A Place of Confinement: The Investigations of Miss Dido Kent (Dido Kent Mysteries)

by Dean, Anna

  ‘You must not worry about it, Aunt,’ Dido soothed.

  And then an idea occurred.

  Mrs Manners seemed to be asleep – or at least only half sensible – and yet she heard, she answered questions. Perhaps this was the moment for obtaining information she would not give when she was in her senses.

  Dido leant closer and spoke very quietly, but clearly. ‘Aunt Manners, when shall we leave Charcombe?’

  There was a pause. The little face on the pillow creased, the lips worked together a while, making a tiny rustling sound. Then: ‘I cannot leave Charcombe until Letitia is got back.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Lance must get her back – and then everything can be settled.’

  Well, thought Dido, sitting back in her chair, if the finding of Letitia Verney was the necessary preliminary to Mrs Manners’ removal from Charcombe, then Miss Letitia Verney must be found without delay.

  It was refreshing to discover that there was something to be done. Dido’s was an active disposition, better suited to struggling against her imprisonment than quietly accepting the punishment which had been laid upon her. She would help Mr Fenstanton to recover Miss Verney, and then she could escape from here and pay her visit to Belsfield. Her days of suffering and penance might soon be over.

  Chapter Five

  Where was Miss Letitia Verney?

  Dido awoke very early next morning with this question uppermost in her mind, and escaped from her own little room while her aunt was still sleeping in the next chamber. She was yawning and heavy-eyed as she tiptoed onto the landing, for she had had barely five hours’ rest. But the chance to be alone, to be, for an hour or so, free from the orders and impertinence of her aunt, amply repaid the loss of sleep.

  She needed air and exercise – and a chance to consider the business of Miss Verney’s disappearance.

  It would seem, she thought as she crept along the creaking gallery and down the stairs, that Aunt Manners had also anticipated a marriage between Letitia Verney and the master of Charcombe. What was it she had said? ‘I must know that the foolish girl is got back and everything is settled.’

  Dido paused in the great hall where a newly lit fire was just roaring and spluttering into life, sending out blue threads of smoke and little showers of sparks which fell harmlessly on the flagged floor. It would be a suitable alliance, she thought. For Miss Verney – by Mr George’s account – was ‘an heiress’, and Mr Fenstanton was a substantial landowner. At least, it would be suitable to mature eyes. To a lively young woman of nineteen it might present a rather different aspect. Mr Lancelot was a fine man, but he could no longer claim to be young …

  Was it possible that Miss Letitia herself resented the wishes of her elders; and could resentment have played a part in her sudden removal from Charcombe?

  As Dido tugged open the heavy front door and stepped out into the sunshine, an uncomfortable thought occurred. Supposing the unknown Miss Verney felt herself to be as much oppressed by her family as she, Dido, did? Was it fair, or kind, to join in the poor girl’s pursuit?

  But then, she reassured herself, elopement was such a very dangerous course. A girl of nineteen put herself in such grave danger by removing herself from her friends. It could not be wrong to promote her return.

  The air in the garden was still and damp, the grass was silvered with dew, and a thin mist was lying over the lower lawn; but the sun was just breaking through, gilding the mist and filling the world with the promise of another warm day. Wood pigeons murmured in the trees by the gates and a thrush was singing above the hall door.

  And Dido was not the only one to have been drawn out early by the beauty of the morning. Mrs Bailey was already walking along that part of the terrace which fronted the east wing of the house.

  Reckoning that improving her acquaintance with Mrs Bailey might be a suitable beginning of the great quest, Dido turned along the terrace and came upon the lady just as she paused to look in through one of the house windows. She was shading her eyes against the sun and pressing her nose to the glass in an effort to see within, in a very odd, impertinent manner.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Bailey.’

  ‘Oh!’ The lady turned with both hands clasped dramatically to her heart. ‘Oh, Miss Kent! Vous me surprenez!’ And then, with pale shock rapidly giving way to blushing consciousness: ‘I was just … looking in upon the east wing, you know,’ she said, as if it were the kind of thing which anyone might do.

