by Anna Dean
‘Miss Fenn’s death,’ she finished briskly, with a glance at the grave. ‘Yes, Mr Portinscale, I am afraid that I must. You see, I have learnt something – during my visit to Bath – something which I think you ought to know about that lady.’
‘Indeed! Have you?’ His voice attempted indifference, but his face was all interest.
And Dido, sure that this was all the invitation he would allow himself to give, made only a hasty plea for his complete secrecy before entering upon an account of the governess’s true identity and the cause of her sojourn in Madderstone – suppressing only the existence of the child. She did not look at him as she spoke, fixing her eyes upon anything rather than his face – the brown decaying petals of Mr Paynter’s roses on the grave, the mossy stones of the wall, an old gravestone half-sunk down into the ground and lying aslant in the fog, the round arch of the church window with a candle glowing within.
Before she had been speaking for two minutes, his hand was once more upon the bough of the tree, his hat beating gently against his knee. His long sombre face, framed in clerical white, was fixed upon her, his eyes scarcely blinking. When she finished and finally looked up at him, he swallowed hard. ‘I cannot believe …’ He began in a voice of great emotion. But he was unable to continue.
‘It is all true, I assure you, Mr Portinscale.’
He looked hastily away. He beat the hat harder upon his knees. ‘It is extraordinary,’ he said in a struggling, uneven voice. ‘But of course,’ he said with a great effort to give his voice the certainty of the pulpit, ‘I cannot allow this information to change my decision. The Lord God judges us not by our titles and birth. The sin of self-murder is as heinous in the highest in the land as it is in the lowliest of mortals.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ said Dido earnestly. Her voice was low and, in the fog and the stillness of the graveyard, it had a close sound – as if they were within doors. ‘But, Mr Portinscale, I believe you must reconsider your decision. For I do not argue about rank – but only character.’
‘Character?’
‘Yes. Do you not see, that you have grounded your understanding of the lady’s character upon a false belief?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Forgive me,’ she said very quietly, ‘for alluding to those very personal matters which you were so kind as to confide in me. But you have believed for fifteen years that an illicit attachment was the cause of her refusing your offer of marriage, have you not?’
‘Yes, but …’ He stopped. The hat stilled in his hand; his face became very thoughtful indeed.
‘But,’ said Dido, ‘I beg you to recollect her words now in the light of your new understanding of her situation. She spoke of an attachment, she said that you would never witness her marriage to another man.’
She stopped and waited for him to consider. A crow settled on the slanting gravestone and set up a hoarse cry. She stole a look at the clergyman’s face and saw there amazement and dawning understanding – the beginnings of a revolution in his ideas, which was slowly doing away the resentment of fifteen years’ standing.
‘Her words were true, Mr Portinscale. She was attached, very unhappily attached, to a cruel, unworthy husband …’
He did not speak; but he did not need to. She could gather everything she wished to know from his face. There was dawning upon it a gentler look than any she had ever seen there before. All those lines which seemed to drag down upon his face were easing; his thin lips moving in the uncertain beginnings of a smile. There, beside that wretched grave, the woman he had loved, the woman who had been dead for fifteen years, was restored to him, her virtue unspotted – her character as perfect as he had once believed it to be.
There was, Dido was sure, only one thing wanting to secure Miss Fenn’s place here upon the holy side of the churchyard wall.
‘It was of course impossible for her to marry you,’ she said quietly. ‘But I am very sure that she wished it. That is why, when she was forced to refuse your offer, she tried to convey to you something of her reasons.’ She watched the tentative smile gain power on his thin, severe face. ‘Having discovered a good, religious man, so very different from her vicious husband, I make no doubt she wished very much that she might give him her affection and spend her life with him.’
Mr Portinscale was silent for a long while and then said only, ‘Thank you. Thank you, Miss Kent, for telling me this.’ Dido doubted it were possible for him to say more. But he took her hand and shook it warmly.
