Page 7

W illiam dismounted at the gate. For the first time, he was looking forward to his visit with the Lockharts.

Removing the carefully wrapped package from his saddlebag, he patted the suede cloth that protected it and beamed boyishly.

It was one of his prouder moments. William had written to the Entomological Society in Munro with a very specific request, and they had more than met his expectations.

Miss Lockhart was in for a big surprise.

It had cost a pretty penny. Not much of his allowance remained for an evening of cards with the lads. But it would be worth it to see her face when she received her gift.

He straightened his cravat and ran his fingers through his hair. His throat was a little dry, and he swallowed to moisten it. When he knocked on the door, his heart pounded along with the sound.

The stout, young maidservant let him in, her attention at once on the mysterious item in his possession.

“Shall I take your coat, sir?” She accepted it from him, her focus lingering on his hands and what they held.

The maid led him to the parlor, then left to return to her duties. William sat down, placing the parcel on the seat next to him, but stood again immediately as the family arrived in the cozy room.

The parcel received curious glances. However, they were all too polite to inquire after the contents. Instead, Mrs. Lockhart called for tea, and Miss Lockhart resumed the embroidery she had left on the chair.

“It is so good to have you visit with us again,” Mrs. Lockhart began. “Mr. Lockhart has benefitted immensely from having the company of a gentleman for a change, especially when it has not required his attention on some parish matter. A hearty conversation is always invigorating, is it not?”

“Certainly,” William agreed, though he did wonder if the vicar’s few quietly spoken sentences over the past several weeks qualified as conversation.

Of course, he was not complaining. He had expected lectures regarding the life of a clergyman and the responsibilities he might come to expect if he entered the church.

But Mr. Lockhart had not re-introduced the topic that William had expressed such doubts over.

Maybe he could see what his wife could not.

Or, perhaps, he simply couldn’t get a word in edgeways.

Mrs. Lockhart pressed on. “We did not see you in church this past Sunday. I hope you were not ill.”

“I was a little under the weather, but it was nothing serious.”

William remembered that headache all too well.

It had been the result of a bottle of poor brandy and a very late night, or rather, an early morning.

His father had been furious when William’s valet could not rouse him and had only paused in his admonishment to attend the service himself.

The only good that had come of it was an exasperated comment that perhaps, after all, the military life would teach him discipline.

William looked across at Miss Lockhart. Had she noticed his absence too? Had she wanted to share a knowing smile that they were both thoroughly bored by the second hour of the sermon?

She was strangely quiet today. In truth, it was hard to be chatty when Mrs. Lockhart offered such strong competition.

But her mother usually drew her into the conversation, and she always complied.

Today, however, Miss Lockhart was focused entirely on her embroidery.

It was currently on a circular frame, though what its ultimate purpose would be, William could not guess.

The domestic activities of ladies were something of a mystery to him.

Be that as it may, Miss Lockhart gave all of her attention to the careful stitches she made and none at all to him.

Normally, William would find a way to coax a young lady’s focus to be trained on him.

He might comment on her handiwork, then compliment her skill, his eyes lingering on her fingers as he praised her fine touch.

Soon, he would draw a delicate blush from her cheeks, and she would be thinking only of him and his subtle cues.

He was considering whether Miss Lockhart would permit such playfulness or view it as inappropriate, when he noticed the pattern she was stitching.

It had started as a series of leaves, their curves winding along the edge of the small hoop.

But two of the leaves were now side by side like wings, and sprouting between them was the unmistakable segmented form of an antenna.

Too late, he found himself staring.

Mrs. Lockhart noticed at once.

“Oh, you see what a talent our daughter has with a needle, Mr. Cole. She really has quite the gift for…”

She spied the design.

“Ah… aha ha… I see you are creating leaves on a twig , dearest,” she declared, though her flustered manner suggested she knew it was no floral scene, but a beetle being brought forth. “How… original,” she concluded weakly.

The clattering of cups on a tray signaled the arrival of Nellie with the tea. While the men looked up at the plate of biscuits, an urgent scuffle ensued among the women. William only just noticed Miss Lockhart’s embroidery disappearing behind her mother’s pillow.

