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 itwasMiles’, 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,
