by Dean, Anna
She has taken a glass of wine and a particularly large dose of the brown medicine which is generally of use in cases of ‘enervating’ seizures. And I hope that she is on her way to sleeping now …
* * *
She stopped writing again, and raised her head to listen. The sound of a lively Scotch air came very faint from below. The dancing was yet in progress.
Dido had been surprised that the company should be so very merry while Miss Verney’s fate remained uncertain. But Mr Fenstanton and Mrs Bailey were determined that no rumours of elopement should begin to circulate. For the sake of the young lady’s reputation everything was to be smoothed over – and her absence explained by that convenient cover-all of ‘visiting friends’.
The Parrys, a family of neighbours who knew nothing of the business, had walked up to the manor after tea. And since there were three grown-up young Mr Parrys, and not one inconvenient daughter, there were probably gentleman enough in the hall that even Dido might be asked to dance …
Of course, at six and thirty, such calculations should be beneath her notice. And besides, why should she expect to be entertained at Charcombe? The very purpose of her being here was that she might suffer every pain of neglect and insignificance, until she had learnt her duty to her family …
But there is something so very inviting about a Scotch air – even when it is rattled out upon an old harpsichord.
She looked across the wainscoted chamber – very gloomy beyond the candle’s light. In the high bed with its four posts and its dark crimson curtains, her aunt lay very still, her fingers just clutching the edge of the sheet, her eyes shut tight, her soft little face composed beneath her starched white nightcap.
Was she sleeping? Might it be possible to creep down and join the dancing? A little company, a little exercise would be delightful … And it might be possible to learn more about Miss Verney’s disappearance …
Dido laid down her pen, rose very quietly and began to tiptoe about the room, putting to rights her aunt’s possessions. She folded the dressing robe which had been left across the bed’s foot and put it away in one of the pair of closets that flanked the fireplace. Then she took from the side of the bed the pretty new slippers of green silk which the maid had but just finished sewing in their journey thither. She noticed that the backs were already trodden down, and shook her head over the damage as she put them away, for she never could bear to see good shoes injured needlessly.
Mrs Manners did not stir as she worked and Dido began to hope that escape might be possible. She crept slowly towards the door …
‘My dear?’ The voice was weak: the voice of a woman barely alive and about to whisper a parting benediction. ‘Are you there?’
‘Yes, Aunt.’ She sighed and went to the bedside.
‘Oh, I wondered where you were got to. I feel so very unwell.’ Mrs Manners peered up short-sightedly at her niece. One hand released the covers and fastened itself upon Dido’s wrist. It was a dry little hand, heavily burdened with rings. The bones in it were as delicate as a bird’s; but its warmth and strength were strangely at odds with the weakness of the voice.
‘Shall I send for an apothecary?’ suggested Dido.
‘No, I do not wish to be a trouble to anybody.’ The hand tightened, the thick gold of the rings bit into Dido’s wrist.
‘But if you are unwell…’
‘I am not one to make a fuss over a little illness,’ whispered Aunt Manners, closing her eyes. ‘I am too much used to suffering! But—’ Her eyes opened again suddenly. ‘I recall there is scarcely any brown medicine left and we shall not be able to get any tomorrow for it is Sunday. You must go to Charcombe early on Monday, Dido, and find a medical man who can make some more.’
‘Yes, Aunt.’
‘You must seek out the best physician in Charcombe.’
‘Yes, Aunt. And shall I ask him to visit you?’
‘No. I do not wish to have any clumsy country apothecary about me. You must find out all you can about the man … And then I shall decide whether I wish to employ him.’
Mrs Manners lay back upon her pillows; her blue eyes – slightly clouded by the influence of physic – were fixed upon the carved oak tester of the bed with such an air of patient suffering as Dido believed would have irritated a saint. Though she could not but admit that the attitude was gracefully done. Selina Manners was now well past fifty, but her famous beauty was not entirely worn away, for it went deep into her bones, her very being; and the features beneath the lace and ribbons of her nightcap had still an arresting perfection in their form, though the enchanting eyes which had once enslaved the wealthy Mr Manners were faded and weak; the lips thinner, less red.
