by Anna Dean
‘Now, I must talk to you about Mr William Lomax,’ she said.
‘Mr Lomax?’ cried Dido, struggling through the narrow gateway with the basket.
‘Yes. He is to pay a visit to your brother, I understand,’ she said, but stopped, distracted from the subject for a moment by the sight of her village.
And Dido must wait, full of half-formed apprehensions, as Anne looked busily to right and left. There were thatched cottages and a newer little row of brick almshouses – all looking trim with smoke from their chimneys hanging low in the damp air. There was a green with a well and stocks, geese and sleeping curs. A woman who was beating a rag rug against her garden wall stopped and curtsied. All seemed to be as it should – but for two small boys who had climbed onto the stocks and were balancing there with waving arms for as long as they might.
Anne hurried forward with a reprimand immediately. The boys both started, fell and struggled to their feet, attempting to rub their bruised shins, pull off their caps and apologise at the same time.
‘Now,’ said Anne turning briskly back to Dido, ‘of what were we talking? Oh yes! Mr Lomax. He is a very gentlemanlike man, and I have been wanting to get him a wife for some time.’ Dido’s apprehensions began to take on a very unpleasant form. ‘It is almost six years since his wife died,’ continued Anne as they skirted the green ‘and that is long enough for a man to repine, is it not?’
‘Is he repining?’ asked Dido – from the corner of her eye, she could see the two boys putting out their tongues at Anne’s back.
‘Well, I suppose he must be repining. For I am sure he was devoted to her.’
‘Oh.’ Dido was uncomfortable, but she had never heard anything of Mrs Lomax and could not help asking, ‘what kind of a woman was she?’
‘A charming woman! Very quiet and proper …’ Anne paused and cast a rather anxious, assessing look at her friend. ‘And always very smartly dressed.’
Dido set the basket down and endeavoured to catch her breath. But Anne’s look made her suddenly aware not only of her hot red face, but also the mud on the hem of her petticoat and one or two white feathers which were clinging to her dark pelisse.
‘Exactly what age are you, Dido?’
‘Oh! I am old enough to wish not to answer the question!’
‘Lucy Crockford supposes you to be forty.’
‘Then Lucy Crockford is wrong!’ she cried immediately. ‘I only turned six and thirty in August.’
‘Yes,’ said Anne with satisfaction, ‘that is just about as I thought. It is not so very old. I think, after all, I may make a match of it – if I put my mind to it. Though I would, as a friend, counsel you to take a little more care of your appearance when he comes – and perhaps try to be a little less … odd and argumentative.’ She turned and hurried on along the lane.
‘I thank you for you advice! But I do not think …’
‘Whatever is the matter? Do you dislike Mr Lomax?’
‘He is a very pleasant gentleman, but …’
‘Well then, it is decided.’ She turned back again – this time with real concern in her eyes. ‘I have been very worried about you of late and I am sure marriage will be the best way of securing your future happiness.’ She was too well-bred to allude to the sinking of Charles’s bank, the consequent loss of income to the Kent family – and Dido’s residence in her sister-in-law’s household. But there could be no doubting that it was all very much in her mind. ‘It is a very eligible match, and I mean to do my utmost to promote it. I shall insist that he attends our All Hallows ball, and make him dance with you. And, while he is here, I shall talk to him particularly about your sense and economy.’
Dido sighed inwardly. Why, after a woman turned thirty, must ‘economy’ become her greatest recommendation? It had such a very unappealing sound. Not that she wished to appeal to Mr Lomax, she reminded herself hastily. But, nonetheless, it was mortifying to be accorded such dull praise.
They had come a little out of the village now to a place where the lane crossed a brook in a shallow, noisy ford and, to one side, a single plank gave passage for pedestrians. Beyond the stream, a path wound down through coppiced hazel trees to Woodman’s Hollow where a thin streak of smoke could be seen rising from ragged grey thatch. Anne took the basket into her own hands and stepped onto the bridge, but did not immediately hurry away to distribute advice, broth, linen and disapproval to the unfortunate family in the cottage. It would seem she had something further to say.
