by Dean, Anna
However, invisibility provides an excellent situation from which to observe one’s fellow men. Dido bit her lip, clung to her burdens and watched. She watched Mrs Bailey attempting to avoid the attentions of a stout man in a canary-yellow waistcoat – watched her take refuge behind the scrubby yew bush which grew from the tomb of Mr Barnabas Finch (‘released from this vale of tears’). She watched Mr Lancelot Fenstanton – stepping away from his aunt now and talking with an air of benign patronage to a short pockmarked lad. The boy was twisting his cap constantly in his hands. He passed a note to Mr Fenstanton …
‘Miss Kent, may I speak with you?’ The voice was hissing so close to Dido’s ear that she felt its warmth on her cheek and took an instinctive step back.
Martha Gibbs was beckoning urgently at her side and, as Dido stared in bewilderment, she stepped away behind the buttress. There seemed to be nothing to be done but to follow her.
When they were both standing in long grass, pressed between the damp wall of the buttress and the slanting gravestone of Mrs Elizabeth Fosset (‘she wore her virtues like a crown of glory’), Miss Gibbs whispered, ‘She mustn’t see me talking to you.’
‘Who?’
‘Why, Mrs Bailey of course. She says I ain’t to say a word to you.’
‘That is rather inconvenient.’
‘I mean I must not say a word about Tish going and everything.’
Dido merely raised her brows and waited for her companion to explain herself; but the girl stood in silence for a minute, as if struggling to find a beginning.
Martha Gibbs’ awkwardness of manner was, unfortunately, not relieved by much beauty. Her face was long, her features heavy and, at present, her appearance was further marred by some remarkably ill-made curls which peeped from under her white straw bonnet – their ends frizzled from the hot poker having been applied too long.
‘Mrs Bailey is afraid you mean to interfere, you know,’ Martha began. ‘She thinks you mean to try to find Tish.’
‘And why should she be afraid of my … interference?’
Martha glanced about her, and seeing that there was no one by – excepting, of course, Mrs Fosset – she whispered, ‘I don’t believe she wants Tish found.’
‘I beg your pardon? I do not quite understand—’
But now she was begun, Martha seemed determined to have her say as quickly as possible. ‘I beg you, Miss Kent, to find her. I am so afraid for her, but I dare not do anything.’
‘But why should Mrs Bailey not wish to recover your friend? It is not much to her credit if a girl in her care disappears.’
‘It would make her and Mr B rich, though, wouldn’t it?’ said Martha bluntly. ‘Tish is always telling me Mrs B would get her fortune if she could. She says she is a wicked, jealous woman. And now she has been proved right. Tish has twenty thousand pounds, you know. And if she is never heard of again, what do you suppose will happen to the money?’
‘I hardly know.’
‘Why, it’ll stay in the hands of Mr and Mrs Bailey, won’t it?’
‘I suppose it might. But, my dear Miss Gibbs, I am sure your very natural concern for your friend is getting the better of your judgement. You cannot believe that Mrs Bailey wishes harm to come to Miss Verney…’ She stopped, for the look upon Martha’s face declared that she did believe it.
‘If she wants Tish back, why has she not had her pursued?’ Martha ran on hastily. ‘Ain’t that what a girl’s family is supposed to do when she goes off to Gretna Green? They chase after her and bring her back, don’t they?’
Though Dido could not help but smile at Miss Gibbs’ belief in a kind of protocol governing these events, she was forced to admit that there was some weight in her argument. ‘Has there been no one sent in pursuit of Miss Verney and Mr Lomax?’
‘No. Mr Lancelot behaved very odd from the beginning. I thought he would ride after her immediately. But he did not – for you and Mrs Manners were to come, you know, and he said he must stay for his guests. And now he talks about searching for her, but he don’t do anything. And Mrs B has never insisted on someone else being sent off to Gretna Green. Lord! Do you not see, Miss Kent? Tish was right: that wicked woman really does want to be rid of her!’
Dido stirred uncomfortably in the long grass as the damp began to penetrate her Sunday shoes. ‘It does seem a little strange that no very definite steps have been taken to avert a marriage.’