  ‘Oh!’ Dido could not help but look over Mrs Bailey’s shoulder at the window – catching a glimpse, through a half-closed blind, of gloom, uncarpeted floor, and a few articles of furniture obscured by dust sheets.

  ‘This part of the house is all closed up, you know,’ ran on Mrs Bailey hurriedly. ‘This wing is not used. And so, I thought I would just take a little look … to see what kind of repair it is in. I wonder that dear Lancelot has allowed it to fall into such a bad state.’

  Dido felt her own acquaintance with the gentleman to be too slight to allow any comment, but, peering into the half-empty apartment, she noticed that the plaster was, in places, darkened by damp, and she was inclined to agree with Mrs Bailey. Perhaps, she thought, Mr Fenstanton, though rich in land, was rather poor in cash. Such a circumstance would make ‘an heiress’ particularly lovely in his eyes …

  But, before she was able to pursue this train of thought any further, her companion claimed her arm with alarming familiarity, turned her away to the lawn and compelled her to walk. ‘I wish most particularly to talk to you, tête-à-tête, my dear Miss Kent.’

  Seen close – as Dido was now obliged to see her – Mrs Bailey was less pretty than one at first supposed. She was extremely well painted, but her features were large, slightly coarse. She was a woman who was at her best when viewed from a distance. Her lips pursed now into an exaggerated rosebud, she paused, gave their linked arms a vigorous shake, and added, with the air of a superior bestowing a delightful favour, ‘Dido. I am sure you will not mind if I call you so.’

  ‘Well—’ began Dido, who did mind a great deal.

  ‘Now, Dido, I have been quite longing to talk to you ever since yesterday when Lancelot told me that he had been frank with you on the subject of our petite difficulté.’

  ‘I hope you do not mind Mr Fenstanton’s telling me about Miss Verney.’

  ‘Well!’ cried Mrs Bailey with an arch look. ‘I declare that at first I was just a little bit cross with him! For it was very, very naughty of him – and so I told him. For I should warn you that I always speak my mind. My friends are always rebuking me for my candour. But no.’ She put her head to one side and looked condescending. ‘No, upon reflection, I do not mind such a steady, sensible little creature as you knowing it.’ She gave a trilling laugh. ‘Why, who would you tell about it? No one of any importance. A lady’s companion does not mix much in society!’

  Dido frowned at this and walked on in resentful silence as the sun gained power, dissolving the mist from the lower lawn. Birds sang extravagantly on every side and the walk was a prisoner’s brief respite which she was determined to enjoy; her aunt would awake all too soon. But she must also begin upon her quest …

  ‘Miss Verney’s going is a very upsetting business…’ she began cautiously.

  ‘Dear me! I beg you will not concern yourself with it, Miss Kent!’ cried Mrs Bailey with energy. ‘“Cudgel thy brains no more about it” – as Shakespeare says. For I am sure you have more than enough to occupy you in attending upon your aunt. You must not, for our sake, run the risk of offending her, you know. It is very kind of you to wish to help us I am sure, but I cannot allow you to neglect your own interest.’

  Dido was too taken aback to reply.

  ‘Oh, there is no need to look so uncomfortable, my dear,’ trilled Mrs Bailey. ‘We are all friends together here, you know! And I have heard all about your aunt from Lance.’ She lowered her voice a little. ‘He tells me that Mrs Manners now has possession of all the fortune which her husband made
in the City.’ She patted Dido’s hand with a great show of compassion. ‘It must have been a heavy blow to your family when it fell out that way; and I understand entirely that your first duty must be to please your aunt.’ She stopped, smiled brightly, and under the ridiculous – but common – misapprehension that words can be rendered less offensive by quietness, she mouthed almost inaudibly, ‘For the sake of the will.’

  Dido longed to contradict, but knew herself to be too shamefully enmeshed in Margaret’s schemes. For a moment all the beauty of the morning was snatched away by this ugly representation of her own situation. But then, fortunately, she remembered that she had sought this interview for the sake of being impertinent herself, rather than suffering the impertinence of another.

  She returned to the attack. ‘The young man – the gentleman whom you believe is the cause of Miss Verney’s disappearance – do you have cause to doubt his character?’ she asked boldly. ‘Do you believe that the young lady’s fortune, rather than affection, is his motive?’

