Page 7 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

“Help!” she screamed, picking up a Limoges clock and chucking it at him. “Vagabond! Miscreant! Intruder!”

The cricket pitchers at Vauxhall didn’t have a thing on this woman. Stephen barely caught the clock (an anniversary present from his father to his mother the year before he’d passed—his mother would mourn its destruction) before she laid hands on the fire poker and took a mighty swing at his brain box.

“Murder!” she screamed.

“No, wait!” Stephen jerked backwards as the iron hook whistled inches past his nose.

“Help!”

There was a scrambling of footsteps in the hall. Stephen retreated behind the mohair sofa just as his mother darted into the room, her cocked rifle pointed directly at his forehead.

The sight of a gun pointed at one’s head was alarming, even if said gun was wielded by a person who’d never wish one harm. It was an eight-pound trigger, and accidents happened all the time. Stephen could be forgiven, then, for his momentary distraction. A moment that the stranger took by hitting him full-force in the arm with the poker.

“Ow!” he yelped. “Stop it!”

But she raised the poker again, determined to finish him off. Her hair had come loose from its clip and was a riot of ash-tinged brown around her face. Her cheeks were pink with exertion, her straight nose flared in anger.

Beautiful, he thought irrationally, right as she wound up to take another swing.

“Stop!” the baroness cried. “It’s Stephen.”

The strange woman halted her assault and blinked. “Your son?”

“Hello, Mother.” He gripped his bicep firmly, gritting through the pain.

Stephen was lucky she’d hit him with the broadside of the poker, or he’d be in need of stitches.

“That’s him, under all that scruff.” The baroness uncocked her gun and set it on the sideboard.

“Then why did he attack me?”

“I didn’t attack you.”

“You verbally assaulted me.” The woman’s lower lip jutted—not a pout, not even close. This was a stubborn rebellion. “There’s a dent in the wall from you bursting through the door.”

“Stephen,” his mother chided, a sparkle of mischief in her eye. “I just had that lacquered.”

The baroness crossed the room and hugged him, enveloping him in her unique scent—french perfume and snuff—and a lifetime of memories.

“How was your journey? Are you well?”

“I was better before I became so well-acquainted with the fire poker.” He glared at the lady as she put the poker back in its proper place.

“This is Miss Vera Ashbury. She’s staying with us for a while.”

“What do you mean?” He frowned.

“How was your journey? I had no news of your arrival, but of course I’m delighted you’re here. Have you come to stay this time?”

Her question brought him up short, as did the streaks of silver in her dark hair. Stephen blinked, and the memory of his mother as he’d last seen her disappeared, erased by this six-years-older reality before him.

Though she was easily recognizable, the lines of her face were deeper. The crinkles at the corners of her eyes spoke of grief and laughter in equal measure. The smile lines bracketing her mouth were fixed. She was still an exceptionally lovely woman, but Stephen had somehow forgotten that time had passed in England just as it had in India.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve come home. To stay.”

Vera stood behind his mother, so Stephen was the only one who noticed her start a little at his words, noticed the momentary appearance of a line between her eyebrows. Who was this woman, and why was she displeased by his homecoming?

“I’ll have the servants open your rooms and bring you a bath. Would you like to eat in the dining room, or would you prefer to have a tray sent up?”