by Anna Dean
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘and what are these simple facts?’
‘There are – I see now – only two facts to consider. First of all, there are Penelope’s words “I saw her”. And, secondly, there is the absolute certainty that there was no one in the gallery – except Harriet. Put those two facts together – with no superstitious nonsense about grey nuns, or theories about skeletons – and you are brought to one conclusion. It was simply Harriet that Penelope saw. And the sight shocked her so much, she stepped backward – and fell.’
He stared, pressed the tips of his fingers together. ‘You believe that Miss Lambe recognised her sister at that moment?’
‘I am quite sure that she did.’
‘But why? For it would seem she had never recognised Miss Crockford – or any other member of her family before.’
‘It was because of that draught of air. As I explained, it was blowing away Harriet’s cap and bonnet. And, as I have often observed myself, without them she looks positively young.’
He rested his chin upon the tips of his fingers – thinking deeply, but saying nothing.
‘Lucy told me once,’ continued Dido, becoming more serious, ‘that Penelope remembered her mother bending over her cradle when she was a baby. Of course, that was impossible. Penelope’s mother died when she was born. It was, in fact, Harriet’s face she remembered. The face of the young Harriet. It was the first face she learnt to love. And it was that face which was suddenly revealed to the poor girl here on the gallery that day – a ghost indeed!’
She looked up at him eagerly. But his profile was dark against the bright sky, framed by an arch of grey stone. She wished very much that she might know just what he was thinking, for the moment was come … She could no longer delay telling him of her decision.
‘Mr Lomax,’ she said quietly, ‘you asked me just now whether I meant to do anything to bring justice about. Well, I would not wish you to think that I am motivated only by an insatiable curiosity. I do care deeply for what is right and I do certainly mean to bring about justice.’ She hesitated. ‘I mean to bring about a woman’s justice.’
He looked at her uncertainly. ‘And how does that differ from a man’s?’
‘It is humane,’ she said, ‘and concerns itself not with agreements drawn up to impoverish women for the enrichment of their male relations; it concerns itself instead with the plight of a girl sent away from her home to grow up among strangers simply because she was not the boy that everyone wished her to be.’
‘You are referring I suppose to Miss Lambe.’
‘Yes. Penelope must be allowed to come home,’ she said with great decision.
‘Must she? And how is that to be achieved?’
‘In the simplest, most natural way possible. All that is needed is for Harriet to cease opposing Silas’s wishes and Penelope will come home to Ashfield as his bride. I have conditioned for it, you see. I have told Harriet I will only surrender the silver buttons to her on their wedding day.’
He gazed steadily at her for several minutes. Sunlight and the shadows of leaves shifted across his face as the wind blew about the hanging curtain of ivy. ‘And this,’ he said, ‘is your notion of justice?’
‘Yes it is.’ She drew a long breath. ‘And, I believe that when you consider how different – how very different – it is from yours … I think you will agree that …’ She looked away quickly. ‘I think you will agree that our opinions upon some very important subjects will always differ – that they never can be reconciled.’
‘Because you will always argue like a woman?’
‘And you will always argue like a man.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Your notion of a woman’s sphere distinct and separate from a man’s was all too correct, Mr Lomax. I believe our experiment was, from the first, doomed to failure because there is an established barrier – a kind of chasm – between men and women which our words can never cross.’
‘And there must of course be words?’ he said raising one eyebrow.
‘Oh yes,’ she insisted – and the quiet propriety of the previous Mrs Lomax was very much in her mind as she spoke. ‘I am afraid that for me there must always be words. I never could exist in silence – and that I fear makes me essentially unsuited to the state of matrimony.’
He stood brooding for a very long time. And she waited, her gloved hands resting upon the ancient stones of the gallery’s balustrade, her eyes fixed upon a bright beech tree in the park from which showers of leaves were being blown against the sky. She half-regretted their doomed experiment – it had perhaps made her understand herself too well.
