Chapter Nine

 

Verena had slept a little better than she had these last few nights. More from exhaustion than anything else. She had felt dreadful on waking, her head thick and heavy, her bones weary. But remembrance of what she was waiting for had soon driven all that away—just as it had every morning since Adam had come with his hideous news.

She had calculated the probabilities, counting days. Nathaniel would come by coach, and he would not have travelled on Sunday. He must have started out a day or two after Adam, and the coach would necessarily make slower progress, for Adam, dependent on speed, had left the gig at home and ridden post. She had waited at home none the less, although she thought she could reckon on two to three days, four at the most.

But time was up. He must arrive today.

She was riding on nervous energy, but she was aware only of the necessity to remain alert, to be ready for the moment that must tax every ounce of her strength.

Mama had gone out with Adam, although neither he nor Verena had been able to persuade her to join the expedition to High Rocks. Verena know not whether to be glad of the new determination that showed how Mama had altered, or sorry for it, since she now wished to face Nathaniel herself.

‘When all is said and done, Verena, he is still my husband, to whom I am vowed before God,’ she had stated with a dignity that became her. ‘If you wonder that I am not afraid of him, then I reply that I am afraid. But this respite has given me courage, Verena, and that I owe to you. I am persuaded he will not attempt to do me harm in this place, and therefore I will see him.’

Nothing Verena could do or say served to move her from this standpoint, and it had filled Verena with a dread that swept from her mind everything but this. She had succeeded in extracting a promise from Adam to keep Mama away from the lodging for as long as possible, to give her opportunity to make her own warnings to Nathaniel before he could get to Mama.

Pacing the little parlour, attired against the expected visit in a round gown of pale yellow muslin demurely buttoned high over the bosom, with a standing ruff edged with lace and sleeves to the wrist, her hair partly covered by a small mob-cap, she waited, rehearsing in her head all the things she meant to say to Nathaniel.

Yet when the door knocker sounded downstairs, her mind froze as still as her body. She stood like a statue, facing the door, in a listening attitude, hearing the clump of Betsey’s footsteps going down the stairs.

Her heartbeat began to thud in her own ears as the sound of a male voice smote them, along with Betsey’s murmurs. Double thumps now, two sets of feet ascending the stairs.

A plea sang in her head. Heaven give me strength!

Her pulse quickened even more painfully, and she braced herself as the door swung open.

‘A visitor, Miss Verena,’ said Betsey, and Denzell Hawkeridge walked into the room, easy in buckskins and top-boots, and a frock-coat of olive green, a toning waistcoat beneath in a lighter hue.

For an instant, Verena stared at him, bewilderment in her brain. Then a wash of relief hit her, dizzyingly, and she took several steps backwards towards the bureau, grasping swiftly at the back of the chair before it.

‘Miss Chaceley, are you ill?’ came Denzell’s concerned tones, as he moved quickly forward.

But Betsey was before him, one hand about her charge’s waist in an instant, supporting her drooping form, and clucking her concern.

‘There, my dove, now don’t you go swooning on me. Here, quick, sit in the chair.’

But Verena was already recovering. She pushed the maid away. ‘No, no, Betsey, I am all right. It was only—I thought it was he.’

‘So did I,’ agreed the maid, adding in an under-voice, ‘I thought you might as well see the gentleman, Miss Verena. It’ll take your mind off it for a little.’

Verena looked across at Denzell, standing in the middle of the room and regarding her with a good deal of concern. Without thinking, she smiled at him.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Hawkeridge. I was expecting...’

She petered out as the memory of their last meeting came back to her, the things she had said to him, and subsequently restated to Unice—and given herself away into the bargain. Had he discovered it all from his hostess?

There was no telling any of this from his face. He was returning the smile, a twinkle coming into his eye.

‘I am glad to discover it is not I who had such an effect upon you. I should be afraid to walk into any room in which you might be present had that been the case.’

That drew a spurt of laughter from her, and some of her consciousness eased. Betsey, a somewhat grim smile curling her lips, released the hold she still had on Verena’s arm, and moved to the door.

‘I’ll warn you, Miss Verena, when it’s the master.’

Verena nodded, watching as Betsey left the room, very properly leaving the door partially ajar behind her.

Denzell took a step or two towards her. ‘Don’t you think you should sit down for a moment?’

‘To tell the truth, I am still a trifle shaky,’ she agreed, moving to seat herself in the chair.

Denzell came up and perched on the corner of the day-bed, his eyes never leaving her face. He could not doubt but that she was waiting to receive this man Peverill, but he was reluctant to make any further reference to that. He dared not show his own new knowledge. For one thing, it would mean betraying Adam’s inadvertent confidences, which could not please his sister. For another, he did not wish to embarrass her by making it obvious Unice had told him all that had been spoken between them in this very room.

