Some conservatories were regimented affairs with long parallel stages of plants but Verity had created more of an indoor garden with pots higgledy-piggledy. It did not have the extravagant glass roof of Mrs Tait’s next door, but it was cosy with low walls and tall windows set within wooden frames and blinds that could be pulled, if necessary.
The gardener had already trundled in the pots of lemons for winter’s onset and placed them in front of the glass for best light, then filled the few gaps with other tender plants.
She walked the curved narrow path amongst the pots and foliage to the centre.
There she’d created a haven with a small wrought-iron table and a wide chaise longue upholstered in bottle-green leather but with a slipcover of cotton. At times, when troubled or restless, she would sleep here, the scents of nature soothing her, moonlight filtering through to throw silvered patterns upon the tiled floor.
Breathing deep, she sat upon the chaise and placed the box on her knees.
Perhaps she should not do this.
Perhaps it would open old wounds that she’d thought…well, not healed but at least stitched up.
Yet…
Like Pandora’s box, she could not resist.
She had to know if she’d been wrong all those years ago. Wrong to have lied and to have shattered a young man’s heart. Was she wrong now…
So she inserted a small key within the elaborate escutcheon of the mahogany box.
The metal grated, its mechanism doubtless clogged with the neglect of some seven years. The key granted a half turn before wedging, but with a joggle and then a more forceful twist, the lock yielded a soft click of surrender.
Her fingers nigh trembled as she opened the lid.
A dried rose lay atop, a pale, faded version of its former self. She could only empathise.
Next were letters, neatly folded, beads of red wax dotting like blood.
Verity spread all on the chaise, the rose, maps and articles. All items that Miles had sent her – from the hour he’d departed for his father’s estate until the moment he’d returned to her and she’d spoken such cruel words.
She unfolded one of the letters, smoothed its creases upon her thigh…
Verity, my Amaranth,
I miss you.
Your lips, your eyes and your touch.
I miss hearing you. I miss watching you create living flowers upon paper.
I miss hearing your breath.
Fighting the sting of tears, Verity forced her eyes to the bottom of the letter, unable to bear the most romantic words she could ever have imagined…
I hope this map of the Americas brings you as much excitement as it has for me.
I have investigated a route we could take (drawn in red) and although it would be arduous, the thought of us snuggled in many a ship’s little cabin together, as man and wife, brings me naught but joy.
Yours eternally,
Miles.
Verity closed her eyes. Swallowed.
An unromantic gurgle of water and creak of pipes brought her back to the moment, for occupying the corner of the conservatory was a wood stove that fed hot water pipes running beneath the floor, elaborate grills above. One could stand over a grill in winter and feel the heat all the way up one’s skirts.
She settled more comfortably against the cushions while randomly selecting items from upon the chaise.
