Chapter Six

 

‘All is well, Unice,’ Verena was saying, some hours later, stroking the limp hands that lay upon the coverlet. ‘Rest now, rest.’

It had been a struggle, as if the tiny infant, who had at first seemed so eager to enter the world, breaking through the natural barriers too early, had appeared to think better of the matter and abandoned the onslaught for some little while.

By the time Verena and Betsey had entered the bedroom, where the panting mother lay already exhausted by these first efforts, the natural motions had stilled. Only Unice’s own maid and the midwife were in attendance, and the latter had whispered worriedly to Betsey, while Verena had run to Unice’s side, grasping her hands as the poor woman fell into tears from weakness—and some fear.

‘She says my baby may be dead, Verena,’ she gasped.

‘Oh no, Unice!’

But the redoubtable Betsey would have none of it.

‘Fiddle-faddle,’ she told the midwife, and marched over to the bed. ‘Now, ma’am. There ain’t no call for you to fret yourself to flinders. Gather your strength, my dove, for you’ve work to do.’

‘And—push!’

It had seemed to Verena that if Betsey gave this order once, she gave it a hundred times. Poor Unice, crying throughout, and screaming now and then as the painful process proceeded to its natural extreme, did as she was told. Verena held her hands, wincing as the grip tightened almost unbearably, but making no complaint, and passing a damp cloth over the sweating face whenever Betsey permitted a respite.

The odd thing was that the midwife took no offence at the interference of the invading maid, but seemed rather to draw strength from her, doing all she might to assist, until at last the troublesome little package emerged—and began to howl in protest at the rude misuse of its tiny person.

All four helpers fell to laughing in relief, and Verena dropped to her knees and clasped the author of this miracle in her arms, crying out, ‘It is just as you wished, Unice. A girl! You have a little girl.’

Unice, her dark hair plastered wetly to her skull and the pillow, laughed and cried together, albeit weakly.

‘A girl? Oh, Verena! But I promise you she shall rue the day she put me through this.’

Betsey, busy with towels and the hot water that Unice’s maid held ready, while the midwife did her own part, overheard this and looked up towards the wan face on the pillow.

‘Likely she’ll give you as much trouble her lifelong. Girls, ma’am, are ten times worse than boys in the bringing up, be they never so much sugar and spice.’

‘Then shall her father be the sufferer, not me,’ Unice uttered into the general laughter.

She was quiet for some time after this, dozing a little although she was not yet able fully to sleep, while Verena soothed and petted her, wringing out the flannel in the fresh bowl of water brought by Unice’s maid, and wiping away the damp stains on the exhausted features, smoothing the lank hair, and stroking the lax fingers.

At length, Unice’s eyelids fluttered open again. She turned her head to her friend. ‘Verena, take her to Osmond, pray. He does not say it, but he wanted a daughter so much.’

But Betsey insisted that Miss Ruishton must first be presented to her mama. And once the tiny squalling babe was put into her arms, Unice was indeed reluctant to allow her to be removed. This time it was the midwife who called the tune.

‘Madam and I have some matters here to finish, miss,’ she said to Verena. ‘It would be a kindness in you to take the babe away for a spell. Your good nurse here and I will make the lady presentable for her husband.’

Verena might be unfamiliar with the business of childbirth, but she knew there were necessary things to be done after the baby was born. Unice, already a veteran, made no objection, although she kissed the infant and sighed as she reluctantly permitted Verena to lift the bundle from the bed.

‘Don’t fret, Miss Verena,’ Betsey whispered. ‘She needs her peace now, for all she may not think it.’

Outside the room, Verena abruptly realised that Osmond must still be worrying downstairs. They had none of them thought to send down to the poor man to relieve him in his concern. She hurried a little on the thought, the now sleeping baby tucked securely in her arms.

She found Osmond Ruishton standing in the middle of the saloon, in a listening attitude as if he waited to know if the footsteps betokened any more than Unice’s maid once more going for fresh water. He no sooner saw the little bundle than his hand went up to his mouth. Verena saw him bite into his hand and understood that he was unbearably anxious.

‘All is well,’ she said quickly, coming into the room. ‘Have no fear, Mr Ruishton, all is well. See! You have the most beautiful little daughter.’

