by Anna Dean
‘But if you had chosen differently? If you had married Mr Lansdale?’
Mary said nothing. She turned away and climbed up into the coach. Dido pressed forward to the window, hoping still for an answer. But now the door was being closed, the horn was blowing, the harness creaking as the horses strained against it. Mary’s pale face at the window only smiled; she raised her hand in farewell and Dido was forced to step back as the great vehicle lumbered into motion.
Chapter Thirty-Four
When the coach had rumbled and clattered out of Richmond, Dido walked slowly to her seat beside the lime-walk. And there she was soon engrossed so deep in contemplation of all that had happened in the last few weeks as to leave her insensible of time and of everything passing around her.
The true cause of Mrs Lansdale’s death must create a deep impression upon any thinking mind. For though no one was guilty of her murder, here were four people to be blamed with neglecting her and wishing her out of the way – four people who had each gone a little way towards that terrible extremity of selfishness which is murder. And, besides all this, was that other shameful crime which had been carrying on in the very heart of respectable society.
Here was more than enough to occupy her thoughts! But, as she sat there in the breezy sunshine, her mind was less occupied with such moralising than with the extraordinary behaviour of Miss Bevan – and with the belief which had prompted that behaviour: the belief that there was an affinity, a fellowship, even, subsisting between herself and the Misses Henderson. Her silence at the final moment of parting – what had it signified?
Did Mary Bevan truly believe that if she had married Mr Lansdale she would have been as guilty as those women…? And guilty of the same crime? Was this not principle run mad? Dido remembered how, when they had talked in Mrs Midgely’s parlour, she had been troubled by the extreme delicacy of Miss Bevan’s feelings. She had worried then that such refinement would not make the girl happy. And so it had proved…
But… But she found she could not dismiss the matter so easily. For phrases that Mary had spoken would recur. ‘I do not believe I could ever confide in a man again,’ and, ‘I would have nothing to give but a pretence of affection.’
…And there was truth in her words. If one could not confide in one’s partner in life – if there was no trust, no honesty, how could there be genuine attachment? What could there be but a pretence of affection?
And what was it but a pretence of affection which the young ladies had offered to the gentlemen who visited the establishment in Knaresborough House?
When her thoughts had reached such a point as this it was not to be wondered at that Dido’s cheeks should first become red and then turn pale, nor that she should hurriedly put her hand to her brow in an effort to still the raging of her brain.
But to the man who was now standing beside her, knowing nothing of the ideas passing in her head, her appearance was that of a woman upon the point of swooning.
‘Good God! Miss Kent, are you unwell?’
She looked up to see William Lomax bending over her: his expression all tenderness and concern.
‘Yes, yes, I thank you. I am quite well. Just…’ One did not, after all, like to dispel such pleasing concern entirely, ‘just a little faint.’
He sat down beside her and spoke with considerably more gentleness than might have been expected from their parting upon the terrace at Brooke. ‘I came in search of you,’ he said. ‘I did not like to leave Surrey without first bidding you farewell.’
‘That is very kind of you.’ She lowered her eyes, unable to meet his solemn gaze from an apprehension that her recent shocking thoughts might somehow be discernable in her face. ‘And I am very glad to have this opportunity of saying goodbye – and, of course, of thanking you for the service you did me in talking with Mr Vane.’
He assumed his gravest, most dignified look. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it was a distasteful business; but it had the desired outcome. It would certainly seem that you were right in suspecting him.’
Dido said nothing.
He studied her face a while. ‘Miss Kent,’ he began gently, ‘two nights ago – at Brooke – I believe I may have spoken…with more force than perhaps I should. I have been considering the matter and, upon reflection, I recognise that your behaviour…had I seen it in someone else…well, I would still have thought it wrong, but I doubt I would have condemned it so violently. It would not have roused such anger. I beg you to understand that it was only because I was so very concerned for your safety, your well-being…’
‘Please,’ she cried. ‘There is no need to continue. I do not doubt the benevolence of your motives in trying to prevent my investigations; as, I hope, you do not doubt mine in making them. As far as good intentions go, we have both been in the right. And, since I do not believe that we will ever agree upon more than that – that no amount of disputation would prove to either of us that we have been in error – I feel that there is no more to be said upon the subject.’
‘No. No, of course not. You are quite right; the whole business had better be forgotten,’ he said a little doubtingly and looked at her as if he knew not whether to rejoice in her words – or to regret them. ‘I wonder,’ he began falteringly after a moment, ‘if you are sufficiently recovered from your faintness to do me the honour of taking a turn along the avenue with me. There is something further I wish to say.’
Dido consented with some reluctance. She suspected that, despite his assurance, he would be wanting to revive the subject and she was in no mood this morning to argue with him. The parting with Mary had left her too discomposed and distressed for disagreement – particularly disagreement with him. He offered his arm as she stood up; but she felt it best to decline. Being close to him seemed only to distress her more. Thank you, but she was fully recovered now: could walk quite well on her own.
So he clasped his hands behind his back, fell into step beside her, and did not speak until they had entered the lime-walk, which was particularly pleasant this morning. The breeze, delicately scented with blossom, shifted the leaves about so that they walked in a dancing pattern of sunlight and shade with sun sparkling and winking through the foliage overhead. Once they were fairly begun upon their promenade, he said, very seriously, ‘I had another reason for coming after you this morning: a very particular reason…’
Something in his voice made her suspect – she raised her eyes and saw, with a shock, such a look upon his face as could leave her in no doubt as to what his particular reason had been. There was a tenderness in his eyes; an unusual hint of colour on his cheeks; a hesitancy, an uncertainty, in his expression that was particularly becoming upon a face which was usually all gravity and self-possession.
