A moment of silence mdk-1

by Anna Dean

  For Catherine would have been beautiful; she appeared to particular advantage in a ballroom. Her figure was light and graceful; her complexion was clear and delicate and, though sometimes thought lacking in colour, it had at least the advantage of not reddening in the heat of a country dance; and her hair, curling naturally, did not, like many fine coiffures, become lank and disordered as the evening wore on.

  And her character, too, was as well suited to a ballroom as her person. In company, with a great many to please and be pleased, the sunniest aspects of her disposition were in full play and the little peevishness was hidden.

  Dido could imagine her moving elegantly through Sir Edgar’s state rooms, among his hothouse flowers and his well-bred guests, charming everyone; even Margaret, watching eagerly from her seat by the fire with the chaperones, had probably found remarkably little to criticise.

  Of the young man on whose arm she would have leant, Dido had a less distinct vision, for she had never met Richard Montague. But the descriptions of Catherine’s letters and the miniature portrait that she carried did something to supply what was lacking. She could picture a tall, black-haired man of just three and twenty, with rather fine brown eyes and a face that broke easily into a broad smile.

  In short, she imagined him as that phenomenon which, at sixteen, Catherine had declared she did not believe in.

  ‘I do not think,’ she had said solemnly once after a dance at Badleigh had proved a disappointment to her in some way which Dido could not now recall, ‘I do not think it is possible for a man to be handsome, agreeable and rich. I put it down as a kind of law of nature that he will always be lacking in one of those three cardinal virtues.’

  Indeed, for several years Eliza and Dido had feared that Catherine had no wish to discover such a paragon and intended to marry – as the phrase went – to disoblige her family. It was a fear that Margaret had certainly shared. And when Catherine – after only a two-week acquaintance – wrote to announce her partiality for Mr Richard Montague, the only son of a baronet, she had acknowledged that her stepmother’s approval did rather tell against him. However, she had continued, I do not think I could give him up now, even for the very great pleasure of offending Mama.

  Dido’s greatest concern had been for the suddenness of the attachment, but Eliza had foreseen trouble in its inequality. She had shaken her head sadly over that letter. ‘I fear it will be rather a matter of him giving up her,’ she had said. ‘She is in a fair way to get her poor heart broke.’

  And Francis himself had admitted that his daughter fell short of any equitable claim to the match by at least ten thousand pounds and a knighthood in the family as near as, say, an uncle.

  But, to the surprise of them all, Mr Montague had very soon not only asked Catherine to marry him, but had also gained his father’s consent to the marriage with remarkable ease.

  It had taken four closely written pages to express all the young lady’s delight to her aunts. He is very kind, she had written – no doubt like many a young lady in love before her – and gentle and it is quite remarkable how we agree upon everything. It is impossible that we should ever quarrel. Indeed we have decided between us that we never shall.

  She had found perfection!

  And the ball had been her moment of public triumph. For three hours or more it had been blissfully happy. Catherine knew she was in good-looks, Mr Montague was charming and affectionate, and she felt that she had the approval of the entire company.

  It was after midnight that the change happened.

  In the ballroom the set had shortened a little, but very few guests had yet left. The company in the card room was animated and, under Lady Montague’s influence, everyone was playing high. The fiddlers were still hard at work and the french doors were open on to the terrace, letting in the air of a remarkably mild September night and the scent of the last over-blown roses. Catherine had been dancing with Mr Tom Lomax. She did not like Mr Lomax, but, she said, dancing with him had been a necessary attention on two counts: firstly because he was Mr Montague’s particular friend, and secondly because he was only the son of Sir Edgar’s man of business, and so was blessed with Margaret’s disapproval.

  As her dance with him ended, Mr Montague came to her.

  ‘I have you again,’ he whispered as the musicians started a new tune and the set reformed. ‘I believe even your esteemed stepmother would agree that it would be quite proper for us to dance together again now.’

