by Liese Anning
Verity remembered the story he had told her about his wife, and how she had been killed by the very people who should have protected her. She felt the sting of tears in the corner of her eyes. The lack of sleep and the sudden realisation of the extent of his generosity had overcome her. Major Mitford took her hand in his, and with the other, brushed the tears gently from her eyes with his thumb, 'I could not help Isabella, but I could help you.'
She looked at him and smiled through her tears. 'Thank you, Major Mitford; I will always be in your debt.'
'Nonsense,' he said, as he brushed another tear away. 'Remember, you are in debt to no one.'
Verity felt a weight lifting off her shoulders as he said those words. Now, for the first time since her father's death, she felt that there may be hope for her and her siblings. Because of his generosity, they had all been given a second chance.
She looked into his eyes, and they seemed troubled. Verity had heard it said many times that the eyes are the window to the soul. If this was true, and she had no reason to doubt it, Major Mitford must indeed be a tortured individual. Verity thought he must have helped her to try and make amends for his guilt about the death of his wife. She hoped that he would find a little solace in the service he had done for her.
'I hope you find peace,' she eventually said, still holding onto his hand, 'and the ability to forgive yourself.' As she said this, his eyes also became bright and shiny with tears.
'I am not sure if I can,' he whispered, smiling weakly. 'It 's hard to forgive oneself.' They sat in silence once more, until he stood up and said, 'I must go. I have a long journey ahead.'
Verity also stood up, and said, 'Thank you again for all your help.'
He turned towards her and took hold of both her hands. Verity stood motionless, looking into his troubled eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest, as his fingers caressed hers. He let go, of one of her hands, and traced the line of her chin with his fingertips. His touch was gentle, and Verity felt a frisson deep inside. She laced her fingers around his other hand and tightened her grip. He gently tilted her chin towards his face and bent towards her and brushed his lips lightly against hers. It was only the merest touch, but Verity felt a storm raging inside as he held her close. She buried her head into his shoulder and savoured the fragrance of his masculine cologne. Verity could have, once more, stayed locked in his embrace, but, to her disappointment, he quickly let her go.
As Major Mitford gently pulled himself away from her, he sighed and said, 'Verity, my dear, if this had been...' He stopped and looked at her and touched her cheek, 'another time, my dear Verity, another time.' He then turned abruptly and left the room, leaving Verity feeling very alone.
✽✽✽
'Another time, my dear Verity, another time,' were the last words he had said to her. During the long, arduous journey back to London, he thought many times how easy it would have been to fall in love with her. Did she have any idea how beautiful she looked; her amber eyes bright and shiny with tears; or how soft her hair felt against his cheek. Did she know how the sweet fragrance of roses clung to her hair; or how she trembled when he touched her lips with his? 'Yes,' he thought to himself, 'it would have been easy to fall in love with her.'
He left her standing by the fire on that cold Autumnal day, and he knew that if he had turned around to look at her once more, he would never have been able to leave her side. But, he resisted. The memory of Isabella, and the guilt he still felt, loomed large in his mind. If he could not look after his wife and child, how could he guarantee another's safety? He would soon return to his regiment in Spain, and bringing a wife, from England, would only complicate matters. There was no room in his life, as a soldier, for love.
Helping Verity free herself from Melrose's trap would have to be enough for them. After all, his duty was now to his country. Once the war was over, and peace had returned, he may be able to learn how to forgive himself. Only after he obtained that level of forgiveness, would he ever devote himself to another?
Chapter 9
'Would you like some tea,' Miss Crawford said to Verity, motioning with her hand towards the tea tray that rested on the table between them.
Verity smiled and said, in reply, 'yes please, that would be lovely.'
Miss Crawford, a woman in her middle age, was the headmistress of the Bristol Academy. Just like all the other members of her teaching staff, she wore a plain, dark blue, very practical light wool dress. Order and discipline were the foundations on which she had built her reputation. And, as the headmistress of the school, Miss Crawford continually strived to uphold these two principles.
Outside the school, both staff and pupils were easily identified by the way they dressed. At church, every Sunday morning, Miss Crawford knew the local dignitaries that sponsored her establishment looked favourably upon the conduct of her charges. She had often been complimented on how well her young ladies, under her strict supervision, conducted themselves in public. She was aware that their deportment, as well as their attire, contributed to the praise that had been lavished upon her and her school.
Miss Crawford's study was a light, airy room, close to the front entrance. It looked out onto a well-manicured lawn and gave the headmistress an excellent vantage point to survey her kingdom. No one could approach, without being spotted by its protector.
It was a beautiful sunny afternoon in late September. The sun streamed into her study through several large sash windows that almost reached the ceiling. Fine particles of dust, suspended in the air, floated gently in and out of these illuminated shafts. The sunlight reflected off each speck, making it gleam as it meandered slowly through the light. The chatter of the younger pupils, as they played outside, could be heard in the distance. It was indeed a genteel and comforting scene.
Miss Crawford stood up and walked over to the tray. As she poured the tea, they both could hear the gentle clatter of china, mingled with the distance sound of the younger pupils. 'There you are, my dear,' Miss Crawford said, as she handed a cup and saucer to Verity.