Yet he must refer to their last encounter. He could not begin to make amends unless he first cleared that hurdle.

Verena was no longer looking at him. Her beautiful countenance was calmer, but her fingers were clasped together in her lap, and their nervous movement told its own tale. Only this time, Denzell did not make the mistake of setting it down to his own account. There was clearly a good deal else on her mind today.

‘Miss Chaceley—Verena—’ he began, and paused as her gaze came up to his again on the use of her given name. Such haunted shadows in her eyes! Involuntarily, he threw out a hand, saying, ‘Have no fear. I have not come to distress you with unwanted attentions, nor to plead my cause against your express prohibition. I have come only to apologise for my conduct the other night.’

Verena bit her lip. He had come to apologise? And what of her conduct? Well she knew she had given him cause both for anger and confusion. She had treated him so unkindly—and after behaving in a manner that must have encouraged him to believe her willing. Oh, that kiss!

‘Denzell—’ she began impulsively, and then broke off, recollecting herself. ‘I mean, Mr Hawkeridge—’

‘Ah, no,’ he exclaimed out of the instant warmth that had invaded his breast at her use of his name. ‘Let us, I pray you, drop formality.’ He leaned forward a little, holding out his hand. ‘Can we not at least cry friends, Verena?’

Verena looked at his outstretched hand, then up to his face, and a rush of tenderness engulfed her. Her eyes filled and she put out her fingers towards his, unaware of how her own quivered. Denzell clasped them, bowed his head, kissed the tips of her fingers, and then let them go.

They tingled as Verena returned them to her lap, lacing them into her other hand. She could not look at him, and her voice was low.

‘You are—very kind. I am aware that I behaved—I may have led you to believe—’

She stopped, drawing a strengthening breath, and grateful he did not seek to interrupt her faltering speech. Dredging up from somewhere the remnants of her shielding mask, she composed herself and looked up at him again.

‘Denzell, I accept your apology, and I hope in turn you will accept mine. I did not conduct myself in the manner of a lady in receipt of such a very flattering declaration.’

No, that was too much, Denzell decided. He broke in. ‘You did nothing for which you need reproach yourself. Mine is the blame.’ He stood up. ‘I will not importune you further, but I beg you to believe that, now and always, if there is some way in which I can serve you, you may command me in anything.’

Verena rose, holding out her hands. ‘Oh no, no. You deserve of me better than that. If we are to be friends, then don’t speak of service. Friends are not to be beholden to one another. They—’

She broke off, turning her head away, and dragging out of his grasp the hands he had so willingly received into his hold.

‘What is it?’ he said at once, seeing the warmth in her face instantly overlaid with fear.

She did not answer, but ran to the window in the bay and peered down. Denzell followed and saw below that a travelling carriage was drawing up outside the front door. Verena seized his arm in a fierce grip.

‘Denzell, you must go. Dear heaven, but I knew he would come this day!’

Still looking down, Denzell saw a middle-aged man descend, dressed for the road in a light greatcoat, his hat in his hand, and stand looking about him with grim eyes in a hollow face with an unmistakable resemblance to the boy Adam. The man moved to the door, and next instant they could hear the knocking downstairs.

Denzell laid his hand over Verena’s which still clutched his arm. ‘This is what you have been home for these few days, is it not? You have been waiting for this man. He is the cause of all your fears, is he not, Verena?’

‘Ask me no questions, Denzell, but go, I beg of you,’ she uttered, her tone frenzied. ‘I must meet him alone.’

He plucked her hand from his sleeve and held it fast.

‘Verena, I have serious misgivings about leaving you to face this man on your own.’

She shook her head, moving towards the centre of the room, so that Denzell, still holding her hand, came with her willy-nilly. Betsey’s face appeared at the door.

‘It’s him, Miss Verena,’ she hissed. ‘I saw him from the window.’

‘Yes, I know. Go, Betsey. Bring him up.’

The maid disappeared and Verena turned on Denzell, unaware that her fingers clung to his even as she pushed at his chest as if she would dislodge him from her presence.

‘Denzell, pray go! I must see him alone, for I have much that must be said to him—and I don’t know how long I have before Mama gets back.’

‘But, Verena—’

‘You need have no fear at leaving me with him,’ she interrupted. ‘He is my stepfather.’

Denzell only just prevented himself from blurting out that he already knew it. Nor could he say he feared for Verena’s safety at the hands of a man who was a known wife-beater. Adam had stated that Verena never gave her stepfather cause for attacking her, but she looked at this moment as if she might well do so. Frustrated at being unable to speak his real fears, he could say nothing.

