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T wo letters had arrived within a week of each other.

First, the tremendous announcement that William had survived the war.

This letter was addressed to Charlotte Trenton and had been sent by a clerk in the British Army.

An injury was mentioned, but William was said to be recovering well.

Charlotte Trenton shared the news with great enthusiasm, and Verity and her sister received it equally so at their next visit.

The absence of any tidings from Dr. Westbridge had not raised any alarm, as Verity had grown used to his work demanding the majority of his attention.

But the second letter—a black-rimmed correspondence written to Miss Verity Lockhart from an unknown address—created much consternation, so that Verity had sat down and unfolded the page with a trembling hand.

It was from the parents of Arthur Westbridge.

Their son, they were deeply sorry to inform her, was dead.

They were grief-stricken, of course, and, assuming she would be too, they had pledged their desire to fulfill any promises their Arthur had made her.

The letter was short, sincere, and so utterly unforeseen that its contents took a very long time for Verity to absorb.

She only sat numbly and stared at the words as if they did not, in any way, apply to her.

Eventually, she rose and walked, as though in a trance, to where her sister sat working on some embroidery and placed the letter wordlessly in her lap.

Hope noticed the black borders of the paper at once. Her hand flew to her mouth. “It’s not Papa, is it?” she asked, her voice filled with trepidation.

Verity shook her head. “Read,” was all she said.

Hope raced through the contents, her eyes like a pendulum as she rushed from one line to the next. She quickly reached the part where the death of Arthur Westbridge was announced.

“Oh, Verity, I am so sorry,” she said, looking up with a mournful gaze. But Verity did not respond. Hope waited a few moments, but when the silence dragged on, she decided it best to finish reading the letter.

“So that is where Dr. Westbridge formed his generous nature,” murmured Hope, as she learned of the Westbridges’ earnest commitment to their son’s wishes.

“To think of others while feeling their own loss…” She looked up at her sister.

“Are you all right? I know you did not yet love him as a wife might, but you were fond of him. This must be a terrible shock.”

Verity perched on the edge of one of the upholstered chairs in the drawing room, her hands clasped tightly where they rested on her knees.

“I never expected the war would claim him ,” she said softly.

“My emotions are all in a jumble. I know I should be much more distraught.” Her voice began to rise.

“The fact that I am not , that I knew I was to break with him upon his return…” Verity wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the hollowness inside.

“I feel a deep guilt, Hope. He was not loved as he ought to have been when he died.”

Hope crossed the space between them in a fleeting movement, bending slightly to place her arm about her sister’s shoulder and rest her cheek against Verity’s white-blonde hair.

“His parents loved him true enough,” Hope said.

“And he was doing what he most wanted. He was happy. It is well he did not know of your intentions, for he went to his grave believing all was as it should have been. It is better this way.”

Verity shivered and rubbed her arms in a soothing motion. “Do you think he suffered? I would not want him to have suffered.”

“It does not say if he was ill or injured,” Hope noticed, re-reading the letter that was still in her hand.

“Mrs. Westbridge writes that the army only mentioned he served them well as a volunteer. I suppose they have many such letters to write. Let us not imagine the worst. Instead, we shall remember him as the man he was: kind, generous, honest. Perhaps we can find a way to honor his memory. A donation to the Entomological Society comes to mind.”

“I think I owe him more than that,” said Verity, whose self-soothing movements had calmed at the thought of doing something productive.

“There is the Royal Hospital.” Her head lifted quickly.

“Do you think Papa would allow me to volunteer there, as Dr. Westbridge did? I would not have his skills, but I could still be useful. It would help take my mind off everything that has happened. Could we ask Papa?”

Hope smiled gently. “We shall certainly do so. He would no doubt be happy for you to serve the community in some way. His only concern would be that you are kept safe. We shall make inquiries and reassure him.”

Verity nodded, but her body remained stiff and her lips pressed tightly together.

“I confess,” Hope remarked, “you have taken this news far more to heart than I would have expected. Maybe, after all, your feelings for the doctor were not thoroughly explored.”