She looked away in confusion and he began to speak rapidly as if he feared he might lose his courage. His circumstances were improved of late. He was still not a wealthy man; but the recent death of his old employer and the succession of the heir at Belsfield had rather improved his situation. And he had, furthermore, had some moderate success in business matters of his own. He was still burdened with heavy debts of his son’s making; but he had now greater hopes of paying them within a reasonable length of time and trusted that he might, with a little luck and a great deal of economy, clear himself of them in three – perhaps even two years… He quite understood that it was neither fair nor reasonable to ask any lady to enter into an engagement which could not be fulfilled within such a length of time as two – perhaps three – years; but the strength of his feelings, the ardency of his admiration was such as must make him try to secure her hand…
For several moments Dido could not speak, so great was her surprise. That his affection, instead of being done away by her behaviour of the last weeks was instead augmented – one might even say inflamed – was incomprehensible! But there seemed to be no escaping the conviction that while quiet decorum had failed to wrest from him a positive declaration, defiance and argument had succeeded.
‘Mr Lomax
, you do me a great deal of honour. I cannot help but be gratified that you should esteem me so highly. But…’
‘But?’ He caught anxiously at the word. He reached out as if he might attempt to take her hand, then checked himself in time. ‘But?’
‘But I confess that I am surprised – amazed – at your declaration. That you should feel such tender emotions, when we have so lately been in violent disagreement with one another – and when we cannot even now be at peace together without avoiding discussion of some very important subjects. It is quite beyond my comprehension.’
He swallowed. The colour deepened on his cheeks. ‘My dear Miss Kent, I doubt it is possible that any two people in the world will always agree upon every subject.’
Dido stopped walking and turned up her face, letting the sunshine move across her cheeks and dazzle her eyes. Oh, it would be so easy to agree with him! To let him take her hand. To consent. And just a few days ago she would have done so. But now… Truths once discovered cannot be unknown – even when the discoveries are only truths about our own heart.
‘May I ask you,’ she said gravely, ‘what brought you to this decision – I mean why did you decide that you must declare yourself before going away?’
He looked offended. ‘Why…I hardly know.’
‘Do you not?’ she pressed on, hardening her heart against his looks of pain. ‘I think I do. I am quite sure that it was upon the terrace at Brooke that you first decided I was essential to your happiness. Come, admit it, was it not the case? It was only in arguing with you that I became irresistible.’ She watched his face eagerly as she spoke, quite dreading his response.
But, to her amazement, he remained calm. Instead of protesting, he pressed his fingertips together and rested his chin upon them. Incredible though it seemed, there was no escaping the conviction that he was considering her suggestion as rationally as he did everything else. Really, the man was the most exasperating mixture of reason and unreason!
‘This point of when exactly I decided to try for your hand seems to be of very great importance to you.’
‘Yes it is.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you cannot marry upon the strength of an argument, Mr Lomax!’ she cried. ‘For however delightful you might find defiance in the period of courtship, I assure you that you would find it no such thing in marriage!’
He frowned and continued to ponder. ‘I think,’ he said at last, ‘that your argument is weak on two points. First – though I will not deny that the moment you speak of was rather decisive to my feelings – we need not necessarily conclude that it was the argument per se which had that effect. Might it not have been that your contrariness in that moment made me fear that you would cease to respect me – that, in short, you might be lost to me forever. Such an apprehension would do a great deal to make me understand my own heart and strengthen my resolution of trying to win you. And, secondly…’
She could not help but laugh outright at his gravity. He smiled. ‘And secondly,’ he proceeded eagerly, ‘why should you suppose that our life together would be one of continual dispute? The circumstances which occasioned our late disagreement were, you must grant, exceptional. I daresay we could go through fifty years of happy matrimony without there ever again occurring this situation of one of our acquaintance being accused of murdering his aunt!’
‘Oh!’ said Dido resuming her walk, ‘I daresay I should find enough to argue with you about!’
‘Well then,’ he suggested, falling into step beside her, ‘you might learn not to argue. Where there is real, solid affection, I am sure it is possible to learn control of the temper. When I was your husband you might find it easier to heed my advice.’
His smile broadened; but she was quite determined not to be diverted by the pleasure of conversing with him. She merely shook her head sadly and walked on.
Then, as they reached the end of the avenue and turned back, she sighed heavily and said, ‘I do not think that it would be wise for us to marry in the hope of such a material change in my character. Such a course would involve too much…struggling against my feelings. Too much dishonesty. Mr Lomax I am persuaded that without honesty – without being able to confide entirely in her husband – a wife would find herself quite unable to feel all that she ought – that she would, in fact, be able to offer him only the pretence of affection in return for all the material advantages which he bestowed upon her.’
He stared at her. Puzzled, offended, but, above all, extremely unhappy. She could stay with him no longer. It was too dangerous. With a few more hasty words of gratitude for his offer, she shook her head, begged him to excuse her and began to hurry away along the avenue.
For a moment he stood and watched her, his face betraying all the agony that he felt. But, at last, the sight of her determined little figure retreating through the shifting sunlight was more than he could bear. Without knowing that he was doing it, he pressed the tips of his fingers together. ‘There is of course a third possibility,’ he said quietly to himself. ‘You could simply continue to argue with me.’
He smiled at the prospect and, although he feared he was going to regret what he was doing, he called out, ‘Miss Kent!’
She did not falter in her walking.
‘Miss Kent! Please! Please wait a moment!’ And he began to run so that he might catch up with her before she reached the end of the lime-walk.
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, Dove 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
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