by Anna Dean
‘Yes. Talking – to the right person – can, sometimes be a great help …’ She put her hand to her head. There was something about his solid, reassuring presence and kindly grey eyes that made her long to share her thoughts with him. But his eagerness to help, his valiant attempts to avoid censuring her, were inexplicable! She was too puzzled and confused to trust his sudden change of heart. ‘Come,’ she said abruptly, ‘we had better return to the drawing room.’
‘I see,’ he said, deeply offended. ‘I am not “the right person”. You would like to talk – but not to me.’
‘I think I had better not,’ she said turning away.
‘I suppose,’ he said quietly, ‘that you would prefer to confide in Captain Laurence.’
‘Captain Laurence!’ she cried, spinning back to face him and seeing his cheeks red with emotion. But, before she could say another word, the drawing room bell in the row above their heads clanged into life. They both stared up at it. Footsteps could be heard rapidly approaching from the kitchen.
Mr Lomax seized her arm. They ran together for the door, and only just succeeded in gaining the hall before a footman sauntered out behind them – still whistling a hornpipe under his breath.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was jealousy! That was the cause of Mr Lomax’s change of heart. Jealousy of Captain Laurence!
Dido could not even frame the thought without laughing out loud.
‘I do not see what there is to laugh about,’ said Margaret sourly as they got into the carriage. ‘In my opinion the evening was quite spoilt by that unpleasant little episode. Such a scream! When I was young, girls were not brought up to make such an exhibition I am sure!’
‘Poor young lady cannot help having a nightmare,’ said Francis mildly. ‘Not to be wondered at. Her brain is not yet set to rights.’
‘Quite so,’ murmured Dido and they all lapsed into silence, shivering a little, for the coach seemed very cold after the heat of the abbey’s good fires.
But when she looked across at the dark outline of Mr Lomax, swaying slightly as the carriage began to move, coat collar turned up, hat pulled down: when she thought of him as being consumed by Shakespeare’s ‘Green-eyed Monster’ – and upon no better evidence than the captain’s commonplace gallantry in the drawing room – she felt her lips once more forming themselves into a smile.
But now the carriage was creaking and crunching over the gravel of the sweep; the lights of the house were left behind; her smiles passed unseen, and censured only by herself.
Indeed, she ought not to smile. Jealousy was a very severe character flaw – not something to be taken lightly. But Dido now found, to her dismay, that this discovery of weakness – this proof that he was not the model of perfection she had taken him for – did not diminish her affection at all, and she was fallen so deeply into love that a flaw could have all the charm of a virtue. Which was a very great shock to her, and a mighty revelation, for she had lived six and thirty years in the world innocently supposing only merit to be loveable.
Suddenly the carriage lurched to a standstill – and Margaret screamed.
‘What the devil?’ Francis let down the glass and peered out into the night, letting in a foggy damp which caught at the back of Dido’s throat.
There was an answering curse from the coachman, quickly suppressed with an apology. ‘Thought I saw someone sir,’ he called. ‘Looked like a fellow running across the lawn from the old pool.’
Francis leant out further. ‘Can’t see a thing … except, what’s that over there? Looks like a lantern swinging about.’
‘Where? In the ruins?’ asked Dido. ‘Is the light upon the gallery in the ruins?’ She tried to look for herself. But the carriage was in motion again now and Margaret was demanding the glass be put up before the carriage lining was spoilt by damp.
‘Yes, it may be in the ruins,’ Francis conceded as he secured the glass and settled back into his seat.
‘Oh! I would dearly love to know what is carrying on there.’
‘Then you had better ask the intrepid captain to investigate,’ said Mr Lomax quietly.
Dido made no reply to that – and passed all the rest of the journey silently condemning her own cruelty. She should say something. One slight remark hinting at her low opinion of the captain would suffice. She could say enough, even in the presence of Margaret and Francis, to make him comfortable. It was barbarous to remain silent and allow his suffering to continue! But she found that she could not make up her mind to do away with his jealousy. It was just too delightful – and too convenient.
