CHAPTER TWO #4
Mrs Felpham was waiting for her answer, a look of such comical anticipation in her face that Verena must have laughed had she not been so disappointed.
Disappointed? Well, she had as well admit to it.
It had been flattering to be the recipient of such strong attentions.
To hear now that it was but a prelude to a practical campaign could only drop Mr Hawkeridge in her estimation.
“I think,” she said, “that any woman who is taken in by such blatant posturings must be a complete fool.”
Damped, Mrs Felpham was silenced for a moment. But she rallied. “Then I have only to say, Miss Chaceley, that London is full of a great many fools.”
Verena permitted herself a faint smile. “In that case I must be happy that I have no place there, Mrs Felpham.”
She left the widow dissatisfied, she thought, but herself secure in the knowledge that her words would be carried through the town as swiftly as possible, so that none would be able to suppose her to be falling under the spell of Mr Hawkeridge.
It would rather be the gentleman himself they would watch, waiting to see his failure with the woman whom no one in the spa town had as yet succeeded in touching.
Hurrying home, Verena resolved she would remain aloof, nevertheless. She might be disenchanted, but she already knew herself to be vulnerable to him, and she had seen too much of Mama’s sapped strength not to suspect her own.
She was able to maintain her resolution for several days, Mama offering her the best excuse possible by her current bout of weakness.
They did not attend Sunday service at the King Charles Chapel, and Verena caught herself out wondering whether Mr Hawkeridge had missed her, instead of she being compelled — according to Mrs Felpham — to miss him.
Furious at herself for even this slight show of interest in the man, she spent Monday at her bureau in the parlour, handling overdue accounts and some belated correspondence with the lawyer who had charge of Grandpapa Whicham’s trust fund, to which she owed her present independence.
It was Mrs Peverill who undid her daughter’s best laid plans not to appear in sight of the flirtatious Mr Hawkeridge.
Having spent Monday resting contentedly on the day-bed, reading one of Miss Burney’s romances borrowed from the circulating library, she greeted Verena as she came to breakfast on Tuesday morning with what was, for her, a deal of enthusiasm.
“Dearest, I am feeling much more myself today. I should so much like it if we were to go down to the Rooms tonight. Do you not feel we might enjoy keeping company for a change?”
Denzell, happening to be deep in conversation with Sir John Frinton, did not see Verena and her mother enter the room. But a sudden break in the old man’s attention alerted him.
“Ah, there she is at last,” uttered Sir John on a note of satisfaction. “Would that I were forty years younger.”
Turning to follow the direction of the old man’s gaze, Denzell at once espied Verena, and his breath caught. If she had been beautiful in a brown pelisse and a ribbon-trimmed bonnet, she was ravishing in full dress.
An open robe of white muslin with a low pleated bodice, sleeved to the elbow with beaded trimming covering the long gloves of York tan, was worn over a dull yellow petticoat.
The shade perfectly complimented the honeyed tresses, simply dressed with a ribbon-bandeau threaded through so that one or two curling locks fell across her white breast. A fairy princess, truly.
Staring in wonder, Denzell became aware of a sense of hushed expectancy pervading the room. It held a moment, and then broke, as every male in the place seemed to converge upon Miss Verena Chaceley.
Denzell did not move. With difficulty, he brought his gaze to bear upon the woman standing by Verena’s side.
The resemblance was plain, although the mother — there could be no doubt of her identity — was but a pale echo of the daughter, a waif-like creature in violet silk.
She was of slighter stature, seeming so frail that she might break.
Before the various gentlemen could reach her, he watched Verena turn to her mother, solicitously drawing her towards a chair by the fire. Then she was engulfed and he could no longer see her plainly.
“Well?” came Osmond’s probing voice at his side. “What are you doing standing there? You will never make any headway if you do not thrust your way into the mêlée.”
“What, and make one of a crowd?” said Denzell with scorn, turning his head. “You know me better than that.”
Both gentlemen were suitably attired for the occasion, Osmond in his favourite purple, while Denzell once again sported the claret suit with its black silk accoutrements.
Osmond had his attention on the area by the fire where the portly Mr Cumberland and the wheezing Mr Yorke were vying with a number of other gentlemen who tried, regardless of the proprieties of rank or station, to be first with Miss Chaceley.
It was Sir John, Denzell saw, who succeeded in procuring her smile, however, for he was so adroit as to set the chosen chair for Mrs Peverill, thus evidently earning the beauty’s gratitude.
The little circle widened as Miss Chaceley herself took a seat, enabling Denzell to watch her as she turned, from one to another gentleman in turn, to answer whatever sallies they might be making.
“I cannot see that she favours any one above another,” he observed in a pleased tone.
“Told you so. She always metes out exactly the same treatment to all — just as she did to you.”
“For pity’s sake, what is she made of, ice? Or is she just soulless?”
Osmond grinned at him. “Love dying already, eh?”
Denzell shook his head. “Growing, Ossie. I tell you, I am intrigued past any bearing. I swear to you, she was so vital, so alive. This is — well, I don’t know what this is, but I can see that it is apt to drive me insane.”
“You’re piqued, Hawk, that’s all. Too used to having your own way in these matters, and you can’t abide to lose.”
Denzell looked round at him. “Is it that? Did I imagine it, then?”
