A Woman of Consequence (12 page)

The colour deepened on the clergyman’s face and he looked up at last, scowling stubbornly. ‘I am very well aware of how the young woman appeared to her neighbours,’ he said with considerable force. ‘But appearances can deceive, Miss Kent. The Lord God looks not upon appearances but upon the secrets of our hearts.’

‘Yes, I am sure He does,’ said Dido – but she was more concerned to know whether, in this case, the Reverend Mr Portinscale had looked upon the secrets of the heart. Was he suggesting that he knew something to Miss Fenn’s disadvantage?

Meanwhile the clergyman appeared to be considering. At last he raised his eyes to hers with a look of determination. ‘Miss Kent, I have been at a loss to know what I should do – what it is
right
for me to do – in the face of your extraordinary determination to continue upon your enquiries, in spite of the very strong advice you have been given to desist. I am afraid that you leave me with no alternative but to be a great deal more
explicit
upon this subject than one would wish to be with a gently reared lady.’

‘Oh!’ A gently reared lady ought, of course, to disclaim immediately – to prevent him from continuing. Dido did not; she waited instead – with considerable eagerness – for him to be explicit …

He sighed, deeply and with great disapproval. ‘The woman you are interesting yourself about,’ he said stiffly, ‘was not at all what she appeared to be – she was not what she
ought
to be. Her religious principles were a pretence.
She was, I fear, capable of anything – even of destroying the life which the Good Lord had seen fit to bestow upon her.’

‘Oh?’ Dido waited for more, but he appeared to have finished speaking. ‘Oh, but I cannot believe it!’ she cried provokingly, watching his face for a response. ‘The world could not be so deceived! There is no proof of her wickedness.’

‘There is indeed proof! There is the proof of her own words!’ he stopped, aware that she had driven him too far and looking about for a way in which to retract.

‘That is a very serious accusation,’ said Dido quietly.

‘But it is a well-founded one.’

She raised her brows – she would not be so discourteous as to say she doubted him, but there was disbelief in every line of her face.

‘I cannot give you my proof, Miss Kent, without disclosing matters … of a personal nature.’

‘I would not wish to make you uncomfortable, Mr Portinscale. But you may rely entirely upon my discretion – and I confess myself to be very surprised by your poor opinion of a woman who is spoken of so very highly by the whole neighbourhood.’

He sighed again. ‘There was a time,’ he said, ‘when I was more disposed to admire her than anyone else.’ He stared down at the thin hands clasped upon his knee. ‘I asked her to be my wife,’ he said quietly. ‘And it was then I discovered …’

‘Yes?’

‘It was then that she confessed to … another attachment.’

‘Miss Fenn was engaged to another man?’

‘No,’ he replied stiffly, ‘she was not. She spoke of an attachment and, when I asked …’ He stopped, cleared his throat, seemed to force himself to go on. ‘When I asked if I should … soon suffer the pain of witnessing her marriage to another man, she told me – with decision – that, no, that would never happen. I should never witness her marriage.’

‘Oh dear …’

‘In short, Miss Kent, it was an improper attachment – one of which she should have been ashamed, against which she should have struggled – but which she preferred over an honourable offer …’ He stopped. His face was now very red and his clasped hands were tapping up and down upon his knees.

Dido watched him with concern – a little ashamed of herself for forcing the confidence. She was wondering how best to soothe him when Rebecca made her appearance with the news that Francis was returned and awaiting his visitor in the library.

The gentleman jumped up immediately, very glad to hurry away – though he very much regretted the necessity, and was greatly obliged to her for the honour she had done him in bestowing her time upon him …

And she was left alone, watching his narrow black back retreating through the fruit trees and wondering very much about his response. The information he had given was not new to her – though she was rather surprised to find that the lady had spoken so …
explicitly
.

But the great revelation of the interview was Mr Portinscale’s palpable emotion.

There had been such an air, not only of the resentment
which she had expected, but also of very great suffering. He had been so badly hurt by the rejection that there could be no doubt of his having deeply loved Elinor Fenn. And furthermore, he had believed that she returned his affection. He must have done, for he had been sorely disappointed by her refusal. And disappointment had found expression in cruel resentment.

The pale autumn sun warmed the sheltered corner of the orchard, raising a sweet scent from overripe fruit lying in the long grass. But, all of a sudden, there seemed to be something of melancholy in the mellow warmth – and in the singing of a blackbird on the roof of the moss hut.

