Verity closed her eyes and breathed deep of autumn’s fragrance: damp earth, crisp leaves, wood smoke and perhaps the faintest scent of Michaelmas daisies.
“Let’s head for the pond.” Sephi shook off her scarlet pelisse.
“Yes. ’Tis a fine day for a walk.”
“We’re not here just towalk,” replied her cousin as they put their best foot forward. “We are also here to admire the latest fashions, theà la modecolours and to cut a dash as the Scandalous Scarlet Spinsters. Or two of them at least.”
Verity nodded yet the Gardens were also worthy of admiration. To both sides of the walk were banks of trees that gave the impression one was in the middle of a forest, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of autumn to a shimmering line of luminous gold.
Nowadays her paintings were of grim battle or black fur but on days like this, although she would be loath to admit it to Sephi, shedidwish to illustrate flowers again. Perhaps theNarcissus odoruswith its rich-yellow trumpets and thick greenstems. She’d measure the exact dimensions and transpose each crease and line.
She shook her head as the pond came into view, though ’twas a travesty to call it such, as it was extensive and broad with far-reaching views of the Gardens. Various ranks of genteel society promenaded, all in the latest stare of fashi–
“Miss Seymour! Miss Nash! How fortuitous!”
With a twist, Verity beheld their neighbour Mrs Tait, dressed in a wondrous ensemble straight from the pages ofLa Belle Assemblée.
“Oh, how fabulous,” whispered Sephi. “I would never have thought to put stripes of Beggar’s Grey and bold Beetroot together.”
Verity was enveloped in the scent of lavender, Mrs Tait being the hugging sort, and while Verity herself rather delighted in it, Sephi suffered like a marble martyr.
“Isn’t it a lovely day, Mrs Tait?”
“Just so, my dears!” Her pretty brown eyes sparkled with joy. “And with so many esteemed noblemen here. My daughter and I have glimpsed the Duke of Wellington, Lord Croft, Viscount Fanshawe and the Marquess of Winterbourne with his beautiful wife and twin sons. The Gardens are a walking Debrett’s. Come, you must see the vista to the Serpentine today. It’s perfect!” And she seized both their arms.
Such vivacity, paired with such utter determination, was undoubtedly the secret behind her renowned dinner occasions that drew from the highest echelons of society.
And the vista to the Serpentine was indeed perfect, a long line of trees leading one’s gaze down to the water that bordered with the westerly Hyde Park. In fact, Kensington Gardens had once been part of that park before various royals had snaffled acres for their palace.
“And I am so thrilled you are attending my little dinner next week,” continued Mrs Tait, rattling off a list of invitees. “Viscount Shadwell is also confirmed. A most pleasant young man. My Juliet showed no partiality to any of the young gentlemen during her Season but there are still a few in Town for September.”
“Ah,” Verity murmured as Sephi stepped on her toe, reminding her to extricate themselves. “I’m not sure we can com–”
“And have no fear…” Mrs Tait leaned close. “Your dear aunt told me, confidentially, of course, about your requirements. We’ll have dinner in the new conservatory. It shall be delightful. And… Oh, look, there’s that new-in-Town nobleman I was introduced to last week. My lord! How delightful to see you again.” Mrs Tait’s hand waggled. “Where’s Juliet? Juliet!”
As their neighbour searched for her errant daughter, Verity swivelled and…
Leaves blurred. Water ebbed. Chatter quietened.
In fact all else seemed to fade but for one man.
Nothing like she remembered. Yet all that she knew.
Miles Firth. Tall and imposing, with broad shoulders and a muscular form that bore scant resemblance to the slender youth she remembered.
And heavens above…
The high cheekbones and chiselled chin were the same but…
She’d always imagined his youthful looks would now be prematurely ravaged by war, body gaunt, with green eyes so empty. Just as she’d depicted him in oils.
Instead, a man stood before her in his prime: handsome as sin, chestnut-brown hair tousled in the latest Byronesque style, skin lacquered by the continental sun and a dark-walnut Weston jacket clinging to those broad shoulders.
Mrs Tait chit-chattered on, praising that fine jacket whilst simultaneously calling for Juliet, but Verity was caught within his eyes.
Vivid as holly leaves and edged with that same jagged peril, they weren’t empty at all but…but glaring at her, narrowed and quite stern.
For seven years, she had imagined this meeting, rehearsed the polite meaningless words of greeting, but always it had been within the realms of some imaginary ballroom that she never stepped in anyhow.
