Place of Confinement (15 page)

The character which she gave the absent young lady is, I believe, of the first importance. And this I have some cause to rely upon. For Miss Emma’s description of ‘cautious’ accords very well with the opinions of Mr Lancelot and Mrs Bailey – both of whom have described Miss Verney as ‘sensible’. They have both – in their own ways – expressed to me the same surprise that the young lady should run away. And so it would seem that in suddenly removing herself from Charcombe Manor, Miss Verney was acting against her character.

So, what might have prompted a normally cautious girl to behave so very incautiously? Did love overpower her reason?

Miss Fenstanton, of course, has assured me that Miss Verney is
not
in love with Tom Lomax – that she doubts his character, believes him to be mercenary. But upon this point Miss Emma’s testimony stands alone …

And it is rather contradicted by Mr Tom’s own behaviour. When I spoke to him upon the promenade, everything about him declared his belief in the young lady’s affection …

Has she deluded him?

Such a delusion would accord well with Miss Fenstanton’s tale of a trick, though it does not make the execution of that trick any less impossible.

Well, I must seek further information on this point. I shall apply to Miss Gibbs; I shall ask
her
opinion as to whether her friend is genuinely attached to Tom Lomax.

I have already pursued one little enquiry which Miss Emma’s information suggested. I was particularly struck by her account of Miss Gibbs complaining that the stable clock was slow. When I walked out just now I visited the stable yard and found that the clock was indeed telling the wrong time. I asked young Charlie about it and he confirmed that ‘it’s almost allus slow, miss. I puts it right every Thursday morning but by Friday that’s starting to get behind agin.’

I consider this information to be of the greatest significance – but I do not yet know exactly what to make of it.

Well, it is half after seven now and I am in hopes of finding the stairs and gallery empty. But, before I leave you, I shall just mention another little problem which is disturbing my poor brain: the fishwives.

During our dance I broached this subject with Mr Lancelot – suggested to him that a rumour of Miss Verney’s disappearance might have spread despite his best efforts. But he was sanguine, quite certain that the matter had not been bruited abroad. So I cannot help but wonder how those two women in Old Charcombe came to know about it.

Well, I must be about my business. But I shall leave this letter open so that I may tell you of anything I find in the east wing …

*   *   *

When Dido crept along the passageway from her room and stepped onto the gallery, she saw that the hall below was deserted – except for Miss Fenstanton who was just disappearing once more into her favourite room: the library.

She paused for a moment leaning on the rail of the gallery, wondering – and not for the first time – just why Miss Emma visited the library so very often. She never seemed to take any book from it …

But the sounds of wakening in the bedchambers behind her roused her abruptly from this rather interesting consideration, reminding her to make the most of the opportunity for getting into the east wing unobserved.

She hastened forward, moving as quietly as she could. She had almost reached the door which led into the deserted part of the house, when a voice called from the hall below.

‘Ha! Miss Kent. I thought I heard the sound of your little feet!’

She turned with a sinking heart to find Mr Lancelot Fenstanton just emerging from his business room at the back of the hall.

‘I wonder if I might intrude upon your valuable time,’ he said, and there was nothing to be done but to smile and descend reluctantly.

Mr Lancelot stood for a moment in the shadow of the stairs and ran a troubled hand through his hair. His face was once more that of a little boy unhappily engaged upon his lesson. ‘I have a visitor in my room,’ he said, almost in a whisper.

‘It is very early for callers.’

‘But this caller does not wish to be seen by my guests. Nor,’ he added hastily, ‘do I wish it. For I think they would be angry with me for admitting him.’

Dido was intrigued. ‘But you do not fear my anger?’ she said.

‘No, no. For I’ll tell you what, Miss Kent, I rather fancy you and I understand one another. I am sure
you
will agree that it’s only humane to talk to the gentleman.’

Dido was wondering a little about this confidence which he seemed to place in her, when he swept all such thoughts from her head by adding, ‘My visitor is Mr William Lomax.’