‘Now, my dear,’ she said in a voice blurred by oncoming sleep, ‘you and I shall have a comfortable chat.’
‘Oh!’ Dido was tormented by the sound of the dance still seeping through the uneven floorboards.
But there was no escaping the chat and, unfortunately, at such moments Mrs Manners found no subject more comfortable than the offences of all her relations who were, by her account, intent upon ‘getting money off me. Between my kin and poor Mr Manners’ own family, I am worried to death!’
‘Yes, Aunt,’ murmured Dido, miserable with boredom and an obscure kind of guilt. It was a common refrain. She could have supplied every word of it herself and she well knew that she was expected to contribute nothing to the conversation. ‘Yes, Aunt, very true’ was all that was required.
Mrs Manners’ lids flickered sleepily, peeling up oddly and revealing rather more white of the eye than is usual. But she continued to struggle against the narcotic.
‘But I am too clever for them all,’ she gloated sleepily. ‘They shall not get the better of me. They shall see!’
‘Yes, Aunt, I am sure they shall.’
‘My brother George is the worst of them all. And he thinks he has got the better of me.’
Dido began upon another anodyne reply, but as she spoke she noticed that her aunt’s sleepy eyes had come to rest upon her own hand – where there was a ring missing; the great ruby from the middle finger was gone, leaving in its place a deep white groove to testify to the many years it had been worn.
‘Aunt, where is your ring?’
‘It is nothing. Do not say anything about it.’
‘But—’
‘It is nothing.’ The little white hand fluttered briefly in a regal gesture of dismissal. ‘George may have it if he wishes. He thinks he has got the better of me…’ She gazed up at the tester for a moment, nodded very wisely in its direction. ‘I do not care about it, however. I have not come here to oblige him.’ She shook her head wisely. But the brown medicine had won at last. Her lids flickered and closed. A moment later her lower lip dropped slightly and a thin snore rattled out.
Dido breathed a sigh of great relief, but found that the hold upon her wrist was not relaxed. Through the old, uneven floorboards came the tormenting sound of the dance; the candle burnt still beside the writing desk, but even her letter was beyond her reach while that hand confined her wrist. There was nothing to be done but to settle herself as comfortably as she might upon the narrow bedside chair and wait to be released.
She gazed down for a moment or two at the delicate finger with its telltale groove. The missing ring was of considerable value. Why should Mrs Manners give such a generous gift to a brother she did not seem to like?
It was another intriguing puzzle.
But, despite her efforts, Dido found that she was too tired and dispirited to dwell for long upon intriguing puzzles. Thoughts of her own wretched situation were rising up to engulf her weary brain …
Chapter Four
The cause of Dido’s punishment and present exile from the home of her brother and sister-in-law at Badleigh Vicarage was a certain Doctor Jeremiah Prowdlee. It was on Doctor Jeremiah Prowdlee’s account that she was fixed here at her aunt’s side, doomed to an indefinite sentence of measuring out medicine and listening to a litany of c
omplaints.
Doctor Prowdlee was the new rector of Upper Marwell – a parish adjoining Badleigh. He was a large man with a high, white, shining dome of a head which did not seem to have lost its hair so much as allowed it to slip down about the face, where it clung on tenaciously. He had a puritanical turn of mind, a pompous air – and a family of children which filled a pew and a half in his church.
There was no longer a Mrs Jeremiah Prowdlee. She had died (possibly of exhaustion and depressed spirits, in Dido’s opinion) some months before her husband came to Upper Marwell.
When the doctor arrived in their midst during the previous autumn, Dido had, perhaps, been insufficiently alert to the danger of a man with a dead wife and a pew and a half full of children. For she was at that time very much occupied with other concerns.
