CHAPTER FOUR #4
She stopped dead. He saw her shoulders stiffen under the blue velvet and her head come up. Very slowly, she turned a little, glancing back at his face. Denzell took a step or two towards her.
“Do you fear me so much?” he said quietly.
At that she turned to face him, the polite mask struggling a little. “What should I fear?”
He did not hesitate. “My amorous intentions.”
Verena’s pulses were running riot, and she was hard put to it to maintain her calm.
No man had dared to address her so openly.
Nay, to challenge her. How should she answer him?
But that was obvious. With equal candour, if she was going to match him on his own terms. She forced herself to speak in the best imitation she could summon up of her usual style.
“I have no interest, Mr Hawkeridge, in the flirtatious games you appear to enjoy. Have I not made that clear?”
“Abundantly, Miss Chaceley.” He smiled. “Yet I only wish for your better acquaintance. Is that so wrong?”
To her own consternation, Verena found herself discomposed by this question. It was wrong. Wrong for her. She did not wish to become better acquainted. But any hint of that must make her vulnerable in his eyes. “Not — wrong.”
“Merely unacceptable.”
“No!” Dear heaven, why must he make these disconcerting remarks? It was so typical of the man, all of a piece with this habit he was forming of coming upon her unexpectedly.
Denzell moved to one side of the fireplace and set a chair for her. “Won’t you sit down?”
Feeling somewhat dazed, Verena did so. She was beginning to wish she had not allowed that provocative remark to call her back. She should have pretended not to hear it.
To her further inward confusion — though she trusted that her well-trained countenance did not betray her — Mr Hawkeridge did not himself take a seat near her, but remained standing to one side of the mantel, leaning his elbow thereon, and watching her steadily, his glance playing over her face and up to the golden crown which she had dragged up tonight into a chignon, banded in blue velvet, a knot of ringlets falling behind.
She had no idea how it gave her features a piquancy that belied the steel shell of her control.
There was a silence of some moments’ duration, during which Verena pleaded with the blood in her veins not to build a blush in her cheek. But it was Denzell who gave a self-conscious laugh.
“What am I to say to you, Miss Chaceley? Having succeeded in capturing you thus, I find myself at a loss for a subject.”
Amused despite herself, Verena looked up with an involuntary — and very natural — smile. Denzell caught his breath. That was the look. Oh, the warmth of her when she forgot the need to hide her feelings.
To his intense disappointment, it was gone again in a second. Damn this infernal mask! But she was speaking, the control more secure now.
“In that case, Mr Hawkeridge, I will introduce one myself. How long do you intend to remain in this vicinity?”
Now why ask him that? “I shall have to go soon. I am expected home for Christmas.” Dared he? After all, he had dared so far and she was still sitting here. “Why do you wish to know? So that you may put a limit to the extent of my importunities?”
Again her countenance relaxed. Almost she laughed out, he thought. But all too quickly she had buried it again, once more politeness itself. “I am sure Wellsian society will be sorry to see you go.”
“Will you?”
Damnation! He had not meant to say that. But a fleeting look of consternation rewarded him in spite of the slip. She was rattled by the question. He was willing to wager she would not acknowledge as much in words, however. Nor did she; she did not even answer it.
“It looks as if you will be fortunate in the weather for your journey.”
“Ah, the weather,” he murmured. “How safe a topic.”
Verena choked on a laugh. Really, this man was impossible. How unfair of him it was to attack her with humour in this unscrupulous way. It was so much more difficult to maintain one’s countenance against laughter than against anger or pain. She gathered her skirts, making ready to rise.
“Don’t go!”
But Verena was on her feet. “My mother will be wondering what has become of me.”
“No, she won’t. She is far too busy parading your brother around for the world to gawp at.”
Back it all came in a rush. Too fast for Verena’s now lax control.
Denzell glimpsed the distress before she could fully resume the mask, and cursed himself.
What in the world had possessed him to bring that up?
Deuce take it, how careful one needed to be with this girl.
He saw her preparing to depart, and knew he had lost her for now.
The oddest sensation attacked him. He wanted to seize her hand and forcibly prevent her leaving him.
“Excuse me, Mr Hawkeridge.”
He bowed, watching her go as the strange feeling began to recede.