But Osmond’s first glance passed over the tiny face that she uncovered almost unseeingly. With painful intensity, his eyes locked onto Verena’s, and he uttered the one word.

‘Unice?’

‘She had a severe struggle, but it is over. She will do very well in a few hours, I promise you.’

His shoulders sagged as a hoarse whisper left his throat. ‘Oh, thank the Lord!’ Then he dropped into the nearest chair and threw his hands over his face.

Moved, Verena gazed at him. How deeply he cared for his wife. So much so that the baby was as nothing compared to his need to hear news of her.

But in a moment Osmond had mastered his emotion. His hands dropped and he looked up, a smile beginning in his eyes. ‘Forgive me, Miss Chaceley. I have been so anxious.’

‘Oh, pray don’t ask my pardon. It is very understandable.’ She paused, and then added hesitantly, ‘You must—you must love her very much, Mr Ruishton.’

‘She is my life,’ he said simply.

Verena stared, tears gathering in her own eyes. Could a man feel so strongly? And if he did, could he be—she hardly dared to think the word—gentle?

Osmond was rising, coming towards her, his eyes on the infant whose passage into the world had been so very stormy.

‘And so this is my daughter?’

Verena made haste to offer the child, holding it out towards him. But Osmond reached out a finger and ran it down the smooth baby cheek, red still and tightly muscled from its recent exertions. Watching his face, Verena saw him smile. Then he turned his finger and the tip just brushed the minute lips.

‘How do you do, Miss Ruishton?’ he said softly.

‘What shall you call her?’ Verena asked.

‘That will be Unice’s privilege,’ he said, his eyes still on the infant’s mouth. Then he drew back, and a great sigh escaped him as he looked up again to Verena’s face. ‘Will they have finished? Do you think I may go to her now?’

‘Yes, of course. At least—’ She gave an odd laugh. ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Ruishton, but I do not know. I think it may be all right.’

‘She will need me,’ he said. ‘And, by Jupiter, I have great need of her!’

Then he turned, and walked quickly out of the room.

Verena watched him go, feeling utterly confused. For the first time in her life, standing there in a soiled muslin gown—the first that came to hand in her haste—and left for the moment in sole charge of a new-born infant, she wondered if perhaps it might be possible that a man and a woman could enjoy true happiness in marriage.

A vision sprang full-blown into her mind. A vision of an expressive countenance, a teasing light in its eyes of misty blue, and a smile on its lips that turned her knees to water.

Verena sank down onto the sofa, nursing the baby against her breasts. Why him? Why his face at such a time? She had not thought of him in weeks. Or at least, she amended, she had tried not to think of him. She had banished him from her mind forever that day—the day that Unice and she had become a little more than acquaintances.

He had left abruptly, Unice had told her, obviously distressed. Verena had been unable, for the quite unforeseen emotions that she herself was experiencing on hearing of the man’s departure, to respond in any suitable way. For her heart had stilled, and a hollow opened up inside her chest.

Unice had seen it, or had seen some reaction in her face—unguarded for a moment—and remarked upon it. Verena had ended by telling her just what had occurred that night, expressing her regret if any words of hers—stupid words, provoked by some strange emotion she did not herself understand—had been the cause of Mr Hawkeridge’s decision to leave. Unice had been quick to pooh-pooh any such suggestion, saying that Denzell must have had reasons of his own of which neither of them knew anything.

It had been a small opening up on Verena’s part. But it had been enough. Warming to Unice, she had found herself succumbing more and more to the temptation to drop the mask. Only once had Unice spoken of it.

‘Dear Verena, I know there is some urge that makes you poker up in public. But pray don’t feel you have to hide your feelings with me. I will ask no questions. Only do not shut me out, Verena. I so much want to be friends.’

Touched, Verena had pressed her hand, and thereafter had resumed her mask only when others were present, including Osmond. They had not discussed Mr Hawkeridge again, although Unice would from time to time let fall an item of news concerning his activities in London.

Verena persuaded herself that she was not interested. Had so persuaded herself. Then why now, in these truly unusual circumstances, should he thrust himself into her thoughts uninvited?

She looked down again into the new-born features of the little lady in her arms, cradling the infant closer. To be sure, it had been a hideous entry, but it was over now—and the result! Oh, but what joy it must be to be entrusted with a tiny soul such as this. To hold a new life close, to nurture it thus, sweetly at the bosom, giving of oneself even to the provision of its daily food.

