by Anna Dean
‘That is very singular!’
‘Is it?’
‘I do not think I have ever heard before of a young lady of fifteen who would not be happy to abandon her studies for a ball.’
‘Yet I see no reason,’ said Miss Sophia severely, ‘why there should not be as much variety of temperament among young women as among young men – and among young men we are not surprised to find examples of the serious as well as the trivial.’
‘Well, I suppose you are right,’ said Dido. ‘It may be that I am prejudiced by my memories of my own talentless struggles upon my mother’s old spinet and my wretchedness over drawing houses that would, despite my best efforts, look like mountains and chickens that looked like trees. There was only one thing which I hated more and that was arithmetic. I certainly had no more cause to love the visits of the drawing master and the music teacher than they had, poor fellows.’
‘But you are a clever woman, Miss Kent, and I think that you must have loved your books.’
‘Oh yes!’ cried Dido. ‘I was excessively fond of books. Provided, of course, that they came from a circulating library and had a great many handsome villains and horrid mysteries in them and were quite free from any serious moralising or instruction.’
‘Now,’ said Sophia, rather offended, ‘I am sure that you are mocking me and, furthermore, doing yourself a grave injustice.’
‘You are too kind! And I shall say no more upon the subject on purpose that I may pass for an educated – but modest – woman. But I interrupted your very interesting account just now. I believe you were going to tell me that you and your sister decided that the most unwelcome intrusion upon your time – the very worst disturber of your studies – would be marriage.’
‘We did. For have you ever met a married woman who practises upon her instrument or touches her crayons?’
‘No, on that we would certainly agree. The demands of a husband, a household and a family prevent even the most talented woman from pursuing any endeavour which does not relate directly to them.’
‘Quite so, Miss Kent. Marriage is so very final. It changes everything.’
Dido gave a little start. For some reason those words touched something deep inside her. It was almost as if they answered a question she had been asking herself, but just at the moment she could not remember what the question had been. It was something which she must think of later. For now Miss Sophia, quite blind to anything but her own concerns, was continuing with her strange tale.
‘…and so, you see, we laid our plan. We knew that to declare our intention of never marrying would do us no good at all: we would only be laughed at and disbelieved. So we set ourselves parts to play. Amelia’s quieter character made her prefer to adopt a repelling silence; while I chose – well, I need not explain. You have seen my behaviour in company. We aim to disgust sensible men with our silly manners and devotion to accomplishments in which our performance is less than mediocre.’
‘And what,’ asked Dido with a smile, ‘of men who are not sensible?’
‘They,’ said Sophia solemnly, ‘do not generally present a problem. Our parents do not expect – or wish – us to marry foolish husbands.’
‘I cannot fault your plan, Miss Sophia,’ said Dido after a few moments’ thought. ‘And yet I wonder whether it is entirely necessary. For I have a great idea that real accomplishments, education and intelligence might frighten away lovers – even sensible lovers – more surely than any amount of silliness and incompetence.’
Sophia’s face clouded. She clasped her kid gloves in her lap and frowned down at them. ‘You may be right, Miss Kent,’ she said at last. ‘It is a subject which Amelia and I sometimes talk about. And yet, there is this to consider: whatever means we use to escape marriage, we will be mocked for it. That cannot be helped. It is the way of the world.’
‘Yes,’ said Dido with a pang, ‘an unmarried woman will always be a target of laughter.’
‘Exactly so,’ said Miss Harris, quite insensible of the pain she was causing. ‘And I believe, Miss Kent, that there is not a woman born who would not rather suffer ridicule for what she knows to be a pretence – a part she has acted – than for the very thing that she most wishes to be true – the ideal to which she aspires.’
‘You are right, of course,’ said Dido politely. ‘I am sure you have found the best way of arranging things.’
Sophia breathed a heavy sigh and shook her head. ‘Except, of course,’ she said, ‘that our scheme is powerless against Mr Tom Lomax. This is quite a different sort of danger.’
‘Yes, your plan cannot protect you against such a suitor.’
‘I don’t doubt,’ said Sophia slowly, ‘that if we both refuse him…’ She broke off and her fists curled in her lap. ‘Amelia and I care little for what the world thinks of us, and the shame would only protect us more certainly from marriage.’
Dido rather doubted that she could be as insensible to disgrace as she declared – but she let the matter pass.
‘But poor Mama,’ Sophia continued, ‘her greatest pleasure lies in society and I will not…’ One fist struck the palm of the other hand. ‘I will not allow him to be the means of destroying her happiness.’
Dido, who had been finding the girl’s self-satisfied manner rather repulsive, was touched by this concern for her mother. It strengthened her resolution of helping.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I have a plan. We shall confront Mr Tom Lomax after dinner. But, first, this is what I would like you and your sister to do…’
After Miss Sophia had left her, Dido sat for a quarter of an hour in the gloomy arbour, struggling with the ideas which those words about the finality of marriage had suggested. And when, at the end of that time, the contemplation of clipped hedges and crumbling cupid had done nothing to relieve her mind, she set off across the park to try what exercise might do.