They sat quietly for several minutes, until Miss Crawford, at last, broke the silence. 'Miss Stanford,' she began, 'I have asked you to join me today because it has been a long time since I have had the opportunity to talk to you alone.' She took another sip of tea and then placed the cup and saucer on the table next to her.
The two women began to swap pleasantries about what they had done during the summer months. Miss Crawford told Verity about her trip to Scotland, to visit her sister. In return, Verity told Miss Crawford about her summer at the school, supervising the small number of pupils that had nowhere to go during the vacation. After they had exchanged their news, Miss Crawford said to Verity, 'there is another reason why I asked you to join me here today.'
'Verity, my dear,' she eventually said, after a lull in the conversation, 'I know you are a very private person and I do not wish to pry, but...'
Verity was now confident, from the awkward atmosphere, and Miss Crawford's use of her given name, which she was going to be asked questions that she did not particularly want to answer. The last time Miss Crawford had called her Verity, she had told her about the tragic news regarding her sister.
Miss Crawford leant forward in her chair, keeping her back straight and her hands folded in her lap. 'Are you quite alright, my dear? I have been worried about you.'
It was a relief when Verity eventually heard the question. She was certain that a confident smile and a serene answer would do. She looked up, smiled and said, 'there is nothing to worry about, I can assure you. I am well.'
Miss Crawford sighed and shook her head, 'I think there is,' she then replied, sitting forward, her fingers tightening their grip around each other. 'It has been nearly two years since your father's death and your sister's disappearance, and I have never heard you talk to anyone about either of them.'
Verity shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The cup clattered in her hand as it shook slightly. She carefully put it onto the side table next to he
r. She was concerned that she would break the delicate porcelain if she held it any longer.
'Now, my dear, please do not upset yourself. It is certainly not my intention to make you unhappy in any way. You have been here, at the school, for many years as a student and now a teacher. And I consider you to be one of my best teachers. You are respected by both staff and pupils alike.' Miss Crawford picked up a plate of biscuits and offered one to Verity. Verity smiled but shook her head in refusal.
'My dear,' she said, after putting the plate back on the table, 'you are five and twenty years. Young. Too young to consign yourself to a life cloistered behind these walls.'
Verity said nothing. She just continued to follow the path of a speck of dust that was making its convoluted journey through a shaft of light. 'I have had a letter from an old pupil, Helen Mansfield. Do you remember her? She was in her senior year when you joined the school.'
Verity shook her head. The name sounded familiar, but she could not remember her clearly. 'Anyway, Helen went to Brussels, before war broke out in Spain, to work in a local school. A few years ago, she married a fellow teacher from a nearby boys' school, and they have set up their establishment. Since peace has been restored in Europe, and the travel embargo has been lifted, many English families are now travelling to the continent. And Brussels is proving to be a popular destination. As a result, her school has been inundated with enquiries.
Miss Crawford took her cup and saucer from the table and took another sip of tea, 'she has written to me, requesting that I recommend English teachers that would be willing to teach in her school for a year.'
'I do not know,' Verity mumbled, 'I do not think...'
'Before you dismiss this request, let me speak.' Miss Crawford looked at Verity, with one of her withering stares. 'I can think of no one, on my staff, who is better qualified for this task than you. Your French is excellent, and you can teach a wide variety of subjects.'
'Have you asked Miss Sellars? She would be much more suited to this task.' Verity answered.
'Nonsense! Anyway, Celia is far too old. No, out of all my teachers, you are the one I would recommend.'
'What if there is any news about Cassie?' Verity said, quietly, 'do you not think I should stay here just in case?'
'It has been nearly a year since Cassie disappeared,' Miss Crawford said, with concern, gently leaning over to touch her arm. 'Since the accident, there has been no news of her. Your brother's solicitors were quite sure she died that night.'
Verity nodded, 'I know, but...'
'Verity, my dear,' Miss Crawford said, using her given name once more. 'It is mainly for that reason I want you to go. You are still grieving for your sister; therefore, you must put the past behind you. And I know that you cannot do that here. I believe a change of scene will help you no end.'
Verity nodded, 'perhaps you are right. I will think about it.'
'Good,' Miss Crawford said, emphatically, 'give me your answer by the end of the week.'
Verity was troubled when she left Miss Crawford's study, and over the next week, she hardly slept. She rarely thought of anything else, only Miss Crawford's proposal. Even when she was teaching, Miss Crawford's words echoed around in her mind, giving her little peace. Some of the girls noticed her introspection, and, of course, took full advantage of their distracted teacher.
Verity had mixed feelings about relocating to Brussels. But perhaps, she thought that the change would do her a world of good. As Miss Crawford pointed out, her sister, Cassie, had been gone for nearly a year. What could she do for her, staying here in England?