Retrospectively she was keenly aware of how very often Doctor Prowdlee had, at Margaret’s invitation, intruded upon their evenings with his wheezing breath and his awkward compliments. (‘I hear that it is to your fair hand that I may attribute the excellence of this seed cake, Miss Kent.’ And ‘Your sister has been telling me of your invaluable assistance in sewing for her little boys.’) But, at the time, it had not seemed alarming at all. And, even when her neighbours began to enquire rather often after ‘dear Doctor Prowdlee’ as if she had some privileged knowledge of the man’s state of health, she attributed it to nothing more than that kind of solidarity which is generally supposed to exist among clergy families.
But the true peril of her situation had burst upon her one fine spring morning when her brother, Francis, was struck down by a bad sore throat and Doctor Prowdlee (most obligingly) rode over to Badleigh to ‘do the duty of the day’.
The sermon had been very long and of that sort which suggests the speaker only is in accord with the will of God and all the rest of the world in error. The doctor’s text was taken from the Book of Proverbs. ‘Who can find a virtuous woman?’ he intoned solemnly, his eyes sweeping the assembled bonnets and upturned faces. ‘For her price is far above rubies.’ And then he was launched upon an impassioned condemnation of the ‘independence of spirit’ which was abroad in young women today, the result, apparently, of their reading ‘disgusting and revolutionary books’ – and dancing too much. By Doctor Prowdlee’s account, the men of today were as hard-pressed to find a virtuous woman as the patriarchs of the Old Testament …
Though, mused Dido as she listened with but half an ear, today’s men had the advantage, for they had only to find one virtuous wife apiece, whereas the patriarchs had had to secure two or three – to say nothing of concubines … But perhaps virtue was not required in a concubine …
She blushed and upbraided herself for the thought. Such ideas were, no doubt, the product of excessive dancing and reading – though she could not recall ever having read anything very dangerous or revolutionary.
She was watching a bumblebee blundering about the stained-glass sandals of a saint in the window beside her, and thinking that its stout body, thin black legs and persistent self-important drone made it rather resemble the doctor, when she became aware that her sister-in-law was looking at her – and smiling. Margaret rarely smiled – and never in Dido’s direction.
Rather alarmed, Dido looked about for a cause and discovered Doctor Prowdlee leaning over the pulpit, his broad face pink and shining with emotion above his black whiskers and white surplice. ‘A virtuous woman,’ he was saying, in a rather softened tone, ‘“looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness”. Fortunate is the man, my friends, who finds such a woman!’
And he was looking directly at Dido.
‘In point of fact, the entire congregation was looking at me,’ she cried distractedly to her sister-in-law afterwards. ‘At least, the female half of the congregation was looking at me.’
‘But of course it was,’ said Margaret impatiently, ‘for everyone has noticed his attentions to you this past month. They have all been waiting for him to make you an offer – and have been crying out upon your good luck! As well they might!’
She need not say more – she need not remind Dido of her age, her poverty, her dependence upon Margaret and Francis for a home. It had all hung, palpable but unspoken, in the chill air of the parlour, where the bright bars of the grate were unsullied by fire (because there was a gleam of sun in the March sky and it was, by Margaret’s account, ‘a wicked waste to burn coal while the sun shines’).
Shivering with cold and emotion, Dido still hugged her worn pelisse about her shoulders as she laid down her prayer book and, with a great effort, suppressed her horror of the pew and a half full of children, the vigorous black side whiskers and the very notion of being such a ruby as had been described in the sermon. ‘I am sure,’ she said, seeking refuge in the forms of propriety, ‘I am very flattered by Doctor Prowdlee’s good opinion of me. But I do not think that he and I would suit one another.’
Margaret’s lips thinned with fury. ‘Do you mean that you will refuse him?’
‘You forget, dear sister,’ said Dido repressively, ‘that the gentleman has not made me an offer. He has only paid me a – rather public – compliment.’
‘But he will offer,’ protested Margaret. ‘And you will refuse him? At six and thirty! I call that very selfish indeed when you know—’ She stopped herself. Even Margaret’s scanty notion of good breeding would not quite allow her to say outright that Dido was a burden upon her brothers. ‘You know that your entire family would rejoice to see you so respectably provided for.’ She pulled her gloves slowly from her hands, finger by finger, and added quietly, ‘It would, Dido, be a great relief to all your brothers to know that you were settled.’
