Fragile Mask (12 page)

‘
You need not recite to me all the circumstances,’ he said
bitterly. ‘I know them well enough.’

‘
Yes, you know them, Adam. So don’t talk to me of her going
back to that life.’

He swung round. ‘But she does not look any the better for
being here, Verena. I swear to you, I was shocked at her
appearance.’

Pricked in her vulnerable spot, Verena turned away, putting
up an agitated hand to smooth at her own honeyed tresses, which she
had left loose in her haste this morning.

‘
That is because she had a bad night. It is no use expecting
her to recover from a lifetime of torture all in a minute. She is
bound to suffer bouts of distress.’

Glancing back at her brother, she saw a frown across his
brows, heightening the hooded look.

Desperately, she added, ‘Adam, she is worn down
with years of suffering and dread. She is only forty years old, but
she looks ten years older than that. She—she needs time, that is
all. Time to rest, to heal, to forget. She will bloom again.
She
will,
Adam.’

She was aware of the uncertainty in her own voice, and knew
that her brother recognised it. There was hardness in his face, and
his tone was almost contemptuous.

‘
Here? Here, Verena? Where she has no home—no life, no
friends.’

Quietly, Verena answered, ‘She has me.’

She read a retort in his eye, and the stresses of the past
hours overtook her all at once. Her voice shook, and tears stood in
her eyes.

‘
Don’t—don’t say that I cannot be enough. Pray don’t say
that, Adam. If I could not believe that, live with that hope, I
could not go on...’

Her voice failed, but Adam was already across the room, his
arms hard about her.

‘
Don’t cry, Verena. I know how much you have to bear. Mama,
too.’

He released her a little as he felt her struggle, and she
looked up into his face, the threatening tears arrested.

‘
What has she said to you?’

‘
Verena, she knows how hard it is for you. She wants you to
have your own life, as any young girl should. Marriage, a
husband.’

Verena pulled away, all desire to weep leaving
her. ‘A husband? Yes, I thank you, that I may be beaten and cruelly
insulted at every hand in my turn! No, Adam. You will not persuade
me that Mama could be better for a return to
hell
.
And I promise you,
if you tell your papa of our whereabouts you will never see Mama
again, for I shall take her abroad where neither you nor Nathaniel
will ever find us.’

It was not a satisfactory interview, for Adam, refusing to
take this threat seriously, persisted in his arguments, painting a
portrait of his father’s current state that made Verena almost want
to hit him. Could he not see, did he not understand, that
Nathaniel’s conduct was all part of the same pattern? But then Adam
had ever tried to brush away what he could not bear, and being away
at school had relieved him of the necessity to confront these
things.

Verena, on the other hand, had borne witness to every
assault as she anointed her mother’s bruises afterwards; witness
also to the aftermath of remorse that completed the circle of
Nathaniel’s vengeance. A vengeance that was, to Verena,
incomprehensible—except that she knew it was provoked by ‘love’.
No, Mama would not go back, no matter what Adam said.

Even now, she found herself scheming how she would leave
Tunbridge Wells for some other refuge, although she doubted her
ability to persuade Mama to move—not now that she knew Adam would
visit her here. Verena had not realised how much Mama had missed
him.

If she could only have trusted Adam’s unruly
tongue. But he had his father’s intemperate nature—though not his
cruelty—and deeply though she loved him, she
dared
not
have faith in his ability to keep this all-too-important
secret.

***

The appearance of the new young gentleman at the Lower
Rooms on Friday evening created more than the usual sensation. At
last there was something to be learned of the mysterious sickly
mother and her exquisite daughter. Not that anyone could be said to
learn much, beyond the fact that young Mr Peverill was his mother’s
son and a source of joy and pride to her—perhaps even more than was
her daughter.

‘
He is not nearly as handsome as his sister,’ Unice
reported, having been one of the first to be presented, ‘but he has
a good deal more of animation, let me tell you. A very pleasant
boy. His mother is clearly besotted with him.’

‘
And what of Miss Chaceley?’ demanded Denzell, who could not
see his snow maiden in the press of persons gathered about the
family.

‘
What do you mean, what of her?’

‘
Is she besotted?’

Unice tutted. ‘How in the world could I tell? You don’t
suppose she is demonstrating anything more than her usual company
face, do you?’

‘
Probably not,’ he agreed, glancing across to where the knot
of people was beginning to disperse a little. ‘Aha! There goes Mrs
Peverill, determined no doubt to introduce the paragon all around.
Now is my chance.’

‘
Your chance for what?’ asked Unice. ‘I thought you said you
were not meaning to flirt with her.’

‘
I am not.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘But that does not mean I
will not use what weapons I possess. I mean to probe the mystery of
Miss Verena Chaceley to its very depths.’

Verena, finding herself superseded by her brother as the
object of public interest, slipped thankfully into the other of the
two rooms which, although still remaining open, had been largely
abandoned by the company who tended to congregate in the warmer
one. She had not wanted to come tonight, knowing Adam’s presence
would give the locals more food for gossip. But Mama had insisted,
and Verena could not find it in herself to cast a damper over her
uplifted spirits.

She did not share her mother’s mood. On the contrary, every
moment that Adam remained here only brought her more anxiety. True,
he had refrained, adhering to the promise she had managed to
extract, from speaking of Nathaniel’s state and made no further
attempt to suggest to Mama that she should go back.

It was not fear of what he might say and, although she had
been on tenterhooks in case Nathaniel should have followed Adam
unbeknownst, it was not a nervous anxiety that beset her. It was,
she admitted to herself, Mama’s very vivacity that was making her
anxious.

Finding herself alone in the room, but for two old tabbies
conversing in low tones in a chair in a corner, she was conscious
of a chillier atmosphere and was glad of the short vest of sky-blue
velvet she had chosen to wear over the round gown of white muslin
with its long silk-lined sleeves.

