Finding the Bluestockings Heart (The Colchester Sisters Book 3)

by Charlotte Darcy

  “Because he has come to know you, my dear. Amos assures me that his own interference ceased some time ago and that you and Irving have been making such wonderful progress on your own.”

  “Irving has lied to me, Mama,” Verity said solemnly. “But I was so caught up in it all. Jane told me that I was clever enough to work out any man’s character, so much so that I could be sure that such a man would not change when we were married. But she was wrong, was she not? And now I cannot be sure of anything. I cannot think.”

  “In which case I think you should give yourself a little time before deciding to be an enemy of your brother and turning your back on Irving. Give yourself time to think, Verity.”

  “I cannot do it here, I am too distracted,” Verity said. “You must let me go to Aunt Mary in Lancaster. Please, I do not want to be here at the moment.”

  “Oh, but your Aunt Mary is so determined.” Elizabeth let out a great sigh. “She is my sister and I love her dearly, but she has become so bossy and opinionated of late.”

  “Yes, ever since that horrible husband of hers died. I am pleased for her if you are not.”

  “Verity, that is no way to speak.”

  “Why not? I mean it,” Verity said defiantly. “I like Aunt Mary. I am never left wondering exactly what it is she means for she always says exactly what she means, and she always means exactly what she says. And she will not talk to me of romance and roses for her own marriage taught her that there is more to life.”

  “That is what I am afraid of. When you are already in this mood, I cannot help but think that your Aunt Mary will exacerbate it.”

  “Please, Mama, I do not want to be here at the moment,” Verity said truthfully. “Please ask Papa if I can go to Lancaster as soon as possible.”

  “All right, my dear. As you wish.” Mrs. Colchester, realizing that she would get no further with Verity on the subject, rose from her seat and crossed the room.

  She paused at Verity’s chair and leaned over to tenderly kiss the top of her head.

  “Thank you,” Verity said, hardly knowing if she was grateful for her mother’s gentle care or for the idea that she would be allowed to go to Lancaster after all.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Verity awoke on her second morning in Lancaster to a beautifully bright summer’s day. But the north-west wind was so much stronger than the south-east and she could hear it rumbling in off the Irish Sea.

  Verity wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and crossed the neat and pretty chamber that her Aunt Mary had made ready for her when she first arrived. She pulled the curtain back and peered out of the window, the high elevation of the house in Lancaster affording her a wonderful view of the hills to the north in Cumbria, and the Bay of Morecambe and the sea to the west.

  With the sun so bright, the sea, just five miles away, was the deepest and most appealing blue. And yet Verity knew from childhood experiences of sea bathing that the water there was colder than she could stand, despite the fact it looked so inviting.

  She had felt instantly relieved to arrive in Lancaster, even after something of an arduous journey on four separate post-chaise carriages. Her mother had already sent a letter ahead of her to let her Aunt Mary know that her youngest niece would soon be arriving. Verity strongly suspected that her mother had given the brief circumstances to Aunt Mary, for she did not seem at all surprised when Verity had first explained it all to her.

  But unlike everybody else around her, that fine woman had not sought to excuse Amos’ behavior, nor that of Irving’s. As far as Aunt Mary was concerned, it had been for Amos not to interfere in the first place, and for Irving to be honest from the very beginning.

  The two men each had a part to play and Verity felt somewhat vindicated to hear that sentiment from her aunt instead of having it dismantled and re-dressed into something much more palatable.

  When she washed and dressed and made her way downstairs, her aunt was already sitting in the dining room as the housemaid set out covered dishes of hot food.

  Whilst Verity’s appetite had not returned altogether, the bacon and freshly baked bread certainly smelled very appealing.

  “Good morning, my dear,” her aunt said, her face so similar to her mother’s and yet her disposition starkly different.

  But Verity did not begrudge Mary’s voice and the independence she had found in the five years since her husband passed away. The man had been what Verity had always thought of as a very typical kind. In many ways, much the same sort of man as Irving had claimed his father to be. A man afraid to let his wife speak in case it transpired that she knew more than he did.

  But her Aunt Mary had not struggled to come to terms with her freedom quite as much when it had finally arrived; she took to it like a duck to water, and took to it rather quickly.

  Everyone around her noted the change, with only Verity’s mother recognizing the old spark as something akin to that which Mary had enjoyed in her youth. But even so, Verity’s mother had been a little dismayed by her aging sister’s sudden return to forthrightness and opinion.

  But Verity could understand it entirely. She had managed to put herself in her aunt’s shoes and imagine spending the larger part of her life with one hand over her mouth lest she say something intelligent. And Verity could easily imagine what a dreadful strain that would be on a person, how awful such injustice must feel.

  And so, Verity did not feel anything but the deepest pleasure for her aunt when her life and her character had become her own again. And of all people, she knew that her Aunt Mary would only ever tell her the absolute truth, whether she wanted to hear it or not.

  As far as Verity was concerned, forthrightness in a woman might not be what society desired, but it was something that she knew she could rely on absolutely. That was what mattered to Verity.