Verena was listening for the voices downstairs, and then the footsteps coming up. She dragged her hand out of Denzell’s.

‘Too late! Promise me you will go the moment he arrives in here.’

What could he do? He had offered his friendship, and his support. If she refused the latter, what more was there to be said? Friendship dictated that he respect her wishes.

‘Very well,’ he sighed.

Verena nodded. She could hear the footsteps coming up now, and she had no attention to spare for Denzell. It occurred to her that his presence had been of help, for she was no longer in a state of fear. Her control was back, and she faced the door in the sure knowledge of her own capable strength.

Betsey pushed the door open, saying as she entered, ‘It’s the master, Miss Verena.’

Nathaniel Peverill came in behind her, and paused on the threshold, his hooded eyes passing from Verena to Denzell and back again. His lean features were drawn, etched with deeper carven lines from nose to mouth, and the sunken hollows under his eyes were dark with shadow.

Verena noted these signs of suffering, and could not but rejoice in her heart. The very sight of him filled her with a renewal of the hatred she had nurtured through the years, and she was conscious of an intense satisfaction that he had experienced even a tithe of the torture with which he had broken Mama’s spirit. She could not speak, for fear she might express these thoughts in words.

Nathaniel broke the silence, in a voice heavy with suspicion.

‘Are you not going to present me, Verena?’

Instinctively, Denzell’s glance went to Verena and he almost gasped out. Did she hate the man that much? Her eyes pierced like twin daggers and there was tension in the air. It must be long since these two had met, but there was evidently to be no exchange of greetings. And Verena, it was clear, had no intention of introducing him.

He bowed. ‘My name is Hawkeridge, sir.’

The other eyed him appraisingly, looking again at Verena. He nodded, and began to remove his greatcoat.

‘I am Peverill. You will excuse us, I trust. I wish to speak with my daughter alone.’

Verena found her tongue. She almost spat the words. ‘I am not your daughter!’

Denzell saw the man’s eyes flash, and his jaw tighten. A glimpse of possibilities that filled him with instant comprehension. There was a black temper here, a temper unused to be crossed—particularly by this slip of a girl. Yet he was in a delicate position. Everything in him urged him to champion Verena, refuse to leave. But on what grounds? The man had not offered her violence, and Verena had already asked him several times to go.

It was Betsey who settled the matter. Having received the greatcoat Squire Peverill handed to her, she made frantic signals behind the man’s back indicative of her urgent desire that Denzell should absent himself from the scene. He took one more look at Verena’s set face, and capitulated.

He turned to Verena. ‘I will leave you, Miss Chaceley—unless you feel you would wish me to remain.’

Verena, her sight and mind filled only with the loathed figure before her, scarcely heard him. The concept reached her only as a faint wisp of interruption in the intensity of her concentration. Her eyes never left the man’s face, and she uttered the one word, ‘Go.’

Denzell gave an inward sigh, but he bowed and nodded to Peverill as he passed him, noting the careful neatness of his dress, despite a carriage journey. No doubt but the man had come a-courting.

Betsey seized his arm and drew him from the room, closing the door behind them both. When Denzell would have spoken, she put a finger to her lips and set her ear to the woodwork. Perforce, Denzell listened also. Peverill it was who spoke first.

‘You have practised a fine deceit upon me all this time, Verena,’ he said in a voice that spoke his sense of outrage. ‘Through how many years have you shown that modest and docile exterior, when all the while you were planning to practise this shameful trick upon me? Was that done as I deserved? Have I not ever taken care of you, used you as if you were truly my own flesh and blood?’

Verena’s voice came then, vibrant with scorn. ‘I thank heaven you have not. I pity Adam, that he is obliged to carry your blood in his veins. But I, sir, am a Chaceley born, and though I blame my father’s family for their treatment of Mama, I say only, God forgive them. But if I am to endure to hear you speak of your deserts, Nathaniel Peverill, then I answer you this: may you burn in hell!’

There was a silence. Denzell saw Betsey stand up straight again, throwing a hand to her capacious bosom and rolling her eyes. He was not surprised. He was shocked to hear Verena dare so far.

Deuce take it, was she mad? Although it seemed as if Peverill knew not how to reply to her words. To his relief, he heard the man laugh.

‘You amaze me, Verena,’ he said. ‘I did not think you had it in you.’

Betsey visibly relaxed. ‘All’s well,’ she whispered, and shooed at Denzell to move him along the corridor towards the stair head, collecting his hat along the way from the stand in the hallway.

