Page 30 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

But her hopes were dashed when he held Mr. Audel’s letter aloft. “You cannot possibly think of accepting this man.”

“Get. Out.”

She whirled, looking for something, anything to launch at his head. All she found were pillows and similarly soft items. Drat her comfortable bedroom!

“I’m sorry.” He pinched the letters between his pointer and thumb and held the other fingers up as if he were trying to calm a growling dog. “Forgive me, but I could tell you were hiding something; I needed to know what it was⁠—”

“There is no excuse for you reading my personal letters! There is no forgivable reason for you entering my bedroom!”

“Of course not. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

She jabbed a finger toward the door, horrified to feel her rage pricking at the corners of her eyes. She always cried if she got angry enough—a terrible habit. Soon, she wouldn’t even be able to snap at him; it would come out as a wet, pathetic warbling.

“Just, please. Let me explain.”

Why was he still here? Why did he still hold her letters?

“Get out!” she yelled. “Get out! Get out!”

She strode for the fireplace and grasped the poker. If he didn’t leave, she’d finish what she’d started the day he returned home. Vera half wished she’d killed him then and there. A tragic end, but everyone would have understood her confusion. This—this would be murder.

She found, in that moment, she didn’t rightly care.

“You have been awful to me since the moment you stepped foot in this house,” she seethed, rounding on him.

He nimbly stepped behind the velvet chaise, putting the sofa between them.

He held up his hands again. “Just wait. Listen.”

“I swear to you, if you don’t leave, I’ll do my best to brain you with this poker.”

Something in her expression must have convinced him. He darted out, her letters still clutched in his hands. The slam of the door behind him broke the dam she’d held on her tears. She tossed the poker down onto the carpet with a thunk, threw her own damp person across her bed, and wept.

CHAPTER 9- STEPHEN

Oh, no.

He’d been so wrong.

In fact, the only time he’d possibly been more wrong about a person was when he’d asked Samantha to be his wife.

His hands shook as he strode toward his bedroom. He needed to be alone. He needed to think. A crisp fluttering at his sides made him aware that he still gripped the terrible letters.

One from Vera’s mother, disowning her.

The other from a man who’d offered a very improper position of employment.

Stephen had told himself he had no choice but to find out what Miss Ashbury was hiding.

He’d read everything—her letters, her journals, even the start of her response to the odious Mr. Audel—which Stephen couldn’t help but notice had been dated only that morning. Which meant that Miss Ashbury had held off answering for weeks, but only started to agree once her position became truly untenable.

He’d done that.

Stephen ran a hand through his overlong hair. He had been the one who’d made her feel so unwelcome that she thought she had no choice but to write to that terrible man. Stephen doubted the man even had daughters—he’d certainly glossed over them in his letter.

It hardly mattered now. Vera certainly wouldn’t stay, now that Stephen had invaded her privacy so thoroughly.

He closed his bedroom door behind him and leaned against it, letting his breath out in a huff of a sigh. He shook his head.