CHAPTER SEVEN #2
“Miss Chaceley, you look the picture of mischief.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. Tell me at once what it is in your mind.”
Verena bubbled over. “It — it is just that Betsey — my maid, you know — had warned Unice that girls are much more difficult to bring up than boys, so Unice has vowed she will pass this trouble on to Osmond. Although,” she added as he began to laugh, “Julia is so angelic that I cannot conceive of there ever being a necessity for her to do so.”
“Really, as a fellow male, I feel I ought to warn Ossie of what is in the wind,” he said, resuming their walk.
“You may safely do so,” Verena agreed, moving with him and smiling. “Unice has already told him, but she swears he thought she was jesting.”
He was silent for a moment or two, aware all at once of the extraordinary nature of this interchange.
She was so normal, so pleasant and amiable.
The mask had been dropped. Sudden anxiety attacked him.
How long would she remain thus open to him?
What might he not say that could turn her in an instant into the effigy that so depressed him?
The fear kept him silent for a space, but it did not appear that Verena felt the absence of talk.
In fact, she was feeling so relaxed that she scarcely noticed how unguarded she was.
The companionable nature of this short interlude was so comfortable that she had quite forgotten the dangers.
Indeed, she had forgotten everything — all the stresses of her life, the fears, wiped out by the unprecedented materialisation of Mr Denzell Hawkeridge.
“That must be why you have come,” she guessed after a space, still thinking of the new Ruishton baby.
“Why I have come?” repeated Denzell, startled for a moment by the question.
“To Tunbridge Wells, I mean. Have you not come to see the baby? Or, no. Gentlemen have little interest in such matters.”
Denzell pulled himself together. This was dangerous ground. He could scarcely dare to say that he had come because of Verena herself.
“Ah, but Osmond and Unice are very particular friends of mine, and Felix is my godson. I came, if you want the truth, to gratify them with a show of interest.”
“That was well done of you, Mr Hawkeridge,” she exclaimed.
Denzell had the grace to feel ashamed. He grimaced.
“I have scant interest in babies, I admit, but I have been very much amused at Osmond’s doting fondness. And I cannot but be delighted to see Unice so radiant — thanks, I believe, in no small measure to your good offices.”
“Nonsense. I was only too glad to be of service. It was —” She paused, remembering those extravagant and wild visions involving this very image that walked beside her now. But it would not do to falter. Drawing a breath, she began again. “It was an experience I would not have missed for a fortune.”
“I dare say you regretted that your mama was not well enough to have attended with you. I believe all women wish for their elder female relatives on such occasions.”
For a moment he did not realise his own slip. But the silence that greeted this statement grew oppressive. Glancing down, he saw that the mask had been resumed. Verena barely glanced at him as, disengaging her hand, she took a step away.
“I must thank you for a very pleasant walk, Mr Hawkeridge, but it is time that I was returning to the Rooms.” With which she turned on her heel, and walked away.
Desolate, Denzell gazed after her. Her mother. That was what made her turn. Not a lost love. Then what was it? In the name of God, what devil’s work was it that had created this impregnable shield?
Sitting on her bed, Verena listened with only half an ear to Betsey’s long-winded report. There was nothing in it that she did not already know, and besides, she had so much more to think about. Specifically, her encounter with Mr Hawkeridge this morning, and that fatal reference to Mama.
Reality had come flooding back. With it, a cursing sweep of self-abuse.
How could she have been so stupid? How tamely had she fallen to his guile.
What had possessed her to allow him under her guard so readily?
She had caught herself enjoying his company.
So much so that she had slipped, almost unknowing, into her natural guise, allowing him to believe — what?
What must he believe? What might he not assume, from this, about her possible interest in him?
She was not interested. Far from it. It had been shock alone that had given her that painful jolt on hearing the sound of his voice — when she had believed him to be miles away.
Small wonder she had felt sick. And then he had spoken to her with almost as great a sense of indifference as that she had herself feigned.
She had been glad of that, of course she had.
Even though she had been obliged to sneak away, afraid every second that someone might stop her, for she knew that her control was gone.
And then he must needs approach her again.
Insidiously using some clever tactic that soothed the tumult he had raised, so that she lowered her barriers all unknowing and gave him heaven knew what advantages.
