Page 103 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

His mother turned, several books in hand, her eyes bright. “Oh Stephen, how wonderful. Congratulations.”

“You may keep your congratulations on ice. She didn’t have time to answer before her brother whisked her back to London. The entire experience was ghastly—I bared my heart and received no response at all.”

Stephen wasn’t positive, but he could have sworn his mother’s lips trembled in something that looked suspiciously like laughter. He narrowed his eyes. She gave a noncommittal hum and turned back to the bookcase before he could confirm her expression.

Outside in the hallway, there was a sudden eruption of childish conversation and giggling. Benjamin and Anne had entered through the front door, trailed closely by Hortense. The maid was just beginning to show her condition, but Stephen had always thought it unnecessary that women were cloistered away when the effects of marriage began to show.

Ridiculous. Certainly they were to be treated with additional care, but women didn’t cease to function when with child. He could think of none better to watch the children than Hortense—she wielded her firm tone and that fearsome ironwood umbrella with equal amounts of precision.

“Well?” Stephen finally prompted once the happy gaggle had retreated up the stairs.

“It sounds like a trying experience, darling. Hopefully, the next time, it will go better.”

“The next time?” For a head-swimming moment, Stephen thought his mother meant the next woman. He sat straight, his heart suddenly playing the part of a bass drum in a discordant symphony. “There will be no next time, Mother. It’s her or nothing.”

“I’m so glad to hear it. You two are a perfect match.”

“You meant the next time I propose.”

“Indeed.” Jacqueline added several books to the pile and bent to make neat markings upon her parchment.

Stephen thought about her words. It had occurred to him that there would have to be another conversation, but if he were being honest, he’d thought that his initial question and declaration of love would stand until he received an answer. He’d asked; Vera was required to answer… Wasn’t she?

Except that things had changed. Her circumstances had been dramatically altered from one moment to the next. He’d proposed to the woman he loved—a penniless lady without household or family. Now, Vera had been restored—and rightly so. But the way Stephen had handled the initial proposal was not at all the way he’d have handled things if he’d known Vera hadn’t been disowned by her family.

There was a proper procedure, and in the haze of his affection—and because he believed her cast off from her family—Stephen had disregarded all of it.

He jerked to his feet. Miss Beets gave him a curious side-eye but kept munching her bone. Her back turned, his mother gave a cough that sounded suspiciously like a hastily covered laugh.

“Mother, will you please stay on at the house awhile longer and look after things? I must go.”

“Good heavens, finally.” Jacqueline shook her head. “I swear, if you weren’t such a fine doctor, I might suspect you were a bit of an idiot.”

Stephen ignored her and strode out the door.

CHAPTER 35- VERA

Don’t be daft, she’d said.

Vera had planned on following the words with “of course I’d be thrilled to accept an offer of marriage from the man I love,” but there hadn’t been time. Bertrand always did have the worst timing. Not that she truly regretted it—if she hadn’t left right then, she might have missed saying a final goodbye to her mother.

Though possibly five minutes more wouldn’t have been amiss.

Vera’s heart longed to return to Devon, to return to Stephen, but she’d had no idea how busy dying was for those who remained. There was the funeral, of course—a stately affair in which her mother was laid to rest in the family vault.

During the procession, Vera could barely look at the wagon that carried the casket, even decorated as it was with swaths of black fabric. Despite the rituals that surrounded the event, Vera knew that her mother was gone. After all, funerals were for the living, far more than they were for the dead.

But mourning only seemed to begin with the funeral, and Vera possessed just two dresses appropriate for the occasion. One was black taffeta, the other skirted the line of propriety in a grey bombazine. Which was why, early one morning, she arrived at the door of Madame Aubert’s.

She’d requested a special appointment, so Vera was surprised when—just as she lifted her hand to take the brass knob—Dahlia Warrington opened the door from the inside and went to step out. Face to face, they both blinked.

Dahlia recovered more quickly, as Vera couldn’t help but feel a deep shame over her behavior when they’d last met—that terrible afternoon at Candace’s tea party.

“Vera.” Dahlia took her gently by the shoulders and deposited a breath of a kiss on each of her cheeks. When she retreated, she left behind a pleasant scent of jasmine and lilac. “I’m so sorry for your loss. How are you?”

“As well as can be expected.” Vera paused for a moment, then nibbled her bottom lip. “I’m so sorry—” Vera began, right as Dahlia said, “You must⁠—”

There was an awkward, half-smiling wince on both their parts.