What in the devil’s name was the matter with him?
He had managed to hold her for a moment or two, succeeding, if not in probing beneath the mysterious facade, at least in cracking it a little.
What was there in that to make him experience an intense sense of loss?
All at once he got it. It was like a reversal of his own tactic. The closer she kept her secrets, the more intrigued he became. He almost laughed at his own simplicity, becoming confused because he was caught in the self-same trap he was wont to use on women.
But Miss Chaceley was a honeyed trap. Not only beautiful, but with depths that just begged to be explored.
As he followed her back to the other room, he was waylaid by Mrs Felpham, the eager eyes, under another preposterously feathered turban, scanning his features and casting glances to where Verena was re-joining the circle about her mother.
“Mr Hawkeridge, I am so happy to have caught you. How do you find Miss Chaceley enjoys her brother’s company?”
There could be no doubt that she had seen him conversing with Verena next door. Then let him give her something to chatter about. “Do you know, ma’am, I forgot to ask. We had other matters to discuss.”
Her eyes popped. “Do not tell me you are succeeding!”
“In entertaining you, ma’am? Oh, I hope so.”
She coloured at his sarcasm, and excused herself. Denzell found Sir John Frinton, resplendent as ever in grey and salmon, at his elbow.
“You cannot believe you have silenced her thus, my young friend.”
“The woman is impossible!”
“And so am I,” said Sir John, twinkling.
Denzell grinned. “I don’t mind your probing, sir.”
“Just as well. I take it you have not abandoned all hope?”
“Far from it.” He watched Verena’s polite serenity circling the room. Involuntarily he added, “Osmond thinks she is lovelorn.”
“Lovelorn? No!” came Sir John’s voice without hesitation. “A woman in that condition is all too susceptible — to rebound affections, you know.”
Denzell was conscious of a sighing away of unnamed anxiety. He looked round, asking abruptly, “Then you do not still think I am wasting my time, sir?”
Sir John raised his brows. “How will my opinion serve you, my dear boy? You will take your own road despite it, and so you should.”
“I don’t know that,” Denzell said, still with a crease between his brows. “There is something here. If not an amour, then — I don’t know. She is beyond my experience, Sir John. I am at a loss.”
The old man’s lips were thin with age, but the smile on them widened a moment. “I know. I find it excessively amusing.”
“I am happy to afford you and Mrs Felpham entertainment,” Denzell said with heavy irony.
“No, you are not, and who shall blame you?”
Then the powdered and painted features became serious all at once, and Denzell felt a hand tucked into his arm, and a murmur close to his ear.
“One word only, my young friend. There is a fragility of which you may not be aware. Take care, in your enthusiasm for the chase, that the vessel does not break.”
The next moment, the old man was gone from his side, leaving Denzell staring after him in a good deal of perplexity.
Verena had not intended to visit Unice Ruishton again while Mr Hawkeridge was staying at her home.
But Adam’s constant presence in her own parlour afforded her so much inner agitation that she found herself seeking some excuse to go out.
He had adhered to his promise, speaking to Mama neither of Nathaniel’s depressed state nor of a possible return, but it was Monday already, and he was still in Tunbridge Wells.
It seemed as if Mama could not let him go.
A fresh fall of snow on Saturday had provided a legitimate excuse to delay his departure, and of course Mama could not think of him travelling on Sunday, and they had all gone down to the chapel for the service.
But worse than this, Mama was asking all manner of questions, and it appeared to Verena’s jaundiced ear that there was far too much gossipy news from home.
The Fittleworth circle had apparently accepted the story that Mrs Peverill and Verena had gone away for the former’s health, but it was clear from Adam’s discourse that many had guessed the real reason behind the unprecedented departure.
That was bad enough. But the eager note in Mama’s voice as she sought news of her friends and neighbours, the wealth of detail she demanded about the affairs of her household, were like tiny pinpricks in Verena’s tender spot.
Could Mama ever be happy away from all she knew?
Adam had made his opinion of their present living conditions clear enough.
Verena had rescued her from a life of tortured misery, but how little she had to offer beyond sheer survival.
At last she could stand it no longer, and rose from her chair, forcing a smile. “Mama, I will leave you with Adam for a little.”
