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V erity Lockhart’s toes sank into the mud with a satisfying squelch. A youthful giggle that belied her eighteen years bubbled up in her throat. If Mother could see me now! Her eyes cast quickly in the direction of the vicarage. No, she was safe, out of sight, and deliciously alone.

The hem of her dress dipped into the pond water and she hastily raised it higher, draping it over her arm, her pale knees exposed in a most shocking fashion. She didn’t think the frogs minded. They were used to her knees by now.

Her focus turned to the dragonfly perched on a sunny rock a few feet away. She carefully lowered her net. Her toes felt their way through the chilly water as she edged forward. Slowly, slowly.

The dragonfly shifted as her shadow fell over it, and Verity threw her arm out just in time. The hoop of the net encircled the creature’s flight and the collapsing netting downed the insect while it struggled.

“There, there,” she soothed, gathering the net and its flailing prisoner up with gentle fingers. “Don’t fight so. I am only going to sketch you, and then you’ll be free again.”

She hastened to the grassy verge, dropped her skirts against her damp legs, and reached for a glass jar that lay waiting. A bzzt of frustration, and the dragonfly was in the jar, the cork stopper sealing it in.

“Come on,” she said conversationally as she carried the jar and its occupant to a bench nearby.

“This won’t take long. You’ll soon be off on your adventures again.

” The dragonfly did not respond. Verity considered its silence somewhat accusatory.

She tucked a straggling lock of white-blonde hair behind her ear and dropped her gaze.

“You don’t understand. I have no adventures.

None at all. But I will keep a memory of you in my sketches.

Later, I will add water colors. Do you see?

Whenever I look at them, I will think of what you may be getting up to, somewhere beyond the meadow, perhaps even crossing distant rivers. ”

The dragonfly pulsed its wings. Verity sighed.

“All right, let’s begin.”

She opened a leather portfolio of loose pages and removed a clean sheet.

Verity squinted at the jar, then her pencil began to shift with confident strokes as the dragonfly took shape, first in outline, then in exquisite detail.

Her feet rubbed against each other as the early autumn afternoon began to cool.

But she wouldn’t stop to put on her stockings and shoes, not until her little muse was free again.

It was while she was jotting down notes about the colors to be added later that she heard the faint voice.

“Miss Lo-o-o-ck-ha-a-art!” it called.

Verity knew to whom the voice belonged, even though its owner had not yet appeared over the rise.

“Tch, what is it now?” she grumbled to herself. “I have barely been gone an hour.”

She packed away her sketch and pencil, slotting the leather tongue of the portfolio through its buckle.

A deft bend and twist deposited her footwear out of sight under the bench, where her bare feet were tucked away from view.

Just in time, too, as the calling refrain had changed suddenly to “Oh, there you are! I don’t know why I look anywhere else.

If you’re not at the stream by the church, you are always here. ”

The voice was accompanied by a degree of puffing as a plump young woman approached the bench.

She stopped to catch her breath, her gaze following Verity’s across the shallow pond, buzzing with insects.

“My, but it is a lovely view. I can see why it draws you here, miss.”

Verity smiled down at the glass jar. One of her mother’s maids would never understand how the strange and wonderful denizens of the waterways caught Verity’s heart far more than flowering fields and dales.

“I suppose my mother is looking for me.” Verity’s tone suggested this was nothing new.

“Yes, miss. There is a visitor come. A young man from the village.”

“And what has that to do with me? He has surely come to discuss something with my father. Some church matter or the like.”

“I couldn’t say, miss. I only know that Mrs. Lockhart said you are to come, and to make yourself presentable.”

Verity’s naked toes wriggled guiltily beneath the bench.

“Does this young man have a name?” she asked.

“I didn’t catch what it was.” Nellie’s nose wrinkled as she tried to remember, without success. Then she grinned. “He was awfully handsome, though. I wouldn’t complain if he came calling on me .”

“Why, Nellie Brown!” Verity laughed. “I’m not at all certain these are appropriate thoughts for a young lady to have.”

“Oh, miss, I suspect these are exactly the thoughts your mother hopes you will have when you see him.” Nellie’s eyes twinkled knowingly.

“Hmm. I’m afraid you may be right, Nellie. My mother could never be accused of subtlety. But I am not quite ready to fall for the first handsome face that graces our parlor.”

