Page 100 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

“It was very nearly the Spanish Inquisition over there.” Betrand’s eyes were wide. “At one point, I thought Canterbury was going to produce a rack and instruct me to heft myself upon it.”

She shook her head, smiling. Bertrand had always been gregarious, bordering on ridiculous. It was one of the things she’d missed most about him.

“Those people care about you very much, Vera. But I was so confused as to why they were keeping me from you. Until it became abundantly clear that I had no idea what Mother had done. Surely you know we would never disown you. Don’t you?”

There was hurt there, in Bertrand’s gaze. And suddenly, Vera wondered why she had believed it of them so readily. Why hadn’t she challenged it in her own mind? Why hadn’t she even written a letter to ask? Certainly that said something about how she’d viewed herself at the time. Now, it felt properly idiotic.

Vera shook her head. “I’m sorry, Bertie. I don’t know. Mother was…difficult. I know now that I should have doubted her more, but at the time it seemed real. I believed her.”

His expression was serious. “Campton and I would never do that. And certainly Father had no clue of the truth—Mother had told him you were travelling with Lady Waldrey—er, the duchess—but he never even knew you ran off. He thought Mother gave you permission. She certainly kept up the charade—told him you sent letters, were having a lovely time. Of course, that was before the er…pinching started.”

Vera shook her head, looked out the window. So the lie had just been her mother being herself.

Bertrand cleared his throat. “You look different. Better. That dress suits you. Did someone, um…help you pick it out?”

Vera’s mouth dropped open on a sudden suspicion. “Bertie—surely you know that I had no hand in those terrible dresses I used to wear. That was all Mother’s doing.”

He reared back. “What?”

“She didn’t want me to marry! Not when she had you and Campton settled and making families. I was to stay home and take care of Father and Mother in their old age.”

“That certainly explains a lot. I kept sending letters asking you to visit—told her I had a few gents all picked up for you to meet. Agatha was going to take you to the dress shop, get you sorted. Mother kept saying you were far too busy at home.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shifted in his seat. “Well, I didn’t want to embarrass you—make you think you couldn’t find your own chap.”

“But I couldn’t.” She slapped the seat next to her in emphasis, half laughing. “Not with Mother dressing me in cast-off upholstery and chasing away every man who looked at me.”

Bertrand considered that for several moments, then grinned. “Look on the bright side—it could have been worse. Now she scares them off for a whole other reason.” He brought his thumb and forefinger together in a pinching motion.

CHAPTER 33- VERA

London was much the same as it ever was. Only now, Vera wrinkled her nose at the waste in the gutters, at the ripeness of the alleys they passed. She would never take fresh air for granted again. In the distance, the bells of St. Paul’s Cathedral chimed noon; birds erupted from the trees in the nearby park. The carriage pulled up to the familiar brick rowhouse. Bertrand stepped out first and offered a hand for her to follow.

They rushed up the stone steps and were met by a grim-faced Campton.

“She’s worse—much worse,” Campton said, even as he hugged her. “Vera, so glad you came.”

“Of course.”

“The doctor says it could be anytime now. You both should go see her.”

Bertrand wrinkled his nose. “Is she still pinching? Should I keep my back to the wall?”

“We’re well past that, I think. She hasn’t left her bed these last four days.”

“Oh.” Bertrand frowned. “Let’s go up.”

Lady Callista Ashbury reclined against pillows in her bed. The thick draperies were thrown back to let in light, and as they arrived, a maid hustled across the room. Instinctively, Vera inhaled deeply through her nose. It was an underrated form of diagnosis, the nose. But she smelled no infection, no sourness or sickly sweetness on the air.

In fact, the room smelled of fresh linens and the sprig of eucalyptus placed on the fire. The staff was doing an excellent job of caring for her mother—it wasn’t easy keeping someone who was bedridden clean at all times.

“Begging your pardon,” the maid said in a low voice, bobbing a curtsy. “She’s sleeping at the moment. The doctor was just here, said she needs her rest.”

“We’ll watch over her for a while.” Vera nodded to the door. “We’ll call if we need anything.”

A look of gratitude passed over the young woman’s face. She bobbed another curtsy and headed for the door.