by Anna Dean
‘Oh?’ said Dido in a tone of innocent surprise. ‘Do you not consider the captain a suitable acquaintance for the young lady?’
‘Suitable? Eeh, no!’ Mrs Nolan lowered the umbrella, folded her hands over its handle and gave Dido a doleful stare. ‘Pardon me for saying it, Miss Kent, but I’m accustomed to speaking my mind, and I tell you honestly, yon captain is such a fellow as I swear is sent to test and torment poor honest schoolteachers like myself. For I declare there ain’t no way of keeping young ladies safe from his sort.’
‘Is there not?’ said Dido, deeply interested. ‘And how …?’
‘As if the cost of candles for the schoolroom wasn’t trial enough,’ Mrs Nolan ran on, with all the appearance of a woman who is launched upon a favourite complaint and will not be easily turned aside from it. ‘And folks being so tardy over paying their fees! As if such things weren’t sufficient torment, there must be men like that one sent to make us miserable
‘Dear, dear,’ said Dido. She took a seat beside the schoolmistress, her head tilted in sympathetic attention.
‘Aye, a woman in my situation lives in terror of such fellows as that. One hears such tales, Miss Kent!’
‘Does one?’
‘Eeh yes! Ladders set up at bedroom windows in the dead of night and young lasses carried off to Gretna in the twinkling of an eye. Or worse …’ Mrs Nolan tapped at Dido’s foot with her umbrella to emphasise her point, ‘not carried to Gretna at all – if you gather my meaning.’
‘Oh heavens! How shocking! I confess I had heard …’ Dido bent a little closer. ‘But do such things truly happen?’
‘They do, my dear. Though …’ her face reddening. ‘Never in my establishment, I assure you.’
‘No, no of course not! I would not have thought it.’
‘Twenty-six years, come next Lady Day, I’ve been educating my lasses and not one has ever come to harm. And a schoolmistress’s reputation is her livelihood you know, Miss Kent. I’ve seen a school or two closed down because there’s been a breath of scandal – for the parents cannot trust then, you see.’
‘Dear, dear! What a very great worry it must be for you!’ Dido regarded her companion with great interest. But, unfortunately, the others were approaching now and Mrs Nolan was reaching out with the umbrella to tap Penelope on the arm with a ‘Well now, my dear, I think you have walked enough for today.’
And it was quite impossible to re-engage her in conversation, for a moment later Lucy and Silas also appeared and then they were all in a group talking together.
Silas had been very busy securing places at the obligatory entertainments of Bath. He had tickets for a concert in the assembly rooms that evening, and there was a theatre box taken for tomorrow. ‘A b … box which holds n … nine. So we are in hopes, Mrs Nolan that you and P … P … Miss Lambe will be kind enough to join us.’
Meanwhile Dido was considering the schoolmistress’s words – and concluding that the very best way to work upon her would be to somehow save Penelope from the captain. That would certainly create a high degree of obligation – in fact it might just overcome her reserve and bring her to confide who it was that paid the girl’s allowance …
Chapter Thirty-Three
The evening’s concert included – according to popular report – some of the foremost performers in the country. However, Dido knew that the foremost performers in the country were to be met with everywhere – under a great many variations of taste and talent – and she did not look forward to the evening very eagerly.
Her own taste for music was not great. She would rather have the sweet strains of pianoforte and harp in the background of her mind than the foreground. And, in the event, she found that she had scarcely ever enjoyed music better than she did now as she sat under the brilliant chandeliers of the concert room and peered around the tall feathered headdress of the lady in the next row to catch a glimpse of hautboy and fiddle. For here, she found, she was free to worry away at her mystery, while the duty of listening deterred other people from talking to her.
And, altogether, she had probably more pleasure in the entertainment than Lucy who declared that she ‘loved music more than any creature alive’, and ‘music was an absolute necessary of life to her’ – but who passed her evening fidgeting about and watching the gentlemen lounging at the sides of the room; and certainly more than poor Penelope who yawned through the full two hours, observed that ‘there was no understanding a word of Italian singing,’ and wondered from time to time ‘how anyone could make their fingers fly about so fast – and keep it up so long too.’