Then he excused himself and turned purposefully towards his church. As he walked away he put on his hat. And he put it on the very back of his head – with a sort of a tilt to it …
Chapter Forty-Two
Dido returned to the vicarage well pleased with the morning’s work and found a letter awaiting her in the hall: a letter which Margaret assured her she did not have time to read now, for if she did not begin preparing for the ball immediately she would look a fright and be a disgrace to her family …
Margaret was herself standing upon the stairs in curl papers, with a candle in her hand, and very eager for the moment of setting out. It always pained her to lose a single minute which might be passed at the great house.
But, since the letter was written in an unfamiliar hand, there was no restraining Dido’s curiosity and she began immediately upon opening it in spite of the torrent of chiding pouring over her head. Margaret retaliated by walking away with her candle – leaving not enough light to read by. Dido hurried into the parlour and knelt upon the hearth to catch the dull red glow of the fire.
The letter was from Mrs Pinker. Written in carefully rounded characters, it was an answer to that enquiry which she had sent before leaving Bath.
Dear Miss Kent,
I am much obliged to you for your letter I am sure, and regret I was not here to receive you when you was so good as to call upon me.
Well you ask me about Mrs Fenn’s child and I don’t know what I should say and I was very much minded not to answer your letter at all – for all that would have been so very ill-mannered. For a woman in my position should know how to keep other folks’ secrets. But she was a very pleasant lady and I was vastly sorry to hear she was dead and drowned in that pool. Which everyone is talking of now on account of it being written about in the newspapers, which I always say is the great evil of newspapers, for once a thing is written in them it does seem everyone knows about it.
And I am like you in thinking she didn’t murder herself, for all it says so in the newspaper. For she was not a mad woman – nor a bad one neither. And it would be a fine thing if you could find out the truth so they could put her in the churchyard. And so I have thought about it a great deal and I think I had better answer your question. Though I hope you will not tell it to anyone else – in particular that nasty fellow that came to my house two months back.
Well, you was right to think the poor lady’s child was a boy – for it was. Poor little Harry Fenn. I remember him very well indeed.
And I hope my telling you will, as you say, help you find out just what happened to the poor lady for she was a good woman and mighty fond of that little boy. And sometimes when she must leave at the end of her visit she would cry so I thought she would break her heart. And she would hold him and call him ‘my beloved’. Always ‘beloved’. That’s what he always was with her.
Yours Sincerely,
Deborah Pinker
Dido sat before the fire staring at this letter until Rebecca appeared. ‘Mistress says dinner’s to be on table in half an hour and the carriage is to be at the door the minute you’re finished eating.’ She hesitated and gave one of her rapid looks about the room as if ensuring ‘the mistress’ was not concealed anywhere within hearing. ‘You want me to help you with your hair, miss?’
‘No … No thank you …’
Dido fled to her attic, but, instead of arranging her hair, she sat upon the bed and continued to stare at her letter – her mind rearranging everything which she ha
d thought she knew.
She remembered the passionate affection of Miss Fenn’s letter to the ‘Beloved’. I love you. I will always love you. No other woman will ever love you as I do. And at last she understood those words! They were not an illicit declaration to a lover; they were the age-old cry of the devoted mother to her son!
Now, at last, everything which had seemed contradictory in the character of this extraordinary woman was explained. How strange it was that everything she had uncovered had led her finally back to the general opinion of the neighbourhood. Madderstone’s governess had been as upright and pious as she had seemed.
Then she recalled the exact words of the reply to Miss Fenn’s letter … And here was a subject which must keep her sitting on the bed even after Margaret had begun to call out impatiently from the landing below.
Of course her mistake had been to assume that the reply was written by the person to whom the letter was sent. And that assumption had been ill-founded: the writer had not used the personal pronoun, but had written instead of ‘one whom you profess to love’. The reply had, in fact, been sent by the person into whose care Miss Fenn had given her son.
