“Your tray should be ready in a moment. Is there anything I can do before I retrieve it?”
Verity let her go, choosing to do her toilette and study the scenery outside her window for a long minute. Last night felt like a blurry painting with details she couldn’t quite make out at the moment. She hoped it would all come together soon; it felt important that she do something. That something had to happen.
After all, Tristan knows he cannot avoid me forever. We need to speak about last night. About his past and our future. I want a future with him.
She thought about their kiss. Her fingertips trailed over her lips, never having known what it could feel like. A quiet moment, hidden away from the rest of the world, just for her and him.
She liked the notion. But would Tristan use that as an excuse that nothing happened?
As she sorted out a plan, she ate her breakfast and then dressed in her favorite morning gown. As she brushed a curl from her face, her maid went to her bedside.
“Your Grace, should I leave your parcel here?”
“Hm?” Verity twisted around, confused, before remembering the package she had received last night. “Oh! Can you bring it here, please? I… I need to tend to a matter.”
“I’ll bring out your writing desk and leave you to it,” her maid promised and handed over the small package.
Verity studied her mail once more. She looked for any sign of familiarity but found nothing. She fiddled with the string that bound the package together, imagining she could somehow know from whence this all came.
I suppose I only will once I open it.
As she brought out her sharp letter opener, adorned with poppy flowers on the handle, Verity felt dread settle low in her stomach. The myth of Pandora and her box suddenly came to mind.
This package could very well bode ill for her. It felt too strange, too dangerous.
“Your Grace? Is there anything more I can do for you?”
Verity jerked her head up and flushed, realizing she was scaring herself over nothing. She managed to smile while telling her maid that all was well and that she needed some time alone.
And once she was alone, she cut the string.
Late morning light shone through the nearby windows as she set the letter opener down alongside the torn string. She put the package on her lap. Telling herself that nothing awful would happen, Verity knew she should probably go back to bed and think this through. A morning in the garden would surely help.
Someone brought this in the dead of night and the middle of a storm. Surely, its contents are very important. I shouldn’t have ignored them last night. I have a duty as a duchess, don’t I?
With a deep breath, she unfolded the binding paper to find what appeared to be several folded papers. She noted the slightly darker hue of all of them except for the top one—the least crinkled and touched. Frowning, she read the short message that no longer offered titles or niceties.
I thought that you, as his new wife, should see the truth for yourself. For your own sake.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Verity asked quietly, uncertain whether she wished to know an answer.
She stared at the message for a long moment, reading and rereading it for some clue.
The paper was thick and of good quality. Starch white, with dark ink curled neatly in handsome letters. Someone of note had written her this message, whatever it might mean. She thoughtthat might have offered some comfort, but her stomach twisted as she set the note aside to see what else was included in the parcel.
“Letters,” she mused, unsurprised.
When she lifted one to the light, she indeed saw the rosy hue. The faint scent of roses wafted in the air when she moved it.
Good paper, once again. Beautiful hand and fine ink. But this paper, along with the rest, had been folded many times over what must have been an extended period.
Then, she noted that only one side of the papers, once unfolded, had an uneven cut. She felt along the edge and flinched when she received a paper cut.
A drop of blood pooled on her fingertip. Frowning, Verity cleaned her finger neatly with a handkerchief before returning to the papers she had left in their original order.
“Not letters. Perhaps they are from a journal,” she murmured.
The anticipation was growing by the second.
