After she heard Neil leave the room, Verity turned on her back and stared at the ceiling. She was not sleeping. She could not sleep.

And she did not, until dawn began to seep greyishly through the sky, and birds began to sing. Some few hours later, she was woken by a knock at her door. Neil.

"Verity," he said softly. "I'm leaving in an hour. Are you awake?"

For a moment, she froze, horror stricken in bed. She could not forget the sight she had seen last night.

"Don't come in," she said haltingly. "Don't."

And before he could, she fumbled her way out of bed and twisted the key in the lock.

"Verity? What's wrong? Let me in – please."

"No!"

"Verity? What on earth is wrong – please, I must speak with you. I cannot leave before I speak to you."

"I'm tired," she snapped. "I don't want to talk." And she was tired. The betrayal she had witnessed and the sleepless night that had come of it seemed to have leached the energy from her bones. She sagged against the door, and slid down it until she was sitting on the floor in her nightdress, her hands still clinging to the doorknob. After a moment, they too dropped lifelessly to her knees.

"My carriage leaves in an hour! Verity, please, tell me what is wrong."

And then, because she thought he might never be quiet if she didn't, she said bitterly, "I saw you kiss Jane last night."

From outside the door there was silence for a moment.

"It was a goodbye kiss," he said flatly. "I don't believe I will ever see her again. I'm sorry. I should never have done so."

"It's just," Verity said bitterly, "That I never expected you to fall in love with me. You are no longer capable of love, aren't you? That is what you once told me. I think you believed it. But I wonder now if you are capable of it – but not with me. And if you are... I must be in your way. And I should apologise. But I cannot."

"Verity – no. That's not true. It's my fault. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please, let me in so I can apologize properly."

"I'm tired," she repeated. "I want to go to bed."

She knew, at that moment, that she could not bear to see his face. Outside the door, he swore softly.

"Verity – Verity, come with me to France. I can't leave you like this."

"We are not married, Sir," Verity said archly. "It would be improper."

"Damn impropriety! Verity – I must talk to you. For god's sake, open the door. It was just a kiss – a foul kiss – and I will regret it every moment of my life. Let me see you, please."

"No."

He went away then. But he came back, an hour later, when she had managed to crawl back into bed.

"Verity, please, please let me see you before I go. Please. We can't say goodbye like this."

Verity, lying flat on her bed, staring at the ceiling, saw the plaster fresco blur with tears.

"I'm tired, Neil. Let me sleep."

"For god's sake – open the door. There's something I must tell you before I go – many things. But I can't do this through a wooden door. I can't."

"It cannot be urgent," Verity said dully. "You can write me a letter from France. I feel tired. And ill. I do not wish to converse with you."

She heard a thump. She rather thought it was forehead, and not his fist, against the door.

"Good bye, Verity. I will miss you every day."

"Good bye," she whispered. And knowing he could not have head it, repeated, louder, "Good bye."

His footsteps left the door. A minute later, the front door slammed shut in the wind. She threw herself suddenly out of bed, and raced to the window in time to see him climbing into the carriage.

She watched it down the drive, her heart thumping wildly. Every impulse in her body, suddenly, was to run after it, to call him back, to beg him to take her with him.

Then it disappeared from view, beyond the wall of evergreens that lined the drive. She slumped back against the window seat. It took a long time for her racing heart to slow.

* * *

In the carriage, Neil was not idle. He had a book of Italian verse resting on his knee, and used it as a desk for the letters he had to write. The first was to Jane Walthrope. It was also the shortest.

Mrs Walthrope, he wrote, with no salutation,

I am writing you this letter because I fear our conversation last night may have left you with some questions still resting as regards to the status of our acquaintance. I find I must make absolutely clear my feelings and regard for you. Once upon a time, I considered you my friend. Having grown up together, you were almost closer to me than my own sister. However last night, I found I was deceived in almost every measure of my approximation of your character. Deceived, and greatly pained.

There can be no further acquaintance between us. You have damaged me in a manner that can never be repaired, damaged me, and my wife. My house, my heart, will be forever be closed against you. It is clear that what I believed to be friendship was to you nothing more than one of your complicated games. I had prided myself on being one of the few people to rise above your generally misanthropic estimation of the human species. I can see now I was wrong. I doubt such a person exists.

Perhaps it was wrong of me to write such a thing. Perhaps there are men and women for whom you have genuine feeling. But it is clear, at the least, that I cannot be one of them, and in light of that, as well as the great ills you have done me in recent months, I can only ask that you take measures to avoid my society in future, and inform you that I shall be taking measures of my own, to avoid yours.