‘Oh Lord!’ cried Miss Gibbs. ‘They are going in.’ She seized Dido’s arm so violently the parasol fell down on Mrs Fosset. Miss Gibbs picked it up and balanced it hastily on top of the shawls and cushions. ‘You will not speak a word about what I have said, will you?’
‘No, though I do not know…’ But Martha had already rounded the buttress and was striding off after the rest of their party – skirts held inelegantly high to display sturdy black boots.
Dido paused a moment. Was it possible, she wondered, that Mrs Bailey was herself the greatest danger to the girl placed in her care? It was a shocking and melancholy thought. In more cheerful surroundings she might have discounted it entirely; but here in the gloomy shadow of church and gravestones, the thought seemed to take hold of her and chill her being. Young women – indeed women of any age – were so very much at the mercy of those placed in authority over them …
* * *
The chill deepened as Dido followed the manor party through the porch into a small, plain church of whitewashed walls, cramped benches and broad pillars, under a roof curved like a barrel.
There was a holy smell of cold stone, hymn books and candles – and an air of bleak austerity. The high pulpit was backed by painted boards on which were written the Creed and Ten Commandments in the hand of a century past. The windows were filled only with plain glass; and a marble monument in a side chapel showed a sleeping knight with his nose, his sword and half of one leg broken away.
Dido was looking about as she walked, and thinking that the church had perhaps suffered at the hands of Cromwell’s Ironsides, when her eye fell upon a familiar gentleman close beside her in a pew – and all at once the day began to wear a brighter aspect.
She stopped abruptly and the parasol, which was still balanced precariously upon the cushions, clattered to the ground again. The familiar gentleman turned quickly to retrieve it – revealing the face, and the smile, of Mr William Lomax.
She received the parasol in a nerveless hand; he bowed, his grey eyes half laughing, half indignant, as they took in the burdens in her arms and glanced at the retreating back of her aunt. He reached out. With some difficulty she shuffled the bottle of smelling salts into the crook of her arm, and his hand closed about her fingers, warm and firm. They both spoke together:
‘I did not know you were at Charcombe—’
‘I am come about this odd business of Tom’s—’
They stopped, smiled and stood looking upon one another, quite content to be silent for a moment as the sounds of the congregation shuffling into the pews echoed about them. He looked as handsome as ever, she thought; the same well-made figure and very distinguished profile. But he looked a little tired, or worried perhaps; the fine bones of his cheeks were rather more prominent than she had ever known them before – giving his face a sad, bruised appearance.
He began to speak again, but just then Mrs Manners – who had now reached the Fenstanton pew at the front of the church and was waiting for her cushions to be placed – turned back impatiently. She creased up her eyes and peered imperiously. There was a moment of recognition.
He bowed.
Aunt Manners stood stiff, unbending. ‘Dido!’ Her voice cut sharply along the crowded nave. ‘What are you doing, dawdling about again? I am not accustomed to being kept waiting.’
Dido was forced to hurry away, but her mind raced with a dozen half-connected thoughts. That the news of Tom’s escapade should bring him here was not surprising – she might have foreseen it … He had seemed glad to see her … Her aunt’s conduct was unpardonable …
/> Mrs Manners was now pointing imperiously at the place where her cushions were to be arranged and, as Dido hurried forward, she said, in a whisper so audible the bats hanging in the bell tower were probably able to hear it, ‘I am surprised at you for speaking to that man.’
‘I beg your pardon, Aunt?’
‘I am astonished that you should acknowledge acquaintance with a family which has used my friends so ill. Not there … there,’ stabbing with an impatient finger. ‘The red cushion is to go at my back.’
Dido bent to her task in resentful silence. But, as the church music men struck up the first psalm and the congregation rose to sing, she stole a look back along the aisle, her eye seeking out the firm, upright figure which appeared to particular advantage among the bulky forms of the surrounding farmers. Her cheeks burnt with indignation at his being blamed for the faults of his son. She looked until some sense told him that she was looking. He glanced up, caught her eye, and could not prevent himself from smiling affectionately before hurriedly returning his attention to his hymnal.
