Page 154 of The Earl She Once Saved

“There is something else you should hear from me,” he hesitated.

Verity turned toward him.

“Roland came to the stables today. He ordered Rafe to offer for Miss Marchmont.”

Her heart gave a hard, painful beat. In the library, Rafe had given her the portrait without speaking of Celestine. She accepted it, believing she had at least understood the truth of that gift.

“Has he agreed?” she asked.

“No. He refused before Roland had finished speaking.”

Ezra watched the path as he went on. “There is no engagement. There never was one. Rafe said he allowed Miss Marchmont to expect too much and owed her an apology for it. He would sooner be turned off the land than offer for a woman he does not want.”

“Roland threatened to turn him out?”

“Rafe and me both. Rafe told him he would find lodgings elsewhere if he had to, but he would still come here.”

Verity could hear the refusal as Ezra described it. Rafe let her believe in an understanding with Celestine when she found the drawings. He admitted on the moor that he lied to drive her away. She believed that admission, yet some part of her had gone on bracing for him to choose the simpler life offered by the Marchmonts.

“He ought not to lose his home because of me,” she sighed.

“I doubt he would thank you for deciding what he ought to bear.”

She looked at Ezra. He held her gaze kindly and said no more. He told her what he knew and left the rest to her.

At the garden gate, they parted. Verity watched him return toward the house, walking carefully over the uneven stones. She thought of Win waiting inside and hoped they would find another moment to speak without the troubles of the household standing between them.

By evening, the first rain had come. It tapped at Verity’s bedchamber window while she laid the four pieces of the portrait across her writing table. She fitted the edge of her drawn sleeve to the rest of her arm, then stopped. The tear through her face required a surer hand and more patience than she possessed tonight.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her. Aunt Cordelia entered carrying no embroidery. She had changed into a dark gown, and damp marked one shoulder of her shawl.

“Mrs. Fenwick sent a note,” she informed her. “There has been talk since this morning.”

Verity left the pieces on the table. “About the yard?”

“About you.”

Aunt Cordelia closed the door behind her. For once she seemed uncertain how to begin. She came nearer to the fire, though it had burned low.

“Someone has been saying that you have had too much responsibility for too long and are not quite in your right mind.”

Verity heard Roland’s voice in the library. People are beginning to notice.

“Who said it to Mrs. Fenwick?”

“She would not name the person. She wrote because she thought I ought to know before it traveled further.” Aunt Cordelia’s gaze came to rest on Verity’s face. “I do not know where it started.”

Verity did. Roland had first spoken of her health where she alone could hear him. He let Win’s excuse for the ball pass through the household in his own voice. Now concern for her found its way beyond Edgeworth, carried by people who might believe they were doing her a kindness.

Aunt Cordelia saw her expression change. “Verity?”

Verity looked toward the portrait. In the firelight the torn pieces lay close together, but she could still see every break.

“Keep Mrs. Fenwick’s note,” she urged. “Please do not throw it away.”

“Of course.” Aunt Cordelia moved a little nearer. “Is there something you have not told me?”

“Yes.” Verity faced her aunt. “Roland has threatened to have me sent away. He means for people to believe I need it.”