Osmond raised his brows. “Taking this a mite seriously, ain’t you, Hawk?”
“Am I?”
“Come on, man. What is it to you, barring a trifle of fun and gig? You’re as bad as Unice, laying some fanciful notion of your own on the girl’s head. Face it. She’s a handsome piece, but cold. That’s all there is to it.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Denzell with decision. “I know what I saw. She’s acting — wearing some kind of public mask. Only look at her. How could any woman remain indifferent, being so feted and fawned over? It’s unheard of.”
“It don’t sit well, I must admit,” mused Osmond. “What do you mean to do, then, if you won’t join the throng?”
Denzell grinned. “Draw her attention, of course.”
“Ha! Playing that game, eh? A bow and a smile, and not a word said, in the hopes you’ll pique her vanity. It won’t work.”
“You’ve tried it, of course,” returned Denzell on a sarcastic note.
“No, but I’ve seen you at it. I know you, Hawk. But I’m telling you. This time it won’t work.”
Denzell remained unconvinced. If he was right, if Verena Chaceley was presenting a facade to the world, then it was incumbent upon him to find a chink in her armour.
He bided his time, waiting until the crowd about her thinned a little, giving meanwhile his attention to the elegant Sir John Frinton — blue silk tonight with silver lace at his waistcoat — who, having paid his respects to the beauty, wandered close by apparently for the sole purpose of twitting his junior slyly.
“Do you believe her to be aware of your absence, my dear young friend?”
Denzell cocked an eyebrow. “By ‘her’ you mean…?”
“Come, come, Hawkeridge, do you take me for a fool?”
“No, sir,” said Denzell, laughing. “But I’m damned if I know how —”
“I should imagine the whole room must know how, my dear boy,” chided Sir John.
He added, as Denzell, looking rather startled, glanced round, “No, no, you will not find them advertising their interest. But if you do not wish the world to know where your interests lie, then you must become more master of your eyes, my friend.”
“Chaste stars, but how can I?”
Sir John’s smile grew. “She is very beautiful.”
“In this case, sir, I find the word inadequate.”
“But it is a surface beauty,” continued the elder man. “Or don’t you think so?”
Denzell met his eyes, a frown in his own. Was he being quizzed? Had Sir John also seen beyond the veil of that polite serenity?
“I don’t, sir,” he said bluntly. “And I mean to seek what there may be beneath it.”
A soft laugh came from the aged exquisite. “I wish you well. Though the odds, I fear, are against you.”
“I care nothing for the odds, as long as it is not Miss Chaceley who is against me,” retorted Denzell, grinning.
Sir John glanced across to where Verena could be seen listening with an air of attention to Mr Cumberland’s ponderous speechifying. “I imagine you must inevitably receive a welcome if you were to rescue her from our poet, poor girl.”
But Denzell had no intention of rescuing Verena Chaceley.
He had quite other plans in mind. When at last he moved in her direction, he did not look at her, but kept his gaze on Mrs Peverill instead, who had risen from her chair and was weaving a slow path through the room, chatting with a number of acquaintances.
As he passed close to where Verena still remained seated, with now both Cumberland and Martin Yorke vying for her attention, Denzell paused in his way, turned his head and looked her full in the face quite suddenly.
She caught his eye, and blinked, but her features did not alter. Denzell gave her his most dazzling smile and nodded a greeting. She gave him a slight inclination of the head. Before she could turn away again, Denzell averted his own gaze and continued on his way.
He had reached the circle containing Mrs Peverill before he dared to glance back to see how his treatment of Miss Chaceley might have affected her.
Deuce take it, but she looked quite unconcerned!
The statuesque vision was speaking to Mr Yorke, her gaze concentrated upon the old man. Piqued, Denzell turned to greet the mother with an excess of enthusiastic charm.
“May I introduce myself, Mrs Peverill? Denzell Hawkeridge. I am staying with the Ruishtons. I was fortunate enough to meet your daughter a few days since.”
Pasty features looked up at him, gaunt and shadowed. The woman was shockingly ill. Frail, too, if he was any judge. But she answered him readily enough.
“You have met Verena? She said nothing of it to me.” A smile came, echoing the look he originally saw in Verena’s face. “I have heard of you, Mr Hawkeridge, if only tonight. One does, you know. So few newcomers in a place like this. Not that we are…”
Her voice faded, and she seemed to sway a little. Denzell put out a hand, catching at her arm to steady her. “May I see you to a chair, Mrs Peverill?”
But the Master of Ceremonies, Mr Tyson, bustled up. He was a dapper gentleman of middle years, with a respectful manner that diminished a trifle the air of self-importance that he assumed from his position in the town. This, his attitude seemed to say, was peculiarly his own task.
“Mrs Peverill, allow me. You should be keeping your bed, ma’am.” He shook his head at Denzell, including him even as he ousted him from the lady’s side. “She is not in the best of health, not at all.”
Tucking the lady’s hand into his proffered arm, Richard Tyson guided her towards one of the sofas that were ranged about the sides of the room, chattering as he went.
Denzell watched them go, and then glanced back at Verena.
She did not appear to have so much as moved a muscle.
She had not even noticed! Perhaps Osmond had indeed gauged her correctly.
Such an apparent carelessness of her sickly parent argued a lack of feeling, as well as a cold heart.