Denzell scarcely had time to register the disappointment that attacked him before a new voice interrupted them.
“Ha, young Hawkeridge!”
It was a gruff voice, proceeding from an elderly gentleman, poker stiff, with the figure of a much younger man, but a defiant show of his own grizzled head and well-cut clothing in keeping with the times. Armed with a cane, which he leaned on but slightly, he walked slowly towards them, at his heels two matronly ladies in whom Denzell recognised Mrs Esther Chaceley, wife to Bevis, the heir, and Mrs Camilla Chaceley, the Reverend Hartley’s helpmeet.
Recovering his company face, Denzell greeted them all with a mixture of deference and bonhomie, which sat well with the ladies, at least. It did not appear to do him any harm in old Mr Chaceley’s eyes, either. The patriarch seemed well pleased, and the reason was soon established.
“Mean to congratulate your mother, boy. She’s done excellent well by her girl, excellent well. Rowner, eh? It’s a good match. Very good match, indeed. Well done.”
Denzell took the hand held out to him, and found himself the recipient of a hearty, and surprisingly strong, handshake.
“I thank you, sir, and have no hesitation in accepting your words of praise to myself. Lord Rowner is a close friend of mine, and if there has been any matchmaking, I must take all credit, for Teresa met him through me.”
A bark of laughter from the old man rewarded him, and the ladies tittered.
“For shame, Denzell,” scolded Mrs Esther Chaceley, closing her fan and rapping his hand. “You will not pretend that it is not your mama who has brought him up to scratch.”
“No, I will not, ma’am,” agreed Denzell. “The truth is that it is Teresa herself who brought poor Freddy up to scratch, without any assistance from anyone else.”
The gentlemen hugely enjoyed what they took to be a joke, while the ladies shrieked and scolded, Mrs Camilla Chaceley going on to tease Denzell that his turn must be next. An idea that, for some reason, clouded Denzell’s amusement. He maintained a cool front, however.
“Quite right,” approved old man Chaceley. “How old are you, boy? More than twenty, I take it.”
“Five and twenty, sir.”
“High time, high time.” He raised a stiff finger. “But make a good match, boy. Good match. Most important thing in the world. Now, I must kiss the bride, eh?”
With another of his mirthful barks, he went off, accompanied by his acolytes.
“Good match,” muttered Kenrick in Denzell’s ear. “That’s all he cares about.”
“Don’t most men of property?” Denzell asked, still struggling against the unwelcome resurgence of his earlier sombre mood.
“Just so,” agreed Bevis, who had not followed his father. He nodded at Denzell. “I’m glad you spoke up for yourself, my boy. My father likes that in a fellow. He never could stand a show of weakness.”
“Never could stand anything that went against his inclinations,” murmured Kenrick as his father moved away. “Prideful old… Well, I shall not say what I wish to call him. But I give you my word, old fellow, you would not believe the mean-spirited actions that he has taken on account of this obsession he has with agood match.”
“Oh?” queried Denzell, sudden interest driving away his abstraction. “What sort of thing do you mean?”
But there was to be no answer to this question. Bevis Chaceley had apparently overheard his son, and he stepped back, frowning. “That will do, Kenrick. It does not become you to speak of your grandfather in such terms.”
Kenrick had the grace to blush, murmuring, “I beg your pardon, sir.” But he grimaced at Denzell behind his father’s back as that worthy turned to him.
“My boy, you spoke of someone you met of the name of Chaceley. I was just wondering, was it a gentleman, or…?”
He ended on a note of interrogation, one eyebrow raised. Denzell’s senses came fully alert. Was there something to be discovered here after all?
“No, sir,” he answered. “A lady. A Miss Verena Chaceley. She was residing with her mother in lodgings in Tunbridge Wells.” He added on a deliberately casual note, “It is a curious situation.”
“Indeed?”
It was given its usual courteous inflexion, but the question was implicit. He wanted to know more. Like a hound to the scent, Denzell took the plunge. He had nothing to lose, and perhaps — with a lurch of the stomach that he did not even pretend to try to understand — everything to gain.
“Very curious, sir. The mother has remarried, it seems, for she is now called Peverill.”
“Peverill,” repeated Bevis, his tone flat.
Recognition? Denzell did not think so. But there was still interest.
