Fragile Mask (8 page)

Then, miraculously, as if she felt Denzell’s regard, her
head tilted very slightly his way, her lashes flickered and by some
trick of the candlelight that brightened the room from two modest
chandeliers, he caught a flash from her eyes. It was over so
quickly that he almost thought he must have been mistaken. Intent,
he continued to survey her, quite forgetting that he had not meant
to show her any further attention tonight.

Then her hand suddenly came up and her fingers brushed at
her hair, slid down her cheek, hovered at her lips, and were
returned to her lap.

Triumph leapt in Denzell’s chest. What a giveaway! A slow
grin split his face. So Miss Chaceley was not as indifferent to him
as she would have him believe.

Verena, quite as aware as he of the ruinous nature of the
slip, was inwardly cursing herself. To all outward appearances, she
was listening with interest while Sir John talked of indifferent
things. But within, she seethed.

What a stupid blunder. How
could
she
have given way to such an obvious gesture of self-consciousness?
Her position had not altered, but she was quite able to see Mr
Hawkeridge grinning in that fatuous way. How silly to have allowed
herself to become flustered by the conviction that he was talking
about her. Now he would know that she
had
noticed him.
There was all her work of the evening gone for
nothing.

It was infuriating. How hard she had tried since coming to
this town. How difficult it had been, day after day, guarding her
every expression, maintaining an iron composure that deflected all
efforts to penetrate beneath her cool surface. It had been so much
simpler at home.

A picture flashed into her mind. Herself a very mouse,
quiet and still in a corner, all her concentration on remaining
unnoticed—by Nathaniel. She could see him now, those hooded orbs
passing indifferently over her, to her relief. Outwardly obedient
she had ever been, showing nothing of the rage and defiance that
burned in her breast.

Yet it had been much easier to maintain that front, she
decided, the image fading out of her inner vision, than to hold
this one. For here so many sought to probe where they scented
mystery.

To fail at this moment! Oh, she could
weep
with frustration. She did not want his interest. She did
not want his attentions. All her concentration had been on making
him see that. Surely to heaven Mrs Felpham must have done her work?
And all to be ruined by one instant’s failure.

She caught herself up. What in the world was the
matter with her? Why should she be so overset at having made one
insignificant gesture? It
could
have been
insignificant, could it not? He might choose to think otherwise,
but she would speedily show him that he had misinterpreted the
moment—even if he had not. All she had to do was resume her pose of
indifference.

Pose? What nonsense was this? She
was
indifferent. She could not be so vulnerable that she could
be set in a whirl by one man’s charm. Could she? If that was the
case, then there was only one thing to do. Remove from his vicinity
forthwith, and
stay
aloof for the
future.

Without seeming to move, she flicked a look towards her
mother, widening the area of her vision. It was brief, but
comprehensive, enabling her to take in that Denzell Hawkeridge was
still keeping her under observation. She noted also that Mama,
still seated in the sofa where she had been led, but now conversing
with an elderly couple, was looking distinctly peaky.

She interrupted Sir John without ceremony. ‘Pray forgive
me, sir, but I believe my mama is unwell.’

‘
Then you must go to her, my dear,’ he agreed at once,
rising to his feet.

Verena rose and went straight across to Mrs Peverill. One
full glance at her mother, and all concern over Mr Denzell
Hawkeridge flew out of her head. She knew that look.

Mrs Peverill’s features were drawn, and beneath the
apparent idle chatter, for Mama was almost as accomplished as
herself at maintaining a company face—and heaven knew how much
she’d had need of it!—Verena recognised the tragic note that
signalled the onset of a hysterical outburst.

Throughout the mercifully short carriage drive home, Mrs
Peverill, wrapped in a woollen mantle, hung on convulsively to the
cloaked figure of Verena at her side. Her breathing was shallow,
and she was barely able to obey her daughter’s vehement
plea.

‘
Softly, Mama, softly, I pray you. Not here. Not yet. Only
hold yourself in until we reach home.’

‘
Home!’ uttered Mrs Peverill in a breaking voice. ‘We have
no home.’

‘
Hush, Mama,’ begged Verena. ‘Don’t, pray.’

‘
Oh, Verena…oh, my love…’

‘
Mama!’

‘
I know...I know...I b-beg your p-pardon,
dearest.’

Nothing was more painful than that Mama should apologise
for what she could not help. But at all costs, she must keep her
countenance until they were safely indoors. Even Mrs Quirk must not
hear the lamentations that were bursting to erupt at this very
moment. Fortunately, the woman slept like a log and was always abed
early, and would besides be unlikely to hear anything through the
two floors that separated her own apartment from Mrs Peverill’s
bedchamber on the second floor. It was rare that Mama was subject
to these fits in the daylight hours.

Nevertheless, Verena’s heart raced with anxiety, and she
was obliged to croon and to plead what seemed like a thousand times
before the carriage finally set them down at Mrs Quirk’s
door.

As always, Betsey opened to them, holding up an oil lamp
which she kept lit against their coming. The redoubtable maid took
in the situation with one glance at her mistress’s face.

‘
Oh, lordy, not again!’

‘
Betsey...oh, Betsey,’ uttered Mrs Peverill
brokenly.

‘
Up you come, ma’am, there’s a good girl,’ ordered Betsey in
a brisk whisper, putting a stout arm about the thin mantled
shoulders and drawing Mrs Peverill towards the stairs. She added
over her shoulder, ‘I’ll see to the mistress, Miss Verena. Do you
get yourself out of that fancy gear, quick as you can. It’s going
to be a long night.’

By the time Verena had changed, donning a thick flannel
dressing-robe, and hurried from her own chamber that was situated
next to the parlour, and up the one flight of stairs to the larger
room above, Mama’s heartrending sobs were already filtering through
the closed door.

