CHAPTER NINE
Verena had slept a little better than she had these last few nights.
More from exhaustion than anything else.
She had felt dreadful on waking, her head thick and heavy, her bones weary.
But remembrance of what she was waiting for had soon driven all that away — just as it had every morning since Adam had come with his hideous news.
She had calculated the probabilities, counting days.
Nathaniel would come by coach, and he would not have travelled on Sunday.
He must have started out a day or two after Adam, and the coach would necessarily make slower progress, for Adam, dependent on speed, had left the gig at home and ridden post. She had waited at home none the less, although she thought she could reckon on two to three days, four at the most.
But time was up. He must arrive today.
She was riding on nervous energy, but she was aware only of the necessity to remain alert, to be ready for the moment that must tax every ounce of her strength.
Mama had gone out with Adam, although neither he nor Verena had been able to persuade her to join the expedition to High Rocks. Verena know not whether to be glad of the new determination that showed how Mama had altered, or sorry for it, since she now wished to face Nathaniel herself.
“When all is said and done, Verena, he is still my husband, to whom I am vowed before God,” she had stated with a dignity that became her.
“If you wonder that I am not afraid of him, then I reply that I am afraid. But this respite has given me courage, Verena, and that I owe to you. I am persuaded he will not attempt to do me harm in this place, and therefore I will see him.”
Nothing Verena could do or say served to move her from this standpoint, and it had filled Verena with a dread that swept from her mind everything but this.
She had succeeded in extracting a promise from Adam to keep Mama away from the lodging for as long as possible, to give her opportunity to make her own warnings to Nathaniel before he could get to Mama.
Pacing the little parlour, attired against the expected visit in a round gown of pale yellow muslin demurely buttoned high over the bosom, with a standing ruff edged with lace and sleeves to the wrist, her hair partly covered by a small mob-cap, she waited, rehearsing in her head all the things she meant to say to Nathaniel.
Yet when the door knocker sounded downstairs, her mind froze as still as her body. She stood like a statue, facing the door, in a listening attitude, hearing the clump of Betsey’s footsteps going down the stairs.
Her heartbeat began to thud in her own ears as the sound of a male voice smote them, along with Betsey’s murmurs. Double thumps now, two sets of feet ascending the stairs.
A plea sang in her head: Heaven give me strength! Her pulse quickened even more painfully, and she braced herself as the door swung open.
“A visitor, Miss Verena,” said Betsey, and Denzell Hawkeridge walked into the room, easy in buckskins and top-boots, and a frock-coat of olive green, a toning waistcoat beneath in a lighter hue.
For an instant, Verena stared at him, bewilderment in her brain. Then a wash of relief hit her, dizzyingly, and she took several steps backwards towards the bureau, grasping swiftly at the back of the chair before it.
“Miss Chaceley, are you ill?” came Denzell’s concerned tones, as he moved quickly forward.
But Betsey was before him, one hand about her charge’s waist in an instant, supporting her drooping form, and clucking her concern. “There, my dove, now don’t you go swooning on me. Here, quick, sit in the chair.”
But Verena was already recovering. She pushed the maid away. “No, no, Betsey, I am all right. It was only — I thought it was he.”
“So did I,” agreed the maid, adding in an under-voice, “I thought you might as well see the gentleman, Miss Verena. It’ll take your mind off it for a little.”
Verena looked across at Denzell, standing in the middle of the room and regarding her with a good deal of concern. Without thinking, she smiled at him.
“I beg your pardon, Mr Hawkeridge. I was expecting…”
She petered out as the memory of their last meeting came back to her, the things she had said to him, and subsequently restated to Unice — and given herself away into the bargain. Had he discovered it all from his hostess?
There was no telling any of this from his face. He was returning the smile, a twinkle coming into his eye. “I am glad to discover it is not I who had such an effect upon you. I should be afraid to walk into any room in which you might be present, had that been the case.”
That drew a spurt of laughter from her, and some of her consciousness eased. Betsey, a somewhat grim smile curling her lips, released the hold she still had on Verena’s arm, and moved to the door.
“I’ll warn you, Miss Verena, when it’s the master.”
