A Gentleman of Fortune (22 page)

He stared at her – momentarily silenced. ‘I do not understand,’ he said at last. ‘Do you believe the writer of the letter wished to plead for Mr Vane?’

‘No. Upon consideration, I do not believe that the writer meant to plead for anyone. Of course while I thought that it was a pair of lovers who were to be considered beyond the restraints of law, I believed the writer to be defending them – from some romantic notion or other. But I cannot conceive of any argument of emotion or reason which could be brought for the excuse of apothecaries. Can you?’

He shook his head.

‘In short, I think the writer meant to do no more than to point me in the direction of Mr Vane.’

‘But you cannot seriously suspect Vane of harming the woman. What could his motive be?’

‘I did not say that I suspect Vane,’ said Dido carefully. ‘I only suggested that the letter might be designed to
make me suspect him
. After all, we have no reason to assume the writer of that letter is either honest, or disinterested.’

He considered a while and at last admitted, ‘It is well reasoned.’ She smiled, extremely well pleased to have carried her point. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘it does not change my opinion that it is dangerous for you to interest yourself in this business. It is for a court to decide. It is their duty to determine the truth, not yours.’

Her spirit rose against that. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, that I cannot accept. I believe it is the duty of all rational men and women to ensure that justice is done.’

‘But our duties must always be proportionate to our powers. You had better leave this matter to those better qualified to deal with it.’

She coloured. ‘You rate my powers very low, Mr Lomax, but I think even you would have to agree that they extend at least to the observation of what is happening around me. You will have noticed that I am neither blind nor deaf.’

Colour rose in his face too. ‘Miss Kent,’ he replied. ‘I do not, for one moment, doubt that you are capable of observing what is passing around you. It is an art you are very practised in. But what I would doubt – what I believe I have cause to doubt – is your power to always interpret correctly and safely the information which you gather from your observation.’

Dido could not trust herself to reply. She feared she might say something in anger which she would later regret.

Meanwhile, he had gained a little control over himself. ‘I fear I am intruding upon your time,’ he said rather stiffly. ‘I am keeping you from your letter.’ He rose from his seat. ‘I hope you will forgive the freedom with which I have spoken. Nothing but my very great concern for your welfare could have induced me to do so.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, also rising. ‘I am grateful for that concern.’

He stared down upon the floor. ‘Last autumn,’ he said. ‘I flattered myself that there was a particular degree of understanding and regard existing between us.’

Dido also was suddenly very interested in looking at the polished wood of the floor.

‘Perhaps you may feel,’ he continued, ‘that that very particular understanding entitles me to advise you. If that is so, my advice – my very strong advice – is that you abandon these enquiries and cease to interest yourself in the business of Mrs Lansdale’s death.’

She said something – though what it was neither she nor he could tell. However, her tone was encouraging enough for him to continue.

‘Of course, after due consideration, you may decide that the degree of acquaintance does not authorise me to interest myself in your well-being. If that is so, I pray you will forget entirely what I have said – and act as you please.’

He was gone, and Dido must endeavour to recover her composure before her cousin’s return. But every kind of reflection served only to increase her agitation.

And, altogether, between pleasure that he should recall a ‘particular understanding’; anger at the authority he supposed that understanding gave him; and confusion over how she should act next, there was no repose to be found for mind or body. She walked restlessly about the room until the walls themselves became oppressive and she was forced to fetch her bonnet and repair to the garden in the hope that fresh air and flowers might soothe her spirits and inform her decisions.

And, out among the roses, a consideration of his last speech soon produced one certainty. He would judge her upon her actions. Continuing to pursue her mystery in defiance of his advice was to be a sign that she did not value his regard. She must choose between affection and curiosity. If she was to retain his esteem, she must adopt his opinions.

She should perhaps not have taken such pleasure over identifying the Shakespearean quotation. As her grandmamma had once told her long ago, ‘Gentlemen most particularly dislike being contradicted. If you know that they are wrong, you had better conceal the truth rather than inform them of it.’

Now, thought Dido as she seated herself in the honeysuckle arbour, in connection with whom had she said it? Was it Mr Powel, the promising young lawyer with expectations of almost a thousand a year? No, on second thoughts, it was the reverend Mr Fawcett, with only seven hundred a year, but a
very
comfortable vicarage. She smiled at the memory. Grandmamma had been almost sure that the seven hundred and the vicarage would be hers; and Dido herself had found Mr Fawcett pleasing – until the regrettable business of the Tudor queens.

The difficulty had arisen because Mr Fawcett was sure that Mary Queen of Scots was sister to Queen Elizabeth. He had been extremely disconcerted when Dido informed him that they were but cousins. And Dido had been even more disconcerted to find that producing a history book and proving her point had not settled the matter at all – or at least had not settled it in the way that she and her grandmother had hoped. For the end of it had been that little Caroline Corner got the comfortable vicarage… And Dido had been left to rejoice in nothing but an accurate understanding of history.