  She laughed and leant on his arm as he led her to the dance. Her feet were hot and tired, but her head was light with dancing and night air and the smell of roses – and love. She gazed at him across the set, charmed even by the hair falling down into his eyes, the cravat slightly unravelling.

  And it was then, before they started to dance, while they were still working their way up the set, that it happened.

  A man appeared at his shoulder…

  ‘Appeared? Appeared from where?’ Dido asked quickly.

  ‘I don’t know exactly,’ said Catherine. ‘From among the lookers-on, I suppose. There was still a little crowd of people standing by, watching the dancing.’

  ‘And who was this man? Did you know him?’

  ‘No. He was a stranger to me. I had not been introduced to him. I do not even remember seeing him before during the evening – but there were a great many people, you know. I may not have noticed him.’

  And yet he was a rather noticeable man. Catherine described him as being red-haired and strikingly tall; but with a thin face and a ‘business’ look about him.

  ‘And what, pray, is a “business look”?’ Dido enquired.

  ‘Oh, Aunt, don’t be tiresome. You know what I mean. He did not look quite a gentleman of property. He had that worried, fagged look of a professional man: a clergyman perhaps, or a lawyer – maybe even a medical man.’

  ‘A professional man? Like your father? Or have you got too grand since your engagement to remember that?’

  Catherine coloured and looked conscious; but she only said rather crossly, ‘Do you wish me to tell you the story or not?’

  ‘Yes, yes, please continue.’

  ‘Well, this man came to Mr Montague and it was as if…as if he had thrust a knife into him. He staggered – almost fell. And when he turned back to me, the look on his face was like death.’

  ‘My dear, you are sounding like a character in one of Mrs Radcliffe’s books. You have read a great deal too many “gothic” novels.’

  ‘And if I have, Aunt, it is because you lent me the volumes!’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Dido, ‘just carry on with your story and tell me what happened as simply as possible. This man came and spoke to Mr Montague as he was standing in the dance?’

  ‘Yes… No, no, he did not speak. That was the strangest thing. He touched Richard’s shoulder and Richard turned to him – and smiled. But the man did not say anything. I was watching his face all the time. He looked into Richard’s face but he said nothing.’

  ‘Did he perhaps show him something?’

  ‘Maybe… But I think not. If he did show something, he must have put it into his pocket very quickly when Richard staggered backwards, because I remember I saw the man’s hands very clearly then and they were empty.’

  ‘How very strange. And did Mr Montague speak?’

  ‘No – at least I don’t think he did. His back was turned to me, but I think I would have heard if he’d spoken – even through the music. You do, don’t you? I mean you can hear a voice you love when any other would be lost to you.’ Fresh tears welled in Catherine’s eyes and hung gleaming on her lashes.

  Dido’s mind was working quickly. ‘Let me be clear about this,’ she said. ‘It was not simply the sight of the man that shocked Mr Montague?’

  ‘No. When he first saw him he seemed surprised – but pleasantly surprised. As if he had not expected the man to be there, but was pleased to see him nonetheless. It was only afterwards, when they had stood together for a moment, that Rich
ard became distressed.’

  ‘I see. Go on,’ said Dido patting her hand. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘It was all so quick. The man walked away – I think he did, at least. I didn’t see because Richard seized my hand and pulled me out of the set. We went onto the terrace and he told me… He told me everything was over between us.’

  Dido pictured the scene. The two of them out in the mild night, the music of the dance they had just abandoned still playing in the room behind them. There had been candles out on the terrace that night; she had seen the pools of wax they had left on the stone balustrade between the urns of roses. She imagined their light playing across the young man’s troubled face as he said…

  ‘What exactly did he say?’

  It was some minutes before Catherine was collected enough to reply. ‘He said… He said that he and I must part because…because he was ruined.’

  ‘That was all he said?’

  ‘He barely stayed two minutes with me. He said he must go at once to his father. “I must talk to him,” he said, “and he will not like what he hears.” He said…’ Little frown lines gathered over Catherine’s eyes as she struggled to remember the words. ‘He said, “It is impossible that he and I can remain friends after tonight.”’