‘But can we safely leave her there?’ he asked in a low tone, receiving the beaver from her. ‘Is she not in danger from him if she speaks in such a provocative way?’

It did not seem as if the maid was surprised to hear him talk of Verena thus. She shook her head, ushering him down the stairs.

‘Never you fret, sir. It ain’t defiance as angers him. He won’t touch her.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Denzell demanded out of his own deep concern.

‘I know him too well. He won’t do nothing ’til the mistress has shown her face. It’s her as he’s come to see. Besides, Mr Adam will be here. Believe me, sir, if I feared for her, I wouldn’t be letting you go.’

This was a touch comforting, although Denzell would have preferred to remain within call. But he did not see how he could. He had no rights here, and Verena had made it clear she did not wish him to intervene.

A thought struck him and he paused at the front door, eyeing the maid in a speculative way. ‘You would not care to explain what she meant by her words about her mother’s family, the Chaceleys?’

Betsey pursed her lips. ‘No, I wouldn’t. If you win the right to it, Mr Hawkeridge, she’ll tell you herself.’

He grimaced. ‘If I win the right.’

‘Go now, if you please, sir,’ the maid said, opening the door. ‘Family business, this is.’ Then she shut him out of the house.

Denzell remained on the doorstep for a moment or two, glancing up at the window above. There was nothing to be heard, and the maid was right. It was family business. Cheered by her words about his possible rights, he moved off, albeit reluctantly, in the direction of the Ruishton home. The travelling carriage had gone, presumably so that the servants might refresh themselves at some inn. Evidently Squire Peverill expected to be here for some time.

He crossed the garden and passed into the open space of ground where Verena had once helped the children to build a snowman. Then he paused and looked back. It was with some measure of relief that he saw Adam and Mrs Peverill turning into the drive of the lodging-house. He wondered what might be the outcome once they discovered the new arrival above stairs.

In the parlour Verena was listening to her stepfather with a slight cooling of her rage, now that she had discharged some of it. She had need of her composure, for the last thing she wished to do was provoke him into some precipitate action that might lead to disaster. Besides, she had to state her unalterable intentions against his own.

But it was very difficult to maintain even a vestige of calm in his presence, now he knew her mask for what it was. Long habit reasserted itself, however, and although she could not abate one jot of her defiant hatred, she did manage to bring her face under control.

‘Whatever your personal feelings, Verena,’ he was saying, in a voice of persuasive calm, ‘you must surely see that you have no right to encourage a man’s wife to run away from him.’

‘We are not talking of a man’s wife,’ she responded, her voice cold. ‘We are talking of my mother.’

‘There is no tie more binding than the marriage contract. Not even the blood tie. It is sacred, you see, and you, Verena, have come between us. You do not seem to realise the extreme seriousness of what you have done.’

‘Do I not?’ Verena asked, and a contemptuous smile curled her lips. ‘You mistake me, sir. You should be glad of this misdemeanour of mine. For if I had been obliged to remain at home and watch my Mama suffer, I would have taken a pistol to your head.’

Nathaniel blenched. ‘You cannot know what you are saying. Shoot your own father?’

‘My father is already dead.’

‘Oh, very well, your stepfather, then. It makes it no better. I think you must be mad indeed.’

‘If I am, then lay it at your own door. Whatever I am, sir, your misconduct has made me.’

‘Poppycock!’ snapped Nathaniel, moving as if he would shift away from her. ‘Enough of this. Where is Abigail? I wish to see her at once.’

‘You need not take this high-handed tone, sir. You may see her, for she has expressed a desire to meet with you. But mark this. If you harm one hair of her head, if you so much as make a move in that direction—’

‘But this is insane,’ he interrupted. ‘Do you think I have come all this way to—?’

‘I know why you have come all this way,’ she cut in, ‘because Adam told me. You have vowed to take Mama back. If you imagine I will permit it, however, you are wrong.’

Nathaniel uttered a short laugh. ‘And how do you propose to stop me? Come, Verena, you are being extraordinarily foolish.’

‘Am I?’ Hard and cold.

‘Verena,’ he began, and stopped, turning as the door opened behind him.

Mrs Peverill stood on the threshold, Adam close at her back. She was almost pretty again in her lilac cambric gown, Verena realised with a start of fear. Her glance flew back to Nathaniel’s face, alert for any danger. Into his eyes she saw enter an expression of appreciation, succeeded by one of intense hurt.

Her gorge rose. Dissembler! Worse still, Mama’s eyes softened at the sight.

‘Oh, Nathaniel,’ she sighed, and moved forward.

‘Adam!’ Verena cried, running to intercept a meeting. ‘Don’t let him near her!’