It was a delightful smile. A smile to lift her spirits to the barrel roof with the swelling voices, in a rush of pleasure which even the sour looks of her relative could not diminish. She would certainly not slight him on anyone’s account. Affection and justice both cried out against it.
Up in their gallery above the nave, the fustian-clad fiddlers plied their bows with enthusiasm and the old church rang with song. Dido Kent praised her maker and sang for joy that the man who loved her was close by. After two weeks of penance and insignificance his look of admiration was an exquisite pleasure, and she would not allow anything to intrude upon it – certainly not the disapproval of such a woman as Aunt Manners.
The truth was that silent looks across a church suited Dido rather well, for had she and the gentleman been allowed only a few minutes’ more conversation she would certainly have found something upon which to disagree with him, something to remind her of the reason why – for all her admiration of the figure and the profile – she had not yet said ‘yes’ to his offer of marriage.
In point of fact, theirs was a rather singular affection, strong enough certainly to withstand Aunt Manners – and the delay to marriage which Mr Lomax’s present lack of fortune occasioned. But Dido’s regard for the gentleman had not yet created that humility of spirit, that willingness to adopt her beloved’s opinions which is almost universally considered a necessary condition of marriage. Nor had she even that talent for keeping silent which will sometimes make up for a wife’s lack of real agreement with her husband. What Dido thought, she spoke – even to the man she loved; in fact, most especially to the man she loved.
This was a difficulty. But Mr Lomax had now ceased to hope for a change in her. Courageous man that he was, he declared himself resigned to a life of dispute; he understood her character and yet he wished her to be his wife. He believed – he had told her after their last great disagreement – that trust and mutual confidence might, in their case, take the place of deference and silent acquiescence.
But could a happy marriage be built upon such very unusual foundations? Over the last months Dido’s mind had veered alarmingly between the yes and the no. But now, watching him across the crowded church, her heart swelling with indignation and music – and admiration – the yes was very much in the ascendant.
Why restless, why cast down my soul?
Hope still and thou shalt sing …
Dido closed her hymnal at last and sat down to the sermon with a heart full of hope.
Beside her Mrs Manners settled into her cushions – and a comfortable doze – while Mr Lancelot drew out a pencil and paper and began to make notes upon the sermon.
For a short time Dido felt at peace with all the world; in charity with everyone. And, fortunately, Doctor Jeremiah Prowdlee was very far from her thoughts at that moment. Otherwise she might have been obliged to confess that Margaret’s predictions had been accurate: just two weeks acting the part of companion were enough to make any woman look upon matrimony with a favourable eye …
Chapter Seven
‘Dido, I forbid you to speak to that man.’
It was another discreet whisper for the listening bats.
Many eyes turned towards Aunt Manners as she made her dignified progress through the crowded church at the end of the service. It was, perhaps, something about the way she walked, an awareness of her own importance and dignity, which gave such significance to her small figure.
Dido followed, clutching her burdens in mutinous silence and dawdling so that the rest of her party might leave her behind. Aunt Manners reached the west door, stopped and waited with a look of haughty expectation. The aisle was rapidly filling with people now: young misses in fresh muslins for the fine spring weather, red-faced farmers with their hats crushed beneath their arms, and matrons guarding flocks of children as they looked about them for a gossip. Dido let the crowd hurry past her and slowly drew level with the pew where Mr Lomax remained alone.
He had considerately turned his face away at the sound of her aunt’s words. He was now pretending to read the Commandments on the board above the pulpit – as if he were suddenly in need of advice about the coveting of his neighbour’s ox and the making of graven images. Dido stopped; still he would not look at her. The fine profile was infuriatingly impassive: as stiff as the crisp cravat which supported it. She could not accost him forcibly – but if she walked on, her aunt would have been obeyed. And that would be intolerable.
There was, she determined, only one thing to be done.
She opened her arms and let everything that she was holding slip away – retaining her hold only on the fragile bottle of salts. Shawls and cushions tumbled down on the rushes of the aisle; the parasol clattered against the pew’s end, and, as if to make quite certain of gaining Mr Lomax’s attention, a prayer book bounced hard against his knee.