So occupied was she with her own thoughts that, for some time, she hardly knew where she was walking and was rather surprised to find herself approaching the yew-shaded path that led to the family chapel. However, the little old building with its one squat tower and its windows winking in the last feeble light of the day had a rather reassuring appearance. She turned into the path and paused on flagstones which were stained red with fallen berries from the yew trees. She was surprised to see that the heavy door of the chapel was standing ajar.
She stepped forward and peered around it, but could make out nothing in the gloom. She slipped silently through the door and looked about. The air was stale and dead and cold; the stone arches rose up into darkness, the white marble of family monuments loomed in a side aisle and the only patch of light, tinted blue and green from the coloured window, fell upon the white cloth that covered the altar. The place seemed to be deserted. She advanced several steps, then her eyes became accustomed to the poor light and a slight movement caught her attention. There was a figure – a man’s figure – kneeling in prayer close to the altar rail.
Her first impulse was to withdraw politely before she was detected; but then – as it so often did – her curiosity got the better of her manners. She took a few more cautious steps and peered through the dusk. The kneeling figure was Mr William Lomax. His head was bowed on his clasped hands and his shoulders were shaking with the violence of his supplication.
As she stared, she began to make out the faint sound of the familiar words he was repeating. ‘Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil… Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…’ The whispered words echoed faintly in the holy chill of the chapel.
Dido turned and hurried out into the daylight, not pausing even to draw breath until she gained the knoll and the green bench in the park. What, she wondered as she sat herself down, was the evil from which Mr Lomax so ardently wished to be delivered? And what was the temptation into which he dreaded being led?
She sighed and shook her head. Of course it had been quite unpardonable to listen to a man’s private devotions. It would be very
wrong to suspect him on such evidence, would it not…?
It was six o’clock before Dido returned to the house and the outcome of her many troubling reflections was such that left her face, in Catherine’s opinion, looking ‘sour and old-maidish’.
However, since they were divided by almost the full length of the table at dinner, it was not possible for her niece to get at her with this pleasant remark until after the ladies removed into the drawing room. Then, finding her upon the distant sofa with a piece of work lying untouched upon her lap, Catherine demanded to know why she must sit all alone and talking to no one. ‘It is a sure sign of encroaching age, you know,’ she said.
‘Then you had better leave me alone to doze quietly. That is the privilege of dotage, is it not?’
‘But you are not dozing,’ Catherine pointed out. ‘You are merely sitting in this corner watching everybody with that sharp, satirical eye of yours. I wish you would not do it; you make me quite ashamed.’
‘Oh dear! And I had hoped that since I am now a clever future-gazer and since I am at this moment wearing neither pattens nor pelisse, I could not embarrass you before your friends.’
‘Well, you can,’ said Catherine ungraciously and Dido had to remind herself of the poor girl’s misery in order to keep in charity with her. ‘Who is it that you are watching so intently?’
‘As you said, I am watching everyone. I cannot help it. It is on account of having a sharp and satirical eye.’
‘You are in a very ill mood this evening.’
‘And you are all sweetness, I suppose?’
Catherine linked her arm through Dido’s. ‘You know that I only insult you because I am fond of you.’
‘And if you disliked me I suppose you would be full of compliments?’
‘Yes, I probably should.’
‘Well, well, you always were a contrary child.’
Dido patted her hand and studied her pale unhappy face with great affection and an irresistible memory of the little girl who used to cling to her every morning as she asked, ‘Has Mama returned?’ Very little had changed; Dido still longed to protect her and make her happy.
But it was impossible. She could no more restore Catherine to her happy engagement than she could reply to her all those years ago, ‘Yes, all is well, your mama is here in the house.’
The reflections of the afternoon had left her more troubled than ever. There was, stronger than ever, a feeling that she was being foolish; that there were answers which she ought to see and yet was blind to.
And there were also some very difficult things which must be said.
‘My dear,’ she began cautiously, ‘there is something I must talk to you about. And I had better say it now while I have leisure, because I expect to be occupied shortly with a little scheme I have promised to help the Misses Harris with.’
‘Indeed? I did not know that you were intimate with the Harris girls.’
‘I am not particularly intimate with them – but, in fact, it was something Miss Sophia said this afternoon which made me think…’
‘Made you think what?’
‘Oh,’ said Dido, trying to speak lightly, ‘it just made me think that I should talk to you about…about one or two observations that I have made.’
‘Observations?’
‘Yes. Just little things.’ Dido picked up her work and began to stab in stitches rather randomly. ‘There is, for example, Annie Holmes’ great regard for Mr Montague.’ Catherine’s head jerked; her lips moved, but no sound came out of them. ‘And,’ continued Dido earnestly stitching away, ‘there is the very comfortable parlour at the lodge house, and little Susan’s costly doll…and her large brown eyes. Things like that. But, most of all, my dear, there is your very great dislike of Mrs Holmes; the way you cannot bear to look at her or hear her spoken of.’
