Fragile Mask (13 page)

There was a silence of some moments’ duration, during which
Verena pleaded with the blood in her veins not to build a blush in
her cheek. But it was Denzell who gave a self-conscious
laugh.

‘
What am I to say to you, Miss Chaceley? Having succeeded in
capturing you thus, I find myself at a loss for a
subject.’

Amused despite herself, Verena looked up with an
involuntary—and very natural—smile. Denzell caught his
breath.
That
was the look. Oh, the warmth of her
when she forgot the need to hide her feelings.

To his intense disappointment, it was gone again in a
second. Damn this infernal mask! But she was speaking, the control
more secure now.

‘
In that case, Mr Hawkeridge, I will introduce one myself.
How long do you intend to remain in this vicinity?’

Now why ask him that? ‘I shall have to go soon. I am
expected home for Christmas.’ Dared he? After all, he had dared so
far and she was still sitting here. ‘Why do you wish to know? So
that you may put a limit to the extent of my
importunities?’

Again her countenance relaxed. Almost she laughed out, he
thought. But all too quickly she had buried it again, once more
politeness itself.

‘
I am sure Wellsian society will be sorry to see you
go.’

‘
Will you?’

Damnation! He had not meant to say that. But a fleeting
look of consternation rewarded him in spite of the slip. She was
rattled by the question.

He was willing to wager she would not acknowledge as much
in words, however. Nor did she. She did not even answer
it.

‘
It looks as if you will be fortunate in the weather for
your journey.’

‘
Ah, the weather,’ he murmured. ‘How safe a
topic.’

Verena choked on a laugh. Really, this man was impossible.
How unfair of him it was to attack her with humour in this
unscrupulous way. It was so much more difficult to maintain one’s
countenance against laughter than against anger or pain. She
gathered her skirts, making ready to rise.

‘
Don’t go!’

But Verena was on her feet. ‘My mother will be wondering
what has become of me.’

‘
No, she won’t. She is far too busy parading your brother
around for the world to gawp at.’

Back it all came in a rush. Too fast for Verena’s now lax
control. Denzell glimpsed the distress before she could fully
resume the mask, and cursed himself. What in the world had
possessed him to bring that up? Deuce take it, how careful one
needed to be with this girl. He saw her preparing to depart, and
knew he had lost her for now. The oddest sensation attacked him. He
wanted to seize her hand and forcibly prevent her leaving
him.

‘
Excuse me, Mr Hawkeridge.’

He bowed, watching her go as the strange feeling began to
recede. What in the devil’s name was the matter with him? He had
managed to hold her for a moment or two, succeeding, if not in
probing beneath the mysterious façade, at least in cracking it a
little. What was there in that to make him experience an intense
sense of loss?

All at once he got it. It was like a reversal of his own
tactic. The closer she kept her secrets, the more intrigued he
became. He almost laughed at his own simplicity, becoming confused
because he was caught in the self-same trap he was wont to use on
females.

But Miss Chaceley was a honeyed trap. Not only beautiful,
but with depths that just begged to be explored.

As he followed her back to the other room, he was waylaid
by Mrs Felpham, the eager eyes, under another preposterously
feathered turban, scanning his features and casting glances to
where Verena was re-joining the circle about her mother.

‘
Mr Hawkeridge, I am so happy to have caught you. How do you
find Miss Chaceley enjoys her brother’s company?’

There could be no doubt that she had seen him conversing
with Verena next door. Then let him give her something to chatter
about.

‘
Do you know, ma’am, I forgot to ask. We had other matters
to discuss.’

Her eyes popped. ‘Do not tell me you are
succeeding!’

‘
In entertaining you, ma’am? Oh, I hope so.’

She coloured at his sarcasm, and excused herself. Denzell
found Sir John Frinton, resplendent as ever in grey and salmon, at
his elbow.

‘
You cannot believe you have silenced her thus, my young
friend.’

‘
The woman is impossible!’

‘
And so am I,’ said Sir John, twinkling.

Denzell grinned. ‘I don’t mind your probing,
sir.’

‘
Just as well. I take it you have not abandoned all
hope?’

‘
Far from it.’ He watched Verena’s polite serenity circling
the room. Involuntarily he added, ‘Osmond thinks she is
lovelorn.’

‘
Lovelorn? No!’ came Sir John’s voice without hesitation. ‘A
female in that condition is all too susceptible—to rebound
affections, you know.’

Denzell was conscious of a sighing away of unnamed anxiety.
He looked round, asking abruptly, ‘Then you do not still think I am
wasting my time, sir?’

Sir John raised his brows. ‘How will my opinion serve you,
my dear boy? You will take your own road despite it and so you
should.’

‘
I don’t know that,’ Denzell said, still with a
crease between his brows. ‘There is
something
here. If not
an amour, then—I don’t know. She is beyond my experience, Sir John.
I am at a loss.’

The old man’s lips were thin with age, but the smile on
them widened a moment. ‘I know. I find it excessively
amusing.’

‘
I am happy to afford you and Mrs Felpham entertainment,’
Denzell said with heavy irony.

‘
No, you are not, and who shall blame you?’

Then the powdered and painted features became serious all
at once, and Denzell felt a hand tucked into his arm, and a murmur
close to his ear.

‘
One word only, my young friend. There is a fragility of
which you may not be aware. Take care, in your enthusiasm for the
chase, that the vessel does not break.’

The next moment, the old man was gone from his side,
leaving Denzell staring after him in a good deal of
perplexity.

***

Verena had not intended to visit Unice Ruishton again while
Mr Hawkeridge was staying at her home. But Adam’s constant presence
in her own parlour afforded her so much inner agitation that she
found herself seeking some excuse to go out. He had adhered to his
promise, speaking to Mama neither of Nathaniel’s depressed state
nor of a possible return, but it was Monday already, and he was
still in Tunbridge Wells.

