of oats and a damn good rest, then send a lad over with Lupin, who was now stabled in the mews at the end of this street.
He quickened his march.
Could this be why Verity had jilted him all those years ago?
If so, had she thought him so weak in his affections that he wouldn’t have understood? Would not have accommodated her every need? He scrubbed a hand over his face; they’d been so young.
The door opened and he turned. “Miss Nash. How is Verity?”
“Much improved, my lord. Now that she is surrounded by the familiar.”
“And a large well-lit room, I presume.”
“Yes.” She gave a half-smile and stepped forward, leaving the door ajar. “We thought such instances of distress might have left her, or abated at least, but…”
“This hasn’t happened for a while?”
“She still feels…nervous, when in a dark narrow hallway, for example, but she’s not had such an instance, where her breathing is hampered and she faints, for quite some years now.”
“What caused it in the first place?”
“I… I cannot say.” She clasped her hands. “That is for Verity to do so. Because you should also know this is not the sole burden that my dearest Verity carries…” She held a hand to her lips. “There, I’ve said too much.”
Frustration nipped at Miles’ heels and he commenced pacing the rug once more.
“However…” Miss Nash chewed her lip.
Miles halted.
“I have told Verity you are here and have persuaded her to speak with you.”
“Good, I’ll–”
“No, no it is not good, my lord. She is stubborn as a deuced mule and has decided matters for herself without first discussing with you, just as she did when young, and I cannot agree with her decision at all.” Miss Nash huffed.
“I have promised not to say anything but…” She turned to the window and drew a single finger against the pane.
“Let me tell you a little of what Verity means to me, my lord.” Breath misted the glass.
“I owe her everything, you see. I had been ruined and publicly ridiculed by a lying libertine so Father threw me onto the street, told me it was where I belonged – with the dirt and rubbish.” Her profile was as stone and Miles had an overwhelming urge at this moment to punch her sire in the mug.
“I pawned the one ring I had on me for a foul room off Seven Dials, but I was one step away from…” She swallowed.
“Then one morn, there came a knock. I’d not seen Verity since we were young but she’d heard about my ruin and Father’s abandonment of me.
” Miss Nash turned. “And there and then, stood on the lodgings’ doorstep, for my room upstairs was so very small, Verity offered me a home.
Shelter. With herself and Aunt Theo. There were no recriminations or criticism for the foolish, na?ve girl I had been.
Only open arms and love.” A single tear swept her cheek.
“So, my lord, Verity will see you in her bedchamber, but I will not accompany you as she requested, and…” She drew a long breath.
“And I…I believe you ought to take some smelling salts with you. They used to aid her, though she detests them, so you will find them stuffed at the back of the tallest wardrobe in her art studio.”
“Could a maid not fetch–”
“No.” She fixed him with a beady eye. “No, you must fetch them. And…and if you happen upon something else in that wardrobe, something not intended for your eyes but of which you can trust in the truth of what you see, well, I cannot be blamed for the coincidence.”
Miles stepped forward and reached for her hand, pressed it. “Thank you, Miss Nash. And whatever the future holds for myself and Verity, I thank you also for being such a good friend to her.”
“And I thank you for making Verity draw flowers again. Now go.”
He strode to the door but paused to turn. “Your father and that libertine were damned fools, blind to the treasure they had.”
Flapping a hand, she giggled. “Shoo!”
Miles complied and took the stairs three at a time till he reached the third floor and, as Miss Nash had directed, the sole door here opened into a long airy room, nigh the width of the house, mostly painted white, with tall windows, their panes now given over to night.
A handful of lanterns lit desks covered with sketch pads and pencils. The far end was clearly for works in progress with canvases, paint pots, palettes and easels.
He endeavoured not to tarry but it was hard not to envisage Verity here in her painting smock, splodges on her fingers, and he smiled as he made for the far end.
One easel held a canvas of war with himself at the centre – motionless and austere – whilst battle raged behind him. Once, he would have been dismayed to find himself in a painting, but now he felt a fierce pride that Verity could create such a powerful piece.
She’d even broadened his shoulders a little.
Twisting, he noted the Amaranthus speciosus flower he’d sent her had been placed within a vase, its tassels dangling with perfect form against a white wall, and he could not resist but pick up the watercolour that lay aside it, tilt it to the lantern for better light.
A quick study, it had likely been created without measurement, but hell she had a plantsman’s eye, taking in the details and the layers of colour, the leaf ribs and the tiny eyes of the racemes.
Perfection.
But…
There in the darkest corner of the room was a wardrobe. Its door was stiff, the interior scented with camphor mothballs, stale air and old oils.
No one had opened this for some time.
Divided in two, one side was shelved and he rooted around.
The wardrobe was one of those for all the items one never found a home for: frayed ribbons, bits of string, broken quills, old keys, mugs with no handles, spare linen bags and ah, a pot of Mr Quinn’s Invigorating Bergamot and Lavender Smelling Salts.
But smelling salts were not the reason Miss Nash had directed him here so he opened the other side. A few worn painting smocks on hangers, cotton stiff with age, but naught else and he scrubbed a hand over his face.
Then rummaged amongst the smocks. Felt in the pockets but solely found tuppence.
So he kneeled down to see if anything had been shoved below.
Beneath a pile of moth-eaten shawls and the stale scent of time was the textured rear of a small canvas. So he lent in and discovered more canvases stacked there. Old paintings, forgotten and unloved.
Miles withdrew the smallest and turned it over. Frowned. It appeared…completely black, though his fingers felt ripples and ridges of oil.
So he gathered the lot together, rose and placed them onto the art desk within the light of a lantern.
But he’d not been mistaken.
The first canvas was entirely black – but all shades of black. Thick brushstrokes of ebony, thinner of obsidian and then daubs of raven, the oils thickly applied like peaty soil.
The next was the same. But for a minuscule circle of pure white at its centre.
The third identical in colour and texture. Only the circle was now larger.
The fourth too, the white circle larger still. And with some indiscernible image within it.
The fifth… The image within was larger…
And discernible.
He swallowed. Miss Nash had said to trust his eyes. But he closed them.
Oh, Verity.
His precious beautiful young Verity.
Where had you been that night? What had you seen?
Miles felt watched.
So he cast an eye to the second floor’s landing rug, and a brown cat, his plume of tail tucked with military neatness about his paws, amber eyes unblinking.
With a linen bag from the art studio’s wardrobe in hand, Miles kneeled. “Evening, good sir, is this where I might find Verity’s bedchamber? Hmm?”
“The end door,” it replied.
“Forgive me, madam, I assumed you to be a chap.”
“I am.”
Miles straightened, only to find himself confronted by Verity’s aunt. “Ah.” He shuffled his boots as prowling for a lady’s bedchamber was hardly defensible conduct. “Forgive me, Miss Hamilton.” And he gave a rather wooden bow. “And cat.”
Her lips twitched. “This fellow is Colonel Brandon. An old romantic but he still has what it takes, so beware.”
“I shall. I’m just…”
“I know, dear boy, Persephone told me. Be gentle.” She picked up the colonel. “But equally I would not be a dutiful chaperone – which I’m not – if I didn’t warn you that if Verity is hurt in any way, the colonel here will feel honour bound to demand recompense.” The cat purred.
“I shall of course be gentle, Miss Hamilton.”
With a nod, she continued to the stairs, conversing softly with the cat about second chances, and Miles breathed deep.
Two score and ten candles, it seemed, lit his way to the end door where he came to a halt.
For a long while, did nothing.
Then peered once more into the linen bag clutched in his hand.
Closed his eyes.
And, with all gentleness, raised one knuckle to the bedchamber door and tapped.