“That will do, that will. I never heard such fiddle-faddle in all my born days. Talk as if you was a hundred, you do, ma’am. And you not a day above forty, as I know.”
“Exactly, Mama,” Verena agreed on a bracing note. “Come now. I know you are feeling poorly at this present, but once you have recovered your strength, you may expect to survive another forty.”
“Nathaniel will have discovered us long before then,” prophesied Mrs Peverill in a tone of settled gloom, “and I know he will drag me home again.”
“That he will not. I am of age, don’t forget. He will find he has more than he bargained for if he tries his tricks on you again, for he will have to reckon with me now.”
“Bravo, Miss Verena,” Betsey said, placing a bulky woollen shawl about Verena’s shoulders. She stooped to thrust the young lady’s feet into a pair of olive-coloured slippers with low heelsand silver clasps, addressing her mistress the while. “Never you fret, ma’am. Miss Verena will see him off if he does come. And I’m here to lend a hand, if need be. He ain’t never going to take you back.”
She rose, nodding with satisfaction. “There, that’s done. Now I’m going down to see if that there Quirk has got your breakfast ready.”
“Thank you, Betsey,” Verena said. “I do not know what either of us should do without you.”
The maid grunted as she left the room, but Verena knew she was pleased. It was only the truth. They would have been lost, and exposed, without Betsey’s care.
“Verena, dearest.”
Mrs Peverill’s plaintive tone drew her attention. She looked round to discover a worried frown in her mother’s face. “What is it, Mama?”
“Verena … if — if he should come —”
“I hope he won’t. He does not know where we are.”
“But if he should,” insisted Mrs Peverill.
Verena eyed her doubtfully. What now? She was not going to make another futile attempt to extract a promise that her daughter would not interfere, she hoped. She had spent years not interfering, and had suffered in consequence agonies of guilt and remorse. Now that she had done so to some purpose, nothing would persuade her to alter her determination.
Mrs Peverill seized one of her hands and grasped it in a surprisingly strong grip. “Dearest, my only fear is that you may provoke him beyond bearing. You have such strength, Verena. Much more than I ever had.”
“I may well provoke him,” Verena answered. “It does not take much, as you well know. But what of that? There is nothing he can do, Mama. Not now.”
Her mother appeared unconvinced. “Still, I could wish that you would leave me to deal with him.”
“That I shall not, Mama,” uttered Verena, indignant. “How could you ask it of me?”
“I ask it because —” She broke off, sighing deeply. “Oh, Verena, I wish I knew how to explain. You think you know Nathaniel, my darling, but you don’t.”
There was a serious look in her face that gave Verena pause. Yet what was there more to know? She thought she had been a party to all Mama’s troubles, all that secret life that must be hidden from other eyes — for pride’s sake, if nothing else. The thought of it hardened her.
“I know him as well as I wish to, Mama, believe me.”
Mrs Peverill’s lip trembled, but her grip on Verena’s fingers did not relax. Rather it tightened. “Yes, you may speak in that stony way, Verena, and I cannot blame you for that with what you have witnessed. But — but you don’t understand.”
“What more is there to understand, beyond the evidence of my own eyes and ears?”
“There is more,” pursued her mother. “You have compassion for me, Verena, but you should feel it for Nathaniel also. You see, he cannot help himself. If you had ever cared for a man, you must have understood it. You will do so, when it happens to you. Nathaniellovesme.”
Verena stared at her in sheer disbelief. Compassion? He could not help himself? Then heaven help him, for she would see him dead before he dragged Mama back. And if that was love, then Verena would cut out her heart before she gave it to any man.
CHAPTER TWO
The Lower Rooms, whither Denzell Hawkeridge, on the very next evening, dragged his hosts in search of the lovely Verena Chaceley, were situated at the back of the Sussex Inn. They were relatively thin of company at this time of year, opening for assemblies twice a week only for the benefit of the increasing number of residents settling in Tunbridge Wells.
The cold this Friday night had driven everyone to seek refuge in the smaller of the two plain, unadorned rooms where a good fire blazed, creating an illusion of a greater gathering than was actually present. But the weather did not prevent the inhabitants from appearing in the silks and muslins of full dress, as Unice had warned Denzell.
He was himself attired in town gear of a suit of claret-coloured cloth and a black Florentine waistcoat, with stockings striped in black and white, his cravat knotted in an intricate bow. Not, he told himself, that he had taken extra special care with his appearance this evening.
Since the Ruishtons were among the very few of a younger element that the town could boast, and had been missed during their absence in London for some part of the autumn season, they received an enthusiastic welcome, which was extended equally to the charming young man who accompanied them.