Mrs Peverill stopped as her daughter came between her and her husband. Adam shifted to one side, ready to intervene. But, to Verena’s surprise and acute suspicion, Nathaniel threw up his hands and backed away, in a gesture of surrender.

‘Do you think I have come to bully?’ he cried, in a voice that she could almost believe sincere in its distress. ‘No, Abigail—I have come to beg.’

There was a short silence. Verena stared at her stepfather. What an alteration in his features when he was confronted with Mama. Yet he had dealt with Verena in a manner that showed all too clearly how little he had truly changed. She turned urgently to Mrs Peverill.

‘Mama, do not believe him. He is determined on forcing your return, by whatever means. He will play upon your conscience, as he has tried to play upon mine. If he may speak of begging, then let me beg, too.’

‘Verena, my darling, don’t,’ pleaded Mrs Peverill, tears starting to her eyes.

‘I must, Mama—’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I am so afraid that he will succeed with you, as he so often has before, and I cannot bear to think of it.’

Her mother released her hands and clasped Verena in her arms, hugging her close.

‘My dearest love! You have been a most diligent guardian, but you must let me stand on my own feet now.’

Verena drew away, looking down into her mother’s set face. Heaven help her, was everything to go for nothing? Mama thought herself strong, but was she proof against Nathaniel’s wiles? Verena did not think so.

What to do? Where to seek for help? She looked at Adam, and saw uncertainty in his face. There was nothing to be got from that quarter. Then it was all squarely back on her own shoulders. She turned again to Nathaniel, convinced he was waiting only for the opportunity to get Mama alone.

‘Be warned, sir,’ she said, her tone hard. ‘Mama has too soft a heart, and she will hear you. But do not forget you have me with whom to deal.’

A sad smile entered his face, and he directed his remarks towards his wife rather than Verena. ‘I have come with a humble heart, and if Abigail has compassion enough to soften to my pleas, then shall I be satisfied. You will find me a good deal changed, Abigail.’

Verena’s eyes flashed at him. ‘Oh, you may offer lies, Nathaniel Peverill, enough to cozen Mama. But you will not take her home again, trust me.’

Nathaniel ignored her. His gaze remained fixed on his wife’s face. ‘I need you, Abigail. I have had time to learn that I cannot live without you. You know how I love you.’

‘Love? You call it love to batter with your fists until your helpless victim lies almost senseless at your feet?’

‘That is in the past!’ he said with vehemence. ‘I confess my faults, Abigail. Freely I confess them. I have wronged you, but I will never do so again.’

‘No, for you will never have power over her again,’ Verena threw at him. ‘Not while I am alive to prevent it.’

Nathaniel turned on her. ‘Oh, leave me be, girl! What in Hades has it to do with you? Haven’t you caused enough unhappiness? In any event, you are wasting your breath. I swear to God, I will not leave here without my wife!’

‘There, I knew it,’ Verena slammed back. She might have laughed if she had not been so angry. She had caused unhappiness, he dared to say, himself author of all this.

She turned to her mother. ‘You see, Mama? You hear him?’ Then she whirled back on Nathaniel. ‘Try what you can. Force her, persuade her, drag her home. But mark this: I will come to Fittleworth and fetch her away again—at whatever cost.’

Nathaniel’s brow grew black, and Adam started forward, seizing his sister’s arm.

‘Verena, you are distressing Mama.’

She wrenched her arm out of his hold. ‘Then why do you not say something to support me, instead of standing there like a stock? This is your fault, Adam!’

‘I know it,’ he answered, ‘but I still say it is a matter between my father and our mama. You agreed that Mama might speak to him. Then let be, and do not be stirring the waters so that even discussion becomes impossible.’

His words struck home. Verena hesitated. Yes, she had agreed—perforce. And she had stirred the waters purposely, pushing Nathaniel to reveal his true colours, desperate to deflect Mama’s intention to meet him alone.

But she had reckoned without Mrs Peverill’s own new strength of mind, until she felt her mother’s hand on her arm.

‘Adam is right, dearest. Leave us alone for a little.’

Verena stared at her, breathless with dread. ‘Alone? You and he?’

‘I will be safe enough,’ she said gently. ‘Go with your brother, I pray you.’

Mrs Peverill passed her daughter and went to stand behind one of the armchairs, facing her husband and looking him boldly in the face. Watching her, Verena was conscious of a measure of realisation penetrating the blanketing fear. Mama had changed. She was stronger. Perhaps, after all, she might stand up to him. If only Verena could be sure that she would not agree to return with him. She hesitated.

‘Nothing will happen, Verena,’ Adam said, adding his persuasions to his mother’s. ‘Mama has a right to this privacy, and you know it.’