Then he had mentioned Mama, jerking her back to remembrance, to everything she knew of men, and the disastrous consequences of allowing them the smallest degree of power.
Fool! Unheeding fool!
“Miss Verena, are you listening to me?”
With a start, Verena brought Betsey’s face back into focus. The maid was eyeing her, grimly suspicious.
Verena reached out and clasped her fingers. “Oh, Betsey, forgive me. I’m afraid I was miles away.”
“No need to tell me that, Miss Verena. I’ve eyes in my head, you know.”
Verena grimaced. “Don’t scold, pray.”
Betsey looked her over, and then plonked down on the bed beside her. “What’s amiss?” she asked bluntly. “Apart from the usual, that is.”
“Isn’t the usual bad enough?”
“That will do, that will,” said Betsey. “I’ve just been giving you an account of the mistress, and you’ve confessed to having your head in the clouds, Miss Verena. So don’t you give me none of that. What’s happened to put you all in a pother?”
Verena sighed. “I am being foolish, that is all.”
Betsey’s eyes narrowed. “You won’t fob me off, Miss Verena, so don’t think it. He’s back, is he?”
Startled, Verena gaped at her. “Who?”
“Never you mind asking who. You know well enough who. You don’t reckon there’s anything goes on in this town as I don’t hear about, do you? Specially as it concerns you or the mistress.”
Verena’s heart sank. There could be no doubting what Betsey meant. “Mrs Quirk!”
“The same.”
“What has she said? Why didn’t you mention it before? Oh, Betsey, for the love of heaven, say nothing — not a word — to Mama, I pray you.”
“Never you fret, Miss Verena,” soothed the maid. “You don’t reckon as how I’d open me mouth to the mistress on a matter so delicate.”
But Verena was not impressed. If she had been concerned before, she was now anxious beyond measure.
She knew well that the maid had her interests at heart almost as deeply as did Mama, and she had often enough lamented the self-same thing that Mama was apt to do — the lack in her life of a husband and children.
“Betsey, she must not know! Not that there is anything to know, but if Mama were to hear of this interest, there is no saying what she might not take it into her head to do. You must promise me you will say nothing.”
“I’ve said so already, Miss Verena. You don’t need to tell me. I know the sort of riot and rumpus she’ll kick up if she thinks you have a suitor. And with the way she’s been carrying on lately…”
Suddenly intent, Verena gazed at her. Yes, Betsey had been talking, and she had failed to take it in.
She had not listened, because she was herself aware of some progress.
Mama was like a convalescent invalid these days.
She had improved in physical strength, seeming to need less time at rest. But as that strength grew, so her spirits seemed to gain, not in joy, but in anxiety.
She was restless and fidgety, and much inclined to bemoan their sedentary life here, remembering too often the activities in which she had been engaged at home.
It was worrying enough, but what had she missed that Betsey had said?
“What are you trying to tell me, Betsey?”
“Well, I didn’t want to worrit you, Miss Verena, so I haven’t said nothing,” said the maid bodingly.
“But the truth is I don’t like it, and that’s a fact.
What with the mistress getting to remembering what she calls ‘the good times’, though I’m danged — if you’ll pardon me, Miss Verena — which times she could call to mind, for I can’t. And not that alone, neither.”
“Heavens, but what more, Betsey?” asked Verena, anguished. How could she have been so selfish as to be troubling herself over Mr Hawkeridge when Mama was hovering on the brink of just what she feared?
“Well, you know as how ever since Mr Adam come the first time, the mistress has been sighing over losing her home and her friends —”
“Yes, I know — and Adam has been here again how many times? Three?”
“Four, counting the last. And the worst of it is, Miss Verena, that every time he comes, she’s at that bottle as if her life depended on it.”
“The laudanum! Dear heaven, why did you not tell me this before? That is just what I have been afraid of, that she will become dependent upon the stuff. I have heard it said that those who take it too often find themselves obliged to do so more and more. Oh, Betsey, what shall we do?”
“Do? I’ve done it,” declared the maid. “Don’t you fret, Miss Verena.
There ain’t no harm going to come to the mistress, no matter if she drinks the whole bottle down in one go.
” Betsey grinned at the startled question in Verena’s face.
“Nothing but sugar water, Miss Verena. I always sweetened it for her when she was drinking the real thing for she complained of its bitterness, so she don’t know the difference. ”