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“Not yet,” her mother added, a teasing lilt to her voice. “But she has just turned eighteen, and she will be sure to make her own little nest.” She smiled meaningfully at their guest, her intelligent eyes bright, her mind no doubt plotting as usual.

“If I were a boy, I would be at university,” Verity said with a hint of sourness.

Mr. Cole raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. Is that what you would have preferred?”

“What nonsense,” tutted Mrs. Lockhart, placing a hand on her full bosom. “There is no talk of our daughter doing any such thing. Is there, Mr. Lockhart?”

Her mother turned to her father, who was quietly submerged in his favorite chair. She did not wait for him to answer but instead continued with her usual momentum. “It is unheard of. Her days are filled to the brim already around the home and within the community. What more could a woman wish for?”

Mr. Cole looked pointedly at Verity, as if he expected her to answer that question.

She was taken aback. The William Cole she had known had never cared for her opinion.

He was nearly three years older. In their childhood, that had been a lifetime of difference.

When the children of Fernbridge had gathered to play at picnics or festivals, William had been—not counting herself—the youngest. And he had wanted very much to be included.

It had been an almost desperate need to be liked by the others.

He had used his natural intelligence to banter and play the fool for their amusement.

It had been a little sad, really. But it had also meant that Verity, being younger still, had been utterly discarded.

It hadn’t bothered her as much as it would have bothered him, had that been his fate. She was used to being ignored. Both her siblings were much older and always too busy for her childish needs. So, she would watch them play for a while and then wander off by herself to observe new things.

That was how she had found the butterfly. Its wing had been torn. She had expected it to fly away as she’d approached. Instead, it had fluttered haphazardly onto a leaf, perhaps hoping concealment could protect it when flight could not.

Verity had stood quite still, not to alarm it.

She’d admired the design of its membranous wings and the way the segments had shone like plate-glass windows.

It had been such a pity it would never fly properly again.

Unless… What if she cut a piece of tissue paper and attached it with a little glue paste?

But how would she keep the butterfly still while the glue dried?

She had been standing thus, in a pose of contemplation, when the jostling crowd of children had pushed past her, brushing the branch on which the invalid insect had been perched and knocking it down in a hail of knees and elbows.

Verity had thrown herself to the ground to shield the helpless thing, but it had been too late.

A cry of dismay had torn from her throat.

William Cole, always five steps behind the others, had stopped to see what was the matter. He’d peered over her shoulder at the battered shape in the trampled grass and scowled. “Oh, it’s just a stupid butterfly,” he’d declared. And he’d run on to find the others.

Verity had felt the air being sucked from her lungs. He hadn’t cared. None of them had. As far as they’d been concerned, the butterfly had been discardable, just like her. But it hadn’t been. It had been fascinating, and alluring, and… and… then it had been gone.

That evening, all those years ago, Verity had drawn her first sketch of many. It had been a rough attempt, but she’d persevered. She’d needed to capture what had made the butterfly special. So that it would have been truly seen .

Was that what Mr. Cole was doing now? Here, five years later?

Was he really seeing her for the first time?

Could she say things to him that no other man had wanted to hear—how she loved time alone at the pond?

Or that she hid notebooks under her bed, filled with complicated diagrams and scientific studies copied from the library?

She didn’t think so.

“A woman finds fulfilment in her home and family,” she found herself saying. And she hated herself for it.

Did she imagine it, or did Mr. Cole look disappointed?

Her mother, however, would allow no opportunity for contemplation and began at once to fuss.

“Sit, sit, everyone.” Mrs. Lockhart waved her hands about. She proceeded to place herself in the middle of the settee so that Verity was obliged to take the only remaining chair—which just happened to be adjacent to Mr. Cole.

But if her mother had hoped to create a little tête-à-tête between them, her father had not been informed.

“How is my dear friend Marcus?” he asked their guest.

“My father is well, thank you, sir.”

“And business at the bank is thriving, I hope?”

“Certainly, I have not heard otherwise.”

“And your brother, Lawrence, he is to take the helm one day, I assume.”

“Yes, sir. They already work together as equals.” Mr. Cole looked at his hands. “My father is very pleased with my brother.”

“I am told your sister is married and in Munro.”

“Yes. Charlotte has a son and another child on the way.”

“Good, good.” The vicar nodded. “I am glad to hear it. It seems your parents, like ourselves, have just one nestling left to push out into the world. Speaking of which, I believe you are interested in joining the clergy. A very fine occupation. But then, of course, my opinion on the matter is biased.”

Mr. Cole did not answer at once. When he did, it was merely to say, “That has not yet been decided.”

“Oh, my dear!” Mrs. Lockhart threw her hand to her bosom once more. “You cannot wait! A young man must keep busy, or he will fall into bad habits for want of better things to do. See how happy and content Mr. Lockhart is.”

Mr. Cole was obliged to do just that. He turned to Verity’s father, who sat amicably in his deep, upholstered chair, his light-brown hair a little long and wild, belying his calm nature.

Beside him lay a small stack of books with spectacles resting on top.

Across his lap lay a warm, woolen coverlet.

Truly, he was the very picture of contentment.

As if satisfied that Mr. Cole had seen enough, Verity’s mother added, “No, indeed, sir, the church is the very thing!”

Mr. Cole shook his head. “If I were made of the good stuff that Mr. Lockhart has in abundance, I would agree. I know it is what my father wants for me. However, I am not convinced that I am suited for it.”

“‘Not suited’?” Mrs. Lockhart waved a hand dismissively.

