Fragile Mask (10 page)

‘
Yes, Miss Chaceley. I was too unsure of my welcome to risk
a rebuff by approaching you. In any event, there was no getting
near you in the Rooms, you know.’

She was not taking it in. Where was the nicely calculated
response to depress his pretensions? Oh, she had every outward
semblance of normality, but he would swear to it that her mind was
elsewhere as she glanced up at the sky.

‘
It appears the sun may be breaking through.’ Her gaze came
back to him, and there was once again that faint trace of a
disinterested smile on her lips. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr
Hawkeridge, I will resume my walk.’

‘
By all means,’ he agreed, stepping to one side, and leaning
on the cane he carried. He had to let her go, although everything
in him urged him to hold her there, that he might probe this
mystery to its depths.

Yet how in the world was he to effect any sort of
communication with her? Was she truly so contained, so much
mistress of herself? He allowed her to pass on, and watched her
walk away, her quickened pace perhaps the only sign of agitation
visible.

Shaking his head in wonder, Denzell turned his steps
towards the Ruishton home, all his ideas about Miss Chaceley turned
upon their heads. He had been persuading himself otherwise—or
trying to—but in reality he had begun to think her dull, even
soulless as he had said to Osmond. But here was a change indeed.
Who could have looked upon that face unmoved? Who could have
watched those unseeing eyes, reflecting all unaware the distraught
message of her heart, and not been conscious of a rush of
sympathy?

Seeing her pacing on the Common, he had instantly
recognised her. Filled with a new determination after the little
triumph last night he had approached her, ready with a teasing quip
that, if it had not covered her in confusion, should have provoked
some response. But by the time he had reached her, her steps had
ceased, and he had found her so deep in thought that it was a good
many minutes before she had become conscious of his
presence.

Minutes in which he’d had ample time both to
observe the well of emotion she evidently thrust down in company,
and to discover in himself a tug of sentiment that had nothing to
do with the surge of admiration that had attacked him on first
setting eyes on her. He
had
felt something
more. Something that had piqued his curiosity, his interest—not
merely his sympathetic concern. Miss Chaceley was not what she
would have them all believe. He could be certain of it now, after
that first image, of laughter and warmth—and now this well of
concealed emotion. What was it that had brought about that
extraordinary reflection of melancholy?

The word struck him. Unice had been right. Melancholy
exactly described it.

On reaching the Ruishtons’ house, and finding his hosts
awaiting the breakfast summons in the family saloon, he lost no
time in relaying to them what he had seen.

‘
You see now that your instincts were right, Unice. There is
something distinctly strange under the calm exterior.’

Fascinated, Unice gazed at him. ‘Did I not say so? There
now, Osmond. And you would have it that it is just my
condition.’

‘
I still say so. Hawk is finding excuses because she will
not look at him,’ said Osmond from his customary position before
the fire.

‘
I thank you, dear boy, but I had already thought
of that for myself. The difficulty about it is that I cannot argue
with my own evidence. I
saw
it, Ossie, as
clear as I see you at this moment.’

Osmond’s brows went up. ‘She’s hit you hard, I
perceive.’

‘
Nothing of the sort,’ said Denzell. ‘Unice, I appeal to
you. Is it not natural that this whole mystery should intrigue us
both?’

‘
Oh, pay no heed to Osmond,’ she said from her position on
the sofa. ‘He has no curiosity. I promise you I am agog, Denzell.
What can have happened to her, I wonder?’

‘
Exactly. So do I wonder. So would anyone of sensibility
wonder—’ casting a darkling glance at his host who merely grinned
back ‘—and all I can tell you is that whatever it may be, it
distresses her very much.’

‘
Poor girl,’ uttered Unice, with ready sympathy.

‘
Probably lovelorn,’ chimed in Osmond.

‘
Chaste stars, no,’ uttered Denzell, a sinking in his
chest.

But Unice was shaking her head. ‘It can be nothing of that
sort. There is Mrs Peverill to be accounted for, recollect.
Whatever it is must concern them both.’

‘
I devoutly hope you are right,’ said Denzell.

‘
How dreadful, though, to be obliged to hide her unhappiness
before us all. She must be very lonely.’

‘
Fiddle,’ came from Osmond, but he was ignored.

It was not an aspect that had previously occurred to
Denzell. It did so now, forcibly. ‘By George, yes, Unice. Poor
princess. I wish she was not so determined to keep me at a
distance.’

‘
But she might not do so with me,’ suggested his
hostess.

‘
The very thing,’ exclaimed Denzell. ‘You befriend her,
softening that icy front, and then I may—’

‘
So Unice is to pave your way now,’ cut in Osmond. ‘Beware,
Unice. You will catch cold at it if you make yourself a party to
Denzell’s amours.’

‘
Amours nothing,’ snapped Denzell, with a faint resurgence
of that unwanted idea of some other love affair. ‘I am sorry for
the poor girl.’

‘
Pooh!’

Denzell addressed himself once more to Unice. ‘I promise
you I am not looking to set up a flirtation with her. I don’t think
I could—now. I am touched, that is all.’

Unice regarded him in some doubt. ‘Is it, Denzell?
Truly?’

Even Osmond, although he grinned expectantly, refrained
from comment, merely massaging his rear under the plum-coloured
coat-tails and awaiting his friend’s response to this. He was
somewhat startled by the vehemence with which Denzell answered, and
the serious look in his face.

‘
If you had but seen her. There was that in her face—no
matter its cause—that would have melted the hardest heart. I did
not even think of her beauty then.’

Osmond shook his head. ‘Seems incredible to me. And I tell
you what else seems incredible, Hawk. That anyone could change all
in a minute, as you say she did.’

