Page 72 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

Vera enjoyed working with him. She respected him, admired how tactful and competent he was as a physician. They were friends, and if Vera were being honest with herself, there was a small voice inside her that had started to whisper that they might someday be more.

Now, that part of her was crying.

How could a man who showed so much restraint and intelligence in his work be so debauched and cruel in his private life? One moment they were enjoying the food and the wine, and the next he was stomping everything she thought she’d known about him to pulp.

The wine. Vera sat up straight. They’d been drinking!

Of course that was it—the man had been drunk! He’d been so drunk that he’d made a highly inappropriate joke that hadn’t been at all funny. Vera knew how witty her brothers fancied themselves when they were too deep in their cups. Granted, most men of her acquaintance had long grown out of such a phase.

Vera felt relieved that she’d arrived at the truth of the matter. Stephen hadn’t meant a single word he’d said. In fact, he was probably in the privy right now, casting up his regrets of the night before. Doubtless, when they had a moment alone, he’d apologize for his awful, untrue joke. He’d beg her forgiveness, and all would be mended.

Of course, Vera’s realization did little to dampen her ire. Too much wine was no excuse for behaving in such a manner—for saying such things! Even her brothers had never gone that far with their joking—at least not in her presence. Though there had been a great deal more flatulence, but that was another thing, altogether.

Stephen was most likely mortified. He’d beg her forgiveness. She wondered how long she ought to hold on to her anger for this terrible offense. A week ought to be sufficient. Four days at the very least. For she was quite hurt by the entire thing—she was a lady, and he shouldn’t forget that, no matter how close they’d recently become.

Vera wondered what lengths Stephen would go to, to make amends. Would he bring her flowers? Would he bring her a gift of some kind? Perhaps he would get down on his knees and beg for her pardon. Here, she slipped into a little daydream before she shook herself out of it. Whatever he decided was worthy recompense, she would be magnanimous, but firm.

Thus bolstered, Vera got ready and went down for breakfast.

CHAPTER 21- STEPHEN

The next couple of days were very trying for Stephen’s patience. It was like he and Vera had gone back to the beginning of things. Every time he entered a room, Vera left it. When they shared a meal, she sat as far from him as she could manage. She ignored him completely, except for when he caught her scowling at him for no reason at all.

At first, he thought she was embarrassed at her own behavior and didn’t want his presence as a reminder of it. He was the only one who’d heard her ridiculous outburst, after all.

Stephen was willing to give her a bit of distance. He thought she’d find him and apologize for her unreasonable behavior when she was ready. Then perhaps they’d have a slightly awkward conversation about knowing one’s limits while drinking wine, and that would be the end of it.

But time and his gentle patience did little to mend things. In fact, the longer he gave her to process her own feelings, the angrier she seemed to become. She fairly snarled at him when he’d politely asked for the salt at the breakfast table the second day.

She even had the temerity to turn her back to him while he was speaking, in front of Mr. Douglas, that afternoon.

“What on earth did you do?” the old man asked, grinning. “I didn’t think anything could make Vera that angry.”

“Nevermind,” Stephen had said, and Mr. Douglas laughed.

Stephen would have been far more embarrassed to admit that he had no real idea what he’d done, especially when the man looked positively delighted at this turn of events.

In the end, Mrs. Portence did make the sandwich—she’d gone so far as to write the marquess’s cook and request the recipe—but though it was as delicious as he remembered, he enjoyed it little, remembering that it had been the start of the strange rift between him and Vera.

Mid-morning on the third day, he’d had quite enough. He waited until Benjamin and his mother left for a ride, then cornered Vera in the library. She was sitting in her customary perch upon a leather sofa. Her eyes went wide and darted toward the door when she noticed him looming before her.

“Are you ready to speak with me yet?” he said.

“No.”

Stephen sighed. “Vera, this has to stop. I know you’re angry with me, but we have to live together. We have to work together. And frankly, I think this whole thing is quite ridiculous.”

She stiffened, her chin lifted. “That’s possibly the worst part—that you don’t see anything wrong with it. I gave you time to apologize, and you haven’t.”

“Why on earth should I apologize?” He reared back in surprise.

“I thought perhaps you’d been drinking too much,” Vera plowed on. “I thought that perhaps you’d made a terribly off-color joke that you’d regret in the morning.”

“I thought the same of you—that perhaps you’d had too much.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, I assure you—I was perfectly sober⁠—”

“So was I!” He flopped his hands in the air.