Her eyes pricked. This was not for her, could never be. For she had dedicated her life to Mama’s salvation, and sworn never to marry. Never to permit that intimacy—of which, despite her maiden innocence, she knew altogether too much—that might have given her this.

A shadow at the door brought her eyes up. Unice’s maid stood there. She dropped a curtsey.

‘I’ve come to take the babe up, ma’am.’

She came forward. As of instinct, Verena’s arms tightened about the bundle she held. The oddest feeling of possession engulfed her. She did not want to let the baby go. But the maid was before her, arms held out expectantly.

Verena looked once more into the sleeping face. This is Unice’s baby, not mine, she told herself. She must give it up.

Her clasp loosened. The bundle shifted, and the waiting hands removed it from her arms. A pang shot through her, as she watched the maid walk from the room, taking the baby away. It was as if she took with her a part of Verena’s heart.

Bereft and confused, she sat in a daze. What was the matter with her? How could so little a creature be responsible for so great a sense of loss? The child was not even hers. She had never wished for children—had she? Not if it meant she must marry, put herself into the self-same position in which Mama had suffered so.

But Unice seemed happy, a small voice whispered at the back of her mind. She could almost imagine the scene upstairs. Unice lying with the babe in her arms, and Osmond sitting at her side, looking down upon his wife with the eyes of love. She was his life. That was what he had said.

Abruptly the vision changed. Verena herself was lying there, the baby hers. And the man who sat beside them wore the face she had sworn she would not remember. Verena found herself shaking.

Movement on the periphery of her vision made her glance up, blinking. In the doorway stood two little night-shirted boys, their young faces pale and uncertain.

Felix and Miles! They had woken, disturbed by the strange happenings in the night. Her heart contracted. Poor, frightened little things. Instinctively she held out her arms, and they ran to her, nuzzling into her and bursting into sobs.

‘Hush, now, hush,’ she crooned, all thought of her own confusions swept away. ‘There is nothing to be afraid of. Listen to me, both of you. Your papa will come presently, but he is with your mama just at this moment. And he has the most wonderful news. Do you wish to know what it is?’

Two small faces, the tears smudged away by knuckling hands, looked up at her expectantly. Verena smiled.

‘God has brought you a little sister.’

That was enough for Felix. Questions rained on Verena, and Miles climbed into her lap, sticking a thumb in his mouth and preparing to sleep again, satisfied with an explanation, even though its significance was beyond him.

A few moments later, when Osmond appeared in the doorway, the two boys leaped up and ran to their father, who lifted them bodily from the floor, both together, and hugged them, laughing in an excess of joy, repeating the momentous news.

Verena discovered that tears were pouring down her face. Osmond saw it, and put the boys down, coming towards her, his children at his heels.

‘Miss Chaceley! Why, what is the matter?’

But Verena was smiling, even while she hunted in the hidden pocket of her gown for a handkerchief. ‘Pay no heed to me, Mr Ruishton. It is—it is merely an expression of—of joy. I am so happy for you!’

Osmond reached out and, leaning over her, took both her hands in his.

‘I cannot thank you enough, Miss Chaceley.’

‘Oh, don’t,’ begged Verena. ‘It may seem an odd thing to say, but I have—I have had so much pleasure tonight.’

She returned the pressure of his hands, and then let them go, using the handkerchief to dry her eyes. Smiling, she added, ‘I think we may dispense with formality after this, don’t you, Osmond?’

Osmond laughed. ‘You are a remarkable female—Verena.’

Felix and Miles were clinging to his legs. Detaching the younger boy, he lifted him up into his arms again, and took the other by the hand. It was obvious that his joy in his family was unbounded.

‘I can only say, Verena, that I wish you might one day know the happiness I am experiencing tonight. Marriage is bliss, you know. I can thoroughly recommend it.’

***

 

From a few feet away, Denzell watched his sister’s face as she turned to whisper to her new husband. Lord, but Teresa was radiant. He had thought her determined pursuit of poor Freddy to have been for the advantage of position, but he was clearly wrong. And Freddy himself. One only had to look at him.

