by Anna Dean
As the door closed behind her a silence fell upon the room which was very welcome to all three remaining ladies. But poor Miss Prentice was looking anxious. She sat for several moments, her little hands fidgeting in her lap. ‘Oh dear,’ she said at last, ‘I rather fancy that her note is about poor Mary going away.’
Flora looked concerned. ‘Is it true, then,’ she asked Miss Prentice quietly, ‘that Miss Bevan is to go out as a governess?’
Miss Prentice nodded sadly.
‘I had heard it spoken of,’ cried Flora, ‘but, you know, I hardly gave the rumour credit. For I am sure Mrs Midgely has as pretty a fortune as any woman in the world! And she has not another creature to leave it to. I do not at all see why she cannot provide for poor Mary.’
‘Well, if I must give my opinion, neither can I,’ said Miss Prentice. ‘I never heard this plan of making her a governess until just a few months ago. And I am sure it was always the intention of Colonel Midgely to provide for the girl when he took her in. But he has been dead a year now and…’ She checked herself and gave a smile, turning her little face to one side as she did so. ‘Well, well, it is no business of mine to have an opinion on the matter, is it Mrs Beaumont?’ She sighed deeply. ‘But the poor, dear girl is being so very brave about it. She has set her mind to it, I know, and has had her gowns packed and her travelling dress ready this last week.’
Flora politely hoped that Miss Bevan would find a situation with a pleasant family and then introduced more general topics to take the poor lady’s mind from the distressing subject.
Dido was quite struck by this new view of Mrs Midgely’s character. It certainly showed a hardness of heart and, perhaps, a love of money. But how these qualities might bear upon her determination to harm Mr Lansdale, she could not quite determine…
She turned her attention back to little Miss Prentice, who was now chatting quite merrily. Sitting with her little pink hands folded in the lap of her plain brown dress, a neat grey curl hanging on either side of her cap, she was a pleasant sight – delightfully eager and animated. She was perhaps a year or two older than Mrs Midgely but there was about her something which suggested she had once been pretty in a small, unobtrusive way.
Dido could not help but think her cheerfulness out of place in the dark, confined little parlour. But, it seemed, the deficiencies of her present home were more than compensated, by its being in so fashionable a place as Richmond. Miss Prentice certainly shared her friend’s interest in ‘the neighbourhood’. Only, while Mrs Midgely valued fashionable people for the reflected grandeur she believed they threw upon herself, Miss Prentice’s regard for them was perfectly disinterested: she delighted innocently in wealth and titles as a naturalist delights in the birds and beasts that he watches.
‘And I hear that Sir Hugo Wyat is to take the red house near the top of the hill.’ she was saying now. ‘And Sir Hugo’s is a very old title. I do so love the old titles. There is such solidity about them, is there not? Such Englishness! And so, when Sir Hugo comes, that will be three Baronets residing here in this street. Which is so very… For last summer, I understand, there was but one.’
‘You do have some very – interesting – neighbours,’ said Dido, looking thoughtfully out into the bright sunshine beyond the window, at the dusty road and Knaresborough House. From here it was possible to see the whole of the sweep and the house-front, with the smooth green lawns sloping upward to the dark mass of laurel bushes that shut out the offices at the back of the house.
‘Ah!’ cried Miss Prentice, following her gaze. ‘You are thinking of the Lansdales, I don’t doubt. It is a sad business,’ she continued in a half-whisper, ‘and, for myself, I do not care what Susan says. If I must give my opinion, I am all for the young man. He seems a very pleasant gentleman indeed and he always bows very prettily when he walks past and sees me at the window – which not many fine young men would think to do.’
Dido smiled and ventured to say, ‘You have perhaps heard of the death of Mrs Lansdale’s little dog?’
‘Oh yes. I have indeed!’
‘Mr Lansdale tells us that it went missing on the evening that its mistress died. And I wondered… You have such a remarkably clear view of the house and its grounds… I wondered whether you might have seen what became of it…’
‘No.’ Miss Prentice thought carefully. ‘No, I do not believe that I did.’
