gallery, where the sun was shining greenish through the curtains of creeper which hung about the arches.
‘Does not a feeling of cold always accompany the appearance of a ghost?’ she asked, leaning against the old stones and the thick, twisting stems of ivy.
‘Why, you do not mean to say that you believe in such things?’ he objected. ‘What of reason, Miss Kent? What of that rational view of the world which I know you hold as dear as I do myself?’
‘But I am being perfectly rational.’ She looked up at him, her head on one side, intent upon teasing away some of his gravity. ‘There is reason enough for that coldness at the head of the stairs! It is the draught of air which blows just there. And you know,’ she added, ‘now that I consider the matter, I rather wonder whether a great deal of what Lucy would call an “unearthly feeling” and “an atmosphere of evil” might not be explained away by an unpleasant draught of air.’
‘I will not,’ he said firmly, ‘believe that Miss Lambe was frightened into falling by a cold draught!’
‘Oh but she was! For it is extremely strong. And you must remember that the day of Penelope’s accident was even windier than today. I remember, when I looked back from the bottom of the stairs, the wind was so strong just there at the end of the gallery that Harriet’s bonnet was almost blowing away, and her cap too.’
‘And the draught called a ghost into being?’ he said, raising his brows.
‘It did indeed! I did not realise it at first, because, you see,
‘And why was James Laurence so very interested in a ghost?’
‘Well, you must remember that Captain Laurence suspected Penelope was the daughter of Miss Fenn. But he could find no confirmation of it. And so he had introduced her to the Crockfords – and caused her to come to Madderstone – in the hope that she would encounter ghosts. In short, he hoped that her being here would cause her to remember something of her earliest years.’
‘Because such a memory would confirm his theories?’ Despite himself, he was beginning to look less severe – and more interested.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And, of course, within a few days of being here, Penelope fell from the gallery – in very mysterious circumstances: causing the good captain to wonder whether her fall had anything to do with her history.’
‘And was there any such connection?’
‘Oh yes, there was. But he and I were both rather stupid about finding it out. You see, we both noticed that the lake – the place in which the bones rested – is visible from this gallery.’
‘No, no,’ he objected quickly, ‘she could not have seen the bones from such a distance.’
‘Of course she could not. That is precisely my point! Look!’ she gestured to the view beyond the arches of the gallery: the looming walls and broken outline of the great window; a glimpse of the pool; red-, yellow- and copper- coloured trees; an expanse of blue sky with an arrow-shaped formation of wild geese rippling across it. ‘We are too high up here to see any details,’ she said. ‘Penelope certainly could not have seen anything of significance in the grounds. But both Captain Laurence and I wasted a great deal of time in wondering whether she had. And that prevented us from examining the simple facts of the matter.’
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘and what are these simple facts?’
‘There are – I see now – only two facts to consider. First of all, there are Penelope’s words “I saw her”. And, secondly, there is the absolute certainty that there was no one in the gallery – except
He stared, pressed the tips of his fingers together. ‘You believe that Miss Lambe recognised her sister at that moment?’
‘I am quite sure that she did.’
‘But why? For it would seem she had never recognised Miss Crockford – or any other member of her family before.’
‘It was because of that draught of air. As I explained, it was blowing away Harriet’s cap and bonnet. And, as I have often observed myself, without them she looks positively
He rested his chin upon the tips of his fingers – thinking deeply, but saying nothing.
‘Lucy told me once,’ continued Dido, becoming more serious, ‘that Penelope remembered her mother bending over her cradle when she was a baby. Of course, that was impossible. Penelope’s mother died when she was born. It was, in fact, Harriet’s face she remembered. The face of the young Harriet. It was the first face she learnt to love. And it was that face which was suddenly revealed to the poor girl here on the gallery that day – a ghost indeed!’
She looked up at him eagerly. But his profile was dark against the bright sky, framed by an arch of grey stone. She wished very much that she might know just what he was thinking, for the moment was come … She could no longer delay telling him of her decision.
‘Mr Lomax,’ she said quietly, ‘you asked me just now whether I meant to do anything to bring justice about. Well, I would not wish you to think that I am motivated only by an insatiable curiosity. I do care deeply for what is right and I do certainly mean to bring about justice.’ She hesitated. ‘I mean to bring about a woman’s justice.’
He looked at her uncertainly. ‘And how does that differ from a man’s?’
‘It is humane,’ she said, ‘and concerns itself not with agreements drawn up to impoverish women for the enrichment of their male relations; it concerns itself instead with the plight of a girl sent away from her home to grow up among strangers simply because she was not the boy that everyone wished her to be.’
‘You are referring I suppose to Miss Lambe.’
‘Yes. Penelope must be allowed to come home,’ she said with great decision.
‘Must she? And how is that to be achieved?’
‘In the simplest, most natural way possible. All that is needed is for Harriet to cease opposing Silas’s wishes and Penelope will come home to Ashfield as his bride. I have conditioned for it, you see. I have told Harriet I will only surrender the silver buttons to her on their wedding day.’
He gazed steadily at her for several minutes. Sunlight and the shadows of leaves shifted across his face as the wind blew about the hanging curtain of ivy. ‘And this,’ he said, ‘is your notion of justice?’
‘Yes it is.’ She drew a long breath. ‘And, I believe that when you consider how different – how very different – it is from yours … I think you will agree that …’ She looked away quickly. ‘I think you will agree that our opinions upon some very important subjects will always differ – that they never can be reconciled.’
‘Because you will always argue like a woman?’
‘And you will always argue like a man.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Your notion of a woman’s sphere distinct and separate from a man’s was all too correct, Mr Lomax. I believe our experiment was, from the first, doomed to failure because there is an established barrier – a kind of chasm – between men and women which our words can never cross.’
‘And there must of course be words?’ he said raising one eyebrow.
‘Oh yes,’ she insisted – and the quiet propriety of the previous Mrs Lomax was very much in her mind as she spoke. ‘I am afraid that for me there must always be words. I never could exist in silence – and that I fear makes me essentially unsuited to the state of matrimony.’
He stood brooding for a very long time. And she waited, her gloved hands resting upon the ancient stones of the gallery’s balustrade, her eyes fixed upon a bright beech tree in the park from which showers of leaves were being blown against the sky. She half-regretted their doomed experiment – it had perhaps made her understand herself too well.
‘I believe,’ said Lomax slowly at last, ‘that there is a fault in your reasoning.’ She looked up and saw that the tips of his fingers were just pressing against one another. ‘I will not dispute the existence of such a divide,’ he said. ‘Its presence has recently been too painfully obtruded upon my notice for me to doubt its reality. Yet I continue to believe that – were you to do me the honour of becoming my wife – we could be happy together. For, though our words may not cross that divide, I believe our affection might.’
‘No,’ she shook her head wretchedly. ‘It would not, Mr Lomax. It could not. For affection would all be lost in irritation and anger.’