She moved towards the much smaller fireplace that gave out
too little warmth to make the place inviting. Resting her hand on
the mantel, she looked down into the glowing embers below and
allowed herself to relax the stern mastery of her
features.

A small sigh escaped her. Here had she toiled these few
short months to give Mama some semblance of normality, to keep her
from too much brooding on the past, with, it had to be admitted,
but indifferent success. And yet Adam, making a wholly unexpected
appearance, had thrown her into alt and kept her there in a mere
two days. She could not help feeling disheartened, even while she
rejoiced at it.

Worse was the growing conviction that Adam’s departure
would bring on Mama’s deepest gloom. And then what was she to do?
Would Mama begin to dream of a return, if only to be near her son
again?

Conscious of her own growing distress, she fought for a
resumption of her usual control. Barely in time.

‘
It seems to be my fortune to catch you out in reverie, Miss
Chaceley,’ said a familiar voice.

She was so startled at his having the audacity to refer to
the other morning that she looked round before she had mastered her
features. Mr Hawkeridge, in a coat of bottle green, with black
cloth breeches and waistcoat, the latter relieved only with a
tracing of gold embroidery on its lapels, was smiling pleasantly.
There was no mischief in his expression. What had he meant by it
then?

‘
I do not understand you,’ she said, coolly she hoped, but
conscious of a tremor in her tone.

Denzell’s smile grew. ‘Oh, come, Miss Chaceley. You looked
charmingly, posed as you are so tastefully by this fire, but you
will never bring me to believe that you were not expending thoughts
upon this brother you have been concealing about you.’

It was so apt that Verena let out a spurt of astonished
laughter. What, could he read her mind? Recovering as best she
could—though she felt as if she dragged her features back under
control—she gave him what she trusted was at least a semblance of
her usual polite smile.

‘
I have indeed. It is some time since we have
met.’

Denzell silently triumphed. She was flustered. Oh, it was
all too quickly concealed, but he had got under her skin. He must
pursue his advantage while he might.

‘
Mrs Peverill seems to be deriving great benefit from this
visit. She is looking so well.’

‘
Yes,’ was all Verena could manage.

Eyeing her, Denzell thought he detected a spasm in her
cheek. Was she jealous then? On impulse he offered, ‘It is often so
with sons and mothers, you must know, Miss Chaceley. My own sister
has frequently complained of the self-same thing. She speaks
disparagingly of our mama’s apparent partiality for myself,
declaring I am spoilt by it and that whereas she must struggle for
Mama’s good will, I have only to whistle and she is all affection
towards me.’

Oh, but this was all too near the bone. He said it, as he
thought, to comfort her. Ironic that his words but twisted the
knife. She hunted in her mind for some suitable response, all
effort concentrated on keeping her countenance.

In vain. Close as Denzell was, he could see the wavering of
the rigid control. What had he said? Somehow he seemed to have hit
upon the very thing that touched the surging emotions within her.
She spoke, and he was able to divine a forced note in her vocal
tone.

‘
Your sister has all my sympathy,’ she said, dampingly calm
and—to the casual eye—quite unaffected.

But Denzell’s eye was far from casual. He was, on the
contrary, on full alert, aware that to catch Miss Chaceley’s truth,
he must read beneath the surface.

There was something between the brother and sister, of that
he was certain.

He was prevented from probing any further, however, for
Verena, all too conscious of the trick he seemed to have of
penetrating her thoughts, was already moving away.

‘
If you will excuse me, Mr Hawkeridge,’ she murmured, and
turning, headed purposefully towards the door to the other saloon,
more crowded and therefore much safer.

Disappointment gripped Denzell in a wave. Only half
intentionally he called out, ‘Why are you always running away from
me, Miss Chaceley?’

She stopped dead. He saw her shoulders stiffen under the
blue velvet and her head come up. Very slowly, she turned a little,
glancing back at his face. Denzell took a step or two towards
her.

‘
Do you fear me so much?’ he said quietly.

At that she turned to face him, the polite mask struggling
a little. ‘What should I fear?’

He did not hesitate. ‘My amorous intentions.’

Verena’s pulses were running riot, and she was
hard put to it to maintain her calm. No man had dared to address
her so openly. Nay, to
challenge
her. How
should she answer him? But that was obvious. With equal candour, if
she was going to match him on his own terms. She forced herself to
speak in the best imitation she could summon up of her usual
style.

‘
I have no interest, Mr Hawkeridge, in the flirtatious games
you appear to enjoy. Have I not made that clear?’

‘
Abundantly, Miss Chaceley.’ He smiled. ‘Yet I only wish for
your better acquaintance. Is that so wrong?’

To her own consternation, Verena found herself discomposed
by this question. It was wrong. Wrong for her. She did not wish to
become better acquainted. But any hint of that must make her
vulnerable in his eyes.

‘
Not—wrong.’

‘
Merely unacceptable.’

‘
No!’

Dear heaven, why must he make these disconcerting remarks?
It was so typical of the man, all of a piece with this habit he was
forming of coming upon her unexpectedly.

Denzell moved to one side of the fireplace and set a chair
for her. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

Feeling somewhat dazed, Verena did so. She was beginning to
wish she had not allowed that provocative remark to call her back.
She should have pretended not to hear it.

To her further inward confusion—though she trusted that her
well-trained countenance did not betray her—Mr Hawkeridge did not
himself take a seat near her, but remained standing to one side of
the mantel, leaning his elbow thereon, and watching her steadily,
his glance playing over her face and up to the golden crown which
she had dragged up tonight into a chignon, banded in blue velvet, a
knot of ringlets falling behind. She had no idea how it gave her
features a piquancy that belied the steel shell of her
control.