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“Indeed,” her mother replied, “Hope is fortunate to have made such an excellent match. Daniel is a good father and a man of means. And he is kind. She could scarcely have done better.”

It is easy when you are not considered odd , Verity grumbled to herself.

Frankly, she would be happy as the wife of a farmer if he would let her wander about the countryside, sketching, and gave her leave to study her books on science.

Then again, she had to admit, he would likely struggle to afford the paper.

Verity hated that her mother was right. She would need a husband with a decent income or allowance. The practical considerations could not be ignored. And Munro had a far broader selection of such prospects. Might one of them also care for her as she was? She only needed one…

Trying not to ponder how elusive that one man might be, Verity trudged off to her room.

The floorboard at the landing groaned its familiar greeting.

How many times had she skipped over it, shoes and stockings in hand, portfolio tucked under her arm?

It was unlikely she would be able to manage similar escapades at her sister’s home.

Hope was not judgmental, but Daniel would likely disapprove of such a poor example for his children.

Their Aunt Verity would have to behave herself.

It would need to be portraits and landscapes if she were to paint at all.

In the sanctuary of her room, Verity began the painstaking task of collecting her insect art from the walls.

If she was not to create new paintings, she could at least find comfort in those already in her possession.

She paused with each, recalling the occasion of its creation, before lovingly laying it in a growing pile upon her bed.

The tansy beetle was next. Verity beheld it with a small degree of dissatisfaction. Its iridescent jewel tones had been hard to capture on paper. It might have worked better with oil paints than watercolors. But that had not been possible. Oils were expensive.

Maybe she could try again in the summer, when the beetle was easy to find.

Verity wondered if she would still be in Munro then.

If she had not found a husband in the next three months, would she be allowed to return to the vicarage and resume her quiet life?

Or would she become an unofficial companion for the Sinclair children, a means to compensate for the burden her presence created upon their father’s purse?

She shuddered. No more pond. No more hidden books beneath her bed. No more barefoot escapades.

Her mind’s gaze cast back to the day she had sketched the beetle, its discovery a wonderful surprise, just like the red admiral on Mr. Cole’s hat the week before.

Both times he had been present when nature had offered her a late-season wonderment.

He had been patient with her as she’d marveled, even a co-conspirator as she’d sketched.

And he had kept her secret safe. He had revealed a tender side that day, despite his attempts to hide it with playfulness.

And if that had been the end of it, they would certainly have been friends.

Verity clenched her jaw. That accursed butterfly! She shook her head in frustration. The gift, a failed attempt at thoughtfulness, was lying in the very trunk Verity had asked Nellie to bring. She really must rid herself of it.

There was a simple solution. She would take it with her to Munro.

She could deposit it—and a letter—with Mr. Cole’s older sister, Charlotte, now Mrs. James Trenton.

He would certainly visit with her and be able to reclaim the item.

It didn’t matter now whether returning it brought up hurts from the past. He clearly wanted nothing to do with her, anyway.

And, being in Munro, he may well be able to sell it back to the Entomological Society.

Or give it as a gift to a less-demanding woman.

Mrs. Trenton might like it, now that Verity thought on it.

She was wonderfully easy to please. Verity had always liked her, even though their age difference had made a childhood friendship impossible.

More importantly, Verity thought, she must make peace with Mr. Cole.

She would not presume a meeting, but a letter would offer some means of reconciliation.

If nothing else, she needed him to understand that he had not been rejected.

He had misjudged, certainly, and she had reacted with shock and dismay, but she believed that a frank conversation could have mended it.

And he was the one person with whom she knew she could have such a frank conversation.

She might not want to marry him, but he deserved to know that she valued him nevertheless. She suspected this was something he had not been told often enough.

The tansy beetle was, at last, added to the pile of watercolors upon her bed.

Her fingers lingered a moment upon the page.

With all her heart, Verity prayed that the next sketch would be with someone who accepted her as Mr. Cole had done that day.

A man who understood what it was to be different and gave her the space to voice it.

Until then, Verity would continue in silence. And, preferably, alone.