Mrs Peverill looked up, a trifle conscience-stricken. “My dearest, forgive us. We have been talking so hard, and forgetting all about you.”
“Oh, she don’t mind,” said Adam with a grin. “Do you, Verena? After all, you have had Mama all to yourself these three months.”
“But you must not feel yourself driven out, dearest,” urged Mrs Peverill, throwing out a remorseful hand.
“Nothing of the sort,” objected Verena. “I am only too glad that Adam can keep you company, Mama. It happens that I have something that I must —” thinking fast and seizing at random the first idea that came into her head — “I have been meaning to call and see how Mrs Ruishton does. She has so few female friends of her own age here, and —”
“That is like you, Verena,” said her mother, “to wish to befriend her.”
Verena disclaimed, feeling something of a fraud, but she took comfort from the fact that Mama was satisfied. Even enthusiastic.
“Such a friendly soul she is. It must be good for you also, dearest. You are far too much with me. Yes, go, Verena. Spend the morning there, if you will.”
There was nothing for it after that, but to carry through the plan, although a full morning was scarcely in question. She might put Mrs Ruishton out. Besides…
Heavens, could it be only now, when she was already stepping across the drive towards the trees that bounded the square patch of ground between the two houses, that she remembered Denzell Hawkeridge?
She hesitated, conscious of an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of her stomach.
A whole morning? Oh dear, no. Not with that danger to face.
But perhaps he would not be there, she thought hopefully, moving on again.
And if he were, what was it to her? Nothing at all, if only he did not take her visit for encouragement.
Denzell Hawkeridge, she now knew, had an arsenal of weapons to trap the unwary woman — and laughter not the least of them.
But she was on her guard against him. He would not worm his way under the hard carapace of her armour.
But when she was admitted into the green saloon of the Ruishton home, she found only Unice, busily embroidering a garment for the forthcoming infant.
Conscious of a most unwelcome sense of disappointment, Verena greeted her in her usual polite company fashion and took a place beside her on the sofa. “I am sorry that I have not been to visit you for some little time, Mrs Ruishton.”
Unice smiled. “Why in the world should you be sorry, Miss Chaceley? You owe me no special observance.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Verena, relaxing just a little of her stern self-command. Her smile contained more warmth than she usually permitted herself. “But it occurs to me that we must be the only two women in the town under five and thirty, and —”
“Five and thirty?” echoed Unice, bursting into laughter. “I defy you to find another under five and fifty.”
Verena was betrayed into a laugh. “You may be right.”
Unice reached out an impulsive hand and laid it on Verena’s arm. “I am so very happy that you came. I wish you will do so more often.”
“If you wish it. Though it may not always be possible to remain for long.”
“Your mama. Of course, she has great need of you.”
This was a little too near the bone for Verena, and she changed the subject, asking after Unice’s health and the progress of her two boys.
She was relieved when her hostess launched into these matters with enthusiasm, for she was able to listen with only half an ear, while keeping a wary eye on the door.
She did not dare to enquire after Mr Hawkeridge, for that would imply an interest that she was far from advertising — far from feeling, she corrected herself.
She remained a little over half an hour, rising to leave when Unice ran down, apologising for boring on about her offspring in a way that her visitor must find tedious. On a sudden impulse, Verena dropped her mask for a moment, a smile flitting across her face.
“Never mind it, Mrs Ruishton. I shall feel free to retaliate one day, and you may hear instead the tedious ramblings of an offspring about her mother.”
Unice laughed, reflecting that perhaps Denzell was right, after all. There was warmth within the shell.
But Verena was on the move, anxious to go before he should make an appearance.
She made a rather hasty farewell and left the house in somewhat of a hurry.
She could not imagine what had possessed her to allow her mask to slip — to Unice Ruishton of all people.
Might she not be depended upon to encourage Mr Hawkeridge to suppose that she could be beguiled into … into what? Flirtation? No!
But the conviction that Denzell Hawkeridge, left to his own devices, might well beguile her into something, remained with her as she took a route beside the house and into the ground behind, stepping between the icy patches of what remained of the last snowfall.
She had gone only a short way when the unmistakable sound of running footsteps halted her. Turning, she beheld the man himself, chasing through the back garden, his feet crunching as he came.
Heavens! He was coming after her.