It seemed as if Mama could not let him go. A fresh fall of
snow on Saturday had provided a legitimate excuse to delay his
departure, and of course Mama could not think of him travelling on
Sunday, and they had all gone down to the Chapel for the service.
But worse than this, Mama was asking all manner of questions, and
it appeared to Verena’s jaundiced ear that there was far too much
gossipy news from home.

The Fittleworth circle had apparently accepted the story
that Mrs Peverill and Verena had gone away for the former’s health,
but it was clear from Adam’s discourse that many had guessed the
real reason behind the unprecedented departure.

That was bad enough. But the eager note in Mama’s
voice as she sought news of her friends and neighbours, the wealth
of detail she demanded about the affairs of her household, were
like tiny pinpricks in Verena’s tender spot.
Could
Mama
ever be happy away from all she knew? Adam had made his opinion of
their present living conditions clear enough. Verena had rescued
her from a life of tortured misery, but how little she had to offer
beyond sheer survival.

At last she could stand it no longer, and rose from her
chair, forcing a smile. ‘Mama, I will leave you with Adam for a
little.’

Mrs Peverill looked up, a trifle
conscience-stricken.

‘
My dearest, forgive us. We have been talking so hard, and
forgetting all about you.’

‘
Oh, she don’t mind,’ said Adam with a grin. ‘Do you,
Verena? After all, you have had Mama all to yourself these three
months.’

‘
But you must not feel yourself driven out, dearest,’ urged
Mrs Peverill, throwing out a remorseful hand.

‘
Nothing of the sort,’ objected Verena. ‘I am only too glad
that Adam can keep you company, Mama. It happens that I have
something that I must—’ thinking fast and seizing at random the
first idea that came into her head ‘—I have been meaning to call
and see how Mrs Ruishton does. She has so few female friends of her
own age here, and—’

‘
That is like you, Verena,’ said her mother, ‘to wish to
befriend her.’

Verena disclaimed, feeling something of a fraud, but she
took comfort from the fact that Mama was satisfied. Even
enthusiastic.

‘
Such a friendly soul she is. It must be good for you also,
dearest. You are far too much with me. Yes, go, Verena. Spend the
morning there, if you will.’

There was nothing for it after that, but to carry through
the plan, although a full morning was scarcely in question. She
might put Mrs Ruishton out. Besides...

Heavens, could it be only now, when she was already
stepping across the drive towards the trees that bounded the square
patch of ground between the two houses, that she remembered Denzell
Hawkeridge?

She hesitated, conscious of an uncomfortable
sensation in the pit of her stomach. A whole morning? Oh dear, no.
Not with
that
danger to face. But perhaps he would
not be there, she thought hopefully, moving on again. And if he
were, what was it to her? Nothing at all, if only he did not take
her visit for encouragement. Denzell Hawkeridge, she now knew, had
an arsenal of weapons to trap the unwary female—and laughter not
the least of them. But she was on her guard against him. He would
not worm his way under the hard carapace of her
armour.

But when she was admitted into the green saloon of the
Ruishton home, she found only Unice, busily embroidering a garment
for the forthcoming infant.

Conscious of a most unwelcome sense of disappointment,
Verena greeted her in her usual polite company fashion and took a
place beside her on the sofa.

‘
I am sorry that I have not been to visit you for some
little time, Mrs Ruishton.’

Unice smiled. ‘Why in the world should you be sorry, Miss
Chaceley? You owe me no special observance.’

‘
Perhaps not,’ agreed Verena, relaxing just a little of her
stern self-command. Her smile contained more warmth than she
usually permitted herself. ‘But it occurs to me that we must be the
only two females in the town under five and thirty,
and—’

‘
Five and thirty?’ echoed Unice, bursting into laughter. ‘I
defy you to find another under five and fifty.’

Verena was betrayed into a laugh. ‘You may be
right.’

Unice reached out an impulsive hand and laid it on Verena’s
arm. ‘I am so very happy that you came. I wish you will do so more
often.’

‘
If you wish it. Though it may not always be possible to
remain for long.’

‘
Your mama. Of course, she has great need of
you.’

This was a little too near the bone for Verena,
and she changed the subject, asking after Unice’s health and the
progress of her two boys. She was relieved when her hostess
launched into these matters with enthusiasm, for she was able to
listen with only half an ear, while keeping a wary eye on the door.
She did not dare to enquire after Mr Hawkeridge, for that would
imply an interest that she was far from advertising—far from
feeling,
she corrected herself.

She remained a little over half an hour, rising to leave
when Unice ran down, apologising for boring on about her offspring
in a way that her visitor must find tedious. On a sudden impulse,
Verena dropped her mask for a moment, a smile flitting across her
face.

‘
Never mind it, Mrs Ruishton. I shall feel free to retaliate
one day, and you may hear instead the tedious ramblings of an
offspring about her mother.’

Unice laughed, reflecting that perhaps Denzell was right,
after all. There was warmth within the shell.

But Verena was on the move, anxious to go
before
he
should make an appearance. She made a rather
hasty farewell and left the house in somewhat of a hurry. She could
not imagine what had possessed her to allow her mask to slip—to
Unice Ruishton of all people. Might she not be depended upon to
encourage Mr Hawkeridge to suppose that she
could
be beguiled
into…into what? Flirtation? No!

But the conviction that Denzell Hawkeridge, left
to his own devices, might well beguile her into
something,
remained with her as she took a route beside the house and
into the ground behind, stepping between the icy patches of what
remained of the last snowfall.