Lord Rowner, receiving the murmurs of his bride into his ear, responded with a glowing look that told its own tale. An unexpected pang smote Denzell. This was a love match. Though why it should affect him in such a way he was at a loss to imagine. He should be happy for them. He was happy for them—for Teresa. At least one Hawkeridge could look forward to a rosy future.

He turned away on the thought, conscious that for some little time now he had himself been something less than happy. He was hanged if he knew why. Life had somehow become empty, meaningless. Deuce take it, but it was a ridiculous state of affairs. He had everything he could want, did he not? What more could there be? Trying to shrug off the mood, he threw himself into the business of the day.

The wedding breakfast celebrating the nuptials of the new Lady Rowner was held, as was proper, at Tuttingham, in the home of the lady’s parents. Hawkeridge Hall, the Baron’s seat, was an old-fashioned edifice, erected in the days of Queen Anne before the Palladian craze had swept the country. It was solid, but not imposing, of good proportions, and much more comfortable to inhabit than the windswept baronial hall that had preceded it.

The gardens, tending rather to the natural than the formal, were admirably suited to occasions of this kind, and the guests, having eaten and drunk of their host’s plenty, had been invited on this warm summer day to amble the lawns, studded for the purpose with pockets of chairs and tables for the comfort of the less energetic.

Denzell’s duties as son of the house—attired for the occasion in a suit that was for him unusually bright in colours of russet brown over apricot and cream—had kept him sufficiently occupied to set uncomfortable thoughts at bay for the moment. Later, as he was taking a respite, enjoying the idle jocularity of his particular friends—including Osmond who had travelled up for the occasion—he was hailed by another young man.

‘Hawk, old fellow! I have not seen you this age. I suppose you have been gallivanting in London all winter.’

Turning, Denzell beheld a lad some years his junior, smart in the blue coat with buttoned-back revers and white breeches of a naval lieutenant. He grinned and came forward to shake hands.

‘And I must suppose that you, Kenrick, have been sailing the high seas.’

‘Alas, yes. Nothing but the sea for us Chaceleys, you know.’

Denzell stared at him, stricken to silence. A hollow seemed to have opened up inside him. Deuce take it, why had he not thought of it before? Verena Chaceley. And here he had a whole swarm of that name on his very doorstep.

Pittlesthorp Place was but a mile or two away, near to Ivingho, but so close that all the Chaceley boys had been the neighbouring companions of his youth. So much a part of his background were they that their Christian names—Kenrick, Fulbert and Walter, to call but three to mind—were perhaps too familiar for him to be recalling their family name.

Kenrick Chaceley was blinking at him. ‘What in thunder ails you, Hawk? Look as if you had seen a ghost.’

Denzell felt almost as if he had. A need, urgent and compelling, forced him out of his abstraction.

He grasped the young lad’s arm. ‘Kenrick, bring me to your grandfather. I have the greatest desire to renew my acquaintance with him.’

‘You must, be mad,’ returned the young gentleman, standing firm. ‘My whole desire is to keep as far away from the old tartar as possible. If you want him, you go and find him for yourself.’

‘Oh, come, he’s not as bad as all that.’

‘No, he’s worse,’ retorted Kenrick. ‘He may not bite your nose off, but then you ain’t related to him.’

Denzell smiled over his unnatural impatience. ‘Dear boy, I am convinced he cannot even notice you among so many.’

‘That’s just what I rely on. I thank God I am not the eldest, for although a naval career is not what I would have chosen, at least it keeps me away. Poor Fulbert is obliged to remain, just as my father is.’

Yes, and his reverend Uncle Hartley had the Pittlesthorp living, Denzell remembered, so that his cousin Walter must be much under old man Chaceley’s eye. There were several females, too, were there not? They were all in attendance at the wedding, even the Chaceley sisters, who had moved away on their marriages, returning with their families to make an appearance here.

‘Lord, yes, I had not thought,’ he said aloud. ‘Your house must be pretty full at this present.’

‘Bursting at the seams,’ said Kenrick. ‘Which is all to the good. Grandpapa has too many distractions to be concerning himself over one insignificant naval officer.’ He tapped his own chest. ‘Me.’

Denzell glanced around them, saw with satisfaction that his friends were all deep in discussion, and pulled Kenrick apart, obliging him to walk as he said in an urgent under-voice, ‘I have something I particularly wish to ask you.’

