CHAPTER SEVEN #3
Verena found herself laughing and crying at once, seizing the maid’s hands and holding them in a clasp that spoke her gratitude more eloquently than any words. “Oh, Betsey, what should we do without you?”
“That’s more than I know, Miss Verena. But there. We’ll share our little secrets — you with yours and me with mine, and the mistress none the wiser, eh?”
A huge sigh escaped Verena. “You have lifted a load from my mind, Betsey.”
Betsey grunted. “I’m glad of that, and I wish I could do the same for meself. The truth is, Miss Verena, I’m that worrited that she’s thinking of going back.”
Verena patted her hand. “Let her think of it. I won’t let her go back, Betsey. She cannot do so without us, in any event. No, that does not concern me.”
“Well, what then? Something worrits you, don’t tell me.”
Verena grimaced. “I cannot rid myself of the conviction that Adam is bound to give us away —”
“Now then, Miss Verena —”
“Oh, he does not mean to do it, I know that. But dearly as I value my brother, I cannot persuade myself that his tongue can be trusted. You know his temper, Betsey.”
“Aye, I do that. But his care of his mama is strong, don’t doubt it.”
“Yes, I know, only — oh, Betsey, don’t you think we should remove from here?”
It would solve everything, Verena felt. Especially if Mama was considering a return. With the added strain of appearing in a much larger public with the season in full swing here, she would give much to be otherwhere. Not to mention the new nuisance that had reared its head this day.
But the maid was firm. “No, I don’t, Miss Verena. The mistress is better, for all you may not think it.”
“I know she is. Better in body at least.”
“And mind, too. I’d say she enjoys the company. Why, even now she has that there Mrs Felpham come to call.”
Aghast, Verena leapt up from the bed. “Mrs Felpham! Oh, Betsey, why did you not say so at once? Heaven knows what she might have said to her!”
Her fears were well-founded. Dashing through to the next room, she discovered that Mrs Felpham had but just departed — leaving behind her a creature agonised by what she had been told.
Mrs Peverill was half collapsing on the day-bed, agitatedly fingering her gown, her eyes darting aimlessly until the instant that they spied her daughter. She threw out a hand at once.
“Oh, my dearest, I knew this must happen! Have I not said over and over again that you must seek your own future?”
“Mama, pray hush,” begged Verena, crossing to the day-bed to take her hand, and sitting down beside her.
“How can I hush, Verena?” uttered the afflicted lady. “You need not try to hide it from me, for Mrs Felpham has told me all.”
“Mama, there is no ‘all’ to tell,” Verena said, trying for a light note. “Mrs Felpham is, as you are aware, the most dreadful gossip.”
But Mrs Peverill would have none of this. “Do not attempt to hoodwink me, Verena. You do not even ask me what she has said to me, and that in itself shows there is some fire within this smoke. You know what she has said, do you not? Do you not, my love?”
Verena managed an indifferent shrug, although she was feeling far from indifferent.
Readily could she have murdered Mrs Felpham.
But to convince Mama, she must maintain the easiest of tongues on the matter.
However much it might be that the wretched man had cut up her peace, it would not do for Mama to have the least hint of that.
“There can be little doubt that she has made a song and dance about the arrival here of Mr Hawkeridge.”
Mrs Peverill nodded. “Yes, and that he instantly sought you out.”
“Yes, for we met at Christmas, remember. It would have been impolite of him not to do so.”
“Impolite? My darling, that is false modesty, when you know very well that a young man of rank and fashion must have a cogent reason for visiting such a place as this.”
This was the fell hand of Mrs Felpham. Such an idea would never have occurred to Mama without a prior suggestion. But Verena saw how it could be deflected.
“Why, so he has,” she agreed. She managed an amused laugh. “Mama, have you forgotten the exciting event in the Ruishtons’ life? He has come to greet their new daughter, of course.”
She saw doubt burgeon in her mother’s face. It had been his own explanation, and Verena saw no reason to disbelieve him — even had she wanted to, which she did not. If Mama could be brought to believe it, so much the better. She pressed her advantage.
“According to Unice, her husband and Mr Hawkeridge have been inseparable from youth. Though, for my part, it is evident that this ‘young man of rank and fashion’ did not care to miss any part of the season, and has only come here — belatedly, one might think — at a time when no other amusements offer.”
Mrs Peverill’s face fell. “Oh, Verena, I was in such hopes that he might have taken a fancy to you.”