‘I thank you, Adam,’ said his father, nodding in his son’s direction. He added on a faint note of sarcasm, ‘And if your sister wishes it, do you remain within call to prevent me spiriting your mother away.’

Adam nodded, and taking Verena’s arm, pulled her to the door. She turned there, casting one last threatening look at her stepfather.

‘If you so much as lay one finger on her...’

Mrs Peverill looked across at her. Her tone was both dignified and firm. ‘Go, Verena.’

The next moment she found herself outside the parlour, her brother moving her off towards her own chamber next door.

‘We can wait in your room,’ he said.

But she was too much on the fidgets to wait anywhere. She paced her bedchamber, while Adam sat on the one chair the room held, regarding her worriedly.

‘Verena,’ he said, ‘be still!’

She continued to pace. ‘How can I be still?’

‘They must come to an understanding by themselves. We cannot interfere.’

She halted then and turned to him, repeating, ‘We cannot interfere. How often have I agonised on that question? Adam, do you know what this feels like?’

He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Waiting here in this room,’ she uttered, in a tone of anguish, for the memories were crowding in, ‘prohibited from going in, knowing that at any moment the shouting may erupt into violence.’

‘Verena, there is no shouting,’ Adam said, rising and going to her. ‘Listen! They are talking—in a civilised manner.’

She shook her head, for the visions were too strong. Visions of hateful days, when she had crouched, listening, not daring to move for fear of discovery, for fear of bringing about a worse punishment than that which she could hear—blow after blow, cry after cry, until she must cover her ears and weep those stifled silent sobs into her upraised knees, soiling her gown.

‘Civilised?’ she uttered in a shaking voice. ‘How can it be civilised? He is an animal—a brutish animal!’

Adam’s arms went round her and he held her close. But the embrace was too stifling and she struggled free.

‘I cannot bear this,’ she said, crossing to the door.

Adam was before her, holding it fast. ‘You will not interrupt them. I won’t let you.’

Verena shifted, pushing back and forth. ‘Let me go, Adam. I cannot stay in this house.’

He frowned. ‘You want to go out?’

‘I don’t care where I go, but I cannot remain here.’

‘Very well,’ he said, and opened the door with caution.

She went through it, hesitated an instant or two, looking towards the parlour door. Then she saw Betsey standing guard outside it.

‘Oh, thank heaven!’

The maid came up to her, whispering. ‘All’s quiet, Miss Verena. Murmuring voices, that’s all.’

‘Betsey, I am going out.’

‘That’s the way, my dove. You can go as you are, it’s warm enough. Don’t you fret now. Mr Adam and me will see all’s right.’

Verena nodded, and then Adam was ushering her down the stairs, saying, ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘Dear heaven, no, Adam,’ she replied, halting in the middle of the flight. ‘If you fail me on this occasion—if he removes Mama from this refuge—’

‘He won’t, trust me,’ Adam promised. ‘Or trust in Betsey, if you prefer.’

Verena did prefer it. But she knew Betsey alone could not prevent Nathaniel from taking Mama away.

She reached up and touched Adam’s hand. ‘I trust you.’

Then, before she could change her mind and rush back upstairs to burst in on the conference in the parlour, she hurried down and let herself out of the house.

She walked on an automatic course towards the Common, hardly looking where she went, her mind filled with distressing pictures of the past. She did not hear her name called, nor the footsteps running after her, and she was already on the Common, taking a well-worn path, when Denzell caught up with her.

‘Verena, wait!’ he called, seizing her arm to halt her.

She stopped, unable to take in that she was waylaid. She saw the face, and knew it, and spoke its name without thinking, blurting out the confusion of her brain as if she was fully conscious she might safely do so.

‘Oh, Denzell, she is alone with him! He says he will not hurt her, and perhaps he will not. But he will say such things…and she will believe him. She always did. And it will be nothing but black lies.’

‘Verena, calm yourself,’ Denzell commanded, taking her shoulders and holding her fast. ‘Come, don’t speak yet.’ He smiled. ‘Where is that famous control I have had so much reason to deprecate? What, Snow Maiden, have you thrown away your mask?’

An involuntary gurgle of laughter escaped her, bringing her back to the present. The confusion lifted a little.

‘My mask has rather deserted me,’ she offered shakily.

‘Never!’ Denzell declared, and putting an arm about her, led her off the path and into the shade of a tree, for the sun was hot.