  ‘Oh!’ cried Mrs Bailey, her large cheeks reddening. ‘There can be no two opinions upon that point! Our poor girl’s situation is très dangereux. Très dangereux! All the world knows that Tom Lomax is an unprincipled and greedy young man. I am only sorry that dear Letitia—’

  Mrs Bailey was compelled to stop walking, for her companion had come to a standstill and was staring at her in a state of silent shock.

  ‘My dear Dido,’ she cried, keenly searching her face, ‘whatever is wrong? Have I said something amiss?’

  ‘No, no…’ Though in fact the garden with its mists and flowers and beech trees had become for a moment quite indistinct as this new, startling piece of information was borne home. ‘No, it is merely that I had not known the name of the young man concerned until this moment.’

  Mrs Bailey’s lips were smiling – but her eyes were shrewd and sharp. ‘Are you acquainted with Mr Tom Lomax?’

  ‘Oh … yes,’ replied Dido a little unsteadily. Then, strengthened by the realisation that her connection might be explained without betraying a very near interest, ‘He is a friend of my niece and her husband. His father – Mr William Lomax – is their man of business at Belsfield Hall.’

  ‘Is he indeed?’ said Mrs Bailey coolly. She released Dido’s arm. ‘I did not know about that.’ It was clear that the acquaintance did not recommend Dido to her. ‘And what, pray, is your opinion of Tom Lomax?’

  ‘I believe he is a rather thoughtless young man,’ said Dido cautiously. In point of fact her opinion was probably as low even as Mrs Bailey’s own. But affection for the father checked her condemnation of the son. ‘How did Miss Verney become acquainted with him?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh! The damage was done in Worcestershire last autumn when Letitia visited the Hargreaves.’

  Dido, struggling to make sense of this shocking turn of events, recalled that she had herself heard a rumour last autumn of Tom Lomax being in hopes of marrying an heiress. ‘And who are the Hargreaves?’ she asked, her voice still a little unsteady.

  ‘The Hargreaves are very suitable acquaintances, I assure you,’ cried Mrs Bailey as if defending herself from an accusation. ‘For Mr Hargreaves has a cousin that is married to a baronet. And Mrs Hargreaves was a Miss Jennings before she married – from a very respectable family … Though they have no titles that I know of…’ Mrs Bailey pondered for a moment, but seemed unable to produce even a noble great uncle or a knight-by-marriage with which to dignify the Jennings race. ‘I assure you, I have never had any cause to regret Letitia’s friendship with Amelia Jennings – unlike some other unfortunate connections…’ She broke off with a significant raising up of the eyes.

  But it was not Dido’s business to settle for half-spoken opinions – she wished to know everything about everybody at Charcombe Manor, and caught at this hint immediately. ‘Dear me,’ she said with a look of concern, ‘I hope that you have no reason to disapprove Miss Gibbs as a companion for your ward. She seems a very good-natured girl.’

  ‘Well! Her father cannot give her more than a thousand pounds, I believe. And,’ the rosebud lips pursed themselves again, the voice became a whisper, ‘the family resides in Birmingham, you know.’

  ‘I know nothing of Birmingham. I have never been there.’

  ‘Neither have I, I assure you!’ declared Mrs Bailey triumphantly and, having thus disproved any claim the place might have to gentility, she walked on and resumed her tale – determined to tell it in such a way as would prove herself to be entirely innocent and only imposed upon by others.

  ‘Letitia, Miss Jennings and Martha Gibbs all became friends while they were at school together in Taunton,’ she explained. ‘And so, when she married, Amelia Jennings entreated Letitia and Martha to pay her a long visit. For, entre nous, I rather fancy she did not expect to find much pleasure in the society of Mr Hargreaves.’

  ‘And it was at this lady’s house that Miss Verney met Mr Tom Lomax?’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps I should not have let her go, but…’ Mrs Bailey shot Dido another suspicious look ‘… I had no idea of Mr Hargreaves having such very unsuitable acquaintances.’ She sighed extravagantly. ‘I blame myself for it!’ she said, with the air of a woman who blamed everybody but herself. ‘I am too mild and confiding. I declare my friends are always rebuking me for it. But I thought Letitia too sensible to be a prey to ambitious men. And it is a bad thing to be always thwarting the young, is it not? For as the Great Bard says, “youth’s a stuff will not endure.”’