“Well, hope it no longer, Mama,” Verena advised, thinking how much more for herself it was of fear, than of hope. “Besides, you know very well that I have no desire to be courted by any man.”
Her mother gripped her fingers. “You say it for my sake, Verena. But if chance offers, I beg you, my dearest, do not hesitate. Take instant advantage of such an opportunity. Fall in love. Seize what happiness might be open to you.”
Verena commanded herself to produce a scornful laugh at this, but she could not. Why, she was at a loss to imagine. She had not changed her views about “love”. Certainly not for the sake of Mr Denzell Hawkeridge. As for happiness — that was quite beyond her expectations.
She was, she hoped, a realist. Life must be taken for what it was, even should that prove to be one’s present unaccountable misery. One did not bay for the moon.
“Well, let us not go over all that again, Mama,” she said with an air of calm that she was far from feeling. “Besides, I have been thinking lately that it may well be in our best interests to remove from here.”
“Remove from Tunbridge Wells?” cried Mrs Peverill, releasing her daughter’s hands. “Oh, Verena, must we?”
Verena eyed her, her attention caught. “Why, Mama? Are you so fond of the place?”
“No, no, but —”
“But you wish to keep me where I may yet fall victim to some eligible gentleman, is that it?”
Mrs Peverill fidgeted with the petticoats of her gown of French lawn in her favoured lilac shade, looking conscious. “Not only that, dearest. Adam —”
Verena pressed the hand she still held. “I know, Mama. But that is just my reason. I love Adam dearly, as I know you do, and I don’t wish to part you from him. But I am sorry to be obliged to confess that I don’t trust him.”
“That is a horrid thing to say, Verena,” protested Mrs Peverill, snatching her hand away.
“Yes, I know. But it is the truth.”
Angry colour suffused the elder lady’s cheeks. “I don’t know how you can be so unkind about your own brother. He would not dream of betraying me.”
“Not when he is sober, no,” agreed Verena.
Her mother gasped. “How can you, Verena?”
“Very easily, Mama. In that respect, Adam is proving altogether too much like his father.”
Mrs Peverill burst into tears.
In the midst of an entertainment that should have gladdened even his jaded senses, Denzell was brooding.
An impromptu ball had replaced the usual Friday night assembly.
It was being held on the dry clean grass of Potter’s Green, beside Burlington House below the Grove, and had been greeted with enthusiasm by the Wellsians.
Flaring torches were placed about the green, and ringing the area marked out for dancing.
Although in the bright summer evening they were hardly needed, they gave a pleasant glow to the scene as dusk began to fall around nine o’clock.
But Denzell, attired for the occasion in the russet coat and embroidered apricot waistcoat on a cream ground that he had acquired for Teresa’s wedding, but worn over satin breeches of his usual black, watched with a jaundiced eye the gay abandon with which the dancers executed the various figures.
He found himself unable to enter into the spirit of the event.
“Not dancing, Mr Hawkeridge?” enquired a now familiar voice.
Stupid woman, Obviously he was not dancing. “Later, perhaps.”
Mrs Felpham sighed. “So difficult to attach dear Miss Chaceley for a dance, is it not?”
Touched on the raw, Denzell could have hit her. He forced a smile to his lips. “Miss Chaceley is always much sought after.”
He was rescued by Sir John Frinton, who came up behind them and surprised Mrs Felpham by slipping his arm through hers. “My dear lady, I protest you have neglected me shamefully this night. Come along and tell me all the gossip. You will excuse us, Hawkeridge?”
Denzell threw him a grateful look. There was nothing he wished less at this moment than to discuss his lack of that particular partner.
Not that it was merely his inability to secure a dance with Verena which was driving him into unaccustomed ill temper, though that was bad enough.
The formality of engaging beforehand for the country dances which constituted the evening’s programme had been dispensed with, but every time Denzell thought to make an approach, he had been forestalled by others.
Whether this was by Verena’s design, he could not tell.
It was all of a piece with the rest of it.
Yet why had she taken against him? She did not dislike him, of that he was certain.
She could not have spoken so easily with him that first day if such had been the case.
Since then, however, for the best part of the week since his arrival here, she had not allowed him near her.
Every time he had approached her, whether it be in the Upper Rooms, on the Pantiles, or at the theatre where Mrs Baker’s company were now to be seen, so Unice had told him, two or three times each week, he had been permitted a bare exchange of greetings and that was all.
She would make some excuse — and the devil take his wits if they were not excuses — and move away.