Angel's Touch by Elizabeth Bailey Page A

probing without discourtesy.
Moreover, she was by now quite anxious to know the identity of the
man who would persist in crossing her path, and she thought perhaps
Mrs Polegate might be able to enlighten her.
    She told the tale as
briefly as she could, and, although the widow did not listen
without a good deal of exclamatory comment, she no sooner heard the
name Braxted than she identified it at once.
    ‘ Mercy, they must have been Salmesbury’s children!’
    ‘ Salmesbury, ma’am?’
    ‘ From Braxted Park,’ announced the lady, as if this must
explain all. ‘The marquis, you know.’
    ‘ Marquis! But the
boy—’
    ‘ Oh,
the boy is the Earl of Braxted. An honorary title, of
course.’
    ‘ Oh.’ Verity blinked. ‘We quite thought he must have come into
his inheritance a minor.’
    ‘ Oh,
no, indeed. The marquis is still a young man, I believe. Not that I
know him. I doubt if anyone here does, for no one of that sort
comes to the Wells any more,’ she said regretfully.
    ‘ But then, the man who took charge of him.’
An appalling thought came into her mind. But no. No, it was not
possible. ‘Mrs Polegate, he surely cannot have been the marquis?’
    ‘ I
should not think so at all. I dare say the marquis is at Brighton.
These great men, you know, are rarely at home. No, no. Some minion,
no doubt, entrusted with the care of the estate.’
    Which summarily disposed of that dreadful suspicion, thought
Verity thankfully. She must otherwise have died of mortification.
Of course he could not have been the marquis. These men of high
estate had better things to do with their time than to chase after
errant children, had they not? Why, he and the marchioness must of
course be far too
occupied with—with balls and—and routs and the like, to bother
their august heads with poor Braxted and his sister Peggy. No,
indeed. That sort of mundane consideration fell into the far from
amiable hands of this steward, or secretary, or whatever he might
be.
    Here
Verity’s conscience intervened. She was unjust. He had shown
himself to be both thoughtful and amiable, to her at least. Indeed, she could
almost find herself liking him, were it not for that wickedly
quizzing gleam in his eye. It would give her a great deal of
satisfaction to tell him what she thought of his misplaced
amusement. Not that she supposed he would ever speak to her again,
she acknowledged wryly, after the manner of their last
parting.
    This thought was so
unpalatable that she tried to shake the whole memory of the
black-eyed young man from her mind and force her thoughts into
other channels.
    A
day or so later, having dismally failed in this object, sheer
exasperation drove her to take
steps. Accordingly, she left Lady Crossens
to indulge in a lie-in, for the old lady’s chancy constitution was
beginning to wilt a little under the dissipations she was
enjoying.
    ‘ Shall I fetch a physician to you, ma’am?’ Verity had asked
her worriedly.
    ‘ Don’t dare. I won’t have any of those old fossils fussing
about me. I have enough to bear of that at home.’
    ‘ But
if you are ill, ma’am—’
    ‘ Pho! I am nothing of the kind. Merely a little tired. Don’t
fidget me, girl. I shall rest a little longer today, and get up
only in time to catch up with Maria at the Rooms.’
    Verity looked doubtful, but as her ladyship was insistent,
ordering her from the room at last, she gave up and took herself to
Baldock’s library which was situated towards that end of the
colonnade nearest to the chalybeate spring.
    She
spent an agreeable hour browsing amongst the books on offer there,
hesitating between the latest Gothic novel, a form of literature of
which she was inordinately fond, and one of Dr Smollett’s tales
which had not previously come in her way. Remembering how much she
had enjoyed the adventures of Roderick Random, she at length
decided in favour of Smollett’s story about Peregrine Pickle,
feeling that with such a name it was probable that the