‘But I daresay you saw the butler searching the garden for it?’
Miss Prentice looked very thoughtful and pressed a bent finger to her lips: seemed pleased that, for once, she had indeed been asked to give her opinion. ‘No, I cannot say that I remember that at all. But Mary came to sit with me for a little while after dinner, and Susan had company that evening. Mr Vane and Mrs Barlow came to play at whist – and I went in to join them. Dear Mary insisted that I join them. “You must come”, says she, “for I am sure I cannot bear to think of you sitting all alone”. Which was so very… So, you see, I do not think I was by the window for long.’
‘I quite understand. But, I wonder, what exactly did you happen to see that evening?’
Miss Prentice considered very carefully, so gratified to be consulted that she did not seem to wonder at Dido’s motives. ‘Well now, let me see,’ she said, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. ‘What can I remember? This is like that game we used to play when we were children. Did you play it too? With all the little objects – reels of thread and pennies and oranges and I know not what – all put upon a tray and then a cloth put over them and we must say all that we could remember.’
‘Yes,’ said Dido, ‘it is just like the game, is it not?’
‘Well…’ She closed her eyes. ‘I do not remember the dog. No, he was not there. Nor the butler. I saw Mr Lansdale: he drove away in his barouche… And I believe I saw the maids going away to their homes… And a beggar came and stood against the gate post… And then I saw Mr Henderson. I saw him walking across the lawn in his way to the front door.’
‘Mr Henderson?’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Prentice, opening her eyes. ‘Mr Henderson is the gentleman who used to live in Knaresborough House before the Lansdales came there. He left it but three days before they came.’
‘And are you quite sure it was him?’
‘Oh yes. I remember it very clearly, for I remarked upon it to Mary. “Why look!” I said, “here is Mr Henderson come to call upon Mr Lansdale”. Because Mary was a little acquainted with him you see. At least she was a little acquainted with his daughters.’
‘And at what time did you see him?’
‘At about eight o’clock I think – for it was just before we went to cards.’
‘I wonder,’ said Dido after a pause. ‘Do you know if Mr Henderson wears powder in his hair?’
Miss Prentice looked all amazement. ‘Why, how remarkable that you should guess that, Miss Kent! Yes, indeed he does. He is a well-looking, tall man. He has very fine black side-whiskers; and he always has his hair very nicely dressed. And I think it is such a becoming fashion, do not you? And so few gentlemen take the trouble these days to put on powder. Yes, so very becoming.’ She smiled fondly – as if, perhaps, she was remembering a particular powdered gentleman from her distant youth.
Dido thought for a moment or two, then risked asking: ‘You are quite sure, that Mrs Midgely had a card party that day – that she was at home all evening.’
‘Oh yes. Quite sure.’
‘I just wondered whether…whether, perhaps, Mrs Midgely went herself to visit Mrs Lansdale that day.’
Miss Prentice’s little face twisted about in surprise. Her eyes widened. ‘Susan?’ she said, ‘Susan, visit Mrs Lansdale? No indeed! Why ever should you think such a thing? She was not at all acquainted with her.’
‘Oh but she was!’ cried Flora before Dido could prevent her. ‘She certainly had visited the house you know. We found her visiting card in Mrs Lansdale’s drawing room!’
There was a gasp from Miss Prentice: something between surpris
e and pain. All the colour drained from her round cheeks. Her lips moved but no sound came from them.
‘Miss Prentice? Are you unwell?’ Dido stood up and went to her – and was but just in time to catch her as she slipped from the chair in a dead faint.
Chapter Five
Next morning Dido walked beside the river – alone. She had received such a letter from her sister as made liberty and solitude essential: such a letter as must turn her mind away from the mysteries surrounding her in Richmond: such a letter as must, for a while, even make her cease to wonder why Miss Prentice should faint upon hearing of her friend’s visit to Mrs Lansdale.