At the back of the church, Aunt Manners turned red with anger and hurried out of the west door.
Mr Lomax, being too well bred to leave a lady unassisted, began immediately to gather books and shawls and cushions. ‘But you should not have acknowledged me,’ he said quietly as he picked up the spectacles and shook dust from them. ‘It is only reasonable that your aunt should resent me.’
‘No.’ Dido took up a shawl and folded it slowly. ‘It is not at all reasonable. You are not your son, and whatever he has done to offend, you are guiltless. The whole family should not be held responsible for one man’s sins.’
‘It is the way of the world, Miss Kent.’
‘Then the world is wrong,’ said Dido with quiet conviction.
He retrieved the prayer book and smoothed out the creases from its pages. ‘And would you seek to change the world’s opinion on the matter? It would be a revolution far beyond anything the French and the Americans have achieved between them.’
‘I do not presume so far.’ She laid down the folded shawl on the pew, took up another and slowly picked fragments of rushes from its fringe. ‘I seek only to act as my conscience dictates. It is a matter of integrity, Mr Lomax, not revolt.’
He looked down at her busy little fingers and shook his head. ‘I do not think we shall ever agree upon this point,’ he said.
‘But upon another point I am sure we are in complete accord: the necessity of finding your son and Miss Verney.’
He rested his hand upon the pew’s end. ‘That is what has brought me here,’ he said quietly as the last footsteps echoed away through the west door, leaving them alone in the little church. ‘Mr Fenstanton wrote to enquire whether I knew anything of the business. I did not; but I hoped I might be able to talk some sense into Tom.’
‘And have you met with any success?’
His face clouded. He beckoned Dido into the shelter of the pew and they sat down side by side. ‘No, I have had no success at all,’ he confessed. ‘Tom continues to tell this nonsensical tale of returning the young lady to the house. You have heard it?’
Sh
e nodded.
‘It is a lie, of course!’ he cried, then shook his head. ‘And yet he insists that it is true. He will not be shaken from the foolish story.’
Dido gazed silently into his grave, troubled face. She was so close to him that her hand rested against the sleeve of his coat; she could see the troubled little furrows between his brows. ‘And what is your opinion?’ she asked gently. ‘Do you believe that your son has persuaded Miss Verney to remove herself from her friends’ protection?’
‘I think he must have done.’ He looked at her very directly. ‘Unfortunately, my knowledge of Tom’s character makes me believe him very capable of guilt … And yet…’
‘Yes?’
‘The business has been carried on so very oddly. Why is he not with her? I cannot understand what he would be about.’ He shrugged up his shoulders and sighed.
‘Do you think it possible,’ suggested Dido, ‘that he believes his own tale to be true; that he has somehow been mistaken … or deceived?’
Lomax looked at her in surprise. ‘I cannot see how that might be—’ he began.
But just then they were interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the aisle. Mr Lancelot Fenstanton had returned to the empty church and both Dido and her companion were suddenly aware of how very close they were sitting – and what an odd appearance their private conference might have to an impartial observer.
She jumped up with a quick farewell and hurried forward to meet the gentleman, wishing with all her heart that she had been allowed a few minutes more to pursue the very interesting idea of Mr Tom being deceived.
* * *
Mr Lancelot insisted upon taking some of Dido’s burdens into his own hands as they left the church together. ‘I have been commissioned by our aunt to seek you out, Miss Kent,’ he explained with a smile. ‘There is some arrangement of the carriage windows, or some order to be given to the coachman which only you can properly accomplish.’
Dido suppressed an answering smile. ‘I am very sorry to keep her waiting,’ she said quietly.
‘But,’ he continued, as they stepped out of the cool, damp porch into sudden sunshine and birdsong and the fresh, clean smell of daffodils, ‘I am a selfish fellow, you know, and I’m hoping to snatch a moment to talk to you myself. I have something to tell you about.’ He laid the parasol down upon the final resting place of Mr Barnabas Finch, and drew a letter from his coat pocket. ‘The pot boy from the inn at New Charcombe delivered this to me before the service.’