Dido was deeply affected to discover that Mr Portinscale’s insistence upon the poor woman’s eternal punishment – her casting out from God’s grace – arose not, as she had thought, from narrow, unbending piety, but from thwarted, human love. She pitied him from her heart – she even wondered whether there had perhaps been a more general souring of his character. Perhaps it had been this injury which had turned the handsome young clergyman capable of preaching eloquently upon such a text as ‘husbands love your wives’ into the dry, narrow moralist that he was today …

And yet she could not excuse him. It was wrong: it was monstrous and hypocritical to use religion in inexorable punishment of a personal slight.

Deep in thought, Dido sewed carelessly, putting untidy stitches into the cravat which her fastidious brother would be sure to remark upon later.

The interview with Mr Portinscale troubled her greatly.

She recollected that her original task – the justification for beginning enquiries – was the removal of Miss Fenn’s grave. And that removal lay within the parson’s gift. If she was correct in supposing his resentment and disappointment were the main causes of his consigning the corpse to unhallowed ground, then overcoming that resentment was a matter of first importance.

But how was it to be accomplished? How was he to be worked upon? A man tormented by an old unrequited love was a formidable opponent. He would not easily be won over.

At the opening of their interview there had seemed to be some hope. He had certainly been fearful of offending Mrs Harman-Foote. She could not help but wonder why he was so very anxious for the lady’s good opinion.

Her hands stilled upon her work and she looked through the arching curtain of yellow damson leaves to the bow window of the library, dimly perceiving two
figures within. What was Mr Portinscale’s business with her brother? she wondered. Was it perhaps connected with this anxiety over Mrs Harman-Foote?

Now that she considered the matter, she acknowledged that it was rather strange to see Mr Portinscale here at Badleigh Vicarage. For, although they were close neighbours, the two clergymen were, most certainly, not friends: Mr Portinscale being of rather an evangelical turn of mind which did not suit Francis Kent at all.

Suddenly restless, Dido jumped to her feet, picked up her workbasket and started towards the house.

She would not, of course, be so dishonourable as to try to overhear the gentlemen’s conversation … But she might, perhaps, gain a sight of the visitor as he left and be able to judge something of his mood …

As she passed the library window she caught a glimpse of Francis sitting beside his desk – and Mr Portinscale pacing about on the carpet. And then, as she came into the hall from the garden door – and just paused for a moment in the shadow of the stairs – she saw that the library door was standing ajar.

She became suddenly very dissatisfied with the lacing of her boot; she put her basket on the hall table and stooped down to put the lace to rights … And, as she was doing so, Mr Portinscale’s voice rang out very clearly from the library.

‘In God’s name, Kent! You have been in my situation; you know how difficult it is. Will you not put in a good word for me?’

‘It would have no effect,’ came in her brother’s calmer voice. ‘He is the master of Madderstone and will have all
his own way. You had much better confess the truth.’

‘Please! I beg you!’ cried Mr Portinscale. Then he seemed to recollect himself and began to speak more quietly.

Dido lifted her face, struggling to catch the words. And, rather unluckily, it was just at this moment that Mr Lomax, rounded the corner of the stairs – and saw her.

Her little round face was tilted and sunlight from the stairs’ window showed cheeks glowing with fresh air, a curl escaping from her cap onto the softness of her neck and wide green eyes which had all the eagerness – though not perhaps the innocence – of a child’s.

‘Miss Kent! Whatever are you about?’ The blunt words were just saved from discourtesy by the unmistakable affection in his voice.

She looked up, blushed and began to stammer out an account of coming in from the garden … and noticing that her bootlace was unfastened and being obliged to stop just here … and put down her workbasket … and …

He raised his brows. His eyes strayed to the library door.

‘I was not …’ she began, but before she could say any more, the door of the parlour opened and Margaret sallied forth, dressed in her outdoor clothes and just pulling her gloves onto her hands.

‘Oh there you are Dido!’ she cried and stopped as she noticed her guest upon the stairs. She acknowledged him with a brief nod, before turning her attention back to her sister-in-law. ‘I have been looking for you this last half-hour and I assure you I can very ill spare the time. For I absolutely
must
pay my visits this morning; I am
quite ashamed of how I am neglecting my neighbours. But now I find the apple pies are still to be made, and I would be very much obliged to you, if
you
would just spare a moment or two to speak to Rebecca about them and see that they are done. It will not take above ten minutes I am sure and then you may enjoy your walking about and letter-writing as much as you please.’

And so Dido was obliged to quit the hall, without being able either to hear the end of the conversation in the library or to assure Mr Lomax that she had not been listening to it. And, as she started down the chilly stone passage to the kitchen, she did not know which circumstance to regret more.

