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V erity sat cross-legged in the disused attic room. She had not meant to be here this long. But lately, nothing was turning out as expected.

She threw a glance toward the framed butterfly that had caused all the trouble.

It lay—wrapped up once again, shrouded in its suede cloth—on a pile of dusty, empty hat-boxes.

She had a good mind to bury it. It was a dead thing, and she didn’t want it.

But it was a costly item, and Verity had a frugal mind.

It really should be returned to Mr. Cole. She owed him that much.

More importantly, she owed him an apology.

He had meant well. She knew that. It wasn’t his fault that she had lived a lie for years now, pushing her feelings down, out of reach.

It was exhausting. Her conversation with her mother had heightened her frustration.

Verity felt she was living on a knife’s edge, about to fall and slay herself on the altar of everyone else’s expectations.

If her nerves had not been so jangled during Mr. Cole’s visit—if she could have found the words there and then—she would have explained all of this to him.

She couldn’t blame her mother, either. She had meant well too.

Everyone had meant well. That made it so much worse.

If they had been unreasonable or mean-spirited, she could rage against them.

That, at least, would offer some relief from the relentless suppression of her own desires—the plans no one else approved of.

Mr. Cole could relate to this. That much she knew.

At the pond, she had gained the impression he’d understood more.

It had been a profound moment, a sense of coming home.

Here was someone who could see who she was at her very core.

For once, she hadn’t felt a need to defend herself.

He had grasped the essence of her and accepted it. Or so she’d thought.

His gift told her differently. He’d thought she was a collector!

How could he have so thoroughly misjudged her?

It was true that she wanted to capture the beauty and mystery of these tiny creatures.

But she would never destroy them and put them on display for her own selfish pleasure.

She recalled the image of the pinned butterfly with a shudder.

Why did Mr. Cole not see the horror of it?

Men were—Verity decided—a bizarre species.

Their need to kill things and present trophies of their conquests were concepts utterly alien to her.

But men seemed to think women should find it all very flattering.

She rubbed her brow with her fingertips.

It was no different when they spoke. Or courted.

It was all about displaying their prowess.

Just like peacocks, fanning their best qualities for a peahen’s attention.

She had to admit, with some embarrassment, that most women apparently liked it.

Take these letters, for example. She held one open in her lap.

She didn’t quite know what to make of it.

Several others lay scattered on the floor about her.

She had been searching for a place to store the butterfly specimen where its presence would not torment her until it could be returned to Mr. Cole.

However, instead of a convenient corner of space in this old travel trunk, she had found a stack of letters.

All addressed to her mother. All signed with the rather cryptic initials “T.L.”

Verity knew no one with these initials—something for which she was grateful.

If she had known the gentleman who wrote so…

so intimately to her mother, she would have been too mortified to look him in the eye.

Whoever he was, she was in no doubt that they had been in love.

Passionately so. At first, the contents had rather alarmed Verity, until the date had confirmed that they had been written before her parents had been wed.

But where had the gentleman gone? Why had they not made a life together?

His words expressed such devotion and exclamations of romance that Verity could not imagine he had run off and deserted her.

Had he died? Had his or her parents forbidden their match?

Why, when there was such a man pining for her, would her mother have married a vicar?

Verity’s father was a devoted husband, but he was not inclined to declarations of affection.

His flame was more a steady glow of embers, offering comfort.

Verity re-read the page in her hands.

My Dorothy, my dearest, my own sweet love.

It has been two hours since last I saw you, held your delicate fingers in mine, cupped your hand to my cheek. Its warmth lingers.

A similar heat crept up Verity’s neck and bloomed upon her face.

I cannot believe your parents would spirit you away to Steeples for a full fortnight! The cruelty of your absence is almost impossible to bear. Every minute is an eternity.

Verity rolled her eyes at the hyperbole. The gentleman’s prose was rather excessive for her taste. But she kept on reading, fascinated.

I pass by your house, knowing your laughter does not brighten its rooms. It is now the good fortune of the people of Steeples to share your company and find joy in it.

I know you have promised your heart to me, but how can any man resist you?

Will you still belong to me when two long weeks have crawled by?

Verity detected a hint of jealousy in his ardor. Had the young Dorothy sensed it too—felt cautious of it? Had it festered, ultimately severing their bond?

It was very bothersome not to know. However, she did not feel it right to question her mother on the topic. These letters had been concealed, the gentleman never mentioned—not even in a fond, nostalgic way. And yet her mother had kept the letters. There were words here she had not wanted to forget.

Had she had a choice, Verity wondered, in marrying the young vicar, John Lockhart?

It shouldn’t have mattered. Their situation had likely been very different to her own. But it did matter. Perhaps her mother understood what she was struggling with better than Verity had realized.

Suddenly, it became very important for Verity to know.

She began to gather up the letters, folding them up and stacking them once again into a neat pile, the time-bleached ribbon binding them together with a bow.

She would present them to her mother, demand an explanation for the stranger’s initials, drag the story from her.

Verity stood up, took three confident steps toward the door, and paused.

What right had she to stir up old hurts? Her mother was not unhappy now. The letters were likely forgotten after all these years. But seeing them might awaken pain, long buried. Verity wanted answers, but not at the expense of someone else’s peace of mind.

She turned slowly and retraced her steps. Kneeling, she lifted the heavy lid of the trunk and returned the letters to their hiding place. Beside them, perched on the hatboxes, the shrouded butterfly rested.

She missed William Cole. She wished he were here to talk to. She wanted to clear the air, yes, but she also wanted to talk with him about the letters. And regret. And hope.

There was much she wished to confide in him.

With the ease they had known by the pond.

Before the gift. Before she had run from the room like a wounded child.

This time, she would make him understand everything.

She needed him. His irreverence for predictability.

His effort always to jest so that no one could see how he struggled.

He was wonderfully flawed. She had no need to pretend with him.

Just a few more days, and he would be back. She would keep an eye out for him, intercept him at the gate. By the time they reached the house, all would be well between them. They would be the greatest of friends. All would be well.

With this refrain echoing in her soul, she all but skipped down the stairs.

Even her mother’s reminder to practice the pianoforte did not dull her mood.

The next day, she took baskets of provisions to the poor and did not once think to visit the pond instead.

Mr. Cole’s visit would be distraction enough when it came.

Even when he was absent from church once again, she gave it little thought.

Perhaps his father had eased some of the pressure on his youngest son.

Likewise, Monday and Tuesday were of no consequence.

It was only when Wednesday arrived—the day he always chose to call—that Verity began to experience the first pang of nerves.

Still, she told herself, it was silly to fret so.

In a matter of hours, all would be well.