  “Good morning, Aunt Mary. Goodness, that does smell wonderful.”

  “Then sit down and start eating, my dear. You are only little as it is, and you are much thinner than you were the last time I saw you. You need a little flesh on those bones of yours.”

  “Yes, my appetite has been somewhat disordered in the last days. But I suspect that this wonderful breakfast is going to change that,” Verity smiled before peering into the dishes. “Oh, warm ham and tomatoes,” she enthused before helping herself to a large plateful.

  “The first post of the day has been delivered, Verity, and it seems you have a letter.” Mary smiled as she handed it across the table to her. “Only your second day and already you have received more letters than I do,” she chuckled.

  “Oh, it is from Amos.” Verity sighed, immediately recognizing her brother’s careless handwriting.

  “No doubt he seeks to apologize,” Mary said in a pleasingly neutral tone.

  “I daresay,” Verity said, putting down her fork and hurriedly opening the letter. “Do you mind if I read it at the table?”

  “No, as long as you read it out loud,” Mary said with a mischievous look.

  “Of course,” Verity laughed genuinely for the first time in days.

  Her Aunt Mary really was making her feel better already, her thoughts were already more ordered.

  “He writes,” Verity began and cleared her throat.

  “My Dearest Sister,

  You have only been gone a few days and already I miss you. I suppose it is because I have missed you ever since that day in the garden when I so foolishly spoke out of turn. But I have come to see now that I should have given you the truth in the beginning.

  I should have known you better than to interfere in your life, but still I cannot be entirely sorry for doing so. I really do want to see you happy, my dear, even though I now wholeheartedly agree that it was not my business to set things out the way I did.

  And yet you did get on so well with Irving Ayres and he is such a fine man that I found it very easy to trust him with your heart. Even then, I was not sure that you would give it. When you did, I could not have been more pleased.

  And I
know that Irving was pleased also. More pleased than you no doubt believe, Verity. But I have known how well he regards you even before you and I became sudden enemies in the garden of our home. He had already told me how much he thinks of you, and some weeks ago he mentioned to me his own disquiet at the little subterfuge we had embarked upon in the beginning.

  He was most uncomfortable with it and had thought to tell you the truth, obviously explaining that he still likes you very well and for yourself.

  But I am afraid that it was I, once again, who made a grave error in this instance and I suggested to him that he say nothing of it. It was my belief at the time that it would make no difference. I could see that his feelings for you had grown greatly and, as the loving brother I do not believe you think I am anymore, I was content that this man would take great care of my sister’s heart. And in that spirit, I decided that it was best to forget all about the beginnings and concentrate on all the wonderful things to follow.

  And so, you may blame me, my dear, for preventing Irving from being as honest with you as he had wanted to be.

  I have spoken to Irving in the days since you went away. I would like to assure you that this was not with a motive to interfere, but rather to explain your absence to him. As you said to me on that day in the garden, the truth does matter. I hope you will not be angry that I have taken your example and chosen to give my old friend the absolute truth.

  It is not for me to say, but I shall say it anyway. Irving was greatly disturbed by your sudden departure and even more so to realize that you will unlikely forgive either one of us for all of this. I know that he had visions of a life for the two of you and I am bound to say that I saw in his face the devastation wrought by the idea that those visions might never come to pass.

  I do not wish to anger you further, sister, but I would beg you to consider what I have said and search your heart, for I am sure that you will find deep down inside it a certain knowledge that Irving cares for you deeply, no matter how it was you first met.

  Anyway, I suppose I have gone on for too long and have already interfered more than once in this letter alone. And so, I shall finish here by begging you to forgive me and hoping that you will return to me soon as my loving sister and dearest little friend.

  With all my love and in hopes of seeing you very soon,

  Your brother,

  Amos.”

  “Well, that was a very pretty letter,” Mary said with a smile. “And I am sure that he truly does long for your forgiveness, my dear.”

  “Yes, I think he does. But I am afraid I am still too angry to give it. I could write to him now and tell him that I forgive him, but what is the point of that when I do not mean it?”

  “There is no point in it, Verity, and I would not suggest you do it simply to please Amos and ease his troubles. After all, he is almost thirty-years-old and he is the one who has brought such troubles to himself. He will not expire simply because he does not have your forgiveness when he is ready for it. It is for the forgiver to be ready, not the one who seeks forgiveness.”

  “That is very true,” Verity said and was grateful that her aunt had not allowed her obvious care for her nephew to override her niece’s wishes. “And I am glad that he has spoken to Irving, I would not have wanted him to be at a loss as to my sudden disappearance.”

  “No, I think that little piece of interference was probably necessary. If not necessary, then at least practical.” Mary picked up her knife and fork and began to cut into the ham on her plate.

  “I wonder if it is true what my brother says, that Irving really did come to care for me in his own right,” Verity said, knowing that the opinion of her aunt would be something that could be relied upon.