What was the situation which Francis had shared with Mr Portinscale? And why did Mr Portinscale wish Francis to intercede with Mr Harman-Foote? And did this matter relate at all to Mr Portinscale’s anxiety over offending that gentleman’s wife? These were questions which must occur and yet to even ask them was to feel ashamed. She was mortified to have been discovered by Mr Lomax in so base an act as listening
at
a door … Well, she told herself comfortingly, she had not actually been at the door. She had been on quite the opposite side of the hall; her ear had not been pressed to the lock …

But still, she could not be comfortable about it. She ought not to have done it. This was curiosity at its most inexcusable. And he had known what she was about. The skin upon her neck prickled with discomfort at the thought.

She pushed open the kitchen door and stepped into warmth and the smell of damson jam. At the wide,
scrubbed table, Rebecca was just securing the lids upon the last of the pots.

Dido delivered her message and then, obligingly, sat down at the table to peel apples while the maid carried away the jam to the pantry and began upon making pastry.

It was a rather peaceful place in which to think, well away from Margaret’s intrusions – and the observation of Mr Lomax. The air was sweet with the scent of fruit and sugar and the bundles of drying rosemary and mint which hung above the table. An outer door was standing open upon the kitchen garden and pale October sunlight was streaming across the scrubbed flagstones, bringing with it a smell of warm damp earth and scraps of song from a particularly impertinent blackbird who now and then bobbed up to peer curiously into the room.

Slowly Dido began to regain her composure and, as she watched the long green curls fall away from her knife, she told herself that she must never, never again let her curiosity lead her into impropriety …

‘That’s odd Mr Portinscale coming to see the master, ain’t it, miss?’ remarked Rebecca as she spooned flour into her bowl.

Dido’s knife stilled. She looked up to see Rebecca with her round red face tilted questioningly, waiting for encouragement to go on. She resumed her peeling. ‘Yes,’ she said offhandedly, ‘I suppose it is. He does not often come.’

‘He ain’t a great one for visiting at all.’

‘Is he not?’

‘No, I reckon he thinks most folks are a bit too sinful for him to want to go visiting them.’ Rebecca paused a moment in her spooning and gave a quick half-smile.

‘He is certainly a very severe moralist,’ Dido acknowledged. And she smiled back – though she knew she was breaking one of her grandmother’s strictest rules and ‘being familiar with servants’.

‘Ah yes, miss,’ said Rebecca significantly, ‘he’s certainly got a great deal to say about
other folk’s
sins.’

And that, reflected Dido, was the great danger of breaking strict rules: it so often achieved precisely what one wanted … She could not resist. It was clear that Rebecca was full of some gossip which she was quite longing to share. Despite the resolution she had taken only minutes before, she leant a little closer across the table. ‘Do you suspect that he is … a little less harsh upon himself?’ she asked.

‘Well, it ain’t my place to say, of course, but I can’t help feeling that’s a bit odd – him being such a great one for the ten commandments …’ Rebecca nodded significantly and began to work lard very vigorously into the flour, with the air of one who has a great deal she could say – if only she were not so charitable.

Dido took another apple from the basket, cut into its thick waxy skin – and waited. Now that she was begun, Rebecca would not be able to stop herself.

‘… Well it is one of the commandments, ain’t it?’ Rebecca continued, half to herself, but with one questioning eye upon her companion.

‘To which commandment are you referring?’

‘Thou shalt not steal.’

‘Indeed!’ Dido’s knife stopped again. She stared at Rebecca. ‘Are you suggesting that Mr Portinscale has been stealing?’

Immediately Rebecca looked frightened. ‘You won’t tell anyone I said it, will you, miss?’

‘No, no, of course I shall not. But are you sure of it? What has he stolen?’

Rebecca looked about her, as if she feared that the black-leaded range, or the clothes-horse, or even the coffee grinder, might somehow be concealing spies. When she was quite satisfied that they were alone, she dusted the flour off her hands. ‘Cake!’ she whispered.

‘Cake?’ The notion of the dry, severe clergyman purloining – and secretly devouring – cake was delightful, but scarcely believable. ‘Cake?’

‘And pie.’ Rebecca smiled as she poured a little water into her bowl and began to stir. ‘No end of it gone from the pantry, so his housekeeper says. Right angry she was about it and ready to beat the skin off the back of the poor boot boy. And then she found crumbs!’

‘Crumbs?’

‘In the reverend’s study.’ Rebecca shook a little flour onto the scrubbed wood of the table, lifted her pastry out of its bowl and took up her rolling pin. ‘Now, what do you say to that then? Stealing cake out of his own pantry!’ (It was clear that, to Rebecca, the fact that it was his
own
pantry only compounded the crime.)

‘It is quite … extraordinary.’

‘It certainly is. And another extr’ordin’ry thing is he ain’t getting no fatter for it – nor is he stinting himself on his meals neither.’ She set about her rolling, nodding sagely. ‘If you ask me, that looks like he’s
feeding someone
– secret like, you know.’