This was a touch comforting, although Denzell would have preferred to remain within call. But he did not see how he could. He had no rights here, and Verena had made it clear she did not wish him to intervene.
A thought struck him and he paused at the front door, eyeing the maid in a speculative way. “You would not care to explain what she meant by her words about her mother’s family, the Chaceleys?”
Betsey pursed her lips. “No, I wouldn’t. If you win the right to it, Mr Hawkeridge, she’ll tell you herself.”
He grimaced. “If I win the right.”
“Go now, if you please, sir,” the maid said, opening the door. “Family business, this is.” Then she shut him out of the house.
Denzell remained on the doorstep for a moment or two, glancing up at the window above. There was nothing to be heard, and the maid was right. It was family business. Cheered by her words about his possible rights, he moved off, albeit reluctantly, in the direction of the Ruishton home. The travelling carriage had gone, presumably so that the servants might refresh themselves at some inn. Evidently Squire Peverill expected to be here for some time.
He crossed the garden and passed into the open space of ground where Verena had once helped the children to build a snowman. Then he paused and looked back. It was with some measure of relief that he saw Adam and Mrs Peverill turning into the drive of the lodging house. He wondered what might be the outcome once they discovered the new arrival above stairs.
In the parlour Verena was listening to her stepfather with a slight cooling of her rage, now that she had discharged some of it. She had need of her composure, for the last thing she wished to do was provoke him into some precipitate action that might lead to disaster. Besides, she had to state her unalterable intentions against his own.
But it was very difficult to maintain even a vestige of calm in his presence, now he knew her mask for what it was. Long habit reasserted itself, however, and although she could not abate one jot of her defiant hatred, she did manage to bring her face under control.
“Whatever your personal feelings, Verena,” he was saying, in a voice of persuasive calm, “you must surely see that you have no right to encourage a man’s wife to run away from him.”
“We are not talking of a man’s wife,” she responded, her voice cold. “We are talking of my mother.”
“There is no tie more binding than the marriage contract. Not even the blood tie. It is sacred, you see, and you, Verena,have come between us. You do not seem to realise the extreme seriousness of what you have done.”
“Do I not?” Verena asked, and a contemptuous smile curled her lips. “You mistake me, sir. You should be glad of this misdemeanour of mine. For if I had been obliged to remain at home and watch my Mama suffer, I would have taken a pistol to your head.”
Nathaniel blenched. “You cannot know what you are saying. Shoot your own father?”
“My father is already dead.”
“Oh, very well, your stepfather, then. It makes it no better. I think you must be mad indeed.”
“If I am, then lay it at your own door. Whatever I am, sir, your misconduct has made me.”
“Poppycock!” snapped Nathaniel, moving as if he would shift away from her. “Enough of this. Where is Abigail? I wish to see her at once.”
“You need not take this high-handed tone, sir. You may see her, for she has expressed a desire to meet with you. But mark this. If you harm one hair of her head, if you so much as make a move in that direction —”
“But this is insane,” he interrupted. “Do you think I have come all this way to —?”
“I know why you have come all this way,” she cut in, “because Adam told me. You have vowed to take Mama back. If you imagine I will permit it, however, you are wrong.”
Nathaniel uttered a short laugh. “And how do you propose to stop me? Come, Verena, you are being extraordinarily foolish.”
“Am I?” Hard and cold.
“Verena,” he began, and stopped, turning as the door opened behind him.
Mrs Peverill stood on the threshold, Adam close at her back. She was almost pretty again in her lilac cambric gown, Verenarealised with a start of fear. Her glance flew back to Nathaniel’s face, alert for any danger. Into his eyes she saw enter an expression of appreciation, succeeded by one of intense hurt.
Her gorge rose. Dissembler!
Worse still, Mama’s eyes softened at the sight. “Oh, Nathaniel,” she sighed, and moved forward.
“Adam!” Verena cried, running to intercept a meeting. “Don’t let him near her!”
Mrs Peverill stopped as her daughter came between her and her husband. Adam shifted to one side, ready to intervene. But, to Verena’s surprise and acute suspicion, Nathaniel threw up his hands and backed away, in a gesture of surrender.
“Do you think I have come to bully?” he cried, in a voice that she could almost believe sincere in its distress. “No, Abigail — I have come to beg.”