Verena nodded, watching as Betsey left the room, very properly leaving the door partially ajar behind her.
Denzell took a step or two towards her. “Don’t you think you should sit down for a moment?”
“To tell the truth, I am still a trifle shaky,” she agreed, moving to seat herself in the chair.
Denzell came up and perched on the corner of the day-bed, his eyes never leaving her face.
He could not doubt but that she was waiting to receive this man Peverill, but he was reluctant to make any further reference to that.
He dared not show his own new knowledge.
For one thing, it would mean betraying Adam’s inadvertent confidences, which could not please his sister.
For another, he did not wish to embarrass her by making it obvious Unice had told him all that had been spoken between them in this very room.
Yet he must refer to their last encounter. He could not begin to make amends unless he first cleared that hurdle.
Verena was no longer looking at him. Her beautiful countenance was calmer, but her fingers were clasped together in her lap, and their nervous movement told its own tale.
Only this time, Denzell did not make the mistake of setting it down to his own account.
There was clearly a good deal else on her mind today.
“Miss Chaceley — Verena —” he began, and paused as her gaze came up to his again on the use of her given name.
Such haunted shadows in her eyes! Involuntarily, he threw out a hand, saying, “Have no fear. I have not come to distress you with unwanted attentions, nor to plead my cause against your express prohibition. I have come only to apologise for my conduct the other night.”
Verena bit her lip. He had come to apologise? And what of her conduct? Well she knew she had given him cause both for anger and confusion. She had treated him so unkindly — and after behaving in a manner that must have encouraged him to believe her willing. Oh, that kiss!
“Denzell —” she began impulsively, and then broke off, recollecting herself. “I mean, Mr Hawkeridge —”
“Ah, no,” he exclaimed out of the instant warmth that had invaded his breast at her use of his name. “Let us, I pray you, drop formality.” He leaned forward a little, holding out his hand. “Can we not at least cry friends, Verena?”
Verena looked at his outstretched hand, then up to his face, and a rush of tenderness engulfed her.
Her eyes filled and she put out her fingers towards his, unaware of how her own quivered.
Denzell clasped them, bowed his head, kissed the tips of her fingers, and then let them go.
They tingled as Verena returned them to her lap, lacing them into her other hand.
She could not look at him, and her voice was low.
“You are — very kind. I am aware that I behaved — I may have led you to believe —”
She stopped, drawing a strengthening breath, and grateful he did not seek to interrupt her faltering speech. Dredging up from somewhere the remnants of her shielding mask, she composed herself and looked up at him again.
“Denzell, I accept your apology, and I hope in turn you will accept mine. I did not conduct myself in the manner of a lady in receipt of such a very flattering declaration.”
No, that was too much, Denzell decided. He broke in.
“You did nothing for which you need reproach yourself. Mine is the blame.” He stood up.
“I will not importune you further, but I beg you to believe that, now and always, if there is some way in which I can serve you, you may command me in anything.”
Verena rose, holding out her hands. “Oh no, no. You deserve of me better than that. If we are to be friends, then don’t speak of service.
Friends are not to be beholden to one another.
They —” She broke off, turning her head away, and dragging out of his grasp the hands he had so willingly received into his hold.
“What is it?” he said at once, seeing the warmth in her face instantly overlaid with fear.
She did not answer, but ran to the window in the bay and peered down. Denzell followed and saw below that a travelling carriage was drawing up outside the front door. Verena seized his arm in a fierce grip.
“Denzell, you must go. Dear heaven, but I knew he would come this day!”
Still looking down, Denzell saw a middle-aged man descend, dressed for the road in a light greatcoat, his hat in his hand, and stand looking about him with grim eyes in a hollow face with an unmistakable resemblance to the boy Adam.
The man moved to the door, and next instant they could hear the knocking downstairs.
Denzell laid his hand over Verena’s which still clutched his arm. “This is what you have been home for these few days, is it not? You have been waiting for this man. He is the cause of all your fears, is he not, Verena?”
“Ask me no questions, Denzell, but go, I beg of you,” she uttered, her tone frenzied. “I must meet him alone.”
He plucked her hand from his sleeve and held it fast. “Verena, I have serious misgivings about leaving you to face this man on your own.”