  ‘And then he left you?’

  ‘Yes. I waited above an hour on the terrace, thinking… hoping he would return. But he did not, and in the morning I learnt that he was gone from the house.’

  ‘Without speaking to you again?’

  Catherine nodded. ‘He left this,’ she said in a flat, dull voice, holding out a folded note. ‘Tom Lomax gave it to me at breakfast.’

  Dido opened it and read, in a hasty masculine scrawl:

  My dearest Catherine,

  As I told you last night, we must part and it grieves me that I can give you no more reasons than I did then. But you must understand that I have broken completely with my father and I have nothing, nothing at all, to offer you. I am a poor man, Catherine. It is right, therefore, that I release you from our engagement. I shall say nothing of the matter so that you may make it known to the world that you have ended the engagement. This is all that I can do for you – except to give you this advice, which I beg you to heed.

  Cast me off publicly as soon as you may and leave my father’s house. I would not, for the world, have you tainted with the shame that is soon to fall on the family of Montague.

  God bless you and keep you,

  Richard

  She stared in confusion at the letter. ‘Catherine, this puts you in a very delicate situation. What have you done? Have you spoken to Sir Edgar? Does your father know what has happened?’

  ‘My father knows nothing,’ Catherine answered quickly. ‘And you must not breathe a word to him – or to Margaret! You must promise me you will not. I have spoken to Sir Edgar and he…he surprised me.’

  ‘Why? How did he surprise you?’

  ‘He was very calm. He does not seem to be angry with Mr Montague at all. He says the whole thing is a silly misunderstanding and it is best to say nothing about it and it will all blow over. He has put out a story that he has sent Richard to town on business – which seems strange to everyone so soon after the engagement and of course it gets stranger every day that he does not return. I know people are saying that we have quarrelled. But what can I do?’

  ‘You have no idea of where Mr Montague might have gone? Some place that he is partial to, perhaps. Or somewhere that he visits often.’

  Catherine thought and shook her head.

  ‘And you do not mean to take his advice?’ Dido continued gently. ‘You are not going to end the engagement?’

  ‘No!’ Catherine’s nether lip jutted dangerously. ‘How can I give him up when I don’t know what has happened?’

  ‘But, my dear, supposing there is, in the end, a rupture with Sir Edgar and Mr Montague loses his fortune.’

  Catherine glowered at her aunt defiantly and Dido said nothing more on that subject. In point of fact, Catherine was most unlikely to suffer poverty happily; but she was in love and naturally felt equal to any sacrifice.

  ‘Well,’ Dido said cautiously, ‘supposing…just supposing Mr Montague had done something which, well, shall we say, lowered your opinion of him… Something which showed him to be unworthy of your love.’

  Catherine glowered harder.

  ‘My dear, we must consider that possibility. After all, he seemed to fear his father’s disapproval. What was it he said? “It is impossible that we can be friends after tonight.” And he writes in his note of shame coming upon the family.’

  The tears had dried on Catherine’s cheeks; her little chin lifted proudly. ‘I will not believe any such thing until it is proved against him.’

  ‘And probably not even then.’

  Catherine chose not to hear that remark. ‘I certainly will not end my engagement until I understand exactly what has happened,’ she said firmly.

  ‘My dear, your loyalty is very noble, very romantic. If I was reading about it in a novel I should applaud it with all my heart, but—’

  ‘I must know why Richard changed so suddenly,’ Catherine interrupted. ‘I must know who this stranger was and why he had such power over him. You must find out for me, Aunt.’

  ‘Must I?’ Dido echoed irritably.

  But, in her heart, she knew that she must indeed. She must find out for her own peace of mind, and because it seemed the only hope for Catherine.

  But what could have happened? How could this stranger, with no word spoken, change Mr Montague’s – and Catherine’s – life? Why had the young man become convinced, in that one moment of silence, that he must break with his father and end his engagement? It made no sense at all.