‘
Don’t—let him come! Oh, Betsey—don’t let him hurt
me!’

‘
That’s enough now, that is. He won’t be allowed to come,’
the maid was saying, gruffly passionate.

Verena entered the room and closed the door behind her,
crossing to the bed where Mama was lying hunched in a pathetic
heap, weeping into Betsey’s copious lap.

‘
Just such a gathering—just such pleasures,’ she
jerked out. ‘They look, they look, but they do not
see.’

‘
Hush, Mama,’ Verena soothed, exchanging a speaking glance
with Betsey over her mother’s head, as shudders shook the thin
frame.

The significance of her words did not escape either of
them. ‘It’s the company,’ whispered Betsey. ‘She ain’t ready for
it.’

‘
Too much remembered pain,’ Verena agreed on a note of
compassion.

For it was all too obvious that the memories had come
crashing back and Mama was not capable of the sort of control that
Verena herself had mastered.

‘
She is too weak, too worn down,’ she said,
low-voiced.

‘
Is it any wonder?’ snapped the maid.

Verena shook her head. ‘No, and I know what triggered
it.’

‘
Don’t we both, Miss Verena?’

For Nathaniel, as they were all too well aware, would use
just this kind of occasion to twist the knife, hell-bent on
whipping up his own demon of jealousy.

‘
He f-flatters me,’ quavered Mrs Peverill through
pathetic little sobs. ‘He calls on them—praising me—speaking of my
b-beauty…what
beauty
, Betsey?’ A
wail of agonising distress left her lips. ‘What beauty have I
left?’

Her sobs intensified, and tears started to
Verena’s own eyes. That ever-present rage burgeoned anew. Readily
could she have pulled the trigger this time were Nathaniel to be in
front of her now. This time her courage would not fail her. To what
had poor Mama been reduced, so that even here, even how, when
everything must be behind her, she could still be so easily
overset? Oh, but to have him here at this moment. Verena’s hatred
of him would serve to make her execute the fell deed—though she
should
hang
for it.

The charm of him in company, as he waited only for the
moment his flattering attentions to his wife drew others to
congratulate his good fortune. And then heaven help Mama! Hot and
cold…hot and cold…and here was she, knowing full well the effects
of such conduct, allowing herself to be even vaguely moved by the
machinations of Mr Denzell Hawkeridge.

But the task of soothing Mama into quiet—a task that
occupied the two females most concerned with Mrs Peverill’s welfare
for the better part of the night—left little leisure for
reflection, and her annoyance with Mr Hawkeridge was relegated to
the back of her mind to be dealt with at some more convenient time.
When she sought her own bed at last, she collapsed into an
exhausted sleep, yet waking again too early and very little
refreshed.

Dragging herself upstairs, Verena cautiously opened her
mother’s bedchamber door. Finding both Mrs Peverill and Betsey
still sunk in deep slumber—Mama always slept like one dead after
these draining emotional outbursts—she closed the door and left
them. Poor Betsey needed her rest, too. Would that she might have
slept as soundly herself. Sighing, she crept downstairs and dressed
in the cold chamber—the ashes in the fireplace not having had the
benefit of Betsey’s early morning attention. She hardly cared what
she put on, as long as it was warm, choosing an old cherry gown of
kerseymere with a low waist, long sleeves and closed to the
throat.

Mrs Quirk had already lit a fire in the parlour, which was
warming up nicely, but Verena found herself too restless, her mind
churning, to remain indoors. Glancing out of the window, she saw
that although the skies were overcast there had been no fresh fall
of snow in the night. It must be safe enough to venture
forth.

Donning her pelisse and bonnet, she set out,
hands tucked within her muff, fighting a brisk wind as she headed
not for the square patch where the snowman had been built—and where
she might come under undesirable notice from a certain unnamed pair
of eyes—but crossing the London Road to fetch up at the Common. She
did not want to meet anyone
.
She wanted to
think.

Trudging with some care across the grass, for it
was still patchy with iced snow, her thoughts were not happy. Could
Mama ever forget? How long would it take?
What
would it
take? Absence was not enough, it seemed. Mama was becoming daily
more agitated at the prospect—which she appeared to consider
inevitable—that Nathaniel would catch up with
them.

Should they consider going abroad? Verena had thought of
it. Italy, perhaps, where the sun might wash away the bleak
memories more readily than it appeared this winter emptiness could
do.

For herself, Verena was haunted less by the memory of the
painful years of Mama’s misery, and more by the nightmare of that
hideous last day—it seemed a miracle now that they ever had managed
to get away—and those appalling final moments, when Nathaniel had
unexpectedly returned.

They had been creeping down the stairs, both clad suitably
for travelling, but lightly for late summer’s warmth, Verena in a
cloth riding-habit and a beaver hat, Mama in a linen greatcoat
dress with a straw bonnet, adorned with ribbon. Betsey had called
to them from the hall below that the coach had been loaded up and
was ready to go.

‘
Come, Mama, quickly,’ Verena had begged, easing her mother
down with an arm about her waist.

Mrs Peverill, hustled into taking this terrifying step
towards a freedom that she had only expected in death, was in a
state of benumbed anxiety, unable to believe that this was really
happening.

‘
The servants,’ she muttered. ‘You know Nathaniel insists
that our differences remain strictly private.’

‘
Have no fear, Mama,’ Verena soothed. ‘They all believe we
are going to the seaside for your health.’

But inwardly she fumed. Differences? Well, let him call it
by that innocuous name if he wished. It had mattered no longer. In
a few moments they would be gone, free of his influence forever,
and the wilting flower that had been Mama would bloom again. As for
the servants, how dared Nathaniel demand privacy? By rights, his
activities should have been shouted to all the world that they
might have known of Mama’s wrongs.