Free Angel's Touch by Elizabeth Bailey Page A

so—so—yes, bleak . If
ever anyone looked to be in the grip of care, it was this
pale-faced young gentleman just before she had left him. All had
been well until she had mentioned marriage and children, reminding him no doubt
of his infirmity and how it had destroyed his chances of connubial
happiness.
    Come
to think of it, she was obliged to admit that on the whole the
difficulties that had arisen between them had been all of her
making. She had
attacked him on the first occasion. She had dropped the boxes,
precipitating the next unfortunate encounter.
    Here
her thoughts suffered a check. But no. He had come specifically to
Tunbridge Wells to find her. He had said so. Just to give her that
nest of boxes. She frowned at her own reflection in the glass where
she had been absently looking, prinking her dark curls back into
order and straightening her bonnet.
    Was
that all you wanted of me, Mr Haverigg? A pulse leaped suddenly in
her throat, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. How odd. The idea
that he had deliberately sought her out gave her an obscure kind of
pleasure. As if she had not positively taken him in dislike at
their first meeting. And he had returned today. But she did not
dislike him! How could she, when he had shown himself to be both
pleasant and forbearing?
    Verity gave herself a
mental shake. What was she thinking of? Of course he had come, just
as she had, to find a book at the library. The recollection left
her feeling curiously flat. However, the likelihood was she would
not see him again, she decided, turning away from the mirror. It
was pointless to think about the man. If there was a nagging
suspicion at the back of her mind that his absence would make the
Wells seem sadly empty, she resolutely declined to acknowledge
it.
    It
was with a determined air of cheerfulness, therefore, that she went
down to the Assembly Rooms in search of her patroness, still
concerned about her health. But she found her happily engaged in
her favourite pastime, indulging in a rubber of whist with the old
nabob Martin Yorke, another lady and Sir John Frinton. Lady
Crossens brushed her anxious solicitude aside with scant words, her
eyes on the cards in her hand. Verity abandoned her questions. All
four players were so deeply engrossed that even Sir John, whose
love of cards was seen to surpass his propensity for dalliance,
merely called a greeting before turning back to the
game.
    But Mrs Polegate, no
card player, was fidgeting from group to group, clearly at a loss.
She no sooner saw Verity than she made a beeline for her.
    ‘ Miss Lambourn, I have been on the look-out
for you.’ She grasped Verity’s arm and lowered her voice, her eyes
fairly dancing with excitement. ‘I have such news!’
    ‘ Why, what, ma’am?’ asked Verity, startled.
    But
the widow had first to drag her away to sit in a quiet corner. ‘For
if we look to be absorbed in our conversation, no one will venture
to disturb us.’
    ‘ I
bow to your worldly-wise knowledge, Mrs Polegate,’ Verity laughed.
‘But what in the world is this about?’
    ‘ It is the marquis,’ whispered Mrs Polegate in
thrilling accents. ‘So dreadful! I knew you must be interested
after meeting his children so opportunely.’
    ‘ Do
you mean this Lord Salmesbury? What of him, ma’am? What has
occurred?’
    ‘ Oh, nothing now . It is
just what Sir John told me. I happened to mention his name, you
know,’ she said airily, making a business of arranging the ruffles
about her neck, for she had on a tippet lavishly trimmed with
ruches of ribbon.
    Did
you indeed? Verity thought grimly. Aloud, she said, ‘And did Sir
John know him?’
    ‘ Oh,
yes, he knew all about it. And so should I have done, only that it
was the year I did not come here, and so I knew nothing at all of
the matter.’
    Verity blinked in bewilderment. ‘Mrs Polegate, I have not the
remotest understanding of what you are saying.’
    ‘ Of
course, yes, how silly,’ fluttered the lady, opening her fan