She was dimly aware of Mr Fenstanton explaining that Mr Lomax had come to talk over the danger in which his son presently stood; and that, understanding Dido to have met the young man yesterday, he had asked particularly if he might speak with her. But the greater part of her attention was taken up with the thought that Mr Lomax was here, now, in the house.

‘You do not wish to see him?’ asked Mr Lancelot, misunderstanding her hesitation. ‘Please do not distress yourself! You need not be bothered by him. Why! Just say the word and I’ll have the footmen throw the fellow bodily from the house!’

Laughing in spite of herself, Dido assured him that there was no need to summon his men – she was, in fact, very happy to talk to Mr Lomax who was ‘an old acquaintance. And,’ she added more seriously as they both turned towards the door of his room, ‘I am very grateful for your liberality in admitting him.’

She entered the untidy, masculine little room, with a multitude of emotions boiling within her. But, from the moment she saw Mr Lomax rising hastily from the high-backed chair beside the hearth, everything else was swallowed up in concern. There was such a pallor to his well-cut features, such suffering gravity in the solemn grey eyes as inflicted an almost physical pain upon her.

Hardly knowing what she was about, she hurried forward with hands outstretched. She recollected herself and made her curtsey just in time; but never before had she wished so fervently that she had consented to their engagement – for only such a connection could authorise her to go to him now, to comfort him as she longed to do.

She held out her hand, he folded it firmly in his own.

‘It is very kind of you to agree to see me, Miss Kent,’ he said with a formality which was all for their host, while the pressure of his hand spoke a warmer greeting.

‘I am in my way to visit my son – in the village lock-up,’ he said when they were all seated. ‘And Mr Fenstanton has told me that you saw him yesterday – before the constables … that is, before we learnt of Mr Brodie’s death.’

‘I did.’

‘And how did he seem?’ The words burst out of him. ‘Did he seem worried? Apprehensive? Did he seem as if…?’ He stopped, unable to continue.

There was a silence, broken only by the cracking of sticks in the newly lit fire.

Mr Lancelot rose to his feet. ‘Perhaps,’ he said courteously, ‘this painful discussion would be easier without a looker-on.’ And, when neither of his guests opposed the suggestion, he withdrew.

As the door closed behind him, Dido abandoned propriety – and her chair. She drew a footstool close beside Mr Lomax, and, sitting down upon it, looked up into his eyes. They were fearful and wretched, clouded with pain. In the leaping light of the flames, the muscles of his throat moved. He swallowed hard, sought her hand and held it tightly. ‘Tom has but four days,’ he stammered. ‘On Saturday the judges will arrive in Exeter to hold the county assizes. He will be tried … and…’ He was unable to go on.

‘He is innocent,’ said Dido with every ounce of certainty she could find within her, abandoning every doubt, determined to make him believe it; determined almost to
make
Tom innocent – if that was what was needed to ease his father’s pain. Because this pain
had
to be relieved. She could not bear to look upon it. The near approach of the trial was a great shock to her, but she was determined to give no hint of it in her manner. ‘I know he is innocent,’ she said calmly. ‘We shall prove that he is.’

‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘No,
I
shall prove it. I do not wish you to be concerned in this business any more than is absolutely necessary.’

‘You are too cruel!’

‘Cruel?’ His brows shot up as surprise pierced through his misery.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Could
you
bear to stand by and do nothing if you saw
me
unhappy? Would you not wish to do all that you could to put things right?’

He simply shook his head – unwilling to argue with her.

‘You know you would.’

‘And
you
know,’ he said, succumbing to dispute in spite of himself, ‘what my reply must be. Our roles cannot be reversed. It is only natural that a man should face danger and exertion for a woman he esteems. But no man of honour would allow a lady to be drawn into trouble on his behalf.’

‘And what if the lady wishes to be drawn into trouble?’

‘In that case, the gentleman must protect her from her own poor judgement.’

‘Then the gentleman is a blockhead!’

‘I thank you for the compliment.’

Their eyes locked and they sat for a minute in uneasy silence.