He stripped off the olive-green coat and laid it down, instructing her to sit. Glad to be relieved of the necessity to think for herself, Verena sank down, the pale yellow muslin spreading about her, and watched Denzell settle before her, his attitude relaxed as he sat in shirtsleeves, his hat at one side, the queue of his tied-back fair hair falling over his shoulder to lie upon the subdued green of his waistcoat.

There was an expression of tenderness in the blue eyes as they looked her over with that smoky glow that had the effect of ruffling her breath a little, but her heart and mind were still too full to leave room for what this might mean.

Denzell’s own thoughts were all for her distress. He had found himself unable to go all the way home, his concern for Verena’s safety causing him to dally in the square of open ground. When he saw her leaving the house, he was glad of his own irresolution, and had hurried after her at once, for it was obvious from her demeanour she was greatly overset.

When he stopped her, the distraught look in her face and the trembling outburst of that hurried speech had gone straight to his heart. He wanted only to comfort her, to alleviate her distress by any means in his power. She was looking at him with more openness than she ever had before. Expectantly almost, as if she trusted in him to deliver her. He smiled warmly.

‘Now, my princess, tell me the whole.’

Verena noticed nothing amiss in this form of address, nor in his assumption that she would confide in him. She fetched a sigh, and shrugged.

‘What am I to tell? I am in dread he will succeed with Mama. He will cozen her with his pleas and promises, for she is in no condition to resist him.’

‘You mean your stepfather?’

‘Nathaniel, yes.’ She sighed again. ‘I have been persuaded to let them alone—that is why I came out. I could not abide the waiting. It was too reminiscent of earlier times.’ She threw her hands up to her face, pressing them to her cheeks, closing her eyes. ‘If you knew the dreadful, unkind things he said of her. All to give himself reason to inflict upon her the vicious punishment of his heavy fists.’

Despite the fact that he had understood this must be the meaning behind the little she had told Unice, Denzell found himself shocked and distressed by the picture these words painted. Almost he shied away from asking further, from hearing any more, for, to himself—and he was persuaded, to those of his intimates whom he knew almost as well as he knew his own mind—such a shameful use of a man’s strength was not to be tolerated. No gentleman would strike a lady, never mind administer this kind of beating. Deuce take it, but that was for prize-fighters! Were such a thing known in his circles, the perpetrator would be shunned by society—and rightly.

But here was Verena, whom he loved, and who had memories she must long to eliminate from her heart. He had no mind to hear them, but he would share them, for her sake.

‘What sort of things, Verena?’ he asked. ‘What would he say?’

Verena’s shoulders shifted, as if the burden of the memory was too great to bear. But she answered, her hands dropping down to pluck aimlessly at her muslin petticoats.

‘Oh, that Mama did not love him. That she had an eye to some other man. That she was his alone, despite her desires for others—despicable lies! Mama never looked at another man. She would not have dared to do so, for fear of such consequences as must ensue.’

‘And then?’ Denzell urged.

Verena shivered. ‘And then, when she denied it all, when he had driven her to a quarrelsome frenzy, he would hit her. When she cried out, he would do so again. He would say he must demonstrate his mastery this way, if she would not permit him to do so—the other way.’

Denzell went cold. Had Verena’s mama refused her husband his rights? That was foolhardy. Any man must be frustrated by that, but such a man as this would be angered beyond bearing. And Verena knew of this? Chaste stars!

But Verena was still speaking, her eyes unseeing, her mind far away, receding into the memories that haunted her.

‘When he was satisfied—when he had punished her enough for his temper to begin to cool, he would leave her, slamming himself from the room.’ Verena drew a shuddering breath. ‘That was the moment when I used to find the courage to creep in. I had to, for Mama was incapable of tending to her own hurts. Either myself or Betsey had to do it.’

She did not notice the tears that slipped down her cheeks, tears that rent Denzell in pieces as he forced himself to remain still, and to listen while she talked on, moving into the present tense as if the events she related were happening this moment.

‘She lies there, swollen and bleeding at the mouth. Her eye half closed—you can see the bruise beginning there already. I take the basin and bring some water, and gently—very gently, for she is hurting so—I clean away the blood and press the cold flannel to her bruises.’ One hand came up and her fingers dashed at the wetness on her cheeks, and she sniffed, shaking her head. ‘So many, sometimes, I could not do them all in time. She suffered them on her back and her neck, for she must have turned from him to save her face. Then I had to hurry, for you see he would always come back—in due time.’

‘Come back?’ The protest was drawn from Denzell out of the confusion of compassion and revulsion warring in his breast. ‘How could he dare to come back?’

Without thinking, he plunged his hand into the pocket of his buckskin breeches and brought forth a handkerchief. He thrust it into her restless fingers, and Verena held it, her eyes focusing on his face as the tears gave way to the stirrings of that rage he had seen in her countenance when she met Nathaniel earlier in his presence.