“Mr. Cole,” came the flustered voice of his hostess, “will you take sugar?”

Out of the corner of his eye, William could see her daughter quietly fuming. But, as always, she kept her thoughts to herself.

He knew that feeling. He understood it. He wanted Miss Lockhart to see he understood.

“I won’t take tea just yet, thank you.” He turned to pick up the package. “With your permission, there is something I would like to give Miss Lockhart.”

Mrs. Lockhart’s raised eyebrows met his request.

“That is very kind of you,” Mrs. Lockhart said with a slightly worried smile, turning uncertainly to her husband. “I don’t know if…”

“It’s all right,” Mr. Lockhart reassured her.

“Mr. Cole would not stoop to offend our household with an inappropriate token. We may be certain of his good intentions.” Still, the good-natured vicar paid rather more close attention to his guest’s actions as William leaned forward and handed the gift to Miss Lockhart.

She sat for several moments, contemplating the unwrapped parcel.

“Well, go on, open it,” said her mother, apparently more eager to see the gift than its recipient was.

Miss Lockhart’s fingers began to unfold the suede cloth that covered it, revealing a shallow, rectangular box.

She pulled off the lid and reached inside to lift out the contents.

There was a soft rustle as she did so. She discovered several layers of paper tissue wrapping, and these, in turn, she carefully removed.

At last, the corner of a frame peeked through the final layer of paper, hinting that the mystery would soon be solved.

From the depths of the many protective layers, Miss Lockhart pulled a boxed frame with a glass front. Within, there was a large butterfly, nearly two inches across. Expertly mounted, its powder-blue shape was on full display, showing its black edging and several black speckles on its front wings.

A bronze plate at the bottom of the frame gave the butterfly’s Latin name.

“ Maculinea arion ,” she whispered. “It’s a large blue.”

“A large, blue what?” her mother wanted to know.

“I believe that is its common name,” William explained.

“I purchased it from the Entomological Society in Munro. They sent a detailed letter, explaining its name and habitat and observed behaviors. I must say, it was most informative. I can bring the letter with me on my next visit. But I suspect Miss Lockhart might already know a great deal on the subject.”

“It certainly is a fine specimen,” Mr. Lockhart commented, craning his neck to see the object in his daughter’s hands.

She stared blankly at it.

“It’s dead.” Her voice was strained.

“Well, yes,” said William, somewhat miffed by her response. To be honest, he had expected excitement, gratitude… something . He had thought to bring that flush of joy upon her face that he had seen at the pond.

“I thought you could add it to your collection,” he said, his confidence in pleasing her greatly diminished.

“My ‘collection’?” She lifted her head and looked at him with doleful eyes. “I have no such collection.”

“Yes, you do. You have your paintings. But I thought…”

His voice trailed off. He had given up a secret—their secret.

He should not have known about her paintings.

He had never been in her room, and her mother discouraged all conversation on the topic when in company.

He cursed himself for his careless speech.

Now there would surely be awkward questions.

But Miss Lockhart did not even seem to notice the slip. Her attention was somewhere else entirely.

“You think I collect the… the… bodies of these beautiful creatures?”

A warning shot up William’s spine. Something was very wrong. He just didn’t know exactly what it was.

“I know you are a student of nature,” he explained. “I thought you would be pleased to observe this specimen more closely. I understand it is quite rare.”

Miss Lockhart trembled at his words.

“Yes, it is rare. And now there is one fewer of them to brighten the world.”

William was taken aback. He had not thought of that.

“Perhaps the collector simply found it,” he said hopefully.

She shook her head. “Such a perfect specimen did not die naturally.” Her lips tightened.

“Someone was very pleased to discover it and could not wait to boast of their achievement. I imagine it was the subject of a talk offered at the Society’s next meeting.

” She looked down at the frame in her hands.

“But, for all their discussion, they did not really see it.”

“Verity, dear,” Mrs. Lockhart said to intervene, “I don’t think we can hold poor Mr. Cole responsible for how the butterfly was acquired. It was still very thoughtful of him to encourage you where others might not have.”

Her meaning was clear, and her daughter lifted her head in answer.

