“Chaceley?” repeated Osmond in a blank tone.
“Denzell, do you realise what you have just said?” asked Unice, awed. “Who is ‘old man Chaceley’?”
“He means that martinet who is his neighbour at Pittlesthorp,” Osmond explained. “Dash it, Hawk, why in the world didn’t you think of that before?”
“I did,” Denzell replied, shrugging. “I thought of it at Teresa’s wedding. I tackled both Kenrick and his father on the matter, but neither seemed to think there was any relationship.”
“But you do,” Unice said shrewdly, watching him. “Don’t you?”
“Unice, I simply don’t know. All I can tell you is that Bevis Chaceley seemed interested, and then just brushed it off. It was rather a feeling I had, than any firm idea.”
“What feeling?” she demanded.
Denzell gave a self-conscious laugh. “A ridiculous feeling, born I am sure out of my then unrecognised emotions towards Verena. I felt as if they had cast Verena off.”
Osmond moved to the dresser, seized a glass, and poured himself a brandy. Lifting the vessel, he spoke in his most determined voice, just as if, Denzell thought, he had never made any previous objection.
“There is nothing for it, Unice. You will have to go and beard the girl. This matter must be sifted. Ferret out every bit of information you can.”
Verena received her guest in the little parlour. She was wary, and a little sorry that Mama and Adam should have chosen to go down to the Rooms this Saturday morning, for Unice’s demeanour indicated she was going to touch on matters Verena would prefer not to discuss. It was clearly dangerous to be private with her today. Nor was she mistaken.
“Verena, you look terrible,” Unice began by way of opening. “So pale and wan.”
Oh, heavens. She knew how haggard she looked, for the mirror in her bedchamber had told her so, the paleness of her features emphasised by the plain white muslin gown. It was why she hadchosen to remain at home. She should have denied herself, only Unice was too kind a friend to be served so shabbily.
“I have had the headache,” she offered. “It — it kept me awake the better part of the night.”
“The headache,” repeated Unice in the flattest of tones. She leaned forward and reached across to the other chair, pressing the hand that lay on its wooden arm. “Dear Verena, you will not fob me off with such a taradiddle, so do not think it. Headache indeed! You are greatly troubled, are you not? What is the matter, Verena?”
Verena was obliged to force down a rising lump in her throat before she could speak. “There is — there is nothing the matter, Unice. Beyond the headache, that is.”
But Unice was not to be deflected. “Oh, Verena, how can you? After you have sat at my bedside all through my toiling with little Julia. We cannot be anything but intimate now. Pray don’t reject my friendship.”
Verena swallowed. She managed a faint smile. “I could not do so, Unice. Indeed, I am grateful for — for your concern. But you mistake —”
“It is Denzell, is it not?” broke in Unice with candour.
Verena closed her eyes, bringing up her fingers to her cheeks, which seemed to burn. She bit at her lips to stop their trembling, and became aware of Unice’s fingers grasping her arm.
“Well, he said he had blundered, but I had not thought he had overset you as much as this,” she uttered.
Verena’s eyes flew open, and she regarded the other woman in doubt and concern. “He told you?”
Unice nodded. “I found him last night, starting on the brandy. He was in such despair, poor Denzell.”
An instant stab of conscience attacked her. “Don’t say that! Pray don’t say that, Unice.”
“He loves you, Verena.”
Not that again. Please not that.She shook her head. “No, he cannot love me. I told him he must not. He does not love me.”
“Well, I have known him a very long time, and I have never seen him behave this way over any girl.”
It was the last thing Verena wanted to hear after last night. Betsey thought she had cried herself to sleep, but she had lain prone with exhaustion, unable to speak or move as the maid covered her and went away.
Sleep had come, fitfully. But mostly she had thought. Thought and thought andthoughtthrough those long night hours, trying to persuade herself Denzell had mistaken some other feeling for love. He did not know her. She had never given him anything but the false picture of herself that she gave to the world. How was it possible that he might love her?
It must be some image he carried, some creature he had summoned up in his own mind. But it was not her. And now, when she was tired and wretched, and on tenterhooks at the expectation of Nathaniel’s arrival — though she was trusting he could not get here for another couple of days — here it was again.