‘The fact is, Dido, we must act quickly over Mr Lomax, or I fear we shall lose him to another woman.’
‘Another woman? Do you believe he is paying attentions to another woman?’ The question came out a great deal more sharply than it should have done.
‘No. But I rather fear that other women may begin to pay attentions to Mr Lomax. For he may soon become much more eligible than he has been.’
‘I am not quite sure I understand you.’
‘Well, you may know that he is encumbered with a very dissolute son who seems bent upon spending all his father’s money.’
‘Yes,’ said Dido. ‘I have met Mr Tom Lomax.’ It was not an experience which she wished to repeat. And, since she had once succeeded in thwarting the young man in a particularly unpleasant, but profitable, scheme, she did not doubt that the feeling was mutual.
‘The existence of the son,’ continued Anne briskly, ‘has, I know, deterred many women who would otherwise have found the father very agreeable indeed.’
‘Ah,’ said Dido. The notion of other women finding Mr Lomax agreeable was surprisingly disagreeable. ‘But,’ with a great effort at indifference, ‘what is the change? Am I to suppose that Mr Tom Lomax has undergone a revolution in character?’
‘No, but he has undergone a revolution in fortune. It seems his father may soon be rid of him. I had it in a letter from town this morning that Tom Lomax looks set to become engaged – to a woman with twenty thousand pounds.’
‘Oh!’
‘Dido, are you unwell?’
‘No, no I am perfectly well. Just a little tired from all the walking I have done this morning.’ But all the heat had drained suddenly from her face and her legs were weak. She sat down hurriedly on the end of the bridge.
‘Well then,’ said Anne, ‘I shall leave you to rest and be about my business, for I have a great deal to do. But, remember, we must act quickly before news of Mr Tom’s match gets abroad and other women begin to make a play for his father. And, Dido, please,’ she added with one last critical look as she crossed the stream, ‘give a little thought to your appearance. An unmarried woman must pay attention to her appearance if she would make a match. It is a principle of mine …’ Her voice trailed away through the hazel thicket and Dido was left alone with the chatter of the water and her own thoughts.
It was alarming how very significant this news of Tom’s prospects appeared. Why should it matter? It was true that once she had looked forward to just such a prosperous marriage for the son as the surest route to happiness for the father – and for herself. But that had been before their disagreement at Richmond. For many months now she had considered her own curiosity, Mr Lomax’s unbending disapproval, and the fear of horrible marital discord as much greater barriers to their union than the debts of his son.
So why, she demanded of herself as she watched the yellow leaves drift and twist upon the water, why should the prospect of Mr Lomax unshackled and free to marry take the breath from her body and the strength from her legs? Could it be that her resolve to refuse him was faltering?
It must not. That was her immediate thought – for there could be only one cause of the change and that was the wretched alteration in her own circumstances.
In the summer, as a free woman, with a home of her own, she had refused him. And was she now, wretched and dependent, to accept him? No. If she did, she would know that her motives were base. And, in addition to all the misery of conjugal disharmony, she would suffer the pain of despising herself as we
ak and mercenary.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Harriet,’ said Dido reluctantly. ‘I have promised Lucy that I will speak to you on her behalf.’
The scene, she thought, had better be got over quickly and this was as fair an opportunity as any she was likely to have. The abbey was very quiet just now. The gentlemen were all gone out shooting, the little girls were in the nursery, young Georgie was at his Latin lesson with Mr Portinscale, and Mrs Harman-Foote had not yet returned from Woodman’s Hollow. So Dido had come to sit awhile with Harriet and her patient.
Outside, the morning had turned dark and rain was pattering on the windows; but within the bedchamber everything was pleasant and comfortable. There was a good log fire in the grate and lavender had been burnt upon it to cleanse the air. A jug of pale pink roses stood upon a dark oak chest, and Harriet was sitting upon the window seat beside it, her head, in its all-engulfing cap, bent over her tambour frame. In the wide bed Penelope was sleeping peacefully – a half-smile on her lips – as if the book, just slipping from her fingers, had amused her and was now supplying very pleasant dreams.