Nellie shrugged. “That is not for me to say, miss.”

Verity’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Shall I put in a good word for you with our mysterious visitor?”

The young maid’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, no , Miss Lockhart. He is far too grand a gentleman for the likes of me.”

“A grand gentleman from the village, and you don’t know who he is?” Verity tapped her chin. “Who can he be?”

“Best to come and find out, miss, before Mrs. Lockhart becomes impatient.”

“I suppose you’re right. Go ahead without me, Nellie. I will be there soon, I promise.”

Nellie hesitated, but—short of dragging her young mistress along by the arm—there was nothing she could do.

“Mrs. Lockhart won’t be happy if you take too long,” she warned.

“I know, Nellie. Tell her I am going to my room to fix my hair and I will be right down.”

The maidservant turned, and her stout legs fought the rise of the hill. With her back to the pond, she did not see Verity uncork the jar and watch the shimmering wings of a dragonfly reclaiming its freedom.

*

With shoes and stockings in hand, Verity snuck into the house through the back entrance. Cook took one look at her and shooed her back out again.

“You’ll not be tracking your mud through my kitchen, young lady,” she said, pointing a long, wooden spoon in her direction. “Nellie, bring her a jug of water and a cloth to clean up before the mistress sees her. Honestly, as if I don’t have enough to do!”

“Sorry, Mrs. MacTavish, it won’t happen again,” Verity mumbled from the back step.

Cook snorted, wiping her hands on her bleached apron. “I find that hard to believe.” She lowered her voice, but Verity could hear her mutter, “Her poor mother. She’ll never get that wild thing married.”

Verity stiffened. She had heard it before. It was her mother’s constant refrain. And because it was true, it was hard to hear. She did try her best to be everything they wanted of her, but, well, all of that just wasn’t her .

There was no time to dwell on it now. She rose to her newly-clean feet and raced up the stairs, two at a time.

She was barely through the door of her bedroom when she began to tug at her wet-hemmed dress, pulling it off over her head.

It fell on the floor, and she stepped over it to collect a new one from the wardrobe.

With stockings clipped neatly in place once more, she slipped into her shoes and ran a brush through her hair—like starlight, her father had described it when she’d been little—almost colorless and yet agleam with reflected light.

There wasn’t time to pin it fashionably.

A tidy bun would have to do. At least her fringe had not lost much of its curl.

Whoever their visitor was, he was not worth fussing for any further.

She adjusted her skirts so that their deep-green folds fell smoothly, then she descended the staircase rather more demurely. It was time to be the vicar’s daughter everyone expected.

The bottom landing creaked as she stepped onto it.

Her father had wanted to replace the warped board, but her mother enjoyed knowing when someone approached the parlor.

Unsurprisingly, therefore, Verity now heard her mother’s voice declare, “I do believe that is our daughter at last.” A clatter of china suggested Mrs. Lockhart had set down her tea.

“Verity,” she called, “come in here, dear.”

As if I would greet a guest anywhere else. She wished she could be anywhere else. With that option not currently available, Verity now stepped into the parlor, her hands clasped together, her head lowered.

A movement across the room made her look up.

Their guest had risen to greet her. Verity sucked in her breath.

He was—there was no other word for it— magnificent .

Nellie had not exaggerated at all. His frame was neat and slender, his clothes tailored to perfection.

The eyes of the stranger were dark and penetrating beneath his black, short-cropped hair, and his mouth lifted slightly at the corners in a secretive smile.

Verity caught herself staring.

Mrs. Lockhart proceeded briskly with introductions. “Verity, I wonder if you remember Mr. William Cole. You played together as children. Of course, that was a long time ago. Perhaps you do not recognize him now.”

William Cole . Verity’s heart sank. Why did this sublime creature have to be William Cole?

Her mother continued, as if the disparity between the Williams, past and present, mattered not a jot.

“The last time you saw each other must have been, what, about five years ago?”

Mr. Cole nodded. “Before I left for university.” His voice was soft and deep and seductive. It was impossible not to notice. But Verity remembered a different version of him. One that was not nearly as irresistible.

“You were the last to leave,” she stated flatly.

“And you never did,” he remarked.