Dearest Dido, wrote Eliza, quite unaware that she was about to inflict severe pain upon her sister, I take up my pen to assure you that I put your questions to Mr Lomax at the earliest opportunity. However, I very much regret that I am not yet able to give any report of his opinion upon the matter of Mr Lansdale’s danger under the law. For, although he listened very courteously to my request, (and, by the by, he is a very pleasant man, is he not? And I quite agree with you as to his profile which I remember you describing as particularly fine. And I agree too about his kindliness and consideration, which I think are quite remarkable.) But, what I mean to say is that, although he attended to the matter like the perfect gentleman which I make no doubt he is – and I am sure he did not mean to disappoint you – for I do not believe it is in his nature to disappoint anyone. But, the fact is that before he could properly consider the matter, he was called away from Belsfield upon business. And, since he was not able to give any idea of when he may return, I am afraid that I cannot give any idea of when I may be able to send an answer to your questions. Though I assure you that I will send an answer just as soon as I have one to send…
Mr Lomax’s going away from Belsfield just now, and leaving her questions unanswered, was a severe blow. It spoke such an indifference to her and her concerns, as must make her doubt that he retained any affection for her at all…
How was it to be understood? Did he mean to convey to her some message? To let her know that she must think no more of him? Or had he merely forgotten the understanding which had seemed to exist – which had existed – between them? Was she become just another acquaintance whose requests could be brushed aside as convenience demanded?
These were the questions which had sprung up to torment her in the morning room as soon as she had read the letter. These were the questions which had followed her as she walked out. Now, seated upon an old log on the river-bank, concealed from the world by a willow which hung low over the water, she took the letter from her pocket, unfolded it and read it again.
The sunlight sparkled upon the slow running river. The air smelt of cool water and mud and wild garlic. Waterfowl slid lazily along upon the current and the turquoise wings of a dragon-fly flashed in and out of the tall rushes as Dido reread the hurtful words. But they had not changed. They conveyed the same message as they had back in the morning room.
He was indifferent. If he had ever cared, he cared no longer… Unless… Unless it was only a show of indifference designed to release her from an attachment which he felt could never be fulfilled. There were, after all, such obstacles to their ever coming together, that he might well feel the kindest thing to do was to put an end to all hope.
She let her letter fall into her lap, turned her eyes upon the shining water, the long strands of weed swaying in the current and the brown velvet heads of the rushes, and considered this idea.
It was true that, at present, it was impossible for an engagement to be formed between them. Prudent, clever and hard-working though Mr Lomax was, his financial affairs were in disarray. There was a son by his first marriage – a hateful, dissolute boy. And this son had gaming debts: debts which would have put him into prison, had his father not pledged himself to pay them.
Dido had no notion of how long the paying of these debts would take – how long it might be before Mr Lomax could, with a clear conscience, make her an offer. Perhaps he had decided, after long and painful consideration (her heart insisted that the consideration should be painful – she loved him too well to excuse him from suffering) that he should give her up.
She smiled. This was a great deal better than supposing him to be indifferent… But… The smile slipped away from her lips. But it was, in fact, just as hopeless. For if he had decided they were not to be together, what was to be done about it? She must accept his decision. She must not pursue him – no gentleman could bear such forwardness…
The dazzling water beyond the curtain of willow leaves shifted and blurred as tears forced themselves into her eyes. And she sat for some time lost in misery and loneliness, hardly aware of anything around her.
It was a slight, unexpected movement which first roused her from wretchedness.
Something small was drifting and spinning upon the water. She blinked away her tears and peered through the overhanging leaves; it was the inevitable reaction of strong native curiosity. An irregular fragment of…something, was drifting in the current, a point of dullness on the gleaming stream. Another joined it, and another. They drifted slowly in amongst the bulrushes – more and more of them collecting among the thick green stems.
Dido wiped her eyes and, hardly knowing what she was doing – or why she was doing it – she leant over the river. There were torn fragments of paper slowly darkening in the water and beginning to sink.
