They had been creeping down the stairs, both clad suitably for travelling, but lightly for late summer’s warmth, Verena in a cloth riding habit and a beaver hat, Mama in a linen greatcoat dress with a straw bonnet, adorned with ribbon. Betsey had called to them from the hall below that the coach had been loaded up and was ready to go.
“Come, Mama, quickly,” Verena had begged, easing her mother down with an arm about her waist.
Mrs Peverill, hustled into taking this terrifying step towards a freedom that she had only expected in death, was in a state of benumbed anxiety, unable to believe that this was really happening.
“The servants,” she muttered. “You know Nathaniel insists that our differences remain strictly private.”
“Have no fear, Mama,” Verena soothed. “They all believe we are going to the seaside for your health.”
But inwardly she fumed. Differences? Well, let him call it by that innocuous name if he wished. It had mattered no longer. In a few moments they would be gone, free of his influence forever, and the wilting flower that had been Mama would bloom again. As for the servants, how dared Nathaniel demand privacy? By rights, his activities should have been shouted to all the world that they might have known of Mama’s wrongs.
None the less, it had ever been Verena’s care to attempt concealment from the domestic staff, though she had believed they must have been both blind and deaf to be unaware of the unnatural events that had taken place in this house.
“Do get a move on, Miss Verena,” Betsey hissed from the bottom of the sweeping stairs, straightening her own black pelisse that had become disarranged from her exertions.
“We are coming,” Verena returned, but oddly the staircase began to seem endless. Mama’s physical weakness slowed her down, and her progress, step by painful step, began to rack Verena’s nerves.
She must have sensed the danger. For barely had they reached the last stair, Mama setting her foot to the patterned quarry-tiled floor of the wide hall of the manor, than a flurry of activity and a hoarse shout outside startled them both into immobility.
“Dear heaven, what is it, Betsey?” Verena whispered, clutching at the maid’s arm.
“Nathaniel!”
The cry, shot through with alarm, issued from Mrs Peverill’s lips. The three women froze at the foot of the stairs, three pairs of eyes fixed fearfully on the open front door. Verena herself, thrown by Mama’s voice of conviction, found herself temporarily devoid of resources. Her thoughts whirled.
It could not be Nathaniel! Not now. Oh, pray heaven, not now. He was meant to be away until this afternoon. Adam had told her so — promised her. Though indeed he was ignorant of their plans. She’d had to keep him ignorant, for he would be left to face Nathaniel’s wrath. And she could not permit him to become involved. Fittleworth was Adam’s inheritance, his future. She could not have jeopardised that. But he had seemed so sure — she had invented the only-too-plausible excuse that Mama was in need of a day of quiet. There was no need to explain further to Adam. It could not be them.
But Squire Peverill was now even walking through the front door, his son at his heels. Both were in riding dress, booted and spurred. Nathaniel stopped dead, glaring upon his wife — all but fainting at sight of him, and clinging to her daughter — as he took in the significant apparel in which she was dressed. Verena saw consternation in Adam’s face. Should she have toldhim? Had he known, he might have done more to keep his father away.
Nathaniel found his tongue. “What in Hades are you doing, Abigail? That coach outside — is it awaiting you? Where are you going?”
Long habit, or perhaps present necessity, moved Mrs Peverill to be the first to speak. “P-pray don’t be angry, Nathaniel,” she quavered, releasing her daughter, and holding out suppliant hands.
The abject sound, the sight of her mother cringing before him, forced Verena out of her immobility. Not that! Not one more time could she bear to see Mama’s pride in the dust.
Stepping forward, she threw a protective arm about her mother’s shoulders, and faced Nathaniel, showing him a countenance blazing with determination, underlain with the fierce rage that consumed her. It was, although Verena had for the moment forgotten her habit of docility in his presence, an expression that he had never previously seen.
“I am taking her away from this house. Away from this life. Away fromyou.”
Nathaniel frowned. Then he laughed — a disbelieving laugh. “Have you run mad, girl?”
“No, I have not run mad,” Verena told him in a shaking voice. “But I will do so if I allow Mama to remain in your power for one moment longer. We are going. We are going this moment. And there is nothing you can do to stop us.”
His face changed. Verena saw the lean cheeks darken, and shock come into his eyes. He believed her! What would he do? Her heart began to pound. Could they still go? They must, for if not they would have lost the advantage of surprise, and he would be on the watch for another escape. But how, when he stood there looking like a gaoler?
A familiar scowl had drawn Nathaniel’s thick eyebrows together, and his lips were twisting into a snarl.Like a wild beast,Verena thought frenziedly. Mama had married a beast!
Mrs Peverill, recognizing these signs, visibly quailed, giving vent to a protesting whimper as the thunderous gaze she knew so well, feared so acutely, was turned upon her.
“Going?” came in a guttural tone from Nathaniel. His chest heaved. His stature was not above the average, tending to the lean hardness of muscle rather than fat, but aroused he appeared to grow, a menacing force standing squarely in the path of escape. “You dare to say you are going?”
“No, Nathaniel, no…”
The feeble response, hardly an answer, more the plea for mercy that Verena had so often heard on her mother’s lips, sliced through her own fear, strengthening her will. She could not stop now. She dared not, for fear of the consequences to Mama.
“We — are — going,” she reiterated, clenching her teeth against the trembling at her mouth, her hold on her mother tightening.
Nathaniel ignored Verena as if she was of no account, his eyes burning at the shivering form of his spouse. His voice grated on her name.
