A Flower Needs No Flattery
Aletter lay upon the table within Verity’s conservatory, abandoned and ignored.
Instead, she watered plants, added firewood to the stove, snipped off dead flowerheads, sprinkled spent tea leaves onto the soil – which Aunt was sure made them grow better – and then frowned at the copious blackfly setting up home on a nasturtium stem.
Anything was better than reading that letter. For why would Miles send it?
His penmanship on the folded leaf, she’d recognised, her name in black ink with bold and regimented letters.
But why not call upon her in person?
There was only one explanation.
In life, certain news was best conveyed by letter.
Words spoken could assault like sharp rain, but when written, they could instead seep like fog.
The result was the same, of course, the fire in a heart dowsed, but at least one had time to prepare oneself.
Doubtless this letter agreed with her on why she and Miles could not be.
That he would find a bride with no burdens from her past.
Oh, he would be noble and say it was a fault within his own character and not herself at all, but everyone knew that to be complete bumblebroth.
With a deep breath, she returned to the table, gathered the letter and took herself to the chaise. She was being a bottle-headed goosecap. There would be naught here that she’d not expected.
Best be done with it.
Verity flipped it over and broke the seal, a red blob of wax stamped with three spades, or spearheads, a crest that wouldn’t have been there but for Miles becoming earl. His Stonewold title had been first bestowed to an ancestor for valour in war and this seal carried the weight of that legacy.
Bringing the lantern near, for dusk had briskly descended, she read…
Dear Verity,
I hope this letter finds you recovered.
That you are once more able to walk in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies.
Verity frowned: that was somehow familiar.
That once more you are like a summer’s day,
Brow like the snowdrift, lips like a red, red rose.
She peered at the handwriting to ensure it was Miles’, but yes – bold and regimented with a leaning-back R.
Alas, with Time still a-flying, my choice was made,
And with a bleeding heart must sigh…
Come let us kiss and part;
As she’d expected then.
For what dread hand? And what dread feet?
Plans for the field of death his plodding schemes;
Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen.
Wasn’t that Blake? Some of it anyhow…
Wine, gentle wine, thy cheer the soul… When we two parted,
Perhaps he’d been soused?
And though peril rests upon my single head;
I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
Yours, Miles.
Bafflement.
What did he mean by ‘I will come again’?
To visit her?
Why?
And it was less than two miles from here to his house on Portman Square.
With a shake of head, Verity meandered from her conservatory, perusing the letter once more, in case she’d misread or her mind had been bewattled.
But no.
She entered the house and heard Aunt in the parlour, whispering, so wandered in.
A Mr Collins, black-furred and with a white collar, was pompously sprawled on the sofa, watching with pious approval as Aunt hemmed a new cushion. Doubtless not for the human occupants of the house.
“Aunt Theo?”
She peered up. “Yes, darling?”
“Do you understand the ways of men?”
“Well, as much as anyone can.”
“Yes, but…would you be able to decipher what a man was trying to say? If such man had written a letter, for example, that made not a whit of sense.” Verity brought forth the paper with a small sigh and Aunt pursed her lips.
“I could try.”
“It’s from Miles. Normally, he’s so…uncomplicated in speech but this is all so…” She wafted a hand.
“Hmm.” Aunt placed the cushion aside. “Men often write what the lips cannot say. Let me try. I have best light just here for reading.”
Verity handed over the letter and watched as Aunt’s eyebrows rose, her lips moving before an, “Ah, I see.”
“You do?”
“Yes, darling. It’s quite simple, really.”
“Is it?” Verity sat between her and Mr Collins on the sofa and peered at the letter.
Aunt traced a finger over the lines. “Well, this is just prittle-prattle …” Murmuring. “Then that’s just waffle. Romantic waffle but still waffle.” Muttering. “Poor man.” Mumbling. “And this means… Piffle, never liked Byron.”
“Aunt?”
“Oh, sorry, darling.” She patted Verity’s hand absently. “Miles says he is in some form of peril and, until it passes, cannot see you.”
“Peril!” Verity held a hand to her heart. “But where does it say that?”
“Oh, here and there.”
“Does it?”
“Hmm. But then it says, be rest assured as he is wounded at the thought of being parted and cannot wait to see you again.”
Oh.
Aunt took the cushion up once more so Verity smoothed the letter upon her knees
Gracious.
Her eyes lingered on the word peril. “I wonder… Miles seemed so sceptical, you know, after those barrels at the fair almost struck him. I wondered at the time as to why.”
“You don’t think it was an accident?”
“I don’t think Miles did.” A sense of dread crept up her spine. “What if he…”
Aunt clasped her shoulders. “Verity, do not think the worst. It could be anything. Just give him time to fix matters.”
“Of course.” Verity nodded though her heart raced. But she supposed a little time apart might be provident as perhaps…perhaps Miles would also come to see what it appeared he hadn’t as yet. What his letter had refused to acknowledge: that they could not be.
Indeed, he might hardly notice her absence at all.
And she herself would carry on as she did before his re-emergence within her life.
Content.