Page 101 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

“Was that wise?” Bertrand said. “Sending her away? What if something happens?”

“What would a maid be capable of that we are not?”

He shrugged and took one of the chairs facing the bedside. “Lots of things. Fetching tea. Changing linens. Stoking the fire.”

Vera smiled. “There’s a bell pull over there, if need arises. But Mother’s color looks relatively good. She’s breathing evenly. I don’t think she’ll shake off this mortal coil in the next thirty minutes.”

Bertrand frowned. “You seem different.”

“I am different. I lived so long frightened of what Mother would do if I didn’t follow her every whim. Then the one time I rebelled, the worst did happen, and I survived.”

More than that, she thought, thinking of Stephen. For the first time, I lived.

Stephen was never far from her thoughts. Certainly not here, in a sick room so similar to the many others where she’d spent countless hours with him. Vera kept turning her head, half expecting to see him sitting in the corner or washing his hands in the basin.

He’d be impressed with how orderly everything was, how much sunlight streamed in. So many people thought death should be a closed-shades affair, as if the act of dying was some secret, shameful thing.

“I wish I had known,” Bertrand said lowly, pulling her from her thoughts. One hand was balled in a fist atop his thigh. “I wish I would have known what she was doing to you. I would have taken you from here. I would have stopped her.”

Vera laid a hand over his. “It all worked out precisely how it was supposed to. Mother would be dismayed, but in the end, I managed to accomplish what she always dreaded.”

“Yes, I’ve already told you your dresses look fetching.”

Vera smiled at the teasing note in his voice.

Bertrand cleared his throat. “It’s that Winthrop fellow, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He frowned in something that resembled a glower. It was a shocking expression for one as good-natured as Bertie. “Now look here, Vera. I know that you might not think you have many options, but if you don’t like the fellow, you don’t have to marry him. He hasn’t been at all improper, has he? I know you were assisting him, but we don’t have to tell anyone. I daresay many a thing has occurred in Devon and other countryside locales and not a whisper of it ever reaches London⁠—”

Vera patted his hand. “It’s not that way at all, Bertie. Though I thank you for your protective and practical instincts. I love him and he loves me.”

“Oh, well⁠—”

Bertrand sounded as if he might choke if he ventured further. Vera hid a smile while he cleared his throat again and recovered.

“Has he proposed, then?”

“Truly, you have the worst timing in the history of mankind. If you’d waited five more minutes, the deed would have been done.”

“How much time does a fellow need?” Bertrand said, umbrage clear in his voice. “You’ve been there for months!”

“Yes, but we didn’t like each other the first bit.”

“Why? Is he a cad? Vera, I wasn’t lying. I have a list of gentlemen who’d be delighted to have you. Several of them are quite rich⁠—”

“He’s not a cad, and he proposed that very moment.”

Bertrand frowned down at her hand. “I don’t see a trinket. Gentlemen ought to offer a trinket to seal the deal. Everyone knows that.”

“He asked, and I didn’t have a chance to answer, because someone began bellowing my name from the top of the hill.”

“I didn’t bellow.” He patted his stomach. “Bellowing is something portly fellows do. I’m still quite trim.”

“Not if you keep eating all the biscuits.”

“I told you—I thought there were more. I thought they were divided into two parcels.”