by Anna Dean
‘Last night I was mistaken. And,’ she added more quietly, ‘last night you allowed me to continue in my mistake, Mr Lomax. That was not fair of you.’
The colour deepened on his face. ‘Are you suggesting that I lied to you?’ he demanded.
‘Oh no, you were very careful not to lie. But you allowed me to believe what you knew was not true.’ She was surprised at her own anger. She felt it heating her face and making her grip the arms of her chair. She had not known until that moment how badly his behaviour had hurt her.
They regarded one another warily. The library suddenly seemed very airless. Dido did not trust herself to speak, lest she should say something hasty which she would regret – and his looks suggested that he was fighting the same battle between temper and propriety. But it was eventually he who broke the silence.
‘There is, of course, a flaw in your reasoning,’ he said coolly. ‘You say that Mr Pollard told Mr Richard Montague that his brother was alive. And yet, Miss Kent, both you and I know that Mr Pollard said nothing at the ball.’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘that is the strangest part of this mystery.’ But inwardly she was contemplating the mystery of the man before her. Lounging as he was in the chair, he reminded her irresistibly of his son. Was corruption, after all, a family trait? Or was William Lomax truly the honourable man she had always taken him for?
Catherine’s future happiness depended upon his integrity, for unless he agreed to disclosure, the truth of what had happened here at Belsfield could never be made public. And that of course was why her head was aching with anxiety now. There could be no other reason why his character should matter so much to her…
She leant forward earnestly. ‘If I can explain to you this last mystery – if I tell you how a man can say so much in a moment of silence – will you agree to break your promise to Sir Edgar and make his secret known to the world?’
‘You are very sure, Miss Kent, that I have made such a promise.’
‘Oh, I know that you have. You are almost twenty years his junior; he must have expected that you would survive him and I cannot believe that he did not make plans for what would happen after his death. You have promised him that you will continue to hide Edgar Montague; but now justice and humanity demand that you break your promise. If you do not, you will be parting two young people who love each other dearly.’
He frowned and shook his head, but said, ‘Well then, I shall admit it. Yes, I have indeed promised Sir Edgar that I will not reveal the true heir of Belsfield.’
‘And will you now agree to break that promise?’
He stirred his long limbs uncomfortably in his chair, rearranged the pens in their rack, drew his finger through the grains of sand on a letter. ‘You have not yet kept your side of the bargain, Miss Kent,’ he said, pushing the sand grains into a tiny pile. ‘Explain the mystery to me. Then we shall consider my promise and the demands of humanity and justice.’
‘Very well then. That is our last riddle: how does a man speak without saying anything? And once it is answered, everything that has been happening here at Belsfield becomes plain. It is all a matter of hands, Mr Lomax. Hands – and rats – and a game of football.’
She jumped up restlessly and went to the window, pulled the curtain aside a little and peered out. The sun was drying the dew on the lawns, and the trees of the park burnt in glorious golds and reds and russets. She was shocked by the brightness and the ordinariness of the day, almost as if she had expected to see the trees and the rose urns draped in black and the peacocks all sombre-eyed with mourning.
‘The hands puzzled me from the very beginning,’ she said, with her back still turned upon him and her eyes fixed on the glowing foliage of the park. ‘You see, I heard only two reports of Mr Pollard. One from Catherine and one from the ostler at the Feathers. But it was remarkable that both reports mentioned his hands. That is strange, don’t you think, Mr Lomax? Why should hands be so very memorable? Catherine is sure that when she saw Mr Pollard, his hands were empty. Why? Why was she so certain? It seemed to me that he must have been holding his hands up in some way. And the ostler said that he had fine white hands – which is a strange thing to remember. Faces, yes, we all remember faces, but hands? It seemed to me that Mr Pollard’s hands must be particularly prominent. He holds them out in such a way that draws attention to them.’
She turned and caught a small smile on Lomax’s haggard face, but he immediately became solemn. She hurried on with her story, feeling that it was safest now to get it all told quickly.
‘And then there was the football,’ she said. ‘Not much was known of the household at Tudor Cottage – except that sometimes the servants indulged themselves in a noisy game upon the drive. The girl who told me of it believed that the master must be absent from the house because, even though he did not see the game, she reasoned, he would have heard it.’
Lomax folded his arms, shook his head a little and watched her as if she were something rare and rather remarkable. ‘And what of the rats?’ he said.
‘Ah, yes, the rats. It took me a long time to understand the rats. You see, soon after I came to Belsfield, Miss Sophia Harris told me about a rat hunt that had taken place here. Richard Montague had failed to let the dogs go when his friends gave the signal. Miss Sophia thought he was overcome with compassion for the rats, but I doubted that. Such tenderness would have been quite remarkable in a young man who had grown up at Belsfield, surrounded always by shooting and hunting, and would certainly have drawn attention on other occasions. But it was clear that something distressed Mr Montague that day.’