Interested in spite of her misery, she pushed aside a twig of willow and looked upstream to learn whence the pieces of paper had come.
On a sandy bank a few yards away stood a woman – a small woman in a brown dress – urgently tearing at a bundle of papers and throwing the pieces down into the river. Now and again she would look quickly to left and right as if to ensure she was not observed, then she would return to her tearing and throwing.
As she finished her task and shook the last fragments from her hands she lifted her head in relief. The sun shone full upon her face… It was Miss Prentice.
Dido stared, wondered…and looked down at the pieces of paper drifting within her reach among the rushes. Some of them were already sunk down into the mud – but many others were still floating, the black words upon them still visible. She hesitated, struggled against temptation – and failed. In one swift movement, she stooped, plunged her hand into the cool water and snatched up some of the pieces.
Then she stood for a moment, allowing the water to drain away through her fingers and fighting off the last attacks of conscience. The papers were almost certainly letters which the lady wished to destroy. It was not honourable to look. But why had she been so intent upon disposing of them quietly? Was it in any way connected with the shock which had made her faint yesterday? Was it connected with Mrs Midgely’s mysterious visit to the Lansdales – and the rumours which were circulating against Mr Lansdale?
She must look.
She held one dripping fragment up to the dappled sunshine that fell through the willow branches and was very much surprised to see, not handwriting but squarely printed words. It was not letters which Miss Prentice was throwing away, it was the pages of a book!
And a rather boring book too. The words upon her scraps were long and closely printed and rather smudged from the water, but here and there a phrase was discernible. Phrases such as: the inevitable progress of improvement and inalienable privileges of all mankind and justifiable opposition.
Dido turned the pieces over in her hand, quite at a loss as to why they should merit such eager destruction. As she did so, something else caught her eye. On one fragment, there was a little bit of faded handwriting in slightly bluish ink. At first she thought it might be a note or comment that had been written in a margin, but, when she looked closely, she saw that it was the torn end-paper of the book – with Richmond Circulating Library written upon it.
Her surprise increased and she peered upstream through the curtain of branches. Miss Prentice had now regained the path and was hurrying away between willow
s and hawthorns and trailing pink dog-roses, her narrow brown back bent over in haste. Dido watched her go with a frown and a puzzled shake of the head.
What possible reason could there be for a respectable, middle-aged lady to take a book from a circulating library, tear it up in secret, and cast the pieces into the Thames?
Dido soon caught up with Miss Prentice. She was resting upon the step of a stile where the shade of willows gave way to more open ground and the long grass foamed white with cow-parsley and wild garlic. The path was busier here, with several gentlemen, ladies and parasols strolling by, and an anxious nursemaid urgently forbidding her charges to wander near the river. Beyond the stile a small herd of cows tore rhythmically at the rich June grass and, in another field close by, two men with gypsy tans were tossing hay onto a wagon.
‘I am very glad to see that you are recovered from your illness of yesterday,’ said Dido when the first greetings were over.
‘Oh yes! Thank you. As to that… It was the heat you know,’ replied Miss Prentice with some confusion. ‘Nothing but the heat I assure you. I am quite well today. I am seldom ill – quite blessed with good health, which is so very…’ Her voice trailed away. She stood up and proposed their walking back to the town together.
Dido gladly agreed, and fell into step beside her. Her curiosity was now once more in full play, acting like a kind of half-effective analgesic to blunt the edge of painful disappointment. She looked sidelong at her companion; there was a rapid blinking of the eyes which spoke of some agitation, but a very determined pretence at calm.
It was as fair an opportunity for conversation as she was likely to get, and there were a great many questions which she was longing to ask. But she judged it best not to reveal that she had witnessed the tearing of the book. That mystery would be more likely solved by strategy than questions. And, as for pursuing the business of Mrs Midgely’s acquaintance with the Lansdales – that, she thought, had better not be attempted. A fainting fit in the heart of the countryside would be very inconvenient indeed!