  Mrs Bailey sighed pathetically – very much oppressed by this last melancholy truth. And, feeling, no doubt, that she had now explained and excused herself sufficiently, she turned towards the house.

  Dido fell into a reverie of pity for the absent Miss Verney. She knew Tom Lomax to be extravagant, selfish and quite determined upon making his fortune by marriage. Any young woman who had – through love or folly – placed herself in his power was to be pitied indeed. Concern for the young lady must be her first thought. But it was not long before her mind turned with even greater compassion to the suffering of someone else – someone much dearer.

  Tom’s father would be terribly hurt by the business.

  Chapter Six

  As Dido attended her aunt, and prepared herself for church, her mind was full of foreboding. The mystery of Miss Verney’s disappearance touched her more nearly now. Its speedy solution was more necessary than ever, but there was added the need for the right solution. Nobody in Charcombe Manor could now be more determined than Dido to prevent the business being bruited abroad, or more anxious to avoid disgrace and shame.

  Mrs Manners noticed – and strongly resented – her niece’s preoccupation. Dido, she declared, was ‘as dull as a cat’.

  ‘I cannot get two words from you this morning, miss!’ she complained as she was helped from her carriage at the church gate. ‘I am not accustomed to such sulky silence.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Dido, hurriedly, as she climbed back into the carriage to retrieve her aunt’s salts and spectacles, shawls, cushions, walking stick and parasol, ‘but I have a great deal on my mind.’

  ‘On your mind! Why, what can you possibly have to worry about?’

  ‘Well,’ Dido began a little breathlessly as she balanced one last cushion upon her burden, tucked two prayer books under her arm, ‘I am worried about—’

  She stopped because her aunt’s attention had now been drawn away by the approach of her brother, Mr George Fenstanton, who bounded up, officiously offering his arm.

  ‘Go away, George!’ Mrs Manners put such an emphasis of hatred into the three words that Dido dropped a cushion. She drew back into the shadows of the carriage and watched Mr George’s face redden. Beyond him she could see the little crowd of parishioners gathered in the sunny churchyard – all eyes turned towards the arrival of the manor party.

  ‘Now then, now then, Selina,’ he whispered, smoothing back his thin white hair and looking about him uncomfortably. ‘We must put a good face o
n things, you know. People are watching. Take my arm.’

  ‘No.’ Mrs Manners’ voice was low, but firm. ‘You may take my jewels from me, George, but I see no reason to pretend to anyone that I like you. Ah, Lancelot!’ She turned to her nephew as he approached and made a great show of taking his arm, bestowing upon him the privilege of supporting her into the church.

  As Dido stepped slowly from the coach with her burdens she was almost inclined to pity George Fenstanton’s red-cheeked embarrassment, for there was quite a crowd assembled among the grass mounds, mossy stones and daffodils of the churchyard to witness his humiliation.

  The return of the beautiful Selina Fenstanton to her family home would seem to be a matter of great interest to neighbours who had been content to know nothing of her for thirty years. They bustled about her now, eager to see how marriage, time and widowhood had influenced her, and exclaimed that ‘she was not changed at all!’, and that they ‘could scarcely believe it was thirty years since she had been married here in this very church!’

  And more than one curious eye was cast in the direction of the rejected brother, walking alone through the crowd to the church door; head down, hands clasped behind him. But Dido found she could not quite feel compassion. There was about Mr George such an air of self-importance, such an ill-judged determination to impose his authority on all about him, that she could not but hold him responsible for his own discomfort.

  It was well that she had such very interesting thoughts to occupy her, for she soon found herself jostled aside to stand quite disregarded against one of the sandstone buttresses of the little church. Other members of the manor party were stopping frequently in their progress from chaise to pew, hailing friends and exchanging remarks upon the weather. But no one spoke to Dido. Once burdened with the paraphernalia of a companion, a woman becomes invisible to society. Over the last weeks she had been reminded many times of this horrible truth, but it had not yet lost its power to hurt her.