“Fiddlesticks! You can speak well enough to deliver a sermon. Mr. Lockhart simply reads them from the books the diocese publishes.” Her eyes glanced at her husband and then looked hard at Mr. Cole.

“You have two strong arms and I daresay a healthy pair of legs with which to serve your neighbors. What more is there to it?”

Mr. Cole looked at the floor.

Verity took pity on him. “Is there something else you would rather do, Mr. Cole?”

He looked up, his face shining, only to drop his gaze to his hands and say, “I did consider the military.”

“The military!” Mrs. Lockhart whipped around to face her husband.

“Did you hear that, Mr. Lockhart? All that marching up and down in the mud when he could have a nice, clean pulpit once a week. Who would not rather have a congregation that loves him instead of an enemy trying to murder him?” She turned her attention suddenly to her daughter.

“Verity, dear, do tell him he is being silly.”

Verity wanted to declare, “I will do no such thing! The man should follow his dreams!” Instead, she bit her feelings back and said, “I do not think it is my place to speak to him so.”

“You’re in want of a good wife, Mr. Cole.” Her mother scolded him since Verity would not. “If you had a fine woman to come home to of an evening, you would not be so keen to run off to war.”

“No doubt you are right, ma’am,” their visitor said, mostly to his boots. His soft voice had grown quieter still. Then, with alarming abruptness, he stood. “I’m afraid I must be on my way. I had only meant to stop and look in on you as I passed.”

“I say, my boy,” protested the vicar, “you will not stay even ten minutes more?”

“No. You will have to forgive me. Thank you for your hospitality, but I must take my leave at once.”

“Well!” Mrs. Lockhart breathed out heavily. “I will not say it pleases me. But of course, if you are expected elsewhere… Perhaps we will see you again soon?”

Mr. Cole bowed stiffly. “We will no doubt see each other with great regularity, now that I am returned to Fernbridge.”

“Ah, well, that is good. Will we see you at church on Sunday, then?”

Mr. Cole’s face tightened. “My father will likely insist.”

And with these words, he turned and walked his long legs to the front door. With a curt “Good day,” he was out and into the garden, striding toward the gate post, where his horse was tethered.

Mrs. Lockhart looked at her husband. “Well, I never! How strange he has grown. And will you look at that? He has forgotten his hat. Verity, run and take it to him. Quickly now, before his head catches a cold.”

Verity took the hat in hand and stepped lightly onto the path, reaching Mr. Cole before he had mounted his horse.

“Here,” she called, making him turn, “you left your hat.”

The man’s eyebrows rose from a frown into high arches, his mouth softening and parting slightly.

“Ah, so I did. Thank you.” He tipped the hat onto his head and was about to resume his departure when Verity gasped.

“What is it?” he asked, his eyes darkening with concern.

“Your hat…” Verity pointed to the curved brim. “It’s a red admiral.”

William relaxed into a smile. “I have never heard the style described as such. As far as I am aware, it is a simple top hat.”

“No, no… on your hat. It is a red admiral butterfly! They’re not usually this far north in October. I haven’t seen any for several weeks now.”

“And you have been looking out for them, have you?”

Verity blushed. “I just notice things.”

Mr. Cole’s smile wrinkled with bemusement. “Yes, you do, Miss Lockhart.”

He lowered his hat again with great care and they both gazed at their winged guest. It did not seem to mind the attention, and it rested for several moments before flitting off in movements that were, at once, both lurching and graceful.

“Thank you,” said Verity. “That was very kind.”

“What? Holding my hat for you to see your red captain better? If that is all, may I say you have very low expectations, Miss Lockhart.” He offered a lopsided smile to soften the comment.

“It’s a red admiral . And yes, you are probably right. I don’t expect much and am usually the happier for it. But I did think it a great kindness that you lingered for my sake when you had been in such a hurry only moments earlier.”

“Oh.” Mr. Cole straightened up. “That.” He placed the hat back upon his head. “Yes. I had best be off then, hadn’t I?”

The smile had fallen from his face once more, and the dimples in his cheeks had dissolved.

Verity was sorry for it. When his eyes were lit with mirth and mischief, he was almost unbearably attractive.

All she could admire now was his dark-blue coat and the way it spanned across his back as he mounted his horse.

He turned and touched his finger to his hat before spurring his horse onward down the lane. Verity remained at the gate, watching his figure recede into the distance. She was oddly sad to see him go. Perhaps it was simply because he had offered a little distraction from her predictable life.

From the doorway, her mother’s voice rang clear and high with energy.

She was sure to have plenty to say about their visitor, and Verity resigned herself to a half hour of relentless commentary.

She cast one last look down the stony path, but Mr. Cole was out of sight.

Taking a deep, bolstering breath, she closed the gate behind her and walked back along the path.

“My goodness, you certainly took your time,” Mrs. Lockhart noted as Verity approached the front door.

Verity would have told her about the butterfly, but her mother was bound to answer it with that look , the one that expressed disapproval and disappointment without need for words.

Instead, Verity merely said, “Did I?” and walked on into the house.

“It is very odd that Mr. Cole should wait with such patience for you to arrive so that he may renew the acquaintance and then scuttle away the moment he had done so,” Mrs. Lockhart declared.

But Verity wasn’t listening. She rarely did. Oh, she would nod and make sounds of encouragement, but her thoughts would always drift to her latest discovery. Today, it was the red admiral and the delight of seeing one again before winter came.

If she were honest, however, she would confess that her mind was not only on the painted black wings, but on a dark-blue coat and the eyes that danced above it.