Page 6

V erity sat on her bed, poring over an engraving of caterpillars in the book Erucarum Ortus . The door was locked. What her mother didn’t know could not upset her.

She was quite sure the assistant at the circulating library believed her father to be an avid entomologist, based on the frequency with which Verity fetched books for him on the subject.

Fortunately, the vicar was always occupied with parish matters and did not have time to select anything for himself, relying on Verity’s good taste.

Thus, amongst biographies of great church leaders, or a treatise on sound economic management, there would be a book on zoological classification or the like, which was quickly slipped into Verity’s shawl before being smuggled into her room.

This latest volume was the author’s final work and reflected the usual high standards of Maria Sibylla Merian.

However, Verity could not help but experience an odd discomfort whenever she considered Merian’s work.

Their lives were strangely similar, despite being separated by a full century.

Both were artists and naturalists. Merian had been married at eighteen, and Verity knew her mother harbored similar hopes for her.

But Merian’s marriage had ended in divorce, and her life had been filled with financial struggle and resistance to her work.

Fears that her own hopes might have a similar outcome lay shallow in Verity’s heart.

She closed the book with a thud . She jumped when another thump echoed it.

“Verity? Are you resting, dear?”

Another knock on the door.

Verity sighed. If she had been resting, that would now have come to an abrupt end.

She slid the unsanctioned book under her bed and crossed the floor to the door. Unlocking it, she swung it open to find her mother with knuckles raised and a round “o” of surprise on her lips.

“You’re awake!”

“I was reading.”

“A novel?” Mrs. Lockhart asked suspiciously.

“A collection of art.” Verity indicated the decoy book that lay upon her writing desk.

“Isn’t that the same book you were looking at last week?”

“It’s very good. I am learning much from studying it in greater detail.”

Mrs. Lockhart sighed as her eyes lifted from the writing desk to the walls.

They were covered in watercolors of insects.

Verity was certain that every fiber in her mother’s being willed her to take them all down.

After all, they only encouraged an unsuitable hobby.

And yet she said not a word. Although Verity steadily added more and more each month, until there was scarcely room to pin up even one new painting, her mother did nothing about it.

Perhaps she knew that, as accommodating as Verity tended to be, there was a limit to her compliance.

If her parents had forced her to remove the colored sketches, it would have made her miserable.

It was the line in the sand, and they would not cross it.

But there was more to it than that. As Verity watched, her mother studied the collection on the wall, her expression fluctuating between a frown and naked admiration.

Verity’s heart pinched with pity. It had to be hard to have a daughter who did not follow the beaten path.

She knew her mother loved her. Very much, in fact.

And it was that love that kept her from doing what she knew would cause her daughter anguish. So the paintings stayed.

Today, there was something else on her mother’s mind. Verity could see the sadness as she pulled her attention away from the pictures and focused once again on her daughter.

“Verity, dear, we need to talk.”

It was inevitable. She was amazed it had taken her mother this long.

“All right,” Verity answered, resuming her seat on the bed.

Her mother sat quite suddenly, as if the weight of the subject matter overwhelmed her.

She had taken the chair at the writing desk, and her fingers absentmindedly stroked the cover of the book of art masters.

Then her hands slid into her lap, where they appeared to hold her full attention for some time.

Eventually, her head lifted, and she looked with renewed determination at her daughter.

“Verity, you know your father and I are getting on in years.”

A rush of ice surged through Verity’s veins. “Are you unwell?”

“No, no, thanks be to God. But, as you know, you came into our lives a little later than expected.”

Verity breathed a sigh of relief. This information was nothing new.

“You were a lovely surprise to us in our… more mature years. But it also means we are slowing down a bit.”

Verity bit back a grin. Slowing down was not a phrase easily applied to her mother.

“Your father wishes to retire—to take on a curate to assume his duties—so that he may enjoy a degree of complacency for once. After decades of devoted service, I think he has earned it.”

Mrs. Lockhart paused and cleared her throat.

“The expense of a curate would necessitate greater economy for us. Unless… Unless you were safely tucked into a household of your own.”