And this realisation opened a new vista, the existence of which Dido had suspected before – but had hoped would prove illusory.
The guardian of the boy had been unwilling to relinquish him – had, in fact, been absolutely determined against giving up the child – even though the poor woman had resolved upon reclaiming him.
For some reason, this person had wanted to keep the boy as desperately as the mother wished to take him back. That had been the cause of her death. It was the boy’s guardian she had gone to meet beside the pool. And he had killed her in order to prevent her reclaiming the child …
But who had that guardian been …? And who was Harry Fenn?
Chapter Forty-Three
The ballroom at Madderstone Abbey was the finest apartment in the neighbourhood. It was furnished with two great chandeliers and mirrors in which ‘Goliath might have seen his giant bulk’; there was a wide marble chimney piece at either end of the room; fat cherubs done in plaster clung to the ceiling, and there was such a delicious expanse of floor as must make the feet positively itch to dance.
Into this wonderful room, on every All Hallows Eve, all the gentry and half-gentry of Madderstone and Badleigh were invited, and many a young miss looked forward to the evening as the pinnacle of her winter engagements. But Dido had deeper causes of anticipation as she entered the room that evening and made her curtsey to her hostess. Tonight she was determined that all her questions must be settled: the last mysteries of Madderstone solved – and its unquiet spirits finally laid to rest.
A very fitting undertaking for All Hallows Eve!
Her first business upon joining the gathering circle of guests beside one of the hearths was to look about for Mr Lomax. He was there, standing on the opposite side of the hearth with his hands behind his back and his head courteously inclined towards Lucy Crockford, who was talking to him very earnestly. He was unable to do more than bow a greeting – which was entirely unsatisfactory, for it was beyond even Dido’s hopeful penetration to detect complete forgiveness in a bow …
She sighed a little and allowed her eye to wander on about the little crowd of her friends and neighbours, all dressed in their finest clothes, and she fell to wondering … who among them was Harry Fenn?
One of these young men in their best breeches and dancing pumps and frothing cravats was the son that Elinor Fenn had taken such pains to hide. But which one …? She thought of a young man, apparently orphaned … adopted and raised upon someone’s charity.
And her gaze came to rest upon Henry Coulson.
He was lounging against one end of the mantelpiece with such a sour countenance as made her quite sure that Harriet had already spoken to him about the mysterious boxes which were finding their way to Great Farleigh. His was the largest, most elaborate cravat in the room, got up with so many twists and so much starch that he seemed scarcely able to turn his head. And he had got himself from somewhere a very foolish-looking single eyeglass which depended on a chain from his waistcoat.
Harriet – looking remarkably well in a blue-trimmed gown and braided headdress – was standing a little way from him and occasionally throwing him a cold look as she talked to Harris Paynter. Next to her was Lucy, talking to Mr Lomax, but breaking off from time to time to swing her fan irritably and cast a resentful glance in the direction of Captain Laurence.
Laurence had taken up a position at some distance from the hearth – almost in the centre of the room. With his right arm swinging about as if it held a sword, he was talking with great animation to a little bevy of enthralled young ladies. He was too far away for Dido to catch his words, but she detected in the shaping of his lips ‘navy’, ‘French privateers’ and – more than once – ‘very grave danger’.
Close beside her stood Silas, who seemed to be attempting to explain ‘Mr C … Coleridge’s beautiful, moving b … ballad about an old sailor and a d … d … dead albatross,’ to Mr Harman-Foote – who was looking frankly perplexed.
And Mr Portinscale, she now saw, was just approaching their circle, making an exaggerated obeisance to his hostess and congratulating her upon ‘that exceptional elegance and propriety of all the arrangements which never fails to make the All Hallows ball the most delightful of occasions …’
He then lowered his voice and continued to talk very quietly to the lady. Dido was almost sure she caught the words ‘churchyard’ and ‘reconsidered’; but unfortunately Laurence’s narrative was becoming louder as it reached its crisis: he had progressed from ‘grave danger’, through ‘overwhelming odds’, to ‘mortal peril’. He and his men were now ‘fighting for our lives’. His voice was positively echoing about the room – and two of the enthralled young ladies were giving refined little screams and looking as if they might faint away at any moment.