For while he remained jealous he would listen without condemning her. He would be prepared – perhaps even willing – to discuss her mysteries in order to prevent her confiding in the perceived rival.
Ah, dear! And she had been used to think of love as an ennobling and elevating passion. She had never imagined it could be the cause of such unkindness.
‘You look pleased,’ said Mr Lomax as he handed her from the carriage. ‘The evening’s discoveries have been helpful to you?’
‘Oh! Yes, thank you.’ They walked slowly up the vicarage steps and she stole a glance at his face in the pale light shining out into white mist through the open door. There was a kind of hope and expectancy …
Just one small, slighting remark about Laurence would be enough …
Instead, she paused as they came into the hall and said quietly. ‘I have been reconsidering your kind offer, Mr Lomax.’
‘My offer?’
‘Your offer to be my confidant. I think I should like very much to talk matters over with you.’
‘Ah! I am sure I am very honoured.’ He bowed, took the shawl from her shoulders and looked about the hall. Francis was gone away to the library to put the finishing touches to a sermon and Margaret was just climbing the stairs. He suggested they walk into the parlour, and there, beside the sunken embers of the fire, she told him of her visit to Great Farleigh – and her suspicion that Penelope was the daughter of Miss Fenn.
‘It seems – if I am permitted to make such an observation – a rather overstrained conclusion.’
‘No, it is not a conclusion: it is a suspicion.’
‘I beg your pardon. It seems a rather overstrained suspicion.’
‘Perhaps it is; but I mean to test the truth of it by finding out about Miss Lambe’s history.’
‘I see.’ He was standing by the hearth, one hand resting upon the chimney piece and he now turned his face away to stare down at the dying fire. She suspected that he disapproved this course of action but was making a valiant attempt to hide this opinion. After a short pause he said, ‘May I ask how Miss Lambe’s … parentage might prompt the cruel trick which was played upon her this evening?’
‘I think someone wishes to drive her away from Madderstone. It does, I grant, seem a rather strange method of persuasion,’ she added hastily. ‘But, knowing Miss Lambe’s romantic disposition, I cannot help but think it might be an effective one.’
‘Upon that point, I must give way to your superior knowledge of the lady’s character,’ he said graciously, his eyes still fixed upon the embers. ‘But do you suspect Mr Coulson of acting on his own behalf, or do you believe he took on the role of ghost at someone else’s prompting?’
Dido smiled at his determination to suppress any hint of censure and there was a short silence as she collected her thoughts. ‘I believe,’ she said slowly at last, ‘that it is perhaps Mr Harman-Foote who wishes Penelope to leave the neighbourhood. I think he may have persuaded Mr Coulson into the charade.’ She hesitated: there was an idea gradually forming in her mind which she particularly wished to try out upon him. ‘You see,’ she said carefully, ‘if Penelope is indeed Miss Fenn’s daughter, then the man to whom she wrote that very … affectionate letter – the man she addressed as “Beloved” – must be suspected of being the father.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, raising his eyes at last from the fire and looking at her rather anxiously.
> ‘And the reputation of that man would be endangered by the girl being here in the neighbourhood. His good-name might be best guarded by frightening her away.’
‘But you are forgetting, Miss Kent: Mr Harman-Foote cannot be Miss Fenn’s “Beloved”. As I have had the pleasure of explaining to you – the handwriting in the letter is certainly not his.’
‘No, no,’ she cried immediately. ‘I am not forgetting it at all.’ And then, ashamed of her sharpness, she went on more gently. ‘I confess it was very foolish of me not to have considered the handwriting before. I am particularly grateful to you for drawing it to my attention.’
‘I am very glad to have been of service to you.’