‘If you do not require my help,’ she asked at last, ‘why have you come here?’

He made no answer, but only put his hand to his brow.

‘I have you there, have I not?’

‘Ah! But I did not actually deny that I wished for your
help,
’ he attempted. ‘I only said that I would take upon myself the entire
danger
of proving my son innocent…’

‘This is sophistry!’ she cried. ‘Admit that you need me!’

He only smiled and shook his head. He had never yet admitted that she had won an argument – and she doubted that he ever would (though she was determined not to cease trying for it).

‘I will admit,’ he said, ‘that your
information
might be very useful to me. Will you tell me about your meeting with Tom yesterday?’

She gave up the point (for the time being) and began her account – taking care to dwell upon every detail which showed his son to have been at ease and completely unsuspicious of the calamity which was about to befall him. Lomax listened with lids half veiling his eyes, his chin set firmly – like a man enduring pain in silence. She noticed the bruised appearance of his cheekbones again and it hurt her badly. She made up her mind to avoid quarrelling with him if she possibly could.

As she at last faltered into silence, he turned a searching look upon her. ‘Tom asked for your assistance?’

‘Yes.’

‘In God’s name! My son is the most selfish—’ He broke off and sat for some time with his hand to his brow, and such a look upon his face as must silence Dido. So very painful a combination of anger and concern was something which only a parent could comprehend, and she could only watch it with silent respect.

‘Tom has placed me in an impossible situation,’ he confessed at last. ‘Against all my wishes I have no choice. I
must
ask a further favour of you.’

‘Oh?’

He spread his hands helplessly. ‘He will not see me. He will not allow me to visit him unless…’

‘Unless?’

‘Unless I bring you to him.’

Though she did not doubt that Tom’s reasons were selfish, she was exceedingly grateful for his insistence. But she looked down demurely – it would not do to exult. He was quite capable of changing his mind and denying Tom’s request. ‘Then I shall come with you straightaway,’ she said.

‘No!’ he cried, aghast. ‘I do not yet know how he is housed – what manner of place the gaol is. I must at least be sure it is fit for you to visit.’

The impulse of romance was to cry out that she did not care – that she would go into the darkest, most wretched prison in the world for his sake. But romance is not always kind. Such a statement would only exalt herself at his expense – and do nothing at all to make him comfortable. Upon this point it was better not to argue.

‘I shall make enquiries about the gaol directly,’ he said, jumping to his feet with an air of renewed purpose. ‘And then I must continue the search for the young lady.’ He paused with his hand upon the back of the chair. ‘I understand that Mr Fenstanton has written to the intimate friend in Worcestershire. So I think I had better seek out Miss Verney’s other acquaintance. This morning I shall ride to Taunton and speak to her teachers and fellow pupils at the school there. Perhaps one of them may have information to give.’

‘That is a good thought,’ said Dido, rising from her stool and accompanying him to the door. But, before they parted, she laid her hand upon his arm. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘it might be as well to make enquiries about Miss Verney’s
character
too.’

‘Her character?’

‘Yes. I hear such very contradictory accounts of her within this house. I fear that some of my informants are not telling the truth. But her teachers in particular – if they have had charge of her for some years – should be able to say whether she is the kind of young lady to elope; or to tell what other cause might make her run away.’

Chapter Sixteen

Dido understood Mr Lomax too well to press for an immediate visit to the gaol; but the waiting was painful. After he was gone – hurrying away before the other house guests were stirring – she found it absolutely necessary to pace about the hall, railing inwardly against the inconveniences which delicacy places upon the female sex; though her rational mind could not help but concede that, of all the hardships endured by womankind, this sort of anxious protection was the most kindly intentioned.

She was longing to talk to Tom. She wished to be ‘getting on’, as she expressed it to herself. There was so little time, and what could she do, shut up here in the house…?

By chance, as this impatient thought crossed her mind, she found that she had come to the foot of the staircase and, looking up it, she remembered her plan for visiting the mysterious east wing.