‘What?’ demanded Kenrick, intrigued.

‘Have you any relatives down Sussex way?’

‘Not that I know of. Why?’

‘Are you sure?’ urged Denzell, ignoring the question.

‘Sure? No! How in thunder should I know all the ins and outs of the family? My grandfather was one of five, and I can’t account for the half of them.’

‘Oh,’ said Denzell, dashed. ‘Damnation. Then it might go years back, and you would not know of it.’

‘Talking in riddles, old fellow. I wish you’d tell me what’s in your mind.’

Denzell suddenly wondered why he was doing this. If Verena Chaceley had wanted him to investigate the ramifications of her family, no doubt she would have asked him to do so. Yes, when the moon turned to green cheese. What the devil was he doing?

He shook his head. ‘It does not matter. I met someone—but it is not important.’

Kenrick’s interest was not so readily depressed, however.

‘What, you mean you have met a Chaceley? In Sussex?’

‘No, in Tunbridge Wells, but—’

‘Tunbridge Wells? Lord, Hawk, what in thunder took you to a tumbledown rack of a place like that?’

Denzell grinned. ‘I know. Though it is quite a thriving community these days, you must realise—if aged on the whole. My friend Osmond Ruishton lives there.’

‘He must be mad.’

‘Probably.’

Kenrick slapped his shoulder. ‘Tell you what, Hawk. We’ll ask my father. Knows the family tree inside out, does my father. Ten to one, though, there ain’t no Chaceley in Tunbridge Wells.’

But Bevis Chaceley, when accosted by his son, could not enlighten them. Could not, or would not? Denzell wondered, the urgency returning despite himself. Had there not been even a slight reaction from the fellow?

Kenrick’s father was a handsome man of middle years, running a little to the portly, but still able to cut a fine figure in a suit of green-toned ditto. He was a calm personage, with a pleasant manner and an easy temperament. Although Denzell knew Bevis Chaceley for a stern parent, he was not as rigid in his views as old man Chaceley.

‘Sussex!’ he exclaimed, as if there was meaning in it.

Something leapt in Denzell’s chest. He knew something.

But then the gentleman frowned a little, pursing up his lips. ‘What part of Sussex?’

‘A place called Fittleworth,’ Denzell answered, an odd sensation inside him, as of a hunger—for information.

Bevis shook his head. ‘I think not. It may be some other family.’ He smiled. ‘We are not the only Chaceleys to bear the name, my boy.’

Denzell scarcely had time to register the disappointment that attacked him before a new voice interrupted them.

‘Ha, young Hawkeridge!’

It was a gruff voice, proceeding from an elderly gentleman, poker stiff, with the figure of a much younger man, but a defiant show of his own grizzled head and well-cut clothing in keeping with the times. Armed with a cane, which he leaned on but slightly, he walked slowly towards them, at his heels two matronly ladies in whom Denzell recognised Mrs Esther Chaceley, wife to Bevis, the heir, and Mrs Camilla Chaceley, the Reverend Hartley’s helpmeet.

Recovering his company face, Denzell greeted them all with a mixture of deference and bonhomie, which sat well with the ladies, at least. It did not appear to do him any harm in old Mr Chaceley’s eyes, either. The patriarch seemed well pleased, and the reason was soon established.

‘Mean to congratulate your mother, boy. She’s done excellent well by her girl, excellent well. Rowner, eh? It’s a good match. Very good match, indeed. Well done.’

Denzell took the hand held out to him, and found himself the recipient of a hearty, and surprisingly strong, handshake.

‘I thank you, sir, and have no hesitation in accepting your words of praise to myself. Lord Rowner is a close friend of mine, and if there has been any matchmaking, I must take all credit, for Teresa met him through me.’

A bark of laughter from the old man rewarded him, and the ladies tittered.

‘For shame, Denzell,’ scolded Mrs Esther Chaceley, closing her fan and rapping his hand. ‘You will not pretend that it is not your mama who has brought him up to scratch.’

‘No, I will not, ma’am,’ agreed Denzell. ‘The truth is that it is Teresa herself who brought poor Freddy up to scratch, without any assistance from anyone else.’