‘Oh, yes, he dared. He would come back all right, with a mouthful of apologies, a heart—so he claimed—full of remorse, speaking of his great love for her.’ Her face twisted as she repeated with an inflection of sickening disgust, ‘Love—oh, how often have I heard him use that word and wished I might cut it on his skin with a blunted knife!’

Denzell heard the vicious wish with a surge of emotion. If he had known with what a legacy he had to deal when he spoke to Verena of love. Small wonder she reacted as she had. He watched her dab at her eyes with his handkerchief, and his chest tightened. But his heart stilled as she spoke on, for there was worse to come.

‘I should not have heard these things,’ she said, and her voice was hard again. ‘Only there were occasions when I was not quick enough to escape before he would reenter the room. I used to hide under the bed, and be forced to listen to him begging forgiveness, saying he had not meant a word of it, mingling his false tears with her own. And then…and then he would...’

She could not go on, her fingers wrestling his handkerchief into a ball. Denzell, quite appalled by the implication, reached out a hand and seized her fingers, handkerchief and all, almost crushing them in his anxiety to relieve her mind.

‘Say no more. I understand.’

What a hideous fate! That a child should have been obliged to witness such scenes and learn of lovemaking in this crude manner. The thought crossed his mind that he had taken on an impossible task, but it was overborne by the need to give Verena what comfort he might. To let her begin to know that what she had been so unfortunate as to experience was the exception rather than the rule.

He relieved her of the maltreated handkerchief and took her other hand, holding both together in a strong clasp between his own.

‘Verena, this is not love as most men know it, my poor girl. Only look at Unice and Osmond. You cannot imagine that anything of the kind might occur between them. They are the fondest couple I know.’

Verena made no attempt to remove her hands, but they lay limply in his grasp, and her voice was bleak.

‘Those that saw Nathaniel and Mama together would never have imagined it of them either. They hid it well between them. Even I did not know until I was eight. Mama was thought to be sickly, that is all, for she was indisposed for days at a time. That is why I chose Tunbridge Wells, so that it might be given out, when it became known that we had gone, that Mama was here for her health.’

‘Verena, you delude yourself. One does not live on an island. Such things as you have spoken of are the stuff of servants’ gossip. Can you truly believe that the matter was unknown in your circles? I frankly doubt it.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, so do I. But that does not mean that people were able to observe it in their public conduct.’ A tiny smile came and went. ‘Only look at me. I am a past master at my company mask, as you call it. Mama was almost as good. It is only since she has been here she has given way to her misery.’

There was silence for a while. Denzell would have given anything to show her how mistaken were her views, how narrow. How, he knew not. But this was not the time. She was calmer now, and he must keep her so, not risk distressing her anew.

‘How was it you were able to come here at all?’ he asked, for he had long pondered the question of how mother and daughter could be supporting themselves.

‘Grandpapa Whicham—my mother’s father—left me money in trust,’ she answered. ‘I had only to wait for my majority, by which time I had resolved how I would use it.’

The answer threw the whole matter of the Chaceleys back into his mind. Tentatively, in a casual tone, he tried a subtle probe.

‘What of your father’s family?’

A shadow flitted across her face, and a slight reserve entered her voice. ‘I know nothing of them. Mama married above her station, and they did not wish to recognise her.’

Deuce take it, this was too painful. Poor princess. Abandoned by one family, only to be crushed by another. But life had not always to be so. Love had not always to be so. How could he show her that? Unless she could be brought to see for herself—by his own conduct towards her. Or did she already know it? He eyed her.

‘Why have you allowed me under your shield, Verena? Why, if not that you trust me?’

His grasp had slackened a little, and Verena removed her hands from his, looking away. ‘I trust you as a friend.’ A smile flickered again. ‘Besides, I was overwrought, and you were by.’

‘Is that all?’ he uttered, and knew the disappointment sounded in his voice.

Her pulse quickened, but she turned and met his eyes. ‘Denzell, can’t you see? Have you heard me say all this, and not recognised the impossibility of what you seek of me?’

She saw in his face that he had, and her chest tightened. But he reached out again, and took her hand, drawing it into his lap.

‘I recognise your fear, Verena, and I see upon what premise it is based. But it is a false premise. Your experience is one in a million. I could cite you story after story to refute your fears.’ He smiled. ‘But I will not waste my time. You cannot know it, Verena, but there exists a purer love than this—a love that has nothing to do with pain and brutality.’

Verena’s fingers shifted within his grasp. ‘If I could only believe that!’

His hand tightened. ‘If I could only convince you!’