‘But,’ she continued, ‘although I accept your conclusion that Mr Harman-Foote cannot have been the man to whom Miss Fenn wrote, I think that, after all, he might have prompted Mr Coulson to play the part of a ghost.’
He said nothing – only raised his brows.
‘It is possible he was acting not on his own behalf – but for the sake of someone else.’
He still said nothing, but he had turned to face her now; his elbow was resting on the mantleshelf, the tips of his fingers just touching one another.
‘You see,’ she said, ‘I have given some thought to your suggestion that Mr Harman-Foote stole the letters and the ring in order to protect his wife from pain.’
‘Yes?’
‘And might not Miss Lambe be frightened away for the same reason?’
He rested his chin upon the tips of his fingers. ‘This would suppose that Mr Harman-Foote knows the secret of the young lady’s parentage.’
‘Yes it would,’ she said eagerly, ‘and that would be entirely possible if …’ She stopped for she was in grave danger of stumbling into indelicacy. But in her mind she could not help but see the luxury of that bedchamber – so very ill-suited to a governess. She lowered her eyes. ‘It may be that the man guilty of … indiscretion with Miss Fenn was a friend of Mr Harman-Foote’s – and someone his wife esteems very highly indeed.’
‘Who, precisely, do you have in mind?’
Dido kept her eyes upon the floor. ‘The late Mr Harman – her father,’ she said quietly. ‘If Mr Harman-Foote knew anything to Mr Harman’s disadvantage, he might be very eager to protect his memory – for the sake of his wife’s peace of mind.’
There was a rather long silence in the room. Dido still did not choose to look at her companion; but his eyes rested upon her very steadily. Their expression however was troubled and considering rather than critical.
‘I wish,’ he said at last, ‘that I could deny the possibility of such a confusion of guilt and deception as you are suggesting.’
‘But you cannot?’ She raised her eyes at last. He was standing with his chin resting upon his steepled fingers – which was always a sign with him of deep thought.
‘No,’ he admitted with a heavy sigh. ‘I cannot. I must, at least, concede that you are justified in being suspicious. There is certainly something very strange carrying on at Madderstone. There is guilt of some kind.’
‘And in return for your admitting so much, I will grant that you were right to caution me when we spoke in the wood. Investigation – even truth itself – can be a dangerous and hurtful thing. You did well to put me upon my guard. But – be assured – I mean to proceed with the utmost care. I have not yet spoken one word to Mrs Harman-Foote which might lower her opinion of her governess. Nor shall I – unless the cause of justice absolutely demands it. And I shall be particularly careful to keep from her these suspicions against her father.’
He smiled. ‘I am extremely glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘And I am sure I should have expected no less of you. It was very bad of me to doubt your humanity – or your delicacy of feeling. In future Miss Kent, I shall endeavour to judge you less hastily, and prove myself worthy of your confidence.’
‘And I shall try to listen calmly to any opinions which you offer,’ she said.
His smile broadened. He took a step closer, fixing his eyes upon her and holding out his hand. ‘Then perhaps we may find that it is possible for us to disagree – to even express our disagreement – without injuring our esteem of one another. I should be very glad to think that open and honest discussion were possible between us.’
Dido coloured as she took in all that this proposal might mean – but there was more pleasure than pain in her confusion. ‘Perhaps we shall,’ she said. She rose and, with a great show of solemnity, placed her hand in his, wondering very much whether he hoped such an arrangement might end at last in marriage: a marriage in which this pleasurable kind of dispute was allowed to continue …
Meanwhile he was looking as if he did not quite know what to do with her hand. He held it a moment; perhaps he was on the point of carrying it to his lips. But then, all at once, he let it go, stepped away from her and searched around for another branch of the subject with which to distract himself.
‘It might,’ he began rather abruptly, ‘be useful to know something of Miss Fenn’s life before she came to Madderstone – have you made any enquiries into that subject?’