‘Your sister,’ said Dido looking earnestly across at Harriet, ‘wishes me to … plead Captain Laurence’s cause.’
Harriet gave a start. Her hand went to her mouth. ‘He has made an offer to Lucy!’
‘No, not quite. But she seems determined that he will. And I am commissioned to tell you that it will break her heart if you oppose their union.’
‘Oh dear!’ Harriet sighed heavily, but showed no particular sign of jealousy. She put a hand to her brow. ‘I had hoped,’ she said, ‘that if Lucy was out of the house … Out of sight out of mind, you know. I hoped … Well, I hoped the hare would run another way, as the saying goes.’ Her eyes strayed to the bed and its sleeping occupant.
‘Yes,’ confessed Dido, ‘I too thought he would choose Penelope.’
‘And she thinks it still,’ said Harriet drily. ‘And there she lies her silly head just full of the navy! Do but look at what she has been reading.’
Dido stepped to the bed and looked at the book in Penelope’s hand. ‘The Navy List?’ she cried. ‘I would not have thought that provided much entertainment for an invalid!’
‘But she is an invalid in love, Dido. All morning she has done nothing but read about the ships Captain Laurence has served in.’
‘I see.’ As Dido bent over the sleeping girl she saw something written upon the book’s cover. She gently disengaged the book from the drooping hand, and read, in strong, looped letters: To Miss Lambe, wishing her a pleasant study and a very rapid recovery. James Laurence.
‘She asked most particularly for it,’ said Harriet. ‘And you may be sure the captain was eager enough to supply it.’
‘Was he indeed! So it would seem that Penelope has good reason to think him attached to her.’
‘Oh yes! Though I do not doubt he has encouraged Lucy too.’
‘This then,’ said Dido thoughtfully, ‘is why there has never been any symptom of jealousy between the two girls. They have both felt secure of the gentleman!’
‘I fear the captain means to have his cake and eat it too.’
‘You do not have a very high opinion of Captain Laurence?’
‘Papa would not have liked him. This attachment of Lucy’s will not do at all, you know,’ said Harriet firmly. ‘Here at Madderstone we hear only what the Captain wishes us to know about himself. He is always singing his own praises. But when we were in Bath last month we saw him in his true colours.’
‘Why? What did he do?’ cried Dido eagerly.
‘Oh, it was not so much what he did, as who he consorted with,’ said Harriet. ‘I saw him again and again in the company of such dissolute men! It would seem he has recently become acquainted with Lord Congreve, who was divorced after his wife ran away on account of his abominable behaviour; and Sir James Dearing, who eloped with an heiress two years ago, broke her heart and gambled away her fortune – and other men of the same stamp. Men such as …’
‘Such as Papa would not have approved?’
‘Well, no, he would not.’
‘And you fear the captain might be inclined to follow the example of his acquaintances?’
Harriet primmed her lips and bent her head over her work. ‘Birds of a feather fly together,’ she said.
Dido studied her friend’s averted face for a minute or two. What exactly did she suspect the captain of? When Harriet began to talk entirely in proverbs it was not easy to distinguish her meaning. Even ‘Dear Papa’ was to be preferred to an endless parade of proverbs.
‘She is very beautiful,’ Dido mused turning away to look down upon the lovely, faultless oval of Penelope’s face where long dark lashes curled on soft white cheeks.
‘And very poor,’ added Harriet, her eyes still fixed upon her work. ‘Penelope has nothing at all beyond a small allowance.’
‘Do you suppose then,’ said Dido carefully, ‘that the captain is mercenary in his pursuit of Lucy?’
Harriet laid aside her work. ‘I love my sister dearly,’ she said quietly, ‘but I am not blind. I cannot help but see that she has not one half of Penelope’s beauty. If such a man as the captain truly means to give up Penelope for Lucy, I must suspect him of being mercenary. Money, as they say, gilds a woman’s features – and Lucy has twelve thousand pounds.’
‘Twelve thousand pounds!’ The words burst from Dido before she could check her surprise. She stopped. Apologised.