Dido shrank into painful silence. She hoped with all her heart that her brothers loved her too well to wish her unhappily settled. But there was no denying that the fortunes of the family were very bad at present: the collapse of her brother Charles’s bank had been a blow to them all, and her brothers would be very glad to be relieved of the burden of her maintenance. But would they wish her to sacrifice herself?
Of course, the main point was that Margaret would rejoice to see Dido settled in Upper Marwell with Doctor Prowdlee, the children and the abominable whiskers. So there was nothing to be gained from further discussion. She resolved upon waiting quietly for the proposal – and refusing it quietly when it came.
But she had been denied the opportunity of refusal. For, within a very few days of this extraordinary sermon, a letter arrived in Badleigh parsonage from the widow of the wealthy Mr Manners – Dido’s mother’s brother. Mrs Manners was setting off upon a journey to visit her own relations in Devonshire and, requiring a companion, she had selected Dido from among her multitude of nieces.
Margaret had immediately accepted the invitation upon her sister-in-law’s account and seen them off with very great satisfaction. For Mrs Manners was childless, and, consequently, her fortune – and its future disposal – were of great interest to her entire family; she was a lady who must be sedulously courted.
And besides, attendance upon an elderly relative promoted that very picture of domestic womanhood which Margaret was most anxious to foster in Doctor Prowdlee’s mind. While the gentleman could not make his offer, he could not be refused; and, in the meantime, it was to be hoped that Dido might be made so utterly miserable – might be brought to loathe the condition of dependent spinsterhood so much – as to view Upper Marwell’s crowded rectory in a favourable light.
It was certainly not intended that she should be released from her present servitude until she was willing to accept the honour of becoming Mrs Prowdlee.
* * *
Dido roused herself at last, cold and cramped, from her desponding thoughts and found that Aunt Manners’ hold had relaxed. She was sleeping now, her mouth hanging slightly open, her lower lip trembling with her snores. The candle by the writing desk had burnt out and the only light came from the dying embers in the grate; no sounds rose from below. It would seem the
company was all abed.
Dido’s spirits were severely depressed by the remembrance of Doctor Prowdlee, and she was worn down by close attendance upon an uncongenial companion. And yet, she reminded herself, there was one comfort.
In exiling her sister-in-law to Charcombe Manor, Margaret had unwittingly bestowed a blessing. For Charcombe was but ten miles from Belsfield Hall. At Belsfield Hall there resided a certain Mr William Lomax; and it was, in point of fact, the many charms and perfections of this gentleman which rendered the sermons and the side whiskers of Doctor Prowdlee particularly repulsive.
If only Dido could get to Belsfield, then perhaps she might find a solution to all her problems …
‘It won’t do at all,’ said Mrs Manners suddenly and her hold reasserted itself.
Dido started and looked down at the faded, perfect little face sunk in the pillow. The eyes were wide, but unnaturally dark in appearance, and they seemed to be fixed upon some distant object. ‘Aunt Manners, are you feeling unwell?’
There was no reply for several minutes. The eyes continued to stare upon the distance, persuading Dido that her aunt was not quite awake – though she did not seem to be quite sleeping either. This half-and-half state was perhaps some effect of brown medicine. At last Mrs Manners continued, in a confiding tone. ‘A woman cannot escape, you know. Once they have chosen who she is to marry, she must do her duty by her family.’
Dido shifted uncomfortably in her seat, for the words touched rather closely on her own musings. ‘Are you talking of Miss Verney?’ she said.
‘Letitia is a poor foolish girl.’ Mrs Manners moved her head restlessly upon the pillow. A long white curl escaped from her cap and unravelled across her cheek. ‘She will be at Birmingham now,’ she said.
‘Birmingham?’
‘Yes. She will have lain at Bristol last night and reached Birmingham today if they drove the horses hard. In three days’ time she will get into Scotland – and then it will be too late.’