Page 42 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

The entire interlude had been embarrassing at best. Not to mention highly inconvenient. What was he supposed to do, now that he’d actually seen her?

There was nothing for it—he’d have to treat her with professionalism. He’d offer her the same clinical detachment he gave every lady under his physician’s care. After all, he’d handled many a lovely female form under the most delicate of circumstances, and he’d never crossed that great line that his profession dictated. Not once—not even in his mind.

But when Vera’s hair had slid forward over her shoulder, when her insouciant shrug of derision had shifted her dressing gown, exposing just the end of her clavicle…

Heaven help him, it was only a clavicle. He’d seen a hundred of them, several of them broken, puncturing through the skin. That was what he should think of when hers made an impromptu reappearance in his mind. Gore. Screams.

Like the one he’d made that brought her to his chamber in the first place.

His eyes slid toward his dressing room. Doubtless, the fox was still somewhere inside. He threw back his bedcovers and went to dress, determined not to make so much as another peep.

Even if the blasted thing leapt from his armoire and latched onto his very head.

* * *

Stephen stared into his mirror for a long time, dithering. His mother had been prodding him to shave his beard ever since he returned home and he’d resisted. Now he wondered why. He didn’t even like the thing, though perhaps that was the point.

Vera’s words from the day prior came swooping back at him like deranged crows. She’d called him bitter and distrustful, and she had every right to think that. He certainly hadn’t shown her a different side to himself.

I don’t like you.

Such a simple statement, as blunt and effective as a sledgehammer swung at his stomach.

I don’t like you.

But he wanted her to. Not just because he’d suddenly realized what everyone else in proximity already had—that Vera Ashbury was beautiful on the outside. No, it was because he was starting to suspect that she was beautiful inside, as well.

She hadn’t seen him yesterday, lingering in the doorway of the kitchen, but he’d finished with Mr. Douglas well before Vera suspected. He’d seen the tail-end of the bath—how patient Vera was, how she’d borne the howls and blows of the child with nary a harsh word.

Stephen saw how she’d taken the squalling child onto her lap and murmured condolences, how she’d rocked little Anne into peaceful compliance. Her entire focus had been on comforting the child, not on her soaked dress or her ruined hair.

It was a shocking revelation. It was as if he’d bought a reproduction painting at a second-hand store and hung it in a back stairwell, only to be informed that it was the real thing. Priceless.

Hortense had glimpsed him there, staring. She’d arched an eyebrow with all the eloquence of her unsaid words, but she’d let him look all the same. It was as if the maid were saying, Go on, then…really see her.

And he had.

Now he stared at himself in the mirror, wondering if he was ready to shave off the beard that he hadn’t realized he was using as a shield between himself and the world. He’d told himself that he couldn’t be bothered to shave on the journey home, that it wasn’t prudent to hold a straight-edge razor to one’s throat on a rocking ship.

Now, he thought he might have been lying to himself. Perhaps his beard was born of more than convenience—perhaps he’d used it to keep people away.

It certainly was a fearsome amount of hair, he thought, tugging at the ragged ends. It made him look wild, slightly feral. It was a wonder that Mr. Douglas had believed he was a doctor at all, and not some brigand come to rob his house.

Stephen gave his beard one last glance, turned his back to the mirror, and pulled on his jacket. His unruly facial hair could wait.

When he arrived in the breakfast room, Roland informed him that Miss Ashbury and his brother had already eaten and gone.

Stephen frowned. “What about my mother?”

“It’s my understanding that Lady Winthrop hasn’t yet been downstairs, my lord. Would you like me to inquire after her?”

He waved off the offer, even as he wondered at his mother sleeping so late. She was usually the first to rise, up at dawn with all those animals of hers. “No, let her rest.”

After a quick breakfast of toast, eggs, and bacon, Stephen went in search of Vera. He found her in the greenhouse, bent over a raised gardening bed, Benjamin next to her. Their backs were to him. Once again, Stephen took the opportunity to study without being seen.

Vera’s thick hair was pulled into an unassuming braided bun at the base of her neck. She wore a thick brown dress covered with an apron.

It’s hideous, Stephen thought with a start. It looks like someone skinned a sick oxen and draped her in it.