‘Oh, there is no need to be sorry!’ said Harriet. ‘I can see you are full of curiosity, Dido. You are no doubt wondering how the Ashfield estate can supply such a claim – and I tell you honestly, I do not know how it can. But it must! For that is the provision which Dear Papa made in his will for Lucy’s marriage portion – and mine.
We are entitled to twelve thousand pounds apiece, you see. And if Lucy marries a man who insists upon her rights, then Ashfield must be ruined to pay him as much of that twelve thousand pounds as it can. The roof would remain unrepaired, money would have to be borrowed; the mill at Great Farleigh sold, every inch of alienable land mortgaged. And I would be left …’ She began to wring her hands. ‘Oh, poor Papa would be so distressed to know we were got into such a muddle.’
‘But why …’ Again Dido bit back her curiosity.
‘Why did Dear Papa arrange things so ill?’ Harriet smiled fondly. ‘Because he was a very remarkable man, Dido.’ There was a sad shake of the head. ‘I do not believe there are many men who love their wives and daughters as he did. He wished us to have an equal share, you see …’ She stopped, sighed again. ‘His intention was that, as soon as Silas came of age, they should join together in cutting off the entail. Then the estate could have been broken up and the value of it divided among his three children.’
‘But the entail was never cut off?’
‘No.’ Harriet shook her head sadly. ‘Dear Papa died before Silas was one and twenty. They were never able to undertake the legal process necessary for ending it. For that process, you know, requires the consent of the present owner and the legal heir. So now the estate must remain entire.’ She turned back to the window. ‘The only safe possibility of marriage for Lucy or me would be to find a man who is rich enough or …’ there was a moment’s hesitation, ‘or good enough to be indifferent to money. It is of course of no consequence to me, but Lucy …’
The shadows of water streaming down the window shimmered like a veil of tears on Harriet’s pale cheeks. Perplexity lined her brow, and yet there was a half-smile on her lips – no doubt a tribute of affection to Dear Papa – a man Dido remembered only indistinctly from one or two meetings in her earliest days at Badleigh: a big man with a large, slightly purple nose, a blue coat, silver buttons, very strong opinions and a doting fondness for his daughters. His beloved wife had died giving birth to Silas; and after that his children had been all the world to him.
‘I do not suppose,’ Dido ventured gently at last, ‘that your sister could be persu
aded into seeing things as you do – I mean, might she be brought to suspect the captain’s motives?’
Harriet raised her head with a sigh. ‘Oh I can never make Lucy understand money matters,’ she cried bitterly. ‘Her sensibilities are too delicate! And now she is in love. Love conquers all, you know, and there are none so blind as those that will not see.’
‘She cannot conceive that the captain might be mercenary?’ Asked Dido in an attempt to cut through maxims to meaning.
‘No. He has told her of course that he cares nothing for her fortune – and she believes him. But once they are married, I make no doubt he will sing a different tune. And then of course it will be entirely in his hands. A woman owns nothing after she is married: her fortune will be his. He will be entitled to wring every last penny he can get out of Ashfield.’
‘Oh, Harriet!’ cried Dido feelingly, ‘marriage is so very final, do you not think? I do believe a woman needs all her wits about her for the business – and she had better not choose a husband while she is distracted by love.’
But Harriet’s mind turned more upon particulars than general principles. ‘Soon,’ she said sadly, ‘Penelope will be recovered enough to return to Bath. Silas, Lucy and I are all to accompany her. But I fear that Captain Laurence is planning to go too. I think he plans to meet us there – and make his offer to Lucy during our visit.’
‘It would, I suppose, be his first opportunity to speak without appearing inconsiderate of your friend’s illness.’
‘Dido, you must come with us and help me prevent it.’
‘Upon my word, Harriet, now you are telling me what I must do. It would seem that I am never to have a moment’s peace between you and Lucy and Mrs Harman-Foote!’
‘But you will come, will you not? It will be an opportunity to put all your satirical cleverness to good use.’ Harriet gave a weary smile. ‘You can do some good for once instead of only laughing at us all.’