‘No … at least, I have not been able to discover much.’ Dido looked down at the grate – at the soft grey ash and the last faint red pulse of the embers. ‘Mrs Harman-Foote seems to know nothing except that the Fenns were neighbours of her mother-in-law in Shropshire and …’ She stopped. An idea had occurred. ‘Mr Lomax,’ she said slowly raising her eyes to his. ‘I believe you have an acquaintance in that neighbourhood?’
‘Ah! Yes, I have.’ He held her gaze and smiled – understanding exactly the request which was in her mind without a word of it being spoken. He hesitated; her eyes brightened eagerly in the faint glow of the fire … ‘Very well,’ he conceded, rather against his own judgement, ‘if you wish it, I shall write to my friend and ask what he knows of the family.’
‘Thank you! It is very kind of you.’
‘Well, well …’ He was beginning to think he had better not stay with her any longer; she was too dangerous; she might persuade him into anything. But still he kept his place by the hearth. ‘And in the meantime,’ he said, ‘you will continue your investigations by enquiring into Miss Lambe’s history?’
‘Yes – though I confess I do not yet know how I shall go to work on it.’
‘Might I be permitted to make a suggestion?’
‘Of course you may.’
‘If it is within your power, I would advise you to accept Miss Crockford’s invitation and accompany her and her sister when they convey Miss Lambe to Bath.’
‘Oh?’ she said, much surprised. ‘Why should I go to Bath?’
‘I have two reasons for recommending it. Firstly, I think that it would provide the safest – and most discreet – opportunity for discovering whether your speculations about Miss Lambe’s origins are correct.’
‘You think that I ought to make enquiries of Mrs Nolan?’
‘No,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘I do not say, exactly, that you ought to do so. I am your confidant, remember, not your advisor. I only suggest that going to Bath may be a little safer than pursuing your enquiries here.’
‘You believe then that there is danger here? That there is a murderer among us?’
‘I believe that it is possible.’
She considered this for several minutes. The last remains of the fire were beginning now to dull and drop away through the grate. The room was becoming cold and dark: his face only just visible, a black, brooding outline against the red glow. ‘And what,’ she asked at last, ‘is your other motive?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You said that you had two motives for recommending I join the party to Bath. What is the second?’
‘Oh,’ he said with a smile, ‘merely that I must be there myself next week and it would give me particular pleasure to be allowed to accompany you to the theatre.’
He took her hand again, and this time he allowed himself the indulgence of kissi
ng it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
… Is it possible, Eliza? Could a man and woman exist in a state of well-mannered disputation, listening to and expressing contrary ideas without any loss of respect: the views of neither being subsumed within the judgement of the other? And could this form the foundation of marriage?
I know not! It seems very far removed from any marriage which has fallen within my observation. And yet, I cannot help but think that Mr Lomax has conceived of such a miraculous union – and that he is now intent upon proving to me that it can be achieved!
I am sure it is an experiment quite as interesting as any Mr Paynter has undertaken – and one which, were it published, might add a great deal to the sum of human knowledge. But I am beset by doubts. What would happen if there were a very serious disagreement of principle: if one party was adamant in holding fast to an opinion which the other considered utterly wrong? For our opinions inform our decisions and direct our actions. Might the time not come when difference of opinion led to serious disapproval of conduct? And that must lead to a loss of respect and affection …
Well, I suppose this is something which only time – and experimentation – can discover. And, I should certainly be very glad to go to Bath and carry on the experiment there, for I fear the house will feel very dull indeed after Mr Lomax leaves us tomorrow.
But the signs are not good for my being allowed to go. The subject is now under perpetual discussion here at the vicarage, and Margaret has a great deal to say upon the subject of ‘expense’ and ‘not imposing upon the goodwill of the Crockfords’ and even of ‘there being nothing to be achieved from such a visit at six and thirty’ – by which I suppose she means that I am unlikely to return with a new name on my tickets.
At times I am sorely tempted to disclose my true situation …
