Page 105 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

The lady turned to her with a puzzled expression. “Yes, why?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Pardon me.” Vera held fingers to her temple. “I have much on my mind.”

“Of course you do.” Dahlia’s smile was suddenly strained. “I was very young when my mother and father passed, but it’s still painful sometimes. It grows easier, which somehow hurts in its own way, too.”

Vera nodded. It was different for her. Vera’s relationship with her mother had been so fraught, so difficult. Even at the funeral, she hadn’t mourned her mother as she was, not really. Rather, she’d mourned the relationship she wished she’d had with her mother—the one that would never be.

There was something about her grief that felt fraudulent—Vera had to swallow back guilt when people consoled her. Some of them had very real tears in their eyes. They’d imposed their grief over her own—they imagined what she felt based upon what they’d felt, when their own loved one died.

Still, Vera felt compelled to nod and accept the condolences. Even her brothers didn’t quite understand—they’d had a different mother, a loving mother. Vera was nothing but bewildered when her brothers passed about their pleasant, shared memories of Mother. It was the same as hearing people describe a dinner party she’d never been invited to—no matter how great the detail used, Vera still couldn’t quite picture it.

Then there was the faint, flickering anger that Vera did her best to squelch down and smother. When the preacher described Callista as a loving mother, Vera nearly stood up and corrected him. The last week of her mother’s life was the most pleasant their relationship had ever been. Vera didn’t know what to feel about that—that only madness had made her mother say she loved her.

“Are you all right, Vera?” Dahlia asked softly.

Vera realized she’d been staring at the spotted fabric, petting it over and over like a treasured lapdog while she ruminated on thoughts of her mother. “I’m sorry. I got lost for a moment there.”

“No apology needed.”

At the compassion in Dahlia’s gaze, Vera felt her tears welling up for the first time since her mother had passed. She stepped back as if she could put more distance between herself and the emotion.

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry.” Dahlia produced a handkerchief and handed it over.

Vera took it gratefully; she’d left hers at home. And didn’t that just say everything? How deep could her mourning be, if she’d forgotten that basic necessity?

“I fear I’m not up to this, after all.”

Dahlia nodded, then bit her lip. “If—if it would be helpful, I’m happy to relay an order to Madame Aubert on your behalf. I take it the measurements that she last used are still correct?”

Vera nodded and dabbed her eyes, choked by her own confusion. Of all the times for grief to surge within her, why did it have to be now?

Perhaps it was because what Dahlia had done for her here was exactly what Vera wished her mother would have done, when she was alive. Weren’t mothers supposed to help their daughters choose fabrics and think of which ensembles would suit them best? But not her mother. Her mother had done the exact opposite. On purpose.

“I would really appreciate you placing the order, if that’s not too much trouble.”

“Not any trouble at all, Vera. Truly. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Thank you, Dahlia.”

Though she’d taken the carriage to Madame Aubert’s, Vera sent it home and walked. The footman only protested once—Madame Aubert’s shop was in an excellent part of town, mere blocks from her father’s house. Vera hadn’t even brought a maid on the errand.

In truth, Vera had acclimated to the freedom of the countryside. She enjoyed her solitude, her long walks about the grounds. Her ankle felt much better now, and how she longed for fresh air and greenery!

Mist still clung to the ground and hovered undisturbed in the mouths of the alleys. Vera didn’t want to return directly to the squared-off rooms of the brick townhome, filled with sour memories and her mother’s collected trinkets. So instead of turning right toward home, she went left, toward the park.

A half an hour, she told herself.

No one would miss her for that length of time. It was still early—the house wouldn’t even be open for visitors for an hour or more. There would be plenty of time for Vera to pinch some color into her cheeks and decide whether she wanted to risk frowns in the grey bombazine.

The park was lovely, even at this time of year. There was something crisp and clean about air surrounded by greenery. It was a pale comparison to Devon, but Vera would take what she could get.

She missed Stephen with a breathless intensity whenever she was alone. When she’d left, she’d naively thought she’d be back within a fortnight, a month at most. Vera hadn’t thought to be tethered here by her family’s grief and expectations.

Vera wished now that she’d flung her arms immediately around Stephen’s neck when he’d proposed. She wished she’d interrupted him with an eager “yes” when he’d declared himself. But she’d been choked by the depth of her emotion and the beauty of his words. She’d thought she’d have more than a single moment to make her reply. She thought she’d have more time with him. She’d thought she’d have all of it, actually.

Vera plunked down upon a bench that overlooked a small pond. A wreath of mist clung to the shoreline and lazily drifted overtop the still water. At the far side, a swan lifted its head to inspect the intruder, then tucked its bill beneath its wing once more.

Now who knew how long it would be until she saw Stephen again? Perhaps she should write him a letter. She’d started one, several times, but she selfishly wanted her answer to be given face to face. Vera wanted to see him hear it, the first time she confessed her love.