Dido was very comfortably occupied through the first act with running through the many questions in her mind – and with watching the seats of grandeur round the orchestra. Here she discovered Captain Laurence’s fat companion of the colonnade, accompanied by a fashionable woman with a great deal more face paint than bodice; and she fell to studying the lady with particular interest. The gay apparel and the slight, pleasing figure suggested youth – but the thick white painting of the face told of age concealed …
‘My dear friend, at last I have you alone!’ Lucy’s whisper startled Dido from her reverie. She looked about her to find the first act concluded, Penelope and Harriet walking off with Silas and Captain Laurence in quest of tea – and Lucy taking the empty place on the bench beside her.
‘Had we not better go to drink tea?’ Dido said quickly and attempted an escape. She was, at any time, uneasy to be addressed as Lucy’s ‘dear friend’, and just now she was particularly unwilling to have the train of her thoughts disturbed.
But Lucy took her arm, held her securely in her place and leant close as people hurried along the aisle beside them. ‘There is a great secret which I must tell you about,’ she said in a low, thrilled voice.
‘Oh!’ Fond though she was in general of secrets, Dido doubted that she wished to hear this one. She cast longing eyes towards the inviting little tables under the balcony, where the urns were bubbling and hissing comfortably and ‘the cups that cheer but not inebriate’ were setting out. A very pleasant scent of hot tea and sweetmeats filled the air.
But Lucy was blushing and fidgeting with her fan. ‘Captain Laurence,’ she whispered, ‘is to go away from Bath for two days tomorrow.’
‘Oh, but that is no great secret! He has told us of it himself.’
Dido attempted to stand up; but Lucy held hard to her arm. ‘There is a very particular reason for his going,’ she whispered. ‘He is going to make preparations.’
Dido detected danger in the words and ceased trying to escape. ‘What kind of preparations?’ she asked, searching Lucy’s face closely – and noticing a thick, unbecoming layer of powder and rogue laid over the freckles.
‘Preparations for our marriage.’
Oh dear! Dido’s heart sank. ‘But why,’ she asked impatiently, ‘must we whisper about the business in this way?’
‘Because no one is to know anything about it until after we are married – and then you know, no one will be able to stop it.’
‘A secret marriage!’ cried Dido aghast, staring at her companion who was sitting upon the edge of the bench and swinging her feet like a delighted child. ‘And in haste too! I do not believe it!’ Indeed she could not, would not believe it. Not even of her!
Lucy looked a little disconcerted. Her feet stilled.
‘Why?’ urged Dido desperately. ‘I can see no reason for secrecy. You are of age – no one can prevent your marrying the captain if you have set your heart upon it. Why cannot it all be honest and open?’
‘Oh!’ Lucy shrugged, spread her fan and pretended to study the peacocks painted upon it. ‘But Harriet would want to prevent it, you know. And dear, dear, Laurence is so very afraid of losing me!’ She blushed and looked towards the tea tables, where the gentleman himself was leaning easily against one of the columns, cup in hand. ‘For he knows how excessively it grieves me to cause anyone pain. He says he cannot be easy until the matter is settled beyond any d
anger of persuasion.’
‘Does he indeed!’ Dido was almost overcome with apprehension. She was sure Captain Laurence was engaged upon strange and devious schemes: he knew something of the death of Miss Fenn; he consorted with unpleasant men with fat leering faces – and, by Harriet’s account, the morals of his friends were as objectionable as their countenances. In short, he was not to be trusted. Lucy risked too much by putting herself into his power in this way …
But she did not know how to act. The instinct of nature cried out to her to run immediately to Harriet, who was now tranquilly sipping tea at one of the tables, and tell her all – to prevent at all costs this dangerous concealment. But the power of reason kept her still on the bench at Lucy’s side. For what would she achieve by disclosure but an instant rupture between the sisters – and a hasty marriage?
