Page 111 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

“He did not.” Vera shook her head, a reluctant smile upon her face.

It was a running joke. The first time he’d helped Stephen, Hamish had made a comment that he was good with horses, and that humans should be easier to help.

It was a fair point—humans could describe their ailments and horses couldn’t, but Stephen had never forgotten how Hamish had as much suggested that his experience with farm animals was equivalent to a medical education.

Stephen stretched his arms over his head. “How are you feeling this evening?”

“A bit tired, but pretty well. Anne tried to sneak a tart that wasn’t fully cooled yet, so that was a delight.” Vera snuggled into his side and folded her legs up next to her onto the sofa. “She shrieked like a banshee when she bit into it.”

“Is she all right?”

She nodded. “Not even a blister. Mrs. Portence made her shaved ices all afternoon. I think she felt bad, though it was completely Anne’s fault.”

“Not with sugar, I hope.”

“Just plain ice. Anne didn’t seem to notice. Tomorrow will be interesting—I’ll see if I can wean her off the habit.”

They sat like that for a moment, her against his side.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About taking on a real apprentice.”

“Oh?”

“Horse jokes aside, Hamish is wonderful, but he’s only helping for now because I need someone. Dr. Halveston says he has several promising students. One has a lung condition that makes him better suited for country life, and he’s asked if I would take him on.”

“That’s high praise from Dr. Halveston, that he’d ask you to do that.”

“I thought the man could live in the cottage near the gatehouse for the time being. Once he’s fully trained, he can take lodgings wherever he likes, or he can stay there, for all I care. The house is sound and no one’s living there; if it stays vacant it will just fall into disrepair.”

Vera gave a hum, but he couldn’t tell if it was agreement, and he couldn’t see her face with it pressed against his chest.

“I wanted to talk to you about it first.” He picked up an ash-brown curl and slid it between his fingers, watching the light play off the strands. “Would that be all right?”

“I think it’s a lovely idea. You’ll be an excellent teacher. And heaven knows I’ll have my hands too full to help you.”

“Are you sad about it?”

“Yes and no. It’s strange—I have fond memories of that chapter and it’s bittersweet to see it come to a close. Yet I’m filled with excitement and hope for the next.”

“I’m happy to hear that.” Stephen tightened his arm around her. “I want you to be happy.”

“I am,” she said. “Truly.”

EPILOGUE- DAHLIA

If fish and visitors stink in only three days, then what was to be said of a lady starting her fourth Season? For she must surely be as stale as the stinking fish, and hardly better received.

Dahlia Eloise Warrington was very unhappy, but she had little to complain about, and she knew it.

Three years ago, the wealthy Marquess Salisbury had darkened the doorway of her sisters’ little cottage and changed their lives forever. Seemingly overnight, they’d gone from abject poverty to wealth and comfort. Dahlia was old enough to remember the change. She would never take it for granted.

Wealth was the difference between overwatered, plain porridge eaten before a smoking fire, and sterling silver racks of buttered toast enjoyed with strawberry jam before a roaring flame. It was the difference between shivering in a coat that had been worn thin far before it was handed down, versus a fine worsted wool that was tailored to perfection.

Dahlia remembered, and she vowed she’d never return to poverty.

Poverty wasn’t romantic, like the way it was written in some books. It wasn’t sweeping pastoral views and wistful sighs. It was fear and panic—the sound of a mighty wolf outside a door too thin to keep it out.

Dahlia remembered.