Fragile Mask (9 page)

None the less, it had ever been Verena’s care to attempt
concealment from the domestic staff, though she had believed they
must have been both blind and deaf to be unaware of the unnatural
events that had taken place in this house.

‘
Do get a move on, Miss Verena,’ Betsey hissed from the
bottom of the sweeping stairs, straightening her own black pelisse
that had become disarranged from her exertions.

‘
We are coming,’ Verena returned, but oddly the staircase
began to seem endless. Mama’s physical weakness slowed her down,
and her progress, step by painful step, began to rack Verena’s
nerves.

She must have sensed the danger. For barely had they
reached the last stair, Mama setting her foot to the patterned
quarry-tiled floor of the wide hall of the Manor, than a flurry of
activity and a hoarse shout outside startled them both into
immobility.

‘
Dear heaven, what is it, Betsey?’ Verena whispered,
clutching at the maid’s arm.

‘
Nathaniel!’

The cry, shot through with alarm, issued from Mrs
Peverill’s lips. The three women froze at the foot of the stairs,
three pairs of eyes fixed fearfully on the open front door. Verena
herself, thrown by Mama’s voice of conviction, found herself
temporarily devoid of resources. Her thoughts whirled.

It could not be Nathaniel! Not
now
.
Oh, pray heaven, not
now. He was meant to be away until this afternoon. Adam had told
her so
—
promised
her. Though indeed he was ignorant of their plans. She’d
had to keep him ignorant, for he would be left to face Nathaniel’s
wrath. And she could not permit him to become involved. Fittleworth
was Adam’s inheritance, his future. She could not have jeopardised
that. But he had seemed so
sure
—
she had invented the
only too plausible excuse that Mama was in need of a day of quiet.
There was no need to explain further to Adam. It could not be
them.

But Squire Peverill was now even walking through
the front door, his son at his heels. Both were in riding dress,
booted and spurred. Nathaniel stopped dead, glaring upon his
wife—all but fainting at sight
of
him and clinging to
her daughter—as he took in the significant apparel in which she was
dressed. Verena saw consternation in Adam’s face. Should she have
told him? Had he known, he might have done more to keep his father
away.

Nathaniel found his tongue. ‘What in Hades are you doing,
Abigail? That coach outside—is it awaiting you? Where are you
going?’

Long habit, or perhaps present necessity, moved Mrs
Peverill to be the first to speak.

‘
P-pray don’t be angry, Nathaniel,’ she quavered, releasing
her daughter, and holding out suppliant hands.

The abject sound, the sight of her mother cringing before
him, forced Verena out of her immobility. Not that! Not one more
time could she bear to see Mama’s pride in the dust.

Stepping forward, she threw a protective arm about her
mother’s shoulders, and faced Nathaniel, showing him a countenance
blazing with determination, underlain with the fierce rage that
consumed her. It was, although Verena had for the moment forgotten
her habit of docility in his presence, an expression that he had
never previously seen.

‘
I am taking her away from this house. Away from
this life. Away from
you
.’

Nathaniel frowned. Then he laughed—a disbelieving
laugh.

‘
Have you run mad, girl?’

‘
No, I have not run mad,’ Verena told him in a shaking
voice. ‘But I will do so if I allow Mama to remain in your power
for one moment longer. We are going. We are going this moment. And
there is nothing you can do to stop us.’

His face changed. Verena saw the lean cheeks
darken, and shock come into his eyes. He believed her! What would
he do? Her heart began to pound. Could they still go? They
must,
for if not, they would have lost the advantage of surprise
and he would be on the watch for another escape. But how, when he
stood there looking like a gaoler?

A familiar scowl had drawn Nathaniel’s thick eyebrows
together, and his lips were twisting into a snarl. Like a wild
beast, Verena thought frenziedly. Mama had married a
beast!

Mrs Peverill, recognizing these signs, visibly quailed,
giving vent to a protesting whimper as the thunderous gaze she knew
so well, feared so acutely, was turned upon her.

‘
Going?’ came in a guttural tone from Nathaniel. His chest
heaved. His stature was not above the average, tending to the lean
hardness of muscle rather than fat, but aroused he appeared to
grow, a menacing force standing squarely in the path of escape.
‘You dare to say you are going?’

‘
No, Nathaniel, no...’

The feeble response, hardly an answer, more the
plea for mercy that Verena had so often heard on her mother’s lips,
sliced through her own fear, strengthening her will. She could not
stop now. She
dared
not, for fear of the consequences to
Mama.

‘
We—are—going,’ she reiterated, clenching her teeth against
the trembling at her mouth, her hold on her mother
tightening.

Nathaniel ignored Verena as if she was of no account, his
eyes burning at the shivering form of his spouse. His voice grated
on her name.

‘
Abigail!
Would you leave me, Abigail? I am your husband. You belong
here. What of your vows? You owe me a duty,
Abigail.’

At that, all the pent-up
emotion in Verena erupted.

‘
You vile monster!’ she threw at him. ‘She owes
you
nothing
.
You have
destroyed her life!’

Nathaniel barely glanced her way. ‘You are not leaving me,
Abigail.’

Then, wasting no more words, he moved, striding towards his
wife. Mrs Peverill cried out in fear, and Betsey screamed. Verena,
knowing that she could not afford to fail now, tried to shift Mama
away that she might avoid him. But Mrs Peverill, terrified, was
rooted to the floor. In seconds, Nathaniel was upon them. Hardly
glancing where he struck, he flung the back of one hand at Verena’s
face, beating her aside.

Then he seized his
wife.