Dido left the window and took a seat at the table; leaning across the clutter of pens and letters, she continued with a flush creeping up her cheeks. ‘In fact, it all happened just as he said, Mr Lomax. There was no great excess of pity. He simply failed to hear the signal that his companions gave. And, although for anyone else that might have been nothing, for Richard Montague it was a terrible moment. Because you see, Richard has always feared that he might go deaf – that he might come to share his brother’s affliction.’
There was a long silence in the library, broken only by the occasional crack of sparks on the hearth. Lomax showed no inclination to speak and, after waiting a while, Dido decided that it would perhaps be better, after all, to finish her tale before she lost her courage.
‘Edgar Montague is only deaf,’ she said. ‘There is nothing wrong with his wits. He does not hear, and naturally he cannot speak since he has never heard speech. But in everything else he is a healthy young man. He is simply deaf. This makes sense not only of the way in which his servants knew they could play upon the drive with impunity, it also explains why the household at Hopton Cresswell did not in any way sound like one formed for the restraint of a lunatic and why Richard remembered the summer he spent in Lyme with such pleasure: his brother had been an agreeable companion.’ She hesitated a moment, but it must all be said. She pressed on. ‘It also explains the marriage. That was just as I said. A young man living a retired life fell in love with the woman who shared his home and married her secretly. But that young man was Edgar Montague, not Richard. The father’s outrage was perhaps even greater than I imagined. For the expected child was not only the heir to Belsfield and the son of a common woman, but it might also share its father’s infirmity.’
‘And why do you think the woman came here that day?’
‘To tell her ladyship of her marriage – and her condition. It is impossible to understand her reason exactly because I know nothing of her character. But I think that it was hearing of her brother-in-law’s engagement that prompted her to action. Motherhood – even expected motherhood – can change a woman. Many women are ambitious for their children even though they are content to live in obscurity themselves.’
She stopped at last, short of both breath and courage. The look on Lomax’s face was strange. His brow was still lined with anxiety but beneath it there was a new light in his grey eyes. He watched her for se
veral moments – until she became too conscious of his look and lowered her eyes. Hot blood swept up her cheeks. The silence roared in her ears.
But when he spoke, his voice was calm and he sounded like nothing so much as a schoolmaster prompting a pupil who has given a promising but incomplete answer. ‘Very well, Miss Kent, and what pray is the answer to our riddle? How does a man speak without saying anything?’
‘The answer, of course, is with his hands. A great deal may be said with the hands if they are used in one of those systems of signing that are taught to the deaf.’ She paused but he said nothing; he only continued to watch her while his long fingers played with the spilt sand. ‘Mr Pollard,’ she continued, ‘taught such a system to Edgar when he was a child. And Richard, no doubt, learnt it during that happy summer which he spent with his brother at Lyme. And, by the by, I believe that this was also the reason why Mr Pollard was asked to come to Hopton Cresswell. To a conscientious young man it would be very important that the clergyman conducting the marriage ceremony should be able to understand the language in which he made his vows.
‘But once Mr Pollard knew of the deception that Sir Edgar was practising, he felt it was his duty to tell Richard Montague of the matter. He came to Belsfield and found the engagement celebrations in progress. And then,’ she paused and shrugged. ‘Well, what better way was there for him to convey a private message in a crowded ballroom than with his hands – using a system of communication which no one else but Richard would understand?’ She stopped again, but again he remained silent. ‘Well?’ she cried impatiently. ‘Am I right?’
‘Yes,’ he said, withdrawing his hand from the table and folding his arms. ‘You are right.’
‘Very well then,’ she said eagerly, leaning across the table. ‘Edgar Montague is only deaf, he is not astray in his wits?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Then you have no good cause to rob him of his inheritance. He is capable of enjoying his estate and of administering his own affairs.’
‘Indeed, he is probably more capable than most. He is a very able young man.’
Her hands clenched into fists on the table. She was willing him with her whole being to relent and prove himself just and honourable. ‘Then you will make his existence known to the world?’
But he shook his head. ‘I have made a promise, Miss Kent. I have given my word…’
‘To a man who was not worthy of your loyalty!’ she cried, unable to contain herself any longer. ‘You have given your word to a tyrant and a murderer, Mr Lomax. His behaviour dissolves all ties and duties…’
Suddenly she was overwhelmed. Worn down as she was by sleepless nights and days of restless activity; shocked by the death of Sir Edgar and by her own discoveries; worried for Catherine and more disappointed than she dared own in the man before her, she found that she was quite unable to hold back tears. They rose up, scalding her eyes and choking her words. For a moment she was blind and deaf to everything but misery.
Then she became aware of a strong warm hand laid over her clenched fists and an anxious voice speaking at her side. ‘My dear Miss Kent, please do not distress yourself. I shall do everything I can to help you.’ She looked up and saw him bending over her with great concern. He was looking at her clearly and directly. ‘I am not quite the scoundrel you take me for…’ he began fervently and then seemed to recollect himself. He took away his hand and sat down at the table. ‘You must understand that when I spoke just now of making a promise to Sir Edgar, I did not refer to the man who is dead – I spoke of the present Sir Edgar – the young man who, of course, inherited that title the moment his father died.’
Dido stared at him.
