Page 60 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

He trailed off, trying his best to treat her situation as delicately as any surgery.

“No, I didn’t.”

Stephen searched her face for the telltale lines of pain with which he judged every patient. Surprisingly, all he found was a slight tightening around her eyes. Mild discomfort, then—nothing more.

Vera continued, “I wanted the same thing every young lady wants, I think. Well, most ladies of my acquaintance. I wanted a home of my own. A family of my own.”

Stephen noticed that she hadn’t mentioned a husband and suddenly wondered if that was her pain point. Had Vera had someone picked out—as he had—and the connection had gone wrong? Suddenly, it was all he wanted to know, but he didn’t want to embarrass her, either. He’d done more than enough of that for a hundred lifetimes.

“You wanted love,” he said carefully.

“I suppose I did.”

“Did? Do you not still want it?”

Vera laughed, but he could hear the ache riding the low song. “I am twenty-five now. Such concerns are gratefully behind me. Perhaps if my mother hadn’t been as she is, I might have had a chance, but it has been several years since I disavowed myself of the notion.”

Not completely, he thought. Otherwise, she wouldn’t care at all.

“One of my mentors—Dr. Halveston, in London—he didn’t meet his wife until he was forty-four.”

Vera smiled. “It hardly matters how old the gentleman is, in the eyes of society. Lord Fettiwig is still browsing for wife number three, and he’s not looking in the appropriate shop, age-wise. Why, he made an offer to Candace only months ago, and she could be his granddaughter!”

“Some ladies might take him up on it,” he teased. “They might do the calculations in their head and deem a year or two of misery a fair price for a lifetime of freedom and comfort.”

“If the man were guaranteed to obey the laws of nature, perhaps. But he’s outlived two of them, and both were much younger than he. I’m starting to think he might be killing them off, just for the thrill of selecting a new one.”

“A shocking assertion.”

She tilted her head. “But perhaps that will be my backup plan. Yes—I’ll train with you for three months. Doubtless you’ll teach me the recipe for a tonic that could be fatal. Then I’ll write to Lord Fettiwig myself, see if he’ll condescend to a wife as old as twenty-five.”

Stephen laughed.

* * *

Stephen leaned back against the gently sloped copper tub and sighed. His back and hips ached a bit from riding his horse, and the hot water felt wonderful. He’d been surveying the fence line of the property over the past few days if the weather was nice, noting repairs that were needed. Usually Vera or Benjamin accompanied him, sometimes both.

Today it had been Benjamin, and their time together finally felt natural, easy—as time between two brothers should be. They’d ridden to the far field in the morning, the one with the sizeable berm. Stephen was teaching Benjamin some of the basics of handling a rifle. They’d started with safety, naturally, and would proceed from there as Benjamin’s responsibility allowed.

Overall, it had been an exceedingly pleasant day. Stephen tipped his head back and closed his eyes as steam wafted from the tub. His valet, Edwin, had drizzled a bit of oil over the top of the water that smelled of sandalwood and eucalyptus. Though Stephen typically eschewed all perfumes, this was the exception.

Stephen gave a small exhale of derision, remembering an instance some idiot had poured a great quantity of rose oil into his bathwater at a London hotel. Stephen had already been running late to the theatre; there was no time to request fresh water. His choice was to go smelling strongly of horse—and the whisky he’d spilled earlier—or to bathe.

He later wished he’d gone as he was. He’d stunk up the entire box; he’d reeked worse than Great Aunt Bertian’s potpourri.

There was a tug at the bathing sheet near his feet.

He didn’t bother opening his eyes. “Edwin, the water’s fine; you may leave me.”

Stephen froze as a sizeable splash sounded at the far end of his tub. He remembered his valet had already departed, as Stephen had instructed—the man was heading down to the kitchens, doubtless to flirt with the new parlor maid.

Stephen took a fortifying breath and cracked one eye. At the other end of the copper tub, half-submerged in water, was a raccoon. In that split second, Stephen couldn’t help but notice that the raccoon had adopted a similar position to his own—on his back, leaned against the tub, and staring right back at him.

Though he’d sworn never to repeat the experience, Stephen gave an involuntary yelp that echoed through the chamber. He flailed and heaved himself from the tub, sending a wave of bathwater sluicing over the stones.

The racoon didn’t seem at all alarmed by Stephen’s reaction. Instead, it slid lower into the water as if settling in to enjoy the warmth. Stephen scrabbled for a towel and instinctively wound it ’round his waist, protecting the most vulnerable parts of himself.

“Stephen?” his mother called from his bedroom.