CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
Verena gazed at him in dumb wretchedness for a moment. Then, in a helpless, pathetic sort of way, she said, “What shall I do? I don’t know what to do.”
Unice got up and came over to her. “Poor Verena. You need do nothing, I am sure. Osmond and Denzell will take over this investigation. You will stay here with me.”
But Denzell was frowning in thought. “Wait a moment! Verena, has your mama taken all her things?”
Verena gazed at him. “I — don’t know.”
“You said she left the house in her bonnet and cloak, but carrying nothing else.”
“It did not occur to me to look.”
Denzell smiled. “You jumped to a very natural conclusion, but perhaps there is some simpler explanation.”
Her hands went up to her temples again. “What other explanation could there be?”
“I don’t know that,” he admitted, “and to tell the truth my head is none too clear just now. But it does occur to me that if she had intended to go home, she must have taken her clothes. And in all conscience, do you believe that your Mama would use you in such a way after all you have done for her?”
Verena blinked at him. That aspect had not even crossed her mind.
Something came back to her. Had not Mama said that she would not leave without letting Verena know of it?
Yes, she had. Was she allowing her own dread fears to overcome her common sense?
She no longer knew. She looked from one enquiring face to another, and came back to Denzell’s concerned features.
“You make me seem foolish.”
“Not in the least,” he said. “You have every reason to be troubled by this matter, and it is no surprise to me that you should have allowed yourself to become panic-stricken at such an unprecedented absence.”
Verena sighed. “Well — thank you for that. But now … I don’t know what to think any more.”
Unice had reseated herself, but she leaned forward. “Verena, do you indeed think — should it be the case that your mama has gone back — do you indeed think your stepfather will misuse her again? Will not your brother prevent it?”
“He would if he were by,” Verena answered, her face clouding over again. “But you see, he is unlikely to be present on these occasions. Besides —” twisting her fingers in her lap and looking down — “we have been neither of us in the habit of interfering.”
The bitter inflection twisted Denzell’s heart, and he reached out to cover her unquiet hands. It was Osmond who answered her, indignant.
“Dash it, you were only children! How could you interfere?”
A trifle shamefaced, Verena glanced up at him. “It was not childhood that prevented it, Osmond. It was fear.”
“I knew it!” Denzell uttered, gripping her hands. “He had hurt you, too, hadn’t he?”
Verena’s eyes came round to his face. “On the one occasion. I should have been warned, for Adam had attempted it now and then and suffered Nathaniel’s vengeance.”
Denzell’s blood was up at the very thought of what she might say. Yet he persisted, for he felt her need to relate the tale, to relieve her heart.
“What happened to you?”
Her fingers tightened in his grasp. “I think I was about twelve. I could not endure it all at once, and I ran into the room and tried to stop him. I remember I hit at his chest. Mama shrieked at me to stop, but Nathaniel snatched up his whip — he had but a few moments before come in from riding and thrown it down on the bed —”
“Don’t tell me he used his whip on you?” uttered Unice, aghast.
Verena nodded. “But I received only two or three blows, I think. For Mama threw me down and lay on top of me and — and took the blows herself.”
Her voice shook, and her eyes pricked at the memory.
The others were silent, but the movement of Denzell’s fingers on hers eloquently spoke his feelings.
Her glance, as she looked at him, was luminous with unshed tears, pleading for understanding in a matter for which she had suffered years of pointless guilt.
“Mama made me promise — afterwards — that I would never do so again. She said she had rather suffer ten times the torture than see me hurt.”
“Which is why you are willing to sacrifice your own life on her behalf,” Denzell guessed.
“More than that.” She gritted her teeth. “I would have taken his life, if I could.”
“Surely not!” protested Unice.
“Pooh!” scoffed Osmond. “You delude yourself.”
“No, she does not,” Denzell cut in. He remembered her words of the previous day, that she had wished to scar his wicked “love” upon Nathaniel’s person, and he knew she was speaking nothing but the truth. He picked up her hand and held it between both his own, asking, “Did you try?”
Verena nodded, and the hatred gleamed in her eyes. “Once. I took his pistol. I loaded and primed it — Adam had taught me how. I did it with the utmost deliberation, and then hid it under my pillow. In the night, I went into his room and held the pistol to his head where he was sleeping.”
“And?” Denzell prompted.
“I cocked it.” She let out a short, despairing sigh. “But I had not the courage to pull the trigger.”
Denzell lifted her hand and held it to his cheek a moment. “You are a woman of infinite courage, and I love you deeply.”
