“To tell the truth, I am still a trifle shaky,” she agreed, moving to seat herself in the chair.
Denzell came up and perched on the corner of the day-bed, his eyes never leaving her face. He could not doubt but that she was waiting to receive this man Peverill, but he was reluctant to make any further reference to that. He dared not show his own new knowledge. For one thing, it would mean betraying Adam’s inadvertent confidences, which could not please his sister. For another, he did not wish to embarrass her by making it obvious Unice had told him all that had been spoken between them in this very room.
Yet he must refer to their last encounter. He could not begin to make amends unless he first cleared that hurdle.
Verena was no longer looking at him. Her beautiful countenance was calmer, but her fingers were clasped together in her lap, and their nervous movement told its own tale. Only this time, Denzell did not make the mistake of setting it down to his own account. There was clearly a good deal else on her mind today.
“Miss Chaceley — Verena —” he began, and paused as her gaze came up to his again on the use of her given name. Such haunted shadows in her eyes! Involuntarily, he threw out a hand, saying, “Have no fear. I have not come to distress you with unwanted attentions, nor to plead my cause against your express prohibition. I have come only to apologise for my conduct the other night.”
Verena bit her lip. He had come to apologise? And what of her conduct? Well she knew she had given him cause both for anger and confusion. She had treated him so unkindly — and after behaving in a manner that must have encouraged him to believe her willing. Oh, that kiss!
“Denzell —” she began impulsively, and then broke off, recollecting herself. “I mean, Mr Hawkeridge —”
“Ah, no,” he exclaimed out of the instant warmth that had invaded his breast at her use of his name. “Let us, I pray you,drop formality.” He leaned forward a little, holding out his hand. “Can we not at least cry friends, Verena?”
Verena looked at his outstretched hand, then up to his face, and a rush of tenderness engulfed her. Her eyes filled and she put out her fingers towards his, unaware of how her own quivered. Denzell clasped them, bowed his head, kissed the tips of her fingers, and then let them go. They tingled as Verena returned them to her lap, lacing them into her other hand. She could not look at him, and her voice was low.
“You are — very kind. I am aware that I behaved — I may have led you to believe —”
She stopped, drawing a strengthening breath, and grateful he did not seek to interrupt her faltering speech. Dredging up from somewhere the remnants of her shielding mask, she composed herself and looked up at him again.
“Denzell, I accept your apology, and I hope in turn you will accept mine. I did not conduct myself in the manner of a lady in receipt of such a very flattering declaration.”
No, that was too much, Denzell decided. He broke in. “You did nothing for which you need reproach yourself. Mine is the blame.” He stood up. “I will not importune you further, but I beg you to believe that, now and always, if there is some way in which I can serve you, you may command me in anything.”
Verena rose, holding out her hands. “Oh no, no. You deserve of me better than that. If we are to be friends, then don’t speak of service. Friends are not to be beholden to one another. They —” She broke off, turning her head away, and dragging out of his grasp the hands he had so willingly received into his hold.
“What is it?” he said at once, seeing the warmth in her face instantly overlaid with fear.
She did not answer, but ran to the window in the bay and peered down. Denzell followed and saw below that a travellingcarriage was drawing up outside the front door. Verena seized his arm in a fierce grip.
“Denzell, you must go. Dear heaven, but I knew he would come this day!”
Still looking down, Denzell saw a middle-aged man descend, dressed for the road in a light greatcoat, his hat in his hand, and stand looking about him with grim eyes in a hollow face with an unmistakable resemblance to the boy Adam. The man moved to the door, and next instant they could hear the knocking downstairs.
Denzell laid his hand over Verena’s which still clutched his arm. “This is what you have been home for these few days, is it not? You have been waiting for this man. He is the cause of all your fears, is he not, Verena?”
“Ask me no questions, Denzell, but go, I beg of you,” she uttered, her tone frenzied. “I must meet him alone.”
He plucked her hand from his sleeve and held it fast. “Verena, I have serious misgivings about leaving you to face this man on your own.”
She shook her head, moving towards the centre of the room, so that Denzell, still holding her hand, came with her willy-nilly. Betsey’s face appeared at the door.
“It’s him, Miss Verena,” she hissed. “I saw him from the window.”
“Yes, I know. Go, Betsey. Bring him up.”
The maid disappeared and Verena turned on Denzell, unaware that her fingers clung to his even as she pushed at his chest as if she would dislodge him from her presence.
“Denzell, pray go! I must see him alone, for I have much that must be said to him — and I don’t know how long I have before Mama gets back.”
“But, Verena —”
“You need have no fear at leaving me with him,” she interrupted. “He is my stepfather.”
Denzell only just prevented himself from blurting out that he already knew it. Nor could he say he feared for Verena’s safety at the hands of a man who was a known wife-beater. Adam had stated that Verena never gave her stepfather cause for attacking her, but she looked at this moment as if she might well do so. Frustrated at being unable to speak his real fears, he could say nothing.
Verena was listening for the voices downstairs, and then the footsteps coming up. She dragged her hand out of Denzell’s.