‘Aunt Dido,’ cried Catherine suspiciously. ‘What have you been about with your endless questions?’
‘There is no need to worry, my dear; no one has told me anything. No confidences have been broken. I have only made use of my senses and my brain to see what is before me.’
‘And what do you see? Or, rather, what do you think that you see?’
Dido stopped sewing and instead began to turn her work around as if intent upon studying the pattern she was making. ‘I see that when he was a very young man, Mr Montague was fond of Annie Holmes – and that little Susan is his natural daughter. I see that Sir Edgar knows of the business and the woman and her child have been provided for. I also see that Mr Montague has confessed to you his youthful mistake. Asked your forgiveness perhaps…’ There was a gasp from Catherine and Dido stopped. ‘Please, don’t be uneasy about me knowing this, my dear,’ she said, taking her hands. ‘Because it has helped me to understand you; helped me to understand how well founded your love seems to be – if he could be so honest with you. This is why you have been so determined to trust him, is it not?’
Catherine gulped and nodded. ‘I have good reason to trust him,’ she said. ‘I know he could not have broken with his father over a lover. Why should he? Why should there be a “rupture”, as you so elegantly put it, over this woman when there had not been over the last one? Aunt Dido, I tried to make you understand that that could not be the trouble, but without betraying Mr Montague’s confidence, I could not convince you.’
‘Yes, I understand. And I am very sorry that, at first, I thought so lightly of your attachment. That was very wrong of me, my love. But I was convinced in the end – convinced that you must have some good reason to place so much trust in Mr Montague. And then I knew that there must be more at stake here than a youthful mistake – or a natural child.’ She sighed. ‘It all goes much deeper than that.’
Chapter Eighteen
It wanted but half an hour until tea was brought in when Miss Harris and Miss Sophia caught Dido’s eye and beckoned her out of the drawing room into the hall, where a good fire was burning and the spaniel was pursuing dream-woodcock.
Sophia said, ‘We are going to the morning room. We will wait for Mr Tom Lomax there. We thought it would be the best place to carry out your plan.’
‘The place will suit our purposes very well,’ said Dido. ‘But how do you know that Mr Lomax will follow you there?’
‘He will,’ said Amelia.
‘My sister means that when he does not find me in the drawing room, he is sure to come in search of me. It would hardly be attentive of him not to, would it?’
Dido smiled. ‘You are Mr Lomax’s sole object now, are you?’
‘Yes. As you suggested, Amelia has given him to understand that she has accepted the colonel’s offer.’
‘That should make our plan work more smoothly.’
The three women paused a moment and listened to the sound of voices from the dining room, where the gentlemen were still sitting over their port wine.
‘They will be finished soon,’ said Amelia abruptly.
Sophia nodded and again explained her sister’s remark. ‘You can judge by the sound of their voices, Miss Kent. They always talk louder just before they leave the table.’
And then, as if to prove her point, there came the unmistakable sound of a chair scraping back across the floor. Sir Edgar’s loud voice was heard proposing that they ‘join the dear ladies’. The dog woke and hid herself behind the hooded chair. Dido and her companions hurried away into the morning room.
‘We will not have long to talk to him,’ said Amelia as she took a seat beside the low fire.
‘No, Mama will come to look for us when tea is served.’ Sophia hesitated and looked about. It was a large room with heavy, old-fashioned furniture; there was a great deal of very dark wood and velvet upholstery which had once been red but which had faded over the years to the colour of cold chocolate. At the moment the room was full of shadows because the only light came from the fire and from one stand of candles on the writing table by the window. After considering for a moment, Sophia took a seat upon a couch close beside the tab
le and Dido noted that she had chosen her position very well; the colonel himself, commanding his troops, could not have made a wiser decision. When Tom came into the room and sat beside her – as he surely would – she would be able to turn her back to the candles; but the light would be full in his face.
Dido placed herself opposite Amelia by the hearth and put two fresh logs into the grate. The fire was little more than a heap of grey ash and red embers, but the logs – like everything else at Belsfield – were of the very best and little flames were soon licking around them and giving up a faint smell of applewood. Their crackle and the ticking of a clock upon the mantelshelf were the only sounds in the room. Amelia and Sophia exchanged looks – anxious, but determined too.
It was a quiet domestic scene: two young women in muslin and shawls and patent slippers sitting after dinner in a comfortable old room in gentle candle-and firelight. But Dido felt that she had been right to think of the colonel and his army; for there was a battle to be enacted here. There might be no cannon and no swords – no blood to be shed – and yet the girls were here to fight for everything that was dear to them. She only hoped that the weapons she had put into their hands would be strong enough to gain them a victory.
She had prepared them as best she could. There was little that she could do now except watch and hope that they could carry off the attack.
There came the unmistakable sound of the drawing room door opening. They all looked at one another. Something like panic crossed Sophia’s face, but she mastered it and drew in a long breath. Footsteps – a man’s footsteps – crossed the hall. Tom’s voice called out a hearty greeting to the dog. Dido picked up a book and pretended to read.