Wit alone could prevent this elopement.
She shifted uncomfortably upon the narrow bench as the cacophony of voices echoed about the high ceiled room. ‘Upon my word, Lucy,’ she pleaded earnestly, ‘you risk too much by going away in secret with such a man. Your good name …’
‘Oh! You are too careful! I do not wonder at your never having married! True love knows nothing of caution!’
Dido’s face burnt with more than the heat of the crowd; but she had time neither to think about the comment, nor be wounded by it. And Lucy hurried on. ‘Dear Laurence’s mind is quite made up,’ she said, ‘I cannot think of myself. I must do as he wishes.’
There was a short pause here; they were disturbed by a large party of ladies bustling past to regain their seats, and Dido took the opportunity to reform her thoughts. Perhaps she was only hardening the silly girl’s resolve by arguing against her. As they reseated themselves she said cautiously, ‘I am very grateful for your confidence …’
‘Oh!’ cried Lucy, taking her hand. ‘It is only natural I should trust such a steady creature as yourself! There is a kind of solidity about your reflections which I am sure I know how to value – even though it is very different from my own quick, lively character.’
‘Thank you.’ It was not the most pleasing compliment she had ever received, but Dido smiled graciously nonetheless.
‘And besides,’ ran on Lucy, ‘I have a particular reason for confiding in you. Dido …’ she looked quickly about the crowded concert room, setting her curls bobbing, and clasped together her hands like a little girl at prayer. ‘I need your help,’ she whispered.
‘Ah! Well …’
‘No. Please listen to me. We have not much time to talk. You see, there is to be a letter for me – a very important letter.’
‘And it will be from Captain Laurence, I daresay.’
‘Yes. He must send me news of what is arranged, you see. But Harriet is so suspicious! I know she looks at every letter I receive. So, you see, I have no choice …’
‘… but to make me complicit in your deception!’
‘Upon my word!’ cried Lucy in a voice that was suddenly quick and sharp. ‘I am only asking you to watch for the letter and, if you should see it, hide it from Harriet and hand it quietly to me. I do not think that so great a test of friendship!’
‘No,’ said Dido, forcing herself to speak soothingly. ‘Of course it is not.’
She was sick at heart, almost overwhelmed by a crowding host of fears which were all the more painful for being so very ill-defined; but she dared not risk losing Lucy’s confidence: for retaining it seemed to offer the best – the only – chance of working against the marriage.
Chapter Thirty-Four
… Oh Eliza, what am I to do? I am miserable – and angry too with Lucy for having entrapped me in so invidious a position. It is monstrous to deceive Harriet – and yet I dare not speak a word. And my only comfort is in writing this account to you. I am like the man in the fable who must whisper to the reeds, ‘King Midas has asses’ ears.’
And I sincerely hope that you will forgive me for likening you to a bed of reeds!
But, if the very worst should happen: if this marriage should take place and Harriet afterwards discover that I have appeared complicit in it, I beg that you will bear witness to my motives – which, from the very beginning, have been fixed upon prevention.
I cannot sleep tonight for thinking about the business and I have fallen into my vicarage habit of writing in bed by candlelight. Though I do not know that, if my mind were completely at ease, I should get much sleep, for the lights in the street and the ringing calls of the watchman telling the hours make the night rather uncomfortable for a country-woman.
The great question – the question to which all my thoughts recur – is this: why should Captain Laurence insist upon a secret marriage? To say that he fears Lucy may be persuaded out of her consent is arrant nonsense. He is certainly not so modest he cannot see how much she is in love with him! And he must know as well as Harriet or I that opposition would only harden her resolution of having him …
But then, when I consider the scene he was enacting with Penelope in the Pump Room, I begin to fear I understand him.
His address was very particular – and his confusion upon being disturbed very evident. I cannot doubt he was upon the point of declaring himself. And yet, Eliza, not even James Laurence can hope to marry two ladies at once.
