Page 19

V erity tried to resist scratching her arm.

The lace ruffles on the short, puffy sleeves of her new dress itched something awful.

She missed her simple muslin garments. They had moved easily with her without announcing their presence.

This decorative addition to her wardrobe rustled and tugged, and she was constantly longing to strip down to her shift and just breathe .

What made matters worse was the choice of color her sister had decided on.

The dress was a very pale pink. Verity’s skin and hair were already so white, they were almost transparent.

She needed something a little bolder. Even lilac would have worked.

Instead, she looked as if she had been drained of all life.

But she had allowed it. She had let Hope have her way because her sister had been so excited on Verity’s behalf.

And because she knew that Hope might then be less insistent on influencing her next choice.

This was how Verity had managed to select a deep-blue silk, a charming peach with an embroidered hem, and an olive ballgown with a sheer golden overlay.

She had to admit, the ballgown was exquisite.

Though she was not used to such finery and would typically even avoid it, the olive-gold dress gave her an extra dose of confidence.

It was elegant and unpretentious. It would help her fit in where she felt most ill at ease, without being overstated.

And then Hope had gotten that look on her face, the one their mother displayed when she had one of her brilliant ideas .

It really was the only time she looked anything like their mother.

Hope had inherited the light-brown hair and amicable nature of their father. But she had their mother’s quick mind.

Hope had waited until they’d been home from the dressmaker, disappeared into her room, and returned almost immediately with a wide smile and something cocooned in her hand.

She cupped her palms open and revealed… a butterfly!

It was a brooch made of gold, with two tiny emerald eyes.

She beamed as she tipped it gently into Verity’s hands.

“There!” Hope’s eyes sparkled. “It is a perfect match for your dress. Now you are ready for your first ball of the season.”

Verity hesitated. “Surely, Daniel would not like you to give your jewels away.” But her heart longed to have it. Already, it grew warm in her cradled hand.

“Ah, but we are keeping it in the family. And he will see the joy it brings. That is just the sort of thing he would want his gifts to do. Besides, I have ample other lovely pieces to choose from. The poor, little brooch was being quite neglected. You shall give it a chance to shine once again.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” Verity fought to keep her eagerness from showing.

Hope folded her fingers around her sister’s, enclosing the butterfly in Verity’s hands. “It’s yours. Perhaps it will go some way to make up for the absence of your pond.”

Verity felt her cheeks turn a warm pink, likely a deeper tone than her dress. “Is it that obvious?”

“Mother said not to encourage you.” Hope’s tone was gentle. “But I know what your little adventures meant to you.”

Meant . Past tense. As if coming to Munro had ended not only her studies of nature, but also her desire for them.

“Thank you,” was all she said. As so often before, silence now saved her from a frustrating conversation.

She wanted to speak plainly, as she had done that day with Mr. Cole.

Perhaps, if he had given her a brooch instead of the mounted butterfly, things would have been different.

But he would have known a gift of jewelry would never do.

Not unless they’d been courting. And she had already made up her mind he could not be enough for her.

Had she been too hasty? Doubt pressed upon her for a moment before certainty returned.

No, it would not have been wise for her to marry Mr. Cole.

He was struggling, just like her. Struggling to learn how to be himself and yet satisfy the demands imposed upon him.

They would have been two broken halves trying to make one whole, each missing critical elements to bond the fragments soundly.

Verity scratched her arm again. This terrible pink dress would be relegated to the back of her wardrobe as soon as the other gowns arrived. They had needed some alterations. As Verity’s luck would have it, the pale-pink one had fitted perfectly.

The clock in the hallway gonged a somber round of chimes. Eleven in all.

“Oh, look at the time!” Hope cried. “Our guests will be along any minute. Quickly, Verity, put your brooch away and come through to the drawing room. The ladies will be very happy to meet you.” She put a hand upon her hip.

“Now, don’t give me that look. This is why you have come to Munro, after all.

To find a suitor. And, to meet the men, you must meet the mothers, the sisters, the aunts.

If you make a good impression, they will recommend you. ”

“What if I don’t like them ?” Verity grumbled. “Can I ask them to make no recommendation at all?”