The end of Mr Portinscale’s speech was sunk in the naval skirmish. But a moment later Anne came to Dido with such expressions of delight and gratitude as confirmed its import – and caused more than one head to turn in their direction.
‘I knew that you could persuade Mr Portinscale into removing the grave,’ she declared joyfully. ‘I was sure from the very beginning that you were the right person to do it. And I am never wrong about these things you know.’
Dido smiled graciously, but there was no time to talk further, for the dancing was soon to begin and Anne was very busy about finding partners for everyone. She hurried off, instructing Dido over her shoulder to ‘come to me tomorrow so that we may talk it all over.’
No sooner had she gone than Mr Lomax appeared, released at last from Lucy’s conversation, and congratulated Dido rather stiffly upon her success. ‘I am sure Mrs Harman-Foote will be much more at ease once her friend rests within the churchyard,’ he said. ‘This at least was well done.’ He stood for several minutes, hands clasped behind him, frowning as if he knew not what to say. The memory of their last interview in Bath was enough to silence them both.
‘It is gratifying to know that you approve some portion of my conduct,’ she said – and stopped, distracted from his looks of displeasure by an awareness that news of the grave’s removal had now spread through the circle by the fire – and turned everyone’s attention towards her. Over in the room’s centre Laurence talked on unabated, but here beside the fire, conversation had stopped for a moment …
It was not an opportunity to miss. ‘I am sure,’ she said, addressing herself to Mr Lomax, but making no attempt to lower her voice, ‘I am very glad to have been of service to Mrs Harman-Foote. And I have in fact discovered another comfort for her.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes. When the thief took Miss Fenn’s letters – there was one overlooked. Not all her correspondence was lost. There is still one letter in the back of her bible.’ Dido stopped. Captain Laurence continued to declaim, but she was sure that she could detect a kind of attentive
quietness behind her. She was sure that one person at least in the circle round the fire was listening with particular interest … But who was that person?
She was on the point of turning to look when she became aware that Mr Lomax was addressing her hastily – upon an entirely different matter: that he was, in fact, soliciting her hand for the first two dances.
She was distracted: her attention powerfully torn. The company behind her resumed its conversations. The moment for discovery was lost.
‘You do not wish to dance with me?’ he asked, misinterpreting her confusion and looking grave and offended.
‘Yes,’ she cried in distress. ‘I should like to dance with you very much indeed. But I am afraid I cannot.’
‘I promise I shall not revert to the subjects which distressed you in our last interview. We shall go down the entire set in silence if you wish. Indeed,’ he added, raising his brows and beginning to smile, ‘I think I would rather enjoy a little companionable silence between us.’
But still she shook her head. ‘I am afraid I cannot dance with you, Mr Lomax’ she said regretfully. ‘Not now. You see, I have other business on hand. I have set a trap.’
‘A trap?’ he cried in alarm. ‘Whatever are you about now?’
‘Well,’ she explained in a hasty undertone, ‘everyone, here beside the hearth, heard me speaking to you just now. Whoever stole Miss Fenn’s letters now knows there is another yet remaining in her chamber. And I am sure that just as soon as the dancing begins that person will go to find that one last letter.’
‘Oh! And you mean to go to the bedchamber, to see who comes?’
‘Yes. So you see, I cannot dance.’
It hurt her deeply, for, she would have dearly loved to dance with him just once, and, as things stood between them, she might never have another opportunity. But she was sure that Harry Fenn – or his envoy – would go now to retrieve the letter and if she was not there in the room waiting, she would never know the truth about Miss Fenn’s death …