Half-falling, Verena caught at the maid, who steadied her,
clucking in fright and anger, and then grabbing at Verena’s beaver
hat that dropped from its place and rolled. But Verena had no ears
for this, no eyes for anything but Mama, held between two iron
fists of a man insane with fury.

‘
Adam!’ she screamed. ‘Help us!’

Her brother had seemed to stand transfixed, hardly able to
take in the scene. But as his father struck out at Verena,
something snapped in his head. Filial duty was forgotten. By the
time his sister called for his aid, he had flung off his beaver,
tossed aside his whip and gloves, and was already halfway across
the hall.

At nineteen, Adam had not the half of his father’s physical
strength. But a flying leap threw him onto the man’s back, the
sheer weight of the impact driving Nathaniel to the floor. Verena
shrieked in unison with Betsey, for his hold was so strong that he
took his wife with him.

But Adam, scrambling free, wrenched his mother out of the
now slackened grasp, and shoved her to one side with some
violence.

Verena was on her haunches, dragging Mama to bring her to
her feet, the maid at her side in an instant.

She saw, with a sense of shock, her brother fling himself
on top of Nathaniel, holding him down only by virtue of the fact
that the breath had been knocked from his father’s body by his
fall.

Hardly had Verena and Betsey drawn the shocked and
bewildered Mrs Peverill back onto her unsteady feet, her bonnet
awry and her dress disarranged, than Nathaniel was seen to be
recovering, letting out a roar more frightening than the earlier
menace of his angry tongue.

Adam drew back a fist and slammed it into his father’s
face.

‘
Adam!’ Verena shrieked in shock.

‘
Go!’ he yelled, as Nathaniel’s head recoiled under the
blow, hitting at the hard tiling of the floor. ‘Go, Verena! Take
her, for the love of God!’

Gathering her wits, Verena caught at her mother’s
shoulders.

‘
Come on, Mama! Betsey, quick! There is no saying how long
Adam can hold him. Hurry, we must hurry!’

Betsey was quick to follow her lead, catching at her
mistress on the other side, still clutching Verena’s beaver in one
hand, as Squire Peverill’s fist rose up against his own son, the
two of them writhing on the tiled floor.

‘
God bless you, Adam!’ Verena shouted as, with Betsey’s
help, she half-carried Mama, the grunts and thuds of the continuing
fight ringing in her ears, and ran her out of the wide hall, and
into the blaze of sunshine where the coach awaited to take them
into a new life.

But it was a life, she thought, coming back to the present,
which was not having the effect she had envisaged.

Mama had not bloomed. Far from it. They had left, in the
end, like animals fleeing a forest fire, the coach rattling down
the drive at breakneck speed.

How Mama had wept, even as Betsey had tidied her with
frantic haste—as if it had mattered how they looked at such a
moment. How she herself had sat, shuddering in the aftermath of
that horrid scene, barely aware of the pulsing throb in her cheek,
beset by visions of Nathaniel, riding like the devil in pursuit,
afraid every moment that all would have been in vain.

Verena could only suppose that Adam must have got the
better of his father, for there had never been any sign of his
coming after them, and since no one knew where they were, there was
no finding out the truth of what might have happened at
home.

Home,
she
thought bleakly. In that, Mama had spoken truth. They had no home.
Was it that? Was it the loss of all she had possessed, all the
familiarity of the world she had known, that precluded her
recovery? It could not be the loss of Nathaniel. It
could
not be that. No, no, Mama. That she would never be brought
to believe. But if not that, then why
could Mama not rest easy? It was almost as if she had
abandoned any idea of life, had lost the will to live. Or was her
spirit so broken that she
wanted
to
die?

The thought was so painful that Verena drew on a sobbing
breath, putting up a hand ready to dash at the threatening tears.
The movement of her own fingers threw her eyes into present focus,
and she gasped out loud.

She had halted stock-still in the middle of the common, and
standing directly before her was Mr Denzell Hawkeridge, his figure
exaggerated in size by a greatcoat with several capes, and a
curly-brimmed beaver atop his tied-back fair hair. He was staring
in blank astonishment at her unguarded face.

For an instant or two, Verena stared back, still so
enmeshed in her own dismal thoughts that she did not even remember
that she must drag herself back into that habitual iron control.
But as the expressive face before her began to react to the fact
that she was aware of him, a look of concern replacing the
amazement, and his lips forming as if they might speak, Verena
struggled to master her own countenance.

She felt inside as much turmoil as ever, but the habitual
blankness to which she had assiduously trained herself reasserted
its stamp upon her face.

‘
How do you do, Miss Chaceley?’ Denzell said, doffing his
hat, and watching with close attention as the ravaged features
regained their former serenity.

He could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyes. Had
he not seen it for himself, he would never have imagined that a
face could alter so radically. But a moment ago, there was a world
of distress reflected there. Now one would have sworn that there
could be not a ripple of emotion that would disturb these placid
features.

‘
How do you do, Mr Hawkeridge?’

Not a tremor. Not the faintest quiver in the calm voice
with which she responded.

‘
You are about early, Miss Chaceley,’ he pursued.

‘
So also are you, Mr Hawkeridge,’ she returned, her tone
pleasant.

Denzell felt disorientated. How could she do that? Switch
in an instant from that rigid pose, a look in her face that was
almost—yes, tragic. There was not the least suggestion in her of
the storm that must have been in her mind. He had seen it. He could
not have imagined it—could he? Moved to test her out, he
smiled.

‘
I confess I had no notion that my luck had changed so
radically.’

‘
Has it?’

Did he detect vagueness in her tone? Perhaps she had not
heard what he had said.

‘
From last night, I mean.’

‘
Last night.’

It was not a question, but a statement. And he thought a
shadow crossed the still features.