Free Fragile Mask by Elizabeth Bailey Page B

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