Sitting now in the tranquillity of Flora’s garden, watching yellow and red butterflies busy about the pansies and listening to the bubbling song of a pair of white doves that had perched on the wall behind her, she could smile easily at the memory of Mr Fawcett. But she had to acknowledge that Mr Lomax had much stronger claims, not only upon her affections but also upon the truth.

She was by no means sure that she was entirely in the right this time.

For she had blundered badly over Mrs Neville. And, though she could not believe the things she had uncovered about Mrs Lansdale’s death to be of no value, she could not help but admit that she knew not what to make of them. Perhaps Mr Lomax was right and such matters were better left to the authorities appointed to deal with them.

It was, of course, intolerable that he should so doubt her powers of understanding, when, last autumn, she had proved herself to be greatly his superior in resolving mysteries… And yet it was so very kind of him to worry that she was putting herself in danger. And, since the late discovery about Mrs Neville left her at a loss to know where to turn next in the matter, perhaps she might just as well leave off…

Flora returned from her morning calls to find her cousin walking about the garden in an unusually quiet, desponding mood and she might perhaps have enquired what had happened in her absence – if only she had been able to spare time for it. But Flora was too much occupied with the information which she had to give to do more than remark upon Dido’s paleness, before saying, ‘I have heard such news! I declare, you will never guess it.’

‘I daresay I shall,’ said Dido with no great interest. ‘Everyone is talking about Mr Lansdale’s engagement, I make no doubt.’

‘Oh yes!’ said Flora. ‘As to that, of course, the whole place is alive with it. And, by the by, he has behaved extremely well. He has been to Mrs Midgely, you know, and made everything open.’

‘Well, I am glad to hear it,’ said Dido. ‘It was much to be desired for the sake of Miss Bevan’s reputation. It would not do to have it only a matter of gossip. And what will the poor girl do now? She is not going to Yorkshire?’

‘No. Nothing is decided upon; but she is to go to Windsor tomorrow to stay with some friends.’

‘I am sure that is wise. It cannot be pleasant for her to remain here.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Flora impatiently. ‘But this is not my news. My news is about how the gossip was started!’

‘Oh?’ Flora was pleased to see that she had roused Dido from her strange lethargy. ‘And how was it started?’

‘By Mrs Midgely herself!’ cried Flora.

‘It cannot have been,’ protested Dido.

‘But it was! For Miss Prentice told me all about it. And very distressed she is by it, for she cannot understand why the woman should do such a thing. And no more can I!’

‘Mrs Midgely let out the news of Miss Bevan’s engagement?’

Flora nodded eagerly and took Dido’s arm. As they walked on along the path she explained. ‘Well, you see, Miss Prentice says that it happened in Mrs Clark’s shop yesterday. She says that she and Mrs Midgely were gone into the village upon an errand – to the inn I believe for Miss Bevan, poor thing! was unwell with the headache, and so she had asked them to call at the inn to bespeak her a place in the coach for Yorkshire. And then, Miss Prentice says that after they had accomplished that, Mrs Midgely suddenly took it into her head to visit Mrs Clark’s. So in they went – and no sooner were they in the shop than she – I mean Mrs Midgely of course – fell to talking with Mrs Clark. Of course, Miss Prentice was not supposed to hear what was being said. But she did – for, you know, her hearing is better than you would think. She does not see so clear, but I am sure she hears as well as any creature alive. And so she heard Mrs Midgely telling the shopkeeper of the engagement. “I have long suspected them to be engaged,” she heard her saying. “But now I am quite sure of it”.’

Dido had been changing during this speech: looking more lively and altogether more like herself every moment. ‘Is she quite sure that that is what was said?’ she asked now.

‘Oh yes, she is quite sure.’

‘But, Mrs Midgely must have known that to let the engagement out would endanger Mr Lansdale.’

‘I am sure she must.’

‘But she must also…’ Dido struggled to comprehend all the new ideas which were crowding into her brain. ‘If she knew of the engagement… She must also have known that
Miss Bevan’s
happiness was concerned in the matter.’

‘Exactly so!’ cried Flora. ‘And that is what poor Miss Prentice cannot understand – or forgive.’

‘But…’ Dido sat down abruptly on a bench and stared ahead in a way which Flora found rather alarming. ‘But if she has “long suspected” the engagement, then she has known – she has known all along – that Mary’s
well-being
– her whole future and happiness – depend upon Mr Lansdale. And yet here has she been maligning him! Accusing him of murder. Practically consigning him to the gallows! She has knowingly been ruining not only his prospects but Mary’s too. How could she be so unfeeling to a girl who is almost a daughter to her?’ She pressed both hands to her mouth: her eyes widened as the full meaning of the news bore in upon her.

‘Dido, what is it? Please do not look so strange! What are you thinking of?’

She lowered her hands. ‘I am thinking,’ she said inexplicably, ‘of a violin: a violin hanging behind a door.’