Hope sighed the longsuffering sigh of mothers and older sisters everywhere.

“You will behave, won’t you? No one is asking you to marry outside of your free will.

But civility costs you nothing. And your actions reflect on us.

I don’t wish to sound so very old and prim, but that is how things are, as you well know. ”

“I will try my best.” Verity caught her sister’s wary eye.

“My very best. I shall refrain from discussing the sciences. I shan’t mention my love for things with wings and antennae.

But if, then, I am quiet, it is only because I am myself.

There are few things beyond these interests upon which I have meaningful thoughts. ”

“You don’t need to have meaningful thoughts .” Hope sighed again. “Compliment their fashion. Ask after their families. Then let them talk. And try not to roll your eyes. Not even inwardly. Your face really is an open book, you know.”

The bell for the front door rang out. A footman hurried to open it and the butler followed on his heels.

“Shoo!” Hope all but pushed Verity down the corridor. “And hurry back! I will send for tea in the meantime.”

Verity did as she was told. She tucked the butterfly brooch into a drawer, checked that her hair was still in place—it was, thanks to the skilled work of her new lady’s maid—and hastened to the drawing room with as much decorum as she could muster.

Seated upon the brocaded chairs and settees were five ladies of various ages and description. They appeared to have divided themselves into two distinct camps, and a chill hung in the air between them.

Hope, who had just finished instructing the maidservant regarding refreshments, stepped forward and proceeded with introductions, seemingly oblivious of the tension in the room.

“Lady Penrose,” she began, addressing the senior member of the two-party camp, “may I introduce my sister, Miss Verity Lockhart, recently arrived from Fernbridge? Verity, this is Baroness Penrose and her daughter, Miss Frances Penrose. Miss Penrose, like yourself, has just come out in society. Lady Penrose hoped that you would be dependable company for her daughter this season. A vicar’s daughter can usually be trusted to know how to comport herself in company. ”

The irony was not lost on Verity, and Hope’s stern gaze told her this was no time to prove Lady Penrose wrong.

Verity bobbed a curtsey and dipped her head, determined to please both Lady Penrose and Hope.

Lady Penrose scarcely moved in her tight, long-sleeved dress but lowered her eyes in acknowledgement.

Miss Frances Penrose, however, did not concern herself with the greeting.

Despite the visit barely having started, she already looked bored.

She fiddled with her reticule, allowed her eyes to examine every inch of the room, and frequently threw a longing look toward the exit.

She had clearly not been involved in choosing Verity as a potential companion.

Most likely, she had plans for her season, and a vicar’s daughter did not fit into them.

Oh, good , thought Verity wryly, I have not spoken a word and already, I am unpopular.

Next, Hope turned to what Verity could not help but consider the rival party. Like the Penrose duo, the unknown trio was led by a matriarch.

“Mrs. Sangford, Miss Sangford, Miss Amelia, this is my sister, Miss Verity Lockhart. Verity, this is Mrs. Albert Sangford, Miss Irene Sangford, and Miss Amelia Sangford.” Hope gestured at each with an open palm.

Despite the absence of titles, the three ladies sat with a pride bordering on haughtiness, their backs as straight as posts, their eyes looking down their almost-too-long noses.

They did not even deign to offer a slow blink as Lady Penrose had done.

My face is an open book. My face is an open book. Verity repeated the reminder to herself and shoved her feelings down and out of sight. Or so she hoped.

“Very pleased to meet you all,” she said. Although it was a terrible lie, Verity guessed they would all assume she should delight in their company and would not question her sincerity. She sat down next to Hope, who had indicated for her to do so. It seemed the safest place in the room.

Before her rose a tide of self-satisfaction from their guests.

It poured forth in waves. Verity had never experienced anything like it.

What—besides a title—did Lady Penrose have to recommend her?

And what—if anything—did the Sangford ladies claim as their motive for superiority?

And what if—Lord help her—they had eligible brothers who were just like them?

“Do you play the pianoforte, Miss Lockhart?” Mrs. Sangford wanted to know.

“I do, at my mother’s insistence. But I would not go so far as to say I play it well,” Verity answered.