“And I suppose you have someone in mind to do this tucking.”

“Young Mr. Cole seems to have taken interest in visiting us of late…”

She saw the look on Verity’s face and added hastily, “He could assume the role of curate immediately, and you could take your time with a courtship, get to know each other again. If something were to happen to your father and me, Mr. Cole’s position as vicar would be secured—Sir Walter has said as much—and you would have the familiarity of your childhood home as the vicar’s wife. ”

Verity laced her fingers. “I see you have given this a great deal of thought.”

“We must be pragmatic at our age.”

Pragmatic. That was what it boiled down to. Her dreams, her desires, were to be neatly set aside for pragmatism. Not only hers, but Mr. Cole’s too.

“You should know,” she informed her mother, “that Mr. Cole is not nearly as convinced about the clergy as you are on his behalf. Equally, I am not persuaded we are a good match. He is certainly charming. But he is more superficial than I should like in a man. I cannot, in good conscience, enter into matrimony with someone I do not fully respect.”

“He is young. In time, he may surprise you.”

“And if he does not? Let him surprise me first, and then I may reconsider. Besides, I am content on my own. I do not need new dresses or hats. Surely, I do not consume so great a portion of food that I will bankrupt you if I remain unwed a little longer?”

Mrs. Lockhart looked up the walls.

“Paper is expensive,” she remarked pointedly.

Verity followed her gaze. “I will paint on the reverse sides. I can last months without new supplies. Please, Mother, let me find a better match. In my own time.”

Her mother sighed. “You know full well your father and I would never choose for you. But we are worried. Some of your choices thus far have not been in your best interests. You keep to yourself too much. And your fascination with insects is not… attractive.”

Verity crossed her arms. “You mean attractive to men.”

“Yes.”

“Surely, not all men are discouraged by a woman with a mind.” Verity pouted.

“No, dear. There is no shame in being a clever wife who can assist her husband in his duties. I believe your father has greatly appreciated my contributions over the years. But your endeavors are not practical, Verity. Even a man of science will want his wife to run his home, not be a partner in his studies.”

“Don’t say that!” Verity’s head jerked up in alarm. Her mother’s words had stabbed at all the truths she feared most. “If I cannot do what makes me happy when I am married, it is best I do not wed at all!”

“That is not sensible,” her mother scolded. Then her voice softened. “Have you thought about your future when we are gone?”

“I don’t want to,” Verity declared unreasonably.

“If you have no husband, you will depend on your siblings in your spinsterhood. Would you prefer to cling to selfish interests and make yourself a burden to them?”

Verity hung her head. “No, Mother, I would not like that.”

Mrs. Lockhart rose from her chair and came to sit beside Verity. She took her daughter’s hand in hers and squeezed it gently.

“You are our precious child, and we want you to be happy. But happiness comes in more forms than you are willing to consider. Promise me you will think on what I have said.”

Verity nodded.

“In the end,” Mrs. Lockhart continued, “it is your choice. Just make sure that you are at peace with the consequences.”

Her mother patted her hand and released it, rising to leave the room. At the door, she glanced round, first at Verity, then at the walls papered with her daughter’s passion. She shook her head and left the room.

A strangled scream rose in Verity’s throat, and she fought it back. Fought it back like all the other things she had left unsaid.

Why couldn’t life be easier? Why couldn’t she have what she wanted? Choice! What a laugh! She could be a burden to her family or a servant to her husband’s wishes. It was no choice at all.

Angry tears stung her eyes. She let them come.

It is my choice to cry , she thought bitterly.

Her heart swelled with rebellion. Her hands tightened into fists.

She launched onto her feet and paced the room.

Her paintings taunted her, reminders of stolen moments of joy and freedom.

She pinned her gaze to the floor instead.

But Verity was not made to hold such rage, and the feelings soon seeped from her, leaving her exhausted.

She curled up on her bed, hugging her arms about her.

Please, please, don’t let Mr. Cole ask. The words became a desperate mantra.

For she knew—despite the illusion of choice—that if Mr. Cole asked for her hand, she would say yes .