‘
I must say,’ mused Unice, ‘I find it a trifle hard to
believe myself. You are quite certain that you did not imagine it,
Denzell?’

He threw up exasperated hands. ‘Do you think I have not
asked myself the self-same question? No, I am not certain. Yes, I
am, though. I swear to you, it was as if a mask descended upon her
face.’

‘
But, Denzell,’ protested Unice, ‘do you realise what it is
you are saying—that her whole manner is just a façade?’

Denzell nodded, frowning at the vision of serenity in his
mind. ‘A façade, yes. Or perhaps a shield.’

Chapter Four

The shell of Verena’s composure deserted her the instant
she noted, with a swift glance backward, that Mr Hawkeridge had
continued on his way. Somehow she kept her feet moving, but she was
conscious, under the heavy thudding of her heart, that her knees
had weakened. Indeed, she felt quite faint, and would have been
glad to sink to the ground regardless of the icy clumps that
crunched beneath her plodding boots.

To have been discovered thus unshielded was bad
enough. That the curious eyes which witnessed the exposure of her
innermost thoughts should turn out to be the eyes of Mr Denzell
Hawkeridge was disastrous. Last night’s little error might have
been brushed aside. But how was she to pass off this dreadful
display of emotion? Her private thoughts were no concern of Mr
Hawkeridge, but that did not offer any comfort.
No one
must
be permitted to penetrate beneath the mask of her disguise, least
of all a man who had professed himself a pretender to her
affections.

Her hand crept to her bosom, as if she might by
this gesture quieten its uneven pulsing. She had thought herself
safe this early on the Common, with scarcely a soul about beyond
one or two trudging labourers. But no.
He
must needs
venture out at this unseasonable hour—and in this very direction.
It was almost as if he had planned it.

Although he had made no attempt to detain her when she
chose to move on. The thought calmed her a little. Perhaps she was
allowing herself to become unnecessarily disturbed. What had he
said? Something about the previous evening. She had been too much
agitated to take it in. Had he perhaps a deal more sensitivity than
she would have credited?

For she could not pretend to herself that her recovery had
been quick enough to prevent him seeing much of her distress
mirrored in her countenance. Yet he had said nothing, nor shown
that he had noticed. Indeed, she had been too much discomposed—by
his very presence, so unexpected—to fathom his
reactions.

At least his appearance had been of some use, in driving
away those painful memories. Mr Hawkeridge receded from her mind as
the thoughts he had interrupted crept back. They had, she supposed,
been inevitable after Mama’s long night of tears. Hardly surprising
that she had awoken so dispirited. She was still conscious of
tiredness, although the fresh air had done much to brush away the
cobwebs that had been clinging about her brain. How long had she
been out? She had better return, for Mama might have awakened by
now and she ought to be there to offer what comfort should be
required.

But when Verena slipped into the parlour, she discovered
that her mother was up, and since she was in an old muslin chemise
of lilac, must have dressed in as much of a hurry as her daughter
had.

She was, considering last night’s events, in extraordinary
spirits.

‘
Dearest,’ she greeted her daughter on a joyful note, rising
from one of the large armchairs before the bay, ‘I have been on the
watch for you.’

She seized Verena’s hands in a convulsive grip,
and her faded eyes, for once in a glow, were as pleading as her
words. ‘Now you must not scold, Verena, though I know you have
cause. I
could
not confess it to you, but now there
is no concealing it from you any longer, and I can only
beg—nay,
implore
your understanding, my dearest
love.’

Verena stared at her, a chill of apprehension
sweeping through her. Mama could not have—oh, dear heaven, surely
she could not have... The thought died. Could not have
what
? The idea she had almost allowed was rigorously suppressed
as too hideous to be borne.

‘
Mama, you are raising the most dreadful possibilities in my
mind. What is it? Pray tell me at once.’

A new voice spoke, as a figure emerged from the other
armchair in which it had been concealed, for its back was towards
the door where Verena stood.

‘
I will tell you, Verena.’

She fairly gaped. The visitor was a young man of slight
stature, in whose countenance the resemblance to the dread spectre
that hovered over her mother’s life was marked.

‘
Adam!’

All through the greetings, the moments of explanation,
Verena felt as if she wandered in a daze; Mama’s pleading tones,
joined with Adam’s as between them they attempted to assuage her
expected wrath, seemed to pass by her in a dream.

It appeared that Adam had driven himself here by easy
stages in the gig which Nathaniel permitted him to use, to which
his dark riding frock-coat, buckskins and boots, and the greatcoat
and beaver thrown carelessly across the chair before the bureau,
bore witness.

Only half aware, Verena allowed herself to be drawn to the
day-bed to sit, with Mama close at her side, and her brother taking
up a position on the little footstool that she herself was wont to
use, and sitting before her with an expression of great anxiety
playing across his features.

‘
For my part,’ he was saying with vehemence, ‘I am only too
thankful that Mama chose to write to me. You cannot imagine how it
has been for me, racked with worry over the welfare of you both,
and having no knowledge of your whereabouts.’

‘
But did you look, then?’ Verena asked. ‘Did he?’

Adam shook his head, tutting and sucking in his cheeks so
that he gave his face a look much like that of his
father.

‘
I did not, no. I made it abundantly clear that I would
neither assist him to make a search, nor make one myself. I hoped
it might cause him to desist.’

‘
And did it?’

‘
No. He did stop, but my words did not make him do so. We
were barely speaking, in any event.’

At that, Mrs Peverill’s eyes filled and she squeezed his
fingers. ‘Oh, dearest, I am so sorry. Never, never would I have
sought to cause a breach between you and your papa.’ A thought
struck her. ‘Oh, my darling boy, I never thought to ask. Did he
hurt you very badly? When we went, I mean.’