“What do you mean, Unice?”
“She went to see Mrs Felpham that day you met her.”
“And?”
Unice sighed. “She made it very clear, so Mrs Felpham says, that she was not going to succumb to your charms.”
“So that is why she has been invisible.”
“And,” pursued Unice, “Verena must have intended that Mrs Felpham would see to it that the whole town knows.”
“Ha!” uttered her husband. “Spiked your guns, Hawk.”
“Has she indeed?” said Denzell softly.
Once more he looked over at Verena. She appeared to be listening to what Sir John was saying, if not intently — for who could tell what lay behind that expressionless face? — at least with her full attention.
Then, miraculously, as if she felt Denzell’s regard, her head tilted very slightly his way, her lashes flickered and by some trick of the candlelight that brightened the room from two modest chandeliers, he caught a flash from her eyes. It was over so quickly that he almost thought he must have been mistaken. Intent, he continued to survey her, quite forgetting that he had not meant to show her any further attention tonight.
Then her hand suddenly came up and her fingers brushed at her hair, slid down her cheek, hovered at her lips, and were returned to her lap.
Triumph leapt in Denzell’s chest. What a giveaway! A slow grin split his face. So Miss Chaceley was not as indifferent to him as she would have him believe.
Verena, quite as aware as he of the ruinous nature of the slip, was inwardly cursing herself. To all outward appearances, she was listening with interest while Sir John talked of indifferent things. But within, she seethed.
What a stupid blunder. How could she have given way to such an obvious gesture of self-consciousness? Her position had not altered, but she was quite able to see Mr Hawkeridge grinning in that fatuous way. How silly to have allowed herself to become flustered by the conviction that he was talking about her. Now he would know that shehadnoticed him. There was all her work of the evening gone for nothing.
It was infuriating. How hard she had tried since coming to this town. How difficult it had been, day after day, guarding her every expression, maintaining an iron composure that deflected all efforts to penetrate beneath her cool surface. It had been so much simpler at home.
A picture flashed into her mind. Herself a very mouse, quiet and still in a corner, all her concentration on remaining unnoticed — by Nathaniel. She could see him now, those hooded orbs passing indifferently over her, to her relief. Outwardly obedient she had ever been, showing nothing of the rage and defiance that burned in her breast.
Yet it had been much easier to maintain that front, she decided, the image fading out of her inner vision, than to hold this one. For here so many sought to probe where they scented mystery.
To fail at this moment! Oh, she could weep with frustration. She did not want his interest. She did not want his attentions. All her concentration had been on making him see that. Surely to heaven Mrs Felpham must have done her work? And all to be ruined by one instant’s failure.
She caught herself up. What in the world was the matter with her? Why should she be so overset at having made one insignificant gesture? It could have been insignificant, could it not? He might choose to think otherwise, but she would speedily show him that he had misinterpreted the moment — even if he had not. All she had to do was resume her pose of indifference.
Pose? What nonsense was this? Shewasindifferent. She could not be so vulnerable that she could be set in a whirl by one man’s charm. Could she? If that was the case, then there was only one thing to do. Remove from his vicinity forthwith, and stay aloof for the future.
Without seeming to move, she flicked a look towards her mother, widening the area of her vision. It was brief, but comprehensive, enabling her to take in that Denzell Hawkeridge was still keeping her under observation. She noted also that Mama, still seated in the sofa where she had been led, but now conversing with an elderly couple, was looking distinctly peaky.
She interrupted Sir John without ceremony. “Pray forgive me, sir, but I believe my mama is unwell.”
“Then you must go to her, my dear,” he agreed at once, rising to his feet.
Verena rose and went straight across to Mrs Peverill. One full glance at her mother, and all concern over Mr Denzell Hawkeridge flew out of her head. She knew that look.
Mrs Peverill’s features were drawn, and beneath the apparent idle chatter, for Mama was almost as accomplished as herself at maintaining a company face — and heaven knew how muchshe’d had need of it! — Verena recognised the tragic note that signalled the onset of a hysterical outburst.
Throughout the mercifully short carriage drive home, Mrs Peverill, wrapped in a woollen mantle, hung on convulsively to the cloaked figure of Verena at her side. Her breathing was shallow, and she was barely able to obey her daughter’s vehement plea.
“Softly, Mama, softly, I pray you. Not here. Not yet. Only hold yourself in until we reach home.”
“Home!” uttered Mrs Peverill in a breaking voice. “We have no home.”
“Hush, Mama,” begged Verena. “Don’t, pray.”
“Oh, Verena … oh, my love…”