Her eyes filled, and Denzell leaned towards her. But before he could speak, there was another flurry of activity at the rear door to the house. This time Mayberry was pipped at the post and Betsey lumbered out onto the lawn.
Verena saw her, and rose, Denzell beside her. “Betsey, what news?”
“You’re to come home, Miss Verena,” announced the maid tersely. “The mistress is there, and —”
“Mama is at home? Oh, thank heaven!”
Verena sank in relief, falling against Denzell as of instinct. He caught her, steadying her with one arm about her shoulders. But his attention was back on the maid.
“She had not gone away, then?” he asked.
“No, sir. She’s all in a pother, howsomever, and I’m to take Miss Verena back straight.”
“But where had she gone?” demanded Verena, recovering again and taking in the suppressed air of excitement that hung about her trusty maidservant.
“What’s to do, Betsey?”
Betsey threw her eyes to heaven. “Oh, deary me. I was told off to keep my mouth shut, but I’m danged if I can, Miss Verena. The mistress has a gentleman with her.”
Both Ruishtons cried out at this, and Denzell frowned as Verena’s countenance blanched.
“Not Peverill?” he rapped out.
“Not he,” said Betsey, on a note of scorn. “Two of ’em, there are, in fact.”
“But who is it, Betsey?” Verena demanded, catching a little of the maid’s mood. “For the love of heaven, tell me!”
“Come, Miss Betsey,” added Denzell, “has she not borne enough suspense already this day?”
Betsey looked her young mistress up and down, and made up her mind. She nodded in a determined way.
“That’s right enough, sir. Well then, my dove, I’d not add to your troubles, but you’d best brace yourself.”
Unable to stand any more, Verena seized her wrist.
“Who, Betsey? Who is it?”
“The mistress says as how it’s him as was papa to your own father, Miss Verena. It’s your grandfather Chaceley.”
The two visitors seemed to dwarf the little parlour. As of right, old Mr Chaceley occupied the prominent position before the fireplace, his stiff figure, immaculately suited in plum-coloured cloth, fronting his granddaughter in an attitude of defiant pride that was mirrored in Verena’s own pose.
To one side, a kindlier look in the features that ran appraisingly over his niece, stood Bevis Chaceley, discreet in a dark blue frock-coat and buff breeches. He was taller than his sire, larger in every aspect, but the dominating charisma of the old man cast the son into the shade.
A somewhat flustered Mrs Peverill had performed the introductions, seizing on Verena the instant she entered the room, Denzell hard on her heels, and drawing her forward.
“My daughter, Verena. She has a great look of Lambert, don’t you find? My love, this is your grandfather.”
Verena stood mute, staring at the old man, taking in the prideful arrogance that emanated from his very posture, and the hard eyes that raked her from her head to her heels.
“Make your curtsy, Verena,” hissed Mrs Peverill.
But Verena barely heard her. So this was the man who had cast off his son for marrying Mama. Oh, she could readily believe it. A surge of resentment flooded her breast, and flashed in her eyes.
Old man Chaceley’s brows rose. “Looking daggers, eh? Don’t think I’ll answer to a chit of a girl for my actions, for I won’t.”
Old habits died hard. Suddenly aware of her own reaction, Verena donned her mask. She dropped a curtsy, demurely lowering her eyes. “How do you do, sir?” she murmured.
Her grandfather looked somewhat taken aback, and Denzell, an interested observer, was obliged to suppress a grin. Chaceley had a deal to learn of his granddaughter.
Bevis Chaceley stepped into the breach, coming forward and holding out a hand, reassurance and kindness in both smile and voice.
“We are delighted to meet you at last, my dear child. I am your uncle Bevis, and I am bound to agree that your mother is in the right of it. You are very like my poor young brother, as I remember him.” He had covered the hand she gave him with both his own, and he pressed it.
“He must have been more or less your own age, you know, when I saw him last. I can vouch for it he would have been enchanted with you.”
Verena softened, smiling in genuine gratitude. “You are very kind, sir, and I thank you.”
Bevis shook his head, releasing her hand. “No, no, no, my dear child. If you must thank anyone, let it be young Denzell here.”
“Denzell!” exclaimed Verena, turning to look at him as Bevis Chaceley moved to shake hands with him.
“Glad to see you, my boy,” said the elder man, smiling. “And we thank you for bringing the matter to our attention.”
“I am only glad it has resulted in your presence here, sir,” Denzell said, “although that was scarcely my intention at the time.”
“But I don’t understand,” Verena said.