After she had first heard the news, of her sister's disappearance, she had thought there must have been a mistake. She had been informed, by her brother's solicitor, that there had been an accident involving the stagecoach Cassie had been travelling into Scotland. But, her body was never found. From the start, Verity was suspicious about whether her sister had even been on that stagecoach. Even though her trunk had been found at the scene, none of the other passengers seemed to remember her. Verity often thought that her absent-minded sister might have made a mistake and got onto the wrong stage. It was well known that Cassie was prone to daydream, and Verity could understand that this was entirely plausible. However, it did not explain why she never arrived in Scotland to take up her position as a governess, or why she had never contacted her sister.
What if, during the accident, Cassie had lost her memory and wandered away from the wreckage? That would have explained why her body had never been found at the scene, even though her trunk was discovered amongst all the other passengers' luggage.
A week had now passed since her initial meeting with Miss Crawford. Instead of bright sunshine, rain pelted down, persistently drumming on the window panes. Even though the two women exchanged pleasantries, there was again an awkward atmosphere between them. Miss Crawford's eagerness to enquire after Verity's future, was quashed by her ever-present need for etiquette. The monotonous patter of rain only seemed to stretch out the silences and make them appear even longer than they were. It was Verity, who eventually answered the question that Miss Crawford was too polite to answer. 'I have made up my mind. I will go.'
The dower look, for which she was famous, vanished and was replaced by a warm smile. 'Good, I am glad,' she said, taking in a deep breath, 'this will do you a world of good. Now we can discuss your travel arrangements.'
'When will I depart?' Verity asked, thinking that she would have at least a month to prepare.
'As soon as possible, my dear,' Miss Crawford, replied, 'how about the end of this week?'
'Oh,' said Verity, still a little shocked at the speed of her departure. 'How will I get there?'
'Do not worry. I have all the preparations in hand.' Miss Crawford said, excitement evident in her voice. It was as though she had always known that Verity would accept the position. 'You will not go alone. Maisie Jones will accompany you.'
Maisie was a young teacher, who also worked as a teacher at the school. Miss Crawford had taken her in when she was ten years old and had provided her with a good education. Maisie, though not at all academic, had shown a natural ability with all types of needlework and lacemaking. Over the years, with expert tutelage, she had become very skilled. Once she had turned seventeen, just two years ago, Miss Crawford had offered her a position at the school to teach needlework.
'Helen also requested a teacher who could teach practical skills, and I can think of no one better than Maisie. I fear that she is limited here in England. Due to her past, she will never be able to find a position equal to her abilities. But abroad, where they are less familiar with our old scandals, she will be able to progress in her career.'
Verity smiled. She liked Maisie. She had the gift of being able to cheer anyone up, no matter how bad you felt. Over the past two years, they had become good friends. 'Yes,' she said, 'I would like to travel with Maisie.'
Chapter 10
The journey to Brussels had been long and arduous and plagued with problems from the beginning. It all started to go wrong when the stagecoach to London had broken a wheel. Therefore, the two women had to spend several nights in a rather unpleasant inn until the necessary repairs had been undertaken. Once they had eventually arrived in London all the stagecoaches, going to Dover, were full. Verity soon discovered that two plain looking women, wearing drab blue dresses, did not get priority over the more ostentatiously dressed passengers. If it had not been for Maisie, consistently standing up for them, they would have been stranded in London for longer.
Maisie was indeed marvellous. There had been many occasions when Verity did not know what she would have done if she had been travelling on her own. Although Maisie was much shorter than Verity, the top of her head barely reached Verity's shoulders, what she lacked in stature, she made up for with personality. Verity was continually amazed at her travelling companion, as she stood up for them time and time again. She spoke with an authority that made even the surliest of men quake in their boots.
Unfortunately, when they eventually arrived in Dover, inclement weather had suspended all crossings; and they were again at the mercy of their circumstances. Once the storm had cleared, and sailing began again, they still found it difficult to find a passage across the channel. Once more, they were ignored and forgotten. It was Maisie, unhappy that she had repeatedly been ignored, who managed, at last, to get them their tickets.
After nearly a month of travel, they finally arrived at the school in Brussels. They shared a small room, only just big enough for two small single beds and a table that doubled up as a desk. Madame DuPont, formally Miss Mansfield, had apologised for the size of the room and had assured them that it would be a temporary arrangement. The room was not a problem for Verity. As well as enjoying Maisie's company, it overlooked the school's courtyard garden. Verity would spend her free time gazing out of the window, observing the changing seasons, never growing tired of the view.
It was now the beginning of April, six months after she had first arrived at the school and they were still sharing the same bedchamber. Her teaching duties over for the day, Verity hung her head out of the window to observe the plants, which were now proudly displaying their flowers. The brightly coloured blossoms were competing to attract large bumble bees, which made their drunken path from one pool of nectar to another. The whitewashed walls were beginning to come alive with numerous climbing plants. She observed the unpredictable nature of their winding paths, as their green tendrils encroached across the yet unoccupied chalky walls.
She was interrupted by Maisie, joining her at the window. 'It is beautiful,' Maisie said thoughtfully, after studying the courtyard, 'I was told there was nothing that could rival the beauty of an English spring day, but I think they must have been mistaken.' She took a deep breath and sighed, 'can you smell those sweet spring flowers. If only I could bottle it and sell it.'