This, I am sure, is his plan: he will marry Lucy and secure her twelve thousand pounds (or whatever portion of it the estate can be made to pay) and then, while everyone remains in ignorance of the marriage, he will persuade Penelope into an elopement. And, before she discovers that she cannot become his wife, her reputation will be so far compromised that the poor friendless girl will have no choice but to accept the shameful ‘protection’ which he offers.
He must, of course, be prevented. But how? Neither Penelope nor Lucy will listen to me unless I have solid proof. And there can be no proof – not until Lucy is actually married to the rogue. And then her misery will be assured – together with the misery of her brother and sister.
This is more than enough worry to keep me awake, without the continual passing of link boys and chattering gentlemen. And there is another small point which has begun to trouble me – Silas’s poem. I cannot quite be easy about Silas’s poem. I have had at the back of my mind all day an uneasy suspicion that there is something else odd about it, besides the hand in which it is written …
I have just been looking the poem over again. Perhaps it is his use of the endearment, ‘beloved’, that troubles me – and the odd similarity between ‘No other can match me for constancy’ and the expressions of everlasting love in Miss Fenn’s letter. There is, when I come to consider it, a rather close affinity in the ideas expressed … Almost as if Silas might have read her declarations. Eliza, do you think it is possible that Henry Coulson has those other letters – the stolen ones – and he has shown them to Silas? Is that perhaps what Silas meant when he said that Henry had been helping him with his poem?
The letter arrived next day – directed to Lucy in Captain Laurence’s unmistakable looped and sprawling hand. It was lying upon the table of the inn parlour when Dido and Harriet returned from the shops where they had spent two hours and a half attempting to complete the very exacting commissions with which Margaret had charged them. And rarely had a little bit of sealed paper looked so very dreadful and ominous.
Dido swept it up and put it away in her pocket while Harriet was still occupied in telling the boy where to set down their parcels; then she dropped into a chair.
‘Why!’ cried Harriet. ‘You look well and truly done-up. And I think you had better not be walking out to Sydney Gardens with me now. For, when all’s said and done, there is no need to “make a labour of our leisure”, as the saying goes.’
Dido hesitated. It was arranged that they should meet Lucy and Penelope in the gardens and, if she did not go, then she would be able to delay handing the letter to Lucy … But, she would also delay her own knowledge of what it contained – and she did not think she could bear that.
‘No,’ she said a little unsteadily. ‘I am quite well, thank you. The walk will be refreshing after loitering about so long at shop counters.’ She smiled, struggling hard for composure.
And, within a quarter of an hour, they were out again and crossing the sunny Pump Yard. It was a bright day and warm for the season. The sun glowed on the creamy yellow stone saints of the abbey church’s west front, and its fine pinnacles stood out sharp against a cloudless blue. The peculiar white dust of Bath was rising in little clouds about everyone’s feet and the prospect of a walk among trees and shrubs was pleasant; but Dido’s anticipation of it was very much spoilt by the presence of the letter in her pocket.
What did it contain? When was the elopement to take place? How much time had she in which to prevent it? These questions were running so continually through her head that she was not aware of Mrs Nolan’s approach until she called out a greeting.
‘Upon my word,’ cried Harriet as the schoolmistress joined them, ‘you look as if you have lost a crown and found a farthing!’
‘Eeh now! Don’t tease me, I beg, Miss Crockford. For it is a great deal worse than that. I’ve found this.’ She held out a letter which was so very like the one in her own pocket that Dido started at the sight. Here were the same large black characters, the same paper, the same post office mark; the only difference was in the name and direction. For this was addressed to Miss P. Lambe. ‘It arrived not half an hour ago, and I think I know who it is from,’ continued Mrs Nolan.
‘It is Captain Laurence’s hand,’ said Dido quietly – and immediately saw that she had confirmed the poor woman’s worst fears.
‘Eeh! Well, I decided straightaway I’d out after my young lady with it and see if I can’t talk sense into her, for if it’s come to this then matters are pretty bad.’ She shook the letter fiercely.