‘It is his own wish to remain hidden from the world. When, at just sixteen, he agreed to his father’s proposal of seclusion, I thought that he would perhaps change his mind as he grew older. And, if he had given the word, I was prepared to support him in exerting his claims. But he never has changed his mind. He is a very quiet, scholarly young man and he has no wish to expose himself to the curiosity of the world. He wants no other life than the one he lives at present. It is his expressed wish that the deception should continue.’
‘But,’ said Dido wretchedly, ‘unless Richard Montague can tell Catherine the truth, he and she can never be reconciled.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘My only hope is that I can persuade the new Sir Edgar to a partial disclosure. It will not be easy. He is a very stubborn man and, as I am sure you will understand, it is a difficult time to persuade him to anything now, when he is mourning the loss of his wife.’
‘You have told him everything?’ asked Dido fearfully.
‘Yes and he bears it as well as any man could, but it has been a heavy blow. Until I wrote my account I believe he had no idea but that his wife was safe in Dorchester with her mother and feared rather that she had abandoned him than that she had come to harm. His first wish now is to be left alone to grieve in peace. To gain his consent to such a disclosure of the truth will be an uphill task. But…’ He hesitated and looked down as if he was suddenly interested in one of the letters on the table. ‘But if your happiness depends upon it, Miss Kent, then it must be done.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
…Well, Eliza, the outcome of Mr Lomax’s persuasion is a very happy one for Catherine. The partial disclosure which he has achieved has extended not only to her, but, very properly, to Francis and Margaret too. And now she has gained the first desire of her heart and she will be able to marry the man she loves without being burdened with parental approval.
It all hung in the balance for a while. And it almost seemed that Francis and Margaret would give the union their blessing in spite of everything, for, by Mr Lomax’s careful management, Richard is to have all the appearance of inheritance. However, after due consideration, Margaret has declared that a younger son is, after all, a younger son and, as she observes, everything depends upon the goodwill of his brother. And then there is the matter of Edgar’s affliction – or the ‘bad blood’, as she insists upon styling it. And the end of it all is that she has urged Catherine to give up Richard in the strongest possible terms. Consequently, Catherine has been able to take offence at the insult offered to her beloved, in the best romantic tradition, and Francis and Margaret left Belsfield this morning promising not to attend the wedding.
Which is all highly satisfactory.
Of course, Catherine has not achieved that abject poverty to which she aspired; but, though she will not confess it, I think she has recollected that some of the consequences of poverty – such as old pelisses and pattens – are not conducive to happiness. She certainly bears the prospect of riches with remarkable fortitude.
She is very happy indeed and, though it is quite impossible that she should remain for ever in her present state of bliss, I see no reason why she should not enjoy a very contented life here at Belsfield. I have at last met Richard Montague, and I like him. He has not a shining intellect, but he seems to have remarkably good principles for the son of such a father. He defers rather too much to Catherine’s judgement, but he also has a great respect for the opinion of Mr Lomax and I hope that that will prove a steadying influence in their future life.
They plan to marry as soon as the period of deep mourning is completed and for Catherine the greatest difficulty lies in maintaining an outward show of proper sadness. Though she is not alone in that.
Her ladyship looks remarkably well. She almost smiles. Catherine expects that she will marry her mysterious lover as soon as decency permits. But I do not anticipate it, for I do not believe that any such gentleman exists. I say nothing of this to Catherine, because, Eliza, I am beginning to fear that the truth behind the rumours of adultery is even more shocking than it appears. I have been considering the matter carefully and I cannot help but think that the reports all originate with Mr Bartley, who has, more than once, supplied her with that terrible medicine. And I am inclined to believe that that is not concerned with any misdemeanour
of hers.
You see, I keep remembering how her husband used to sit beside her, seeming so solicitous and always asking if she had taken her medicine. And how wretched the question made her – how she would look away and twist her rings about. Was it, I wonder, that patent stuff that he was urging her to take?
A few days ago I would not have believed such a thing possible among civilised Christians. But now, Eliza, I know the terrible lengths he was prepared to go to in order to conceal his son’s affliction. To what extremes of infamy was he prepared to go to ensure that another child was not born with the same infirmity? That he did not take the course of a gentleman and exercise restraint upon himself is all of a piece with his tyranny and selfishness…
Well, I doubt not that you think I am talking wildly now. But I cannot help but observe that my lady seems not only vastly content, but that she is also growing plump; and that she has given over twisting her rings and that she now sews instead. Nor can I help noticing that the article she is working upon looks remarkably like a christening gown…
* * *
Dido stopped, feeling, as she often did, that her pen was behaving like a runaway horse and taking her to places that she had not intended to go. She had certainly not meant to mention this matter in her letter.
There was a kind of forbidding reserve about Lady Montague, even now, which made such speculation seem a liberty. She had suffered during her marriage, certainly; but the extent of that suffering would probably never be known to anyone but herself. Of all the people at Belsfield, Dido felt that she was the one she understood least; wrapped as she was in silence and invalidish dignity, it was impossible to get at exactly what she thought or felt – or to understand what she might be capable of doing…
