Bevis shook his head, releasing her hand. “No, no, no, my dear child. If you must thank anyone, let it be young Denzell here.”
“Denzell!” exclaimed Verena, turning to look at him as Bevis Chaceley moved to shake hands with him.
“Glad to see you, my boy,” said the elder man, smiling. “And we thank you for bringing the matter to our attention.”
“I am only glad it has resulted in your presence here, sir,” Denzell said, “although that was scarcely my intention at the time.”
“But I don’t understand,” Verena said.
“You see, dearest,” explained Mrs Peverill, coming up to her daughter and putting an arm about her waist, “it seems that Mr Hawkeridge mentioned our presence here, and your uncle, believing that perhaps you might be related —”
“Stuff and nonsense!” broke in the old man. “No perhaps about it. Knew it at once, the instant the boy mentioned your name, ma’am.” He addressed himself to Verena. “Think I haven’t been aware all these years of your situation, girl?”
Verena released herself from her mother’s grasp and turned back to him. She could not control the rough hostility in her voice, for the speed and turn of events had ripped her erstwhile mastery to shreds.
“How should I know, sir? I have certainly been unaware of yours!”
“Don’t be pert with me, girl!”
Verena faced him, her figure as stiffly erect as his own. “By what right, sir, do you censure my conduct? You did not choose to own me these many years, yet you expect to assume all those rights of obedience you have abrogated.”
“Verena!” gasped her mother.
“I expect common courtesy, young lady, if nothing else,” snapped the old man, his eyes narrowed and glaring.
That pulled Verena up. She could not abate one jot of the pent-up emotion within her, but she bit down on another retort, and tried for a milder note, which only partially succeeded.
“Every stranger has a right to that, sir.”
Mrs Peverill seized her arm, uttering almost tearfully, “Verena, that is not at all a proper way to speak to your grandfather. Pray beg his pardon, do!”
There did not look to be very much expectation of Verena doing any such thing, Denzell decided. He waited, almost breathlessly, for the outcome. If he’d had any doubts about Verena’s identity, this encounter must have laid them all to rest. She was all too plainly old man Chaceley’s granddaughter.
He was glad he had insisted on accompanying Verena back to the lodgings, although it had not been entirely for her sake. If the Chaceleys were indeed in Tunbridge Wells — assuming they were the Chaceleys he knew so well — there could be no doubt those casual words of his to Bevis had been instrumental in bringing them here.
The two protagonists were still glaring. Verena knew she was manifestly in the wrong. She ought to apologise. But the words refused to be uttered.
“Verena!” pleaded Mrs Peverill again.
But quite suddenly, the old man threw back his head and uttered a shout of laughter. “By God, you’re a plucky little piece! Here’s my hand, girl. I’m proud to call you granddaughter.”
Verena sighed out her resentment, and accepted the proffered hand, her stiffness melting away. She smiled.
“Indeed I do beg your pardon, sir.”
“Well, don’t spoil it, girl,” protested her grandfather. “Only female in the family who ever dared stand up to me.”
“It seems,” put in Bevis, his amusement plain to see, “that your granddaughter is practised in standing up to authority.”
“I have had to fend for myself, perhaps,” Verena said, wondering how much he knew. “But I should not have spoken so. Let my excuse be that I have endured a morning of dreadful anxiety.”
“Oh, my poor love,” exclaimed Mrs Peverill.
“I thought you had gone away with Nathaniel and Adam,” Verena uttered, with a resurgence of her earlier fears. “He has gone, you know.”
Mrs Peverill took her hands. “Yes, Betsey told me. My dearest, I knew he would, for I sent to him last night after we talked.”
Verena blinked. “You wrote to him?”
