Page 81 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

“Did Stephen say what took him, then?” Jacqueline murmured over her tea.

They sat in the corner, close enough to observe the girl’s bath, but far enough away that their conversation wouldn’t be overheard.

“No, though I daresay he wouldn’t have sent her here with me if there was any danger of contagion, if that’s your concern.”

“Stephen’s too smart to make a mistake of that magnitude. I doubt he’d even let you handle her if that were a worry.” Jacqueline tsked and shook her head once more. “The poor dear. First her parents, now Mr. Douglas.”

Vera frowned. She could only see the top of Anne’s head from this vantage point, but the girl’s happy chattering and the sound of splashing belied her contentment.

“Do you think it’s too much for her to overcome?”

“Not at all. Children are resilient, and she’s at such an age where her pain may yet be overwritten. She’ll need firmness, kindness, and constancy moving forward.”

But who would give it to her? Vera wondered.

* * *

By chance, Vera happened to be coming down the stairs just as Stephen returned to the house. She took him in at a glance—the tired lines of his face, the mud upon his boots.

“How is she?” he asked, collapsing in a chair and yanking off one boot, then the other.

“She seems fine. I was about to ask the same of you.”

Stephen shrugged. “Tired, mostly. And inexplicably starving.”

“What happened?”

“There’s no way for us to know. My best guess is he suffered an embolism during the night, or his heart simply stopped working. He appeared to go quickly, peacefully. There was no evidence that he even woke.”

“That’s good, then.” She nodded.

It was good that Mr. Douglas hadn’t suffered. It was a weight off her mind. So why were tears gathering on her lower lashes? Why did her hand come up to hide her wobbling chin?

“Ah, Vera. Don’t cry.” Stephen stood, and before Vera could quite reconcile what his intent was, he’d pulled her into his strong arms, her face cradled against the starched cotton of his shirt. “It’s all right.”

“Did we miss something?” She sniffed as she tried desperately to control her hitched breathing. “Did we do something wrong?”

“Not at all.” One large hand began a soothing trek up and down her spine. “Sometimes, there’s nothing we can do. He was quite old; perhaps I should have listened when he said he was dying, but I didn’t think it was more serious than a very stubborn cold.”

“I just keep thinking that maybe if we’d gone yesterday…” Here, her voice warbled and she couldn’t continue.

“It doesn’t work like that, Vera. What took him—it would have happened, even if you had been sitting at his bedside.”

That warm hand continued its slow path up and down her back. It was a soothing comfort, to be held in strong arms. Vera felt safe there. It didn’t hurt that she couldn’t help breathing in the scent of him. Soap, medical disinfectant, and a whiff of cedar—probably from the lining of his wardrobe.

They stood there in a comfortable silence. Vera couldn’t remember the last time she’d shared a hug of this length with anyone. There was something uniquely restorative about it—the mutual solace of shared warmth, the gentle heaving of their breaths, the shared moment of grief for Mr. Douglas.

It was more effective than any tonic she’d sipped, and far more enjoyable. This was what friends did for each other, she supposed. They held each other, consoled each other, when terrible things happened.

Except, if Vera were being perfectly honest with herself, this simple hug had the danger of meaning too much to her. Her confusing feelings lurked just behind her grief, and as the moments slipped by, they threatened to whisper dangerous ideas into her ear.

“Thank you,” she said, suddenly embarrassed.

She pushed back from the embrace and Stephen let her go. Vera dared not look into his eyes until she’d stepped back a careful distance.

“I’m sorry for—” Vera began, before she realized she didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

Sorry for crying on your shirt? There was a patch of dampness on his chest.