‘I believe,’ said Lomax slowly at last, ‘that there is a fault in your reasoning.’ She looked up and saw that the tips of his fingers were just pressing against one another. ‘I will not dispute the existence of such a divide,’ he said. ‘Its presence has recently been too painfully obtruded upon my notice for me to doubt its reality. Yet I continue to believe that – were you to do me the honour of becoming my wife – we could be happy together. For, though our words may not cross that divide, I believe our affection might.’
‘No,’ she shook her head wretchedly. ‘It would not, Mr Lomax. It could not. For affection would all be lost in irritation and anger.’
‘And what is your evidence for that position?’
‘The evidence of a dozen wretched marriages within my knowledge in which argument and disapproval has soured regard and destroyed all vestige of confidence.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I will not allow you to put forward other marriages as proof. They can reveal nothing to the purpose, for I believe that the present case is entirely different. In this particular instance the evidence is against you.’
‘Oh! Are we so very different from other men and women?’
‘Perhaps we are. Witness our recent dispute,’ he said, resting his chin on his fingers. ‘We certainly cannot agree upon what is just – and I think that we never will. The courses of action which we think proper differ widely.’
‘Exactly so!’
‘And you have been aware of this dissimilarity in outlook since our last interview in Bath, have you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘And yet, just now, when I asked you to share with me the story of last night’s discoveries, you did not hesitate – once I had assured you that I would endeavour not to express my anger.’
‘No, why should I hesitate?’
‘Why, because my contrary ideas of justice might have prompted me to approach the coroner myself with the information you gave me.’
‘But I knew you would not!’
‘How did you know?’ he said, studying her face very earnestly. ‘You did not condition for my silence before you began to speak.’
‘I did not need to,’ she cried. ‘I knew that you would never betray me, no matter what you thought.’
He smiled. She began to catch his meaning and quickly turned her face away.
‘And upon that confidence,’ he said quietly, ‘upon that trust, I rest my argument – and all my hopes of future happiness.’ He reached out and laid his hand over hers. ‘You see, Miss Kent, there is another force at work here besides our words. You and I know – we will always know – that we can trust one another implicitly; and I firmly believe that that trust can bridge the divide which lies between us.’
Dido kept her eyes fixed upon the great arch of the ruined window, and upon a black chattering flock of starlings as it was blown about the sky. She could not look at him, nor could she very readily find a reply among the crowding sensations which his words had produced. But very slowly she turned the hand which lay under his. And at last their hands rested palm to palm on the ivy-covered wall. Then, one by one, their fingers interlinked. Their grasp tightened, warm and steady in the icy wind.
About the Author
ANNA DEAN lives in the Lake District with a husband and a cat. She sometimes works as a Creative Writing tutor and as a guide showing visitors around William Wordsworth’s home, Dov
e Cottage. Her interests include walking, old houses, Jane Austen, cream teas, Star Trek and canoeing on very flat water.
www.annadean.co.uk
By Anna Dean
THE DIDO KENT SERIES
A Moment of Silence
A Gentleman of Fortune
A Woman of Consequence
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
13 Charlotte Mews
London W1T 4EJ
www.allisonandbusby.com
Copyright © 2010 by ANNA DEAN
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Hardback published in Great Britain in 2010.
Paperback edition published in 2011.
This ebook edition first published in 2011.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–4045–1
PREVIOUSLY IN THE DIDO KENT SERIES
‘Beautifully written. Characters one cares about immediately and a mystery which becomes more urgent with every page’ Anne Perry, author of the Inspector Pitt novels
‘Delightful … fascinating … this is a beautifully written, skilfully crafted novel and a very enjoyable read’
Historical Novels Review
‘It’s the world of Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë … Charming, utterly charming, and totally good fun!’
Books Monthly
To discover more great historical crime and to
place an order visit our website at
www.allisonandbusby.com
or call us on
020 7580 1080
