She felt a moistness upon her cheek. “Y-you mustn’t…”
“So now I wish to hear the truth, Verity. All of it. And unlike when young, I will not walk away.”
A shiver caught her. She knew the gallant man sat aside herdiddeserve the truth, no matter the pain it would cause her. No matter how his ‘feelings’ towards her might change.
“I do not know where to begin,” she whispered, twisting the coverlet in her hands.
He nodded and then reached over the side of the bed to that linen bag and rummaged around.
“If I may suggest, we could begin with this.” And he pulled forth a small canvas and placed it face down on the bed.
Her pulse raced. The discolouration on the back. The scent of camphor. Surely, he’d not…
Miles brought forth another, placed it in the same manner.
Then another.
And another.
But Verity knew there was one more.
Which he withdrew from the bag and placed face down.
“I… Where did you…”
He turned it over.
Now her pulse ceased. Leaving her shaken yet motionless.
She’d not seen this since painting it all those years ago.
The canvas was smothered in black ragged emptiness, save for a lone circle at its centre that snared one’s gaze, just as she’d intended it to. Within that expanding circle, a scene had unfolded, chilling in its simplicity.
Rain. Blood. Murder.
She closed her eyes and swallowed but felt the clutch of his hand – rough and strong.
“Tell me,” he said softly. “I know your father was lost to highwaymen but… Verity, was there more to it? Did you witness something as a young girl that no one…no one should ever have to witness?”
“I-I…”
Miles swallowed.Steeled himself. “When you are able, Verity…”
And he waited.
“T-that night…” she began, her lashes trembling. “We’d had dinner. Myself, Papa and Lucia, a great-aunt who’d been staying with us for the summer. It was beef and… It’s silly, isn’t it? Sometimes I can hardly recall last week but I can even remember the colour of slipper I wore that eve.”
“Because it would become the last with your father,” he murmured. “’Tis natural.”
Her hand shifted within his. “The footman, who is now our butler Jenkins, came with a message from the village doctor who’d been tending our neighbour. A kind man, Mr Thomkins, who was steadfast friends with Papa.”
“I met him, I seem to recall. But he had an illness?”
She nodded. “A weakness of the heart. The message said he had taken a turn for the worst. He had no family and no one close by and Papa wanted to care for him, so he ordered the carriage be readied. Night had descended, the sky a little grey but the moon was waxing and it was light enough. I pleaded with Papa to let me come along but he kissed my forehead and said he’d see me on the morrow, when we would visit Mr Thomkins together. That I needed to stay with Great-Aunt Lucia.” She sighed. “I agreed, rather crabbily, and made him promise to give Mr Thomkins a hug from me, for I was so fond of him. He would buy me books and put brandy in my milk.”
“Like a wicked but favoured uncle.”
“Just so.” Her lashes swept up. “Papa went to his room to change and I to mine for bed, but I remember pausing at my door and looking back. Papa’s shoulders were hunched and he looked so…so sad and alone. I knew he feared the worst so I told my maid that I’d see myself to bed, to not disturb me as I had a head pain. I waited some moments and then I-I grabbed a black cloak and crept out, down the stairs and through the back door to the stables. The grooms were all abed, a single lantern lit, and only the coachman who’d been with us for years was quietly harnessing the horses… So I took the opportunity to creep around the far side of the carriage, open the door and then huddle low on the floor, covering myself with the cloak.”