  That task had seemed hard enough. But, since this evening’s grim news had broken upon the household, Dido had come to see that she had another as well. Now she must not only discover the cause of Mr Montague’s strange behaviour, she must also prove, to her own satisfaction at least, that what had happened between the young lovers had nothing to do with the terrible discovery in the shrubbery.

  And Dido’s last thought as she settled to sleep that night was of how short a time Catherine had been acquainted with Mr Montague and how much there must be that she did not know about him and his family.

  Chapter Three

  Dido and Sir Edgar were the first to make their appearance in the breakfast room the next morning and, on discovering that it was so, Dido felt a strong inclination to walk back out of the door – in spite of the tempting smell of chops and eggs and toasted bread. There was something alarming in the sight of Sir Edgar rising ceremoniously from his seat at the head of a table gleaming with silver and white linen to enquire whether she had passed a comfortable night.

  He was a rather well-looking old gentleman of only average height; but there was such an excess of dignity in his silver-grey hair and lined face that he seemed large. And, as he made his bow, Dido was struck by his manner. There was a ponderous air about him; as if his land, his money and his importance weighed him down and made him do everything slowly.

  ‘It is very kind of you, Miss Kent,’ he said gravely, ‘to come to your niece at this troubled time. I am sure you are a great comfort to her.’

  She made as slight a reply as she could for her treacherous fancy was now busily remarking on the similarity that there was between the man before her and the lines of framed Sir Edgars in the gallery upstairs. The resemblance was so striking that she was looking for paint-cracks in his face and, in her imagination, replacing his modern dress with a doublet and ruff. All of which rather distracted her from his words.

  ‘I believe you are aware,’ he was saying – and all the while watching her closely, ‘I believe your niece has informed you of Richard’s…’ He hesitated and seemed to force himself to continue. ‘That is, I am sure your niece has told you about the manner of my son’s departure?’

  Dido acknowledged that she had.

  ‘
Yes.’ He was silent for so long that she began to think that he had done with the subject. But then, with a heavy shake of his head, he continued. ‘It is quite natural, of course, that Miss Catherine should seek a sympathetic confidante. Quite understandable. But I hope, Miss Kent, that you will agree with me that it is a very delicate business and not a matter for general discussion.’

  ‘Oh, no, Sir Edgar. I understand,’ she said virtuously. ‘I have spoken to no one about it.’ (What she had written was, of course, quite a different matter.)

  ‘Ah, good!’ He turned away to the window, at which mist was pressing so closely that it was scarcely possible to see beyond the first gravel walk and some stone urns that flanked the steps leading down to the lawns. ‘I hope you will enjoy your stay here,’ he continued smoothly. ‘I hope that the weather will improve and it will be possible for you to enjoy our countryside.’

  ‘Thank you. You are very kind.’ And then, with her heart beating with trepidation at her own daring, she returned to the former subject. ‘Do you know, Sir Edgar, why Mr Montague felt he must leave – or where he may have gone to?’

  There was a long silence in the elegant room. The chops hissed softly in their heated dish; footsteps sounded across an upper landing and, out in the misty garden, a wheelbarrow squeaked and rattled.

  ‘Well now, as to that…’ said Sir Edgar at last. He stopped and watched a dispirited peacock as it picked its way fastidiously across the wet gravel. ‘The reason… It is nothing of great consequence, Miss Kent. A family matter which can easily be smoothed over. And the less said about it, the sooner it will be forgotten. And as to where he might have gone. Well, it is my belief – and it may be as well, Miss Kent, if you say nothing of this to your niece – I think it very likely that he…that Richard may have gone to town to consult with a physician.’

  ‘A physician?’

  ‘Yes. You were perhaps unaware that…’ Again there was hesitation and a forcing of himself to go on. ‘That the poor boy does not always enjoy the best of health.’

  ‘Catherine mentioned to me that he is liable to headaches.’