He signed it, again without salutation, for to write his regards would be absolutely false at that present time. Then, putting it aside to wait for the ink to dry, he turned his attention to the other letter. This one took him longer. There were many pauses, many crossings out, and even swearing, when at one point he upset the ink bottle over his knee. It was only finished as they drew into Portsmouth, and the ink still too wet for the letter to be folded. He slipped it into the pages of the book, and folding the letter to Mrs Walthrope, addressed it with only her name.

"George," he said, when he got down from the carriage, "You'll give this letter to Mrs Walthrope on your return tomorrow – and this one, give this to Mrs – Miss Baker."

The driver took the folded letter and the book and nodded. "Very good, Sir."

He fulfilled his duty. The next day, as Neil's boat was out in the channel, struggling in a bitter and driving wind, the faithful George delivered first the letter to Mrs Walthrope, who received it with a pale face, and a suspicion of what was in it. Then, he gave the book to Perkins, as he helped to stable the horses and put away the carriage.

"The master said to give this to Miss Baker."

The arrogant Perkins did his duty too, and took the book to Miss Baker in her sitting room.

"Mr Armiger said to give this to you."

She took the book, and stared puzzled at its cover. The Italian title was incomprehensible to her. She flipped briefly through its pages. But Neil had written on both sides of the paper in his desperation to say what could never be said through the panels of a locked door, and spilled many ink blots beside. The ink had dried, and in drying, had stuck the letter between the two leafs of paper on either side of it. Verity flipped past it unknowingly.

"I suppose he was done reading it, and wanted me to put it away," she said.

And so she put it away, in the drawer that held all his Italian things, and the one green dress of his wife's that he still could not bear to part with.

The letter remained unknown and unread, and in the events of the days that followed, she forgot about the book all together.

* * *

It was some four nights later that another letter arrived by express at midnight. This one was not from Neil. It was from the company that ran the ship from Portsmouth to Brest. The housekeeper got to the door first, and in the absence of the master of the house, fetched Perkins. It was Perkins who read the letter, self-importantly and improperly, as it was addressed to The Honourable Mrs Armiger. Having read it, he lost for one moment his air of self-importance, and demanded of the housekeeper to go fetch Miss Baker.

Verity was fetched, eyes half-lidded with sleepiness. The letter was given to her with an expression that chilled her soul and forced her eyes wide open.

"What is it?" she asked, hardly daring to look at it.

"The ship has gone down. Mr Armiger's ship."

Frantically, Verity read the letter. In shock, only choice words jumped out at her:

Survivors. Rescue. Efforts. Tragedy.

She had to sit down and focus before her mind stop shaking and jumping enough to read it properly.

The ship had gone down in a violent storm near the coast of France. Efforts were being made to rescue any survivors. There were survivors. News would be relayed immediately to the ship office at Portsmouth. From there, they would reach families individually.

"I must go to Porstmouth at once," Verity said. Though her hands shook, her voice was perfectly steady. "Tonight – no. The men will be sleeping. Tomorrow morning, first thing, I must go."

"Madam," Perkins said hesitatingly, "You have no one to go with you, and you are not to call yourself his wife any more."

"I shall go myself – no. I shall write to his brother. And then I shall go myself. The letter is addressed to a Mrs Armiger. The ship company shall not know I am not his wife. Even if they did, I would insist on knowing all they have to tell." She folded the letter, her hands still shaking. "I must know if he is one of the survivors – or..." She could not voice the possibility.

As always practical in a crisis, a talent honed by years of living with a man who manufactured crises for himself and his family on almost daily basis, she clamped down on the darkest possibilities present in her mind and vanquished them. There was nothing to be done but what could be done, and she would do it.

She wrote the letter that night, and sent it the next morning, before she herself took the journey to Portsmouth. For several days, she waited at the inn, presenting herself every morning to the office as Mr Armiger's wife. News continued to come in from France. The ship had gone down in the harbour. Many of those onboard had been rescued. Names and details were still being collected in France, the names and details of both the dead and the living.

At the end of the week, Richard Armiger arrived in Portsmouth to await the news also. He called on Verity at her inn to thank her for sending the letter. She received him coldly.

"It was only right."

"I have not told the company you are not his wife."

"That too is only right."

He looked ashamed, but only for a moment. He rose, and bowed, leaning heavily on his stick, and left without apology or goodbye. Verity watched him go with relief.

He did not call on her again, not even two days later, when the company informed her at last that Neil could not be found. He was neither among the rescued and living, nor among the dead washed up on the shore. He was drowned, and vanished under the unforgiving weight of the ocean.

~~~~

A/N: This marks the end of Part Three. Please don't kill me, guys?

Also I've added a hashtag Wattys2016 to this piece. I don't know exactly what a Wattys is, but I love me a competition.