“Lovelorn? No!” came Sir John’s voice without hesitation. “A woman in that condition is all too susceptible — to rebound affections, you know.”
Denzell was conscious of a sighing away of unnamed anxiety. He looked round, asking abruptly, “Then you do not still think I am wasting my time, sir?”
Sir John raised his brows. “How will my opinion serve you, my dear boy? You will take your own road despite it, and so you should.”
“I don’t know that,” Denzell said, still with a crease between his brows. “There is something here. If not an amour, then — I don’t know. She is beyond my experience, Sir John. I am at a loss.”
The old man’s lips were thin with age, but the smile on them widened a moment. “I know. I find it excessively amusing.”
“I am happy to afford you and Mrs Felpham entertainment,” Denzell said with heavy irony.
“No, you are not, and who shall blame you?”
Then the powdered and painted features became serious all at once, and Denzell felt a hand tucked into his arm, and a murmur close to his ear.
“One word only, my young friend. There is a fragility of which you may not be aware. Take care, in your enthusiasm for the chase, that the vessel does not break.”
The next moment, the old man was gone from his side, leaving Denzell staring after him in a good deal of perplexity.
Verena had not intended to visit Unice Ruishton again while Mr Hawkeridge was staying at her home. But Adam’s constant presence in her own parlour afforded her so much inner agitation that she found herself seeking some excuse to go out. He had adhered to his promise, speaking to Mama neither of Nathaniel’s depressed state nor of a possible return, but it was Monday already, and he was still in Tunbridge Wells.
It seemed as if Mama could not let him go. A fresh fall of snow on Saturday had provided a legitimate excuse to delay his departure, and of course Mama could not think of him travelling on Sunday, and they had all gone down to the chapel for the service. But worse than this, Mama was asking all manner of questions, and it appeared to Verena’s jaundiced ear that there was far too much gossipy news from home.
The Fittleworth circle had apparently accepted the story that Mrs Peverill and Verena had gone away for the former’s health, but it was clear from Adam’s discourse that many had guessed the real reason behind the unprecedented departure.
That was bad enough. But the eager note in Mama’s voice as she sought news of her friends and neighbours, the wealth of detail she demanded about the affairs of her household, were like tiny pinpricks in Verena’s tender spot. Could Mama ever be happy away from all she knew? Adam had made his opinion of their present living conditions clear enough. Verena had rescued her from a life of tortured misery, but how little she had to offer beyond sheer survival.
At last she could stand it no longer, and rose from her chair, forcing a smile. “Mama, I will leave you with Adam for a little.”
Mrs Peverill looked up, a trifle conscience-stricken. “My dearest, forgive us. We have been talking so hard, and forgetting all about you.”
“Oh, she don’t mind,” said Adam with a grin. “Do you, Verena? After all, you have had Mama all to yourself these three months.”
“But you must not feel yourself driven out, dearest,” urged Mrs Peverill, throwing out a remorseful hand.
“Nothing of the sort,” objected Verena. “I am only too glad that Adam can keep you company, Mama. It happens that I have something that I must —” thinking fast and seizing at random the first idea that came into her head — “I have been meaning to call and see how Mrs Ruishton does. She has so few female friends of her own age here, and —”
“That is like you, Verena,” said her mother, “to wish to befriend her.”
Verena disclaimed, feeling something of a fraud, but she took comfort from the fact that Mama was satisfied. Even enthusiastic.
“Such a friendly soul she is. It must be good for you also, dearest. You are far too much with me. Yes, go, Verena. Spend the morning there, if you will.”
There was nothing for it after that, but to carry through the plan, although a full morning was scarcely in question. She might put Mrs Ruishton out. Besides…
Heavens, could it be only now, when she was already stepping across the drive towards the trees that bounded the square patch of ground between the two houses, that she remembered Denzell Hawkeridge?
She hesitated, conscious of an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of her stomach. A whole morning? Oh dear, no. Not with that danger to face. But perhaps he would not be there, shethought hopefully, moving on again. And if he were, what was it to her? Nothing at all, if only he did not take her visit for encouragement. Denzell Hawkeridge, she now knew, had an arsenal of weapons to trap the unwary woman — and laughter not the least of them. But she was on her guard against him. He would not worm his way under the hard carapace of her armour.
But when she was admitted into the green saloon of the Ruishton home, she found only Unice, busily embroidering a garment for the forthcoming infant.
Conscious of a most unwelcome sense of disappointment, Verena greeted her in her usual polite company fashion and took a place beside her on the sofa. “I am sorry that I have not been to visit you for some little time, Mrs Ruishton.”
Unice smiled. “Why in the world should you be sorry, Miss Chaceley? You owe me no special observance.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Verena, relaxing just a little of her stern self-command. Her smile contained more warmth than she usually permitted herself. “But it occurs to me that we must be the only two women in the town under five and thirty, and —”
“Five and thirty?” echoed Unice, bursting into laughter. “I defy you to find another under five and fifty.”
