“Mama is at home? Oh, thank heaven!”
Verena sank in relief, falling against Denzell as of instinct. He caught her, steadying her with one arm about her shoulders. But his attention was back on the maid.
“She had not gone away, then?” he asked.
“No, sir. She’s all in a pother, howsomever, and I’m to take Miss Verena back straight.”
“But where had she gone?” demanded Verena, recovering again and taking in the suppressed air of excitement that hung about her trusty maidservant.
“What’s to do, Betsey?”
Betsey threw her eyes to heaven. “Oh, deary me. I was told off to keep my mouth shut, but I’m danged if I can, Miss Verena. The mistress has a gentleman with her.”
Both Ruishtons cried out at this, and Denzell frowned as Verena’s countenance blanched.
“Not Peverill?” he rapped out.
“Not he,” said Betsey, on a note of scorn. “Two of ’em, there are, in fact.”
“But who is it, Betsey?” Verena demanded, catching a little of the maid’s mood. “For the love of heaven, tell me!”
“Come, Miss Betsey,” added Denzell, “has she not borne enough suspense already this day?”
Betsey looked her young mistress up and down, and made up her mind. She nodded in a determined way.
“That’s right enough, sir. Well then, my dove, I’d not add to your troubles, but you’d best brace yourself.”
Unable to stand any more, Verena seized her wrist.
“Who, Betsey? Who is it?”
“The mistress says as how it’s him as was papa to your own father, Miss Verena. It’s your grandfather Chaceley.”
The two visitors seemed to dwarf the little parlour. As of right, old Mr Chaceley occupied the prominent position before the fireplace, his stiff figure, immaculately suited in plum-coloured cloth, fronting his granddaughter in an attitude of defiant pride that was mirrored in Verena’s own pose.
To one side, a kindlier look in the features that ran appraisingly over his niece, stood Bevis Chaceley, discreet in a dark blue frock-coat and buff breeches. He was taller than his sire, larger in every aspect, but the dominating charisma of the old man cast the son into the shade.
A somewhat flustered Mrs Peverill had performed the introductions, seizing on Verena the instant she entered the room, Denzell hard on her heels, and drawing her forward.
“My daughter, Verena. She has a great look of Lambert, don’t you find? My love, this is your grandfather.”
Verena stood mute, staring at the old man, taking in the prideful arrogance that emanated from his very posture, and the hard eyes that raked her from her head to her heels.
“Make your curtsy, Verena,” hissed Mrs Peverill.
But Verena barely heard her. So this was the man who had cast off his son for marrying Mama. Oh, she could readily believe it. A surge of resentment flooded her breast, and flashed in her eyes.
Old man Chaceley’s brows rose. “Looking daggers, eh? Don’t think I’ll answer to a chit of a girl for my actions, for I won’t.”
Old habits died hard. Suddenly aware of her own reaction, Verena donned her mask. She dropped a curtsy, demurely lowering her eyes. “How do you do, sir?” she murmured.
Her grandfather looked somewhat taken aback, and Denzell, an interested observer, was obliged to suppress a grin. Chaceley had a deal to learn of his granddaughter.
Bevis Chaceley stepped into the breach, coming forward and holding out a hand, reassurance and kindness in both smile and voice.
“We are delighted to meet you at last, my dear child. I am your uncle Bevis, and I am bound to agree that your mother is in the right of it. You are very like my poor young brother, as I remember him.” He had covered the hand she gave him with both his own, and he pressed it. “He must have been more or less your own age, you know, when I saw him last. I can vouch for it he would have been enchanted with you.”
Verena softened, smiling in genuine gratitude. “You are very kind, sir, and I thank you.”
