A moment of silence

hand on its damp stone lip and the rush and splash of it mixing with the solemn tone of the bell, when she saw Mr William Lomax coming down from the front door to meet her.

And the shocked look upon his face told her that something of great moment had happened.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Belsfield Hall.

Wednesday, 9th October 1805

My dear Eliza,

Do you remember how Edward used to tell us that we should beware of believing something simply because it was written in a book? Well, I daresay that these last few days have been very useful to you in extending that lesson and I expect that you now know not to believe a thing simply because it is written in a letter.

For it cannot have escaped the attention of such a clever woman that, quite contrary to the information in my last note, neither Catherine nor I have arrived at Badleigh. We are, in point of fact, still here in the lap of luxury at Belsfield and expect to remain here a while.

You see, everything has changed here. And the greatest change is one that I ought, properly, to write of with great sorrow. But the truth is that I feel no sorrow at all and can aspire to nothing more than shock – though the shock is profound.

For, the long and the short of it is, Eliza, that Sir Edgar Montague is dead.

It is true. He was found dead in his bed two days ago and Mr Bartley, who has been in attendance, declares that he was taken with a seizure in the night and died quickly and painlessly. That last I am sure is merely a comfort for his widow, for I cannot believe that Mr Bartley – or anyone else – can judge the exact nature of a seizure by only looking at the mortal remains. However, he talks very wisely of bile and a weakness of the heart and a sudden crisis and I know not what, and we all listen and pretend that we are as wise as he appears to be. But, like the old gentleman at Lyme, I have no great faith in physicians.

Nor, I find, does Mr William Lomax. At least, not in this case. For neither he nor I can forget that someone was listening to our conversation in the morning room. Mr Lomax is of the opinion that Sir Edgar, knowing that his crime had been discovered, took his own life by drinking laudanum – to preserve his family from the shame of a trial. It is a belief which puts the best possible light upon the event and, since Mr Lomax finds comfort in it, I do not speak against it.

He has had enough trouble these last two days in attempting to bring some order to this shocked household, for all the business of the death has fallen upon him. Her ladyship has kept to her room with a sleeping draught of Mr Bartley’s. Mr Harris – who might, from his position in the family, have been fairly expected to assist him – has done little but ‘support the spirits of his poor wife’ – which support has consisted chiefly of listening to her foolish prosings – and the rest of the household seems to be beyond anything but staring at one another and gossiping. Margaret, it is true, has been so kind as to send an express to Francis, and takes every opportunity of assuring Mr Lomax that he will be of inestimable use, when he arrives. He bears her assurances with great patience and meanwhile proceeds with the all the correspondence and arrangements that are necessary at such a time.

As you may imagine, I have been very unwilling to add to his difficulties, but I had to talk very seriously with him – my duty to Catherine demanded it…

She had, in fact, lain in wait for him some time in the hooded chair in the hall, and, upon him just crossing from the stairs to the library, she had delayed him with, ‘Mr Lomax, may I ask a favour of you?’

He stopped, his broad shoulders slightly stooping with weariness, his brow furrowed, and one finger tapping restlessly upon the bundle of papers that he carried; but with his head courteously inclined towards her. ‘Of course you may, Miss Kent. I shall be very happy to oblige you.’

‘Oh dear, I rather doubt that. You see…’ She glanced quickly about the hall to be sure that they were not overheard. But all the company, except her ladyship, seemed now to be gathered in the drawing room. She continued in a lower voice. ‘You see, Mr Lomax, I am afraid I must ask you to break a promise which I am sure you have given. In short, I do not wish you to allow the late Sir Edgar’s secrets to survive him.’

The effect upon the gentleman was striking. His face became pale and his eyes wary. He too looked about him to be sure that they were alone. ‘We had better talk about this in the library,’ he said abruptly and, stepping to the door, he held it open for her. She walked in and he closed the door behind them. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘can you explain what you mean by this extraordinary request?’

It was some time before she could collect her thoughts. She took a seat beside the curtained window and looked about the gloomy candlelit room. Between the high, shadowy shelves of leather-bound books was a large table strewn with documents and writing materials where he had been working. Like every other part of the house, the room seemed heavy with a sense of mourning and that shocked confusion which always follows sudden death.

Among the many sensations crowding in upon her was a great reluctance to speak and a fear of losing his regard. And, which was perhaps worse, there was a fear, too, that, when this interview was done, she would no longer be able to respect him. Her eyes strayed to the pile of correspondence on the table: some letters lay open for their ink to dry, some were already folded and sealed; there was a scattering of sand still lying on some of the papers and a candle and a block of red sealing-wax were beside them; there was a faint smell of hot wax mixing with the dusty scent of old books.

‘You have written to Mr Richard Montague?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘I believe him to be in town – at Mr Pollard’s lodgings. I have sent to him there.’

‘You have asked him to come home and take his place as head of this household?’

He stood for several moments watching her levelly; then he sat himself down beside the table, pressed the tips of his fingers together and rested his chin thoughtfully upon them. He said nothing.

She forced herself to press the point. ‘Have you, Mr Lomax?’ The silence stretched between them. ‘Have you asked him to take what is not his?’

She waited. Outside on the lawns a peacock screeched harshly but there was no other sound; just that blanketing silence of mourning which is made of the absence of music and laughter and loud voices.

‘Richard Montague,’ he said at last, ‘will act as he sees fit.’

‘Richard Montague is a very young man; he is inexperienced and I rather think that he will be guided by your advice.’ She paused. ‘What advice will you give him, Mr Lomax? Will you tell him to follow his conscience, or will you suggest that he should fall in with his dead father’s wishes and take the fortune to which he has no rightful claim?’

‘No claim?’ His eyes narrowed a little. ‘Now, why do you say that he has no claim?’

‘Why indeed? Mr Lomax,’ she said, meeting his eye. ‘How can a young man – an heir to a great estate – lose, in the course of a few minutes, all his prospects of inheritance?’

He passed one hand across his face and gave her a faint smile. ‘Is this a riddle, Miss Kent?’ he asked.

‘If it is, it is a very dull one, for we both know the answer to it.’

‘Nevertheless, I think you had better