“To my shame,” answered Verity, “I must say my sorrow for his loss is as for a friend, and nothing more.”

“Then what ails you? You have done nothing wrong, you know. One cannot force love where it does not grow naturally. And you did not break your engagement or his heart.”

Verity reached inside the pocket of her underlay and drew out another letter. “There is this…”

“Who is it from?” asked Hope.

“It was sent from Thorn Bush Hall. The hand is Mrs. Trenton’s.

” Verity looked at her sister with some consternation.

“Why would she write me? We visit on the regular. She would only write if…if something could not wait, or was too awkward to be spoken of in person, or both.” She thrust the unopened paper at Hope. “You read it. I am too afraid.”

Hope sat down again and carefully unfolded the page. “Shall I read it aloud?”

Verity shook her head. “First determine the contents. Then you shall impart them to me. You will know better how to tell me bad news than the author of this letter would.”

Hope lowered her eyes to the words that had created such apprehension in her sister. The clock ticked in the background. Verity watched her face for any clues, but her sister read only with concentration. Until…

“Oh, my!” Hope cupped her hand to her mouth. “What a vile man! What a terrible deed! Poor Dr. Westbridge! And poor Mr. Cole! How helpless he must have felt!”

Hope lifted wide eyes to her sister. “Oh, my dear, you must read this for yourself. I could never speak such things to you.” She held out the page from her as if it would strike her like a serpent.

Verity hesitated, then took it gingerly from Hope. She felt that nothing in all the world could coax her to read the words that had so affected her sister.

But she must.

Cautiously, as if taking her first steps, Verity read the first sentence. Then the next. Before she knew it, the fearful truth had been revealed and her heart was thundering in her chest so hard, she could feel it without lifting her hand to her bosom.

“That fiend Foyle!” Verity cried. “He would have killed them both!”

At last, the tears fell for Westbridge. “Poor Arthur,” Verity whispered as the reservoir of her eyes overflowed, shedding teardrops onto her cheeks, the shock finally giving way to sorrow. “He did not deserve this. Poor, poor Arthur.”

“It appears Mr. Cole’s courage saved him from a similar fate,” said Hope. “His hand should heal. It is a pity his eye will not. But it could have been so much worse.”

“Who cares for his hand or eye?” Verity said almost angrily.

“Such things are nothing compared to a life. How grateful we should be! Mr. Cole has been spared twice over. He will come home to his family, his friends.” Verity began to sob.

Relief took the place of sorrow. She could not fix the broken past. A terrible crime had occurred, a good man lost. But William Cole remained. He would return.

“But when?” she wondered aloud, fiercely wiping the tears away so that she might once again study the letter.

“I don’t think Mrs. Trenton knows,” said Hope.

Verity finished her examination of the letter and lowered the hand that held it in disappointment. “No, the letter does not say if she does. But she will inform us when that changes, I am certain of it.”

“Agreed.” Hope stood and stroked the creases from her skirts. “Meanwhile, you will want to reply to Mr. and Mrs. Westbridge and send your condolences. And I shall write to Mama and have her petition Papa regarding your volunteering at the hospital.”

Verity nodded. It was good to have something to do. She could not bring back Arthur Westbridge. She could not make Mr. Cole whole again. But she could be of use in other ways. If only her father would let her.

Being busy might also help to distract her from the way her heart skipped a beat at the thought of William Cole’s return, and the very honest conversation she was determined to have with him as soon as the opportunity availed itself.

A pang of guilt toward Dr. Westbridge resurfaced, but Verity quelched it.

She would honor the memory of a man she had heartily respected.

But she was done throwing away her chance at love.

If anything, the death of Dr. Westbridge had taught her that life was unpredictable, and she should not waste a minute of it.

William Cole had survived all that the fates had thrown at him thus far. He deserved the truth. She would have him know her heart. At the very least, he would understand what he was worth to her. It might heal some of the pain he must surely be suffering from his all-too-recent experiences.

What she hoped, so very much, was that he felt the same. The hints for and doubts against had tortured her long enough. If there was the slightest chance that they might know happiness together, Verity wanted to find out, once and for all.