“I don’t want to be encouraged. I want to be understood!” She whipped her head about to face him. “I thought you understood!”

Her face burned with emotion—anger, betrayal, loss. William faltered in response.

“I… I thought I did.”

Miss Lockhart bit her lip. Tears welled in her eyes.

“You don’t understand what really matters to me. Maybe no one ever will.”

Her words rang in his ears. He had heard them before. They were almost Ellena’s exact words. The same accusation. The same shock to his very core.

How had it come to this? How had he made the same mistake twice? Every time he sought a deeper connection, everything fell apart.

“Verity,” came the surprisingly quiet voice of Mrs. Lockhart, “I think you are judging Mr. Cole rather harshly. He has hardly had a chance to know you at all, and I’m sure that…”

Miss Lockhart stood abruptly, placing the controversial gift firmly on the chair as a clear rejection.

“Please excuse me,” she said. “I do not feel well.”

Before her parents could protest, she fled the room, a stifled sob audible as she reached the staircase.

Mrs. Lockhart wrinkled her brow, her hands clasped tightly together. But no words came.

Her husband rubbed his hand across his face and huffed out a deep breath. “I apologize for our daughter, Mr. Cole. She is more passionate than most people realize. But that does not excuse her behavior here today. I assure you it will not happen again.”

But William did not want his assurances. He did not care for any of this. He had never desired Miss Verity Lockhart in the first place. She was just as much trouble as Ellena, with just as little reward for his efforts.

He should never have let his father bully him into considering this match, this family. He had known what he wanted, and this had certainly not been it. But he had tried. His father could not say he hadn’t kept his promise. And she had rejected him.

Well, perhaps now his father would finally hear him. It was good riddance to Miss Verity Lockhart, and welcome to his life as a soldier. Maybe she had even done him a favor.

He became aware that Mrs. Lockhart was staring at him. It was not a particularly friendly stare. She seemed to be making up her mind about something.

“Mr. Cole,” she said eventually, “I know that Verity’s ideas can be challenging. I also believe that the right person could meet that challenge. It would be a pity to give up before one has truly started.”

Was she judging him? William’s chest swelled with indignation.

Of all the nerve! It was her daughter who was making things difficult.

Miss Lockhart was clearly disinterested in him.

If she liked him at all, she would have loved his gift, appreciated his effort.

Why should he pursue her like some lovesick puppy, only to have her kick at him in her own misery?

He had thought they had something in common. Enough to explore a future together. But she was a self-absorbed child. And her parents indulged her. She was not for him.

He stood and bowed to them. A final civility.

“I think it is best if I were on my way. My presence here only causes discomfort.”

“Not at all, my good fellow!” exclaimed the vicar. “You are most welcome in our home. Verity’s reaction was unfortunate, I’ll admit, but she would not wish you away. Young women will have their little moods. It will pass.”

Mrs. Lockhart did not look at her husband. Her silence condemned him.

That was where their daughter had gotten her stubbornness from. William could see it now. The last thing he wanted was a wife like Mrs. Lockhart—all bluster and opinion.

“Thank you, sir,” he replied with some pity for his host, “but I will take my leave. It would be easier for Miss Lockhart to settle without my presence to frustrate her.”

“You must do as you see fit,” Mrs. Lockhart said primly before her husband could interject. “Please send our regards to your parents.”

“Gladly,” he replied without an ounce of gladness.

William collected his hat and coat from the entrance. He was seen to the door by both Lockharts—a strained farewell. Dissatisfied muttering echoed after him as he strode down the path to the gate. He did not look back. He would never look back. The Lockharts had seen the last of him.

A bee buzzed about his head as he mounted his horse. He waved it away with his hat. No more need to pretend an interest in miscellaneous flying things. No more need to woo a strange, pale slip of a girl.

And yet he felt strangely empty without her blue eyes looking into his soul. She had seen what was there—and not run.

Not until today.

She had seemed so lost, and he had not known how to reach her…

He shook himself mentally. No, no, no. He was better off without her. She was too much work. What he needed was a simple life: a uniform, a horse, a sword.

His father would just have to understand.