  “I understand that you might find it very difficult to believe such a thing, especially when you have already been somewhat deceived in the origins of your friendship. It is for you to decide in the end, my dear. But I am bound to say that it would be better to hear from the man himself, rather than have your brother be his emissary.”

  “I could not have put that better myself, Aunt Mary,” Verity said and felt settled again.

  Something about being away from all of it and in the company of such a sensible woman gave Verity a sense of the rational, an old and familiar sense which was very comforting to her.

  “Eat up, my girl. Do not let that newfound sense of appetite fail you now,” Mary said and lightly tapped her own plate with her knife to make a point.

  “Thank you, Aunt Mary,” Verity smiled before tucking into her breakfast.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Within a few days, Verity had already developed something of a comforting routine. Not far from her aunt’s stone-built house was a very pretty little piece of land called Fenham Carr, with trees and pathways and a good deal of peace and quiet.

  Verity had been taking morning walks there daily, enjoying the solitude and developing something of an interest in the local birdlife. She was not entirely sure, but she had an idea that there was a greater variety there in Lancashire than there was in Hertfordshire. But perhaps it was simply because she was looking more closely.

  In any case, Verity was certain that she had seen a small yellowhammer on her first day and had spent the next few days sitting quietly and staring up into the trees for any sign of it again. It had been such a fleeting glance, and yet she had been certain. And finding a small illustrated book of British birds in her aunt’s small library, she had been quite certain that her identification had been correct.

  “Have you lost something?” Came a voice behind her as she sat on a large rock peering upwards into the trees.

  The voice pierced the silence and startled her so badly that she turned sharply and almost fell off the rock. Her mouth fell open when she saw none other than Irving himself standing there.

  “What are you doing here?” she said, not enquiring after his well-being in the accepted way.

  But the accepted way of things was not Verity’s way of things.

  “I am enjoying a walk,” he said, answering in her own literal style.

  “Then I will not detain you, Sir,” Verity said sharply.

  “And yet I would be very pleased to be detained by you, Verity,” he said, annoying her by using her Christian name.

  She had only given him authority to do it on that wonderful, terrible day. The day when she had truly opened her heart to him and had welcomed that beautiful kiss. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to think about any of it. It had been the one thing which had truly hurt her right down to her very bones.

  And it had been the one thing that she could not explain to anybody. She could not tell any member of her family that she had willingly kissed him that day and had found it to be the most wonderful experience of her life. She could not explain adequately from the very depth of her heart how truly betrayed she had felt to discover the truth in the end. He had lied to her, and then he had kissed her. It was the closest to having her heart broken that Verity had ever been and it was not an experience that she would willingly walk into again.

  “Why are you in Lancaster, Mr. Ayres?” she said, pointedly addressing him in a rather more formal manner.

  “I am taking a little holiday, Verity,” he said, using her Christian name with equal pointedness. “I am staying at a coaching inn at Hest Bank.”

  “And you expect me to believe that that is your only reason for being here?”

  “No, I have come here in hopes of seeing you,” he said and stared at her intently. “That is my primary reason for coming all this way.”

  “Ah, so you will not lie to me again?”

  “No, I will not,” he said and looked suddenly downcast. “But if you will not hear me out, I will simply continue with my excursion here as a holiday.”

  “Then I hope you enjoy yourself.”

  “I will likely not enjoy myself, but I will find some way to spend my time,” he said, and she could see that he had perceived that he had wasted hi
s efforts.

  “Very well,” she said simply.

  “I intend to visit the stone graves at Heysham,” he said, changing the subject entirely.

  “What?” Verity said, squinting at him.

  “I am surprised you have not been already,” he said, his tone becoming that which she recognized from their early meetings, the times when they had talked of all the things which had interested them. “There is the ruin of a chapel in Heysham Village just south of Morecambe,” he began.

  “Yes, I am aware of Heysham Village.”

  “On the headland overlooking the sea in that area is the ancient ruin of St. Patrick’s Chapel. And there is a line of stone graves which are thought to date back to the eleventh century. They have apparently been hewn from the solid rock and I am very keen to see them.”

  “My aunt has never told me about them, but such things are not particularly of interest to her,” Verity said, beginning to feel as if she had missed out on something.

  “I intend to visit the area this week. You are more than welcome to join me if you would care to share a carriage. I am certain that it would be of interest to you if nothing else,” he said and looked into her eyes just as he had done on that day in the grounds of his home.

  Once again, she thought of how he had taken her into his arms and kissed her and she gritted her teeth hard and closed her eyes to dispel it.

  “No, I will visit the graves some other time,” she said sharply.

  “Well, it seems I have outstayed my welcome.” He took in a deep breath, straightened up, and seemed to relax in a somewhat resigned way. “I shall bid you a good day, Verity. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay and, if you have a mind to, I would welcome a visit to the coaching inn in Hest Bank.”

  “Enjoy the rest of your stay, Mr. Ayres,” she said and turned her head to look back up into the trees in a blind search for the elusive yellowhammer.

  Chapter Eighteen