The gentlemen hugely enjoyed what they took to be a joke, while the ladies shrieked and scolded, Mrs Camilla Chaceley going on to tease Denzell that his turn must be next. An idea that, for some reason, clouded Denzell’s amusement. He maintained a cool front, however.

‘Quite right,’ approved old man Chaceley. ‘How old are you, boy? More than twenty, I take it.’

‘Five and twenty, sir.’

‘High time, high time.’ He raised a stiff finger. ‘But make a good match, boy. Good match. Most important thing in the world. Now, I must kiss the bride, eh?’

With another of his mirthful barks, he went off, accompanied by his acolytes.

‘Good match,’ muttered Kenrick in Denzell’s ear. ‘That’s all he cares about.’

‘Don’t most men of property?’ Denzell asked, still struggling against the unwelcome resurgence of his earlier sombre mood.

‘Just so,’ agreed Bevis, who had not followed his father. He nodded at Denzell. ‘I’m glad you spoke up for yourself, my boy. My father likes that in a fellow. He never could stand a show of weakness.’

‘Never could stand anything that went against his inclinations,’ murmured Kenrick as his father moved away. ‘Prideful old... Well, I shall not say what I wish to call him. But I give you my word, old fellow, you would not believe the mean-spirited actions that he has taken on account of this obsession he has with a good match.’

‘Oh?’ queried Denzell, sudden interest driving away his abstraction. ‘What sort of thing do you mean?’

But there was to be no answer to this question. Bevis Chaceley had apparently overheard his son, and he stepped back, frowning.

‘That will do, Kenrick. It does not become you to speak of your grandfather in such terms.’

Kenrick had the grace to blush, murmuring, ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’

But he grimaced at Denzell behind his father’s back as that worthy turned to him.

‘My boy, you spoke of someone you met of the name of Chaceley. I was just wondering, was it a gentleman, or...?’

He ended on a note of interrogation, one eyebrow raised. Denzell’s senses came fully alert. Was there something to be discovered here after all?

‘No, sir,’ he answered. ‘A lady. A Miss Verena Chaceley. She was residing with her mother in lodgings in Tunbridge Wells.’ He added on a deliberately casual note, ‘It is a curious situation.’

‘Indeed?’

It was given its usual courteous inflexion, but the question was implicit. He wanted to know more. Like a hound to the scent, Denzell took the plunge. He had nothing to lose, and perhaps—with a lurch of the stomach that he did not even pretend to try to understand—everything to gain.

‘Very curious, sir. The mother has remarried, it seems, for she is now called Peverill.’

‘Peverill,’ repeated Bevis, his tone flat.

Recognition? Denzell did not think so. But there was still interest.

‘Yes, sir,’ he continued. ‘There is a brother on the Peverill side, and the husband is still alive. The conclusion one is forced to is that Mrs Peverill is at the spa for her health, for she is not by any means in plump currant, but—’

He stopped, wondering all at once why he had begun this at all. Bevis Chaceley’s expression was blank. There was nothing here to shed any light on Verena’s mystery.

Oh, deuce take it, Verena! Still in his thoughts?

He would have abandoned the matter then. Turned it off, and rushed away to busy himself so hard that the image playing about his inner vision must fade. But Bevis did not seem to be in a mind to let the matter drop. He raised his brows in a compelling question.

‘But?’

Denzell gave an inward sigh, and shrugged. ‘Sir, I hardly know how to answer you. Except to say that from my experience of Miss Chaceley—which was not, I grant you, very much—it seems clear that there is some point of contention. I don’t know what. But there is in Miss Chaceley...’

There was a tightening in his chest as it all came back to him. With a roughening of his tone, he resumed, ‘There is both fear and distress. That is all I can tell you, sir.’ He paused, and then, as if compelled, he asked again, ‘Are you sure she is no relation?’

To his sudden, intense disappointment, Bevis Chaceley laughed in a way that left no room for doubt. He knew nothing. Or at least, that was how he wished it to appear.

‘My dear boy,’ he said, ‘how could I tell? There are innumerable Chaceleys in the world, as I mentioned before.’

Kenrick nodded. ‘Hoards of them. I should think even my grandfather does not know them all.’

Denzell eyed them both, wondering if he should pursue it. But to what end? The matter was resolved for him. A servant arrived with precisely the sort of distraction he needed. Teresa had gone to change her dress and his mother wished to speak to him.

By the time he had run the particular errand requested of him by Lady Hawkeridge, the encounter with the Chaceleys had temporarily faded from his mind. It was recalled at a moment when he was gathered with his cronies as they were taking their leave of the bridegroom, with much ribald comment amid their good wishes for his future.

‘Mark my words, Freddy,’ warned Osmond, ‘your troubles are just beginning. Only wait until the children arrive.’

‘This from a man who, by all accounts, dotes on his offspring,’ scoffed Aldous Congleton.

‘Dotes? He is besotted,’ said Cyril Bedale.

‘Exactly,’ Denzell put in. ‘Pay no attention, Freddy. You should have heard him eulogising over his new daughter.’

But Freddy was blushing. ‘It is early days to be thinking of children. I just want to enjoy—I mean, we only wish—’

‘Softly, dear boy, softly,’ Denzell said over the sniggers of the other two. ‘We perfectly understand you. Only, as your brother-in-law, I feel compelled to warn you to begin as you mean to go on, and insist on having the mastery in your own home. Otherwise, dear boy, you will assuredly live under the cat’s foot.’

‘Yes, don’t show her you’re besotted,’ advised Cyril.

‘No, no,’ protested Freddy loyally. ‘What I mean is, Teresa is devoted to me.’

‘She may be as devoted as you please,’ said Denzell, ‘but that will not prevent her from wishing to rule the roost.’

‘Lookee, Freddy,’ broke in Congleton. ‘Take a lesson from Ossie here. Everyone knows he is under his wife’s thumb.’

This was so nonsensical an idea that everyone roared, and Freddy himself took heart. Denzell, assuring him that he was jesting, slapped his brother-in-law on the back and wished him well, and young Lord Rowner was sent on his way with the goodwill of his friends ringing in his ears.

‘Now then,’ said Cyril Bedale, as soon as the bridegroom was gone. ‘I had forgot with all this attention on Freddy, but now is the moment to seize opportunity. You must satisfy our curiosity, Ossie. Tell us all about Hawk’s snow maiden.’

Denzell’s heart lurched.

‘Snow maiden?’ repeated Osmond blankly.

‘This girl you wrote of,’ explained Congleton.

‘They mean Verena,’ Denzell put in, conscious of a frenzy in his own pulse. For it had come to him belatedly that Ossie had come up from the very place where Verena Chaceley was living. Or was she? Chaste stars, let her not have removed from there!

But Osmond had turned on the name, seizing his friend’s shoulder. ‘If I had not forgot. Hawk, I had meant to give you an account of it. You would not believe what a warm heart beats under that icy front. Oh, she is on the highest pedestal in our establishment, I promise you.’

Denzell became aware of a drumming within his chest and his mind blanked. With difficulty, he asked, ‘What do you mean, Ossie?’

‘I am talking of Verena. She came to us that night, when Unice was brought to bed. At least, I went to fetch her, for she and Unice had become friends. I swear to you, if she had not been there—she and that maid of hers—I don’t know what we would have done. She was kindness itself—and her gentleness with Unice, with the boys...’ He shook his head in wonder.

‘Snow maiden, eh?’ said Congleton, in a teasing tone. ‘Sits well on her, it seems—eh, Hawk?’

But Denzell hardly heard him. The oddest sensations were taking place inside him. Warmth burgeoned so strongly that he felt it as expanding heat racing through his veins. The vision that had haunted him—that golden, glowing image of vivacity—was playing in his head. And then, throwing it all out of gear, the picture of her lovely face, the mask shimmering into fragments.

He had known it. All the time he had known it. She was as soft as he believed. It was all a sham, a shield erected against the world. To protect herself—poor, sweet, aching princess. What a cursed fool he had been!

Briefly, he thought again of the Chaceleys. A surge of something unnameable set his chest almost to bursting. It was—ludicrously, for he had no real reason to think it, he knew—as if Bevis had disowned her.

The turmoil inside him had coalesced into a single, driving need. The same intolerable urgency that had made him leave Tunbridge Wells. Only this time, it was having an opposite effect.

He seized his friend’s arm. ‘Ossie, is she still there?’

‘Of course she is. She visits Unice every day.’

A long sigh escaped Denzell, and he rocked back on his heels, smiling at his friend. ‘In that case, dear boy, you may expect me for the Season.’

There were shouts of triumph from his cronies, but he did not care. It was as if a mist had lifted, and he knew now what he must do.

Osmond cocked an eyebrow. ‘Oh, I may, may I? I suppose I need not ask why.’

Denzell grinned, light of heart all at once. ‘That, dear boy, is obvious. I must pay my respects to the new Miss Ruishton.’

***

 

Tunbridge Wells in August, at the height of its Season, was a very different matter, Denzell discovered, from the dreary place he had visited at Christmas last.

For one thing, here he was, having barely swallowed his breakfast, already abroad among the brightest of chattering company, having been dragged down to the Pantiles by a determined Unice, eager to thrust her prize into notice. Whose particular notice he did not enquire too closely, but he was conscious of a thrill of anticipation that threatened to swamp him before ever he caught sight of the face that had been haunting him so diligently all this while.

The main venue for most of the Season’s events had, in addition, shifted to the Upper Assembly Room, where the heat of summer was the better accommodated in the more spacious edifice, and the brave colours of past fashions—many elderly matrons despising the white muslin now so prevalent among the London belles with their extraordinary high waists—were set off by the superior ornamentation.

Denzell’s own town apparel—a dark blue cloth coat over the latest pantaloons of dull yellow with his feet encased in Hussar buskins—felt somewhat odd in this outmoded assembly. But Unice had assured him it would be acceptable; indeed, there were one or two middle-aged smarts attired in this daring new fashion.

Not so the exquisite Sir John Frinton, one of the first people to hail Denzell, suave as always in blue and cream. He came up, grinning broadly, and winked.

‘Now here is a sight I hardly thought to see. How do, my young friend? What brings you to our dull delights? Or dare I ask?’

‘What but the pleasure of seeing you again, Sir John,’ responded Denzell, shaking hands. ‘Can you doubt it?’

‘With ease, my dear boy, with ease,’ returned the aged exquisite, laughing. He looked about him. ‘I am desolated to disappoint you in your undoubted quest.’

‘How do you know what is my quest, sir?’ demanded Denzell, grinning.

Sir John twinkled. ‘Intuition, Hawkeridge.’ He leaned close. ‘I will give you a cautionary hint, however.’

Denzell’s chest dropped. What? A rival, perhaps? There had been, after all, a previous amour and the man was back? Or—deuce take it, don’t say she had gone! He managed a light tone.

‘A hint?’

‘Look about you,’ said Sir John, wafting a well-manicured hand. ‘What do you see?’

‘A swelling of your numbers, that is all.’

‘Ah, yes, but whom? I will tell you. A predominance of aged devotees—as aged as I, alas—returning with sentimental loyalty to the once fashionable haunt of their own youths.’

He was right, Denzell realised. The place was full of elderly folk, mostly raddled females. He became aware, as his eye passed about them, that a number of them were eyeing him surreptitiously, with that speculative gleam with which he was all too familiar.

‘Oh, the deuce,’ he muttered. ‘Matchmakers in force.’

‘Precisely, my dear boy,’ laughed Sir John. ‘Danger awaits you here. Don’t you see the hopefuls about them?’

And, indeed, there were in evidence several young females, flimsily clad in the new muslins, and apparently in attendance on their elders. Denzell had not noticed them. But he did now, seeing at once in one or two eyes as they looked away from his glance, those flickers of interest that would, but a few months back, have piqued him into selecting a potential flirt.

‘You see them?’ queried Sir John, his amusement plain. ‘Indigent relatives, one and all. It is all the fault of one such who came here a year or two since. A delightful girl. She married a local marquis.’

Denzell’s glance came back to him, understanding in his eyes. ‘I see.’

‘I thought you would.’

‘Well, they will not catch me. I have other plans.’

‘I thought you had.’

Denzell laughed. ‘You are far too acute, Sir John.’

Sir John sighed, mock-sentimental. ‘The truth is, my friend, that I am an incurable romantic. Let me advise you to turn your eyes to that archway behind you.’

There was no mistaking the meaning of this. Denzell’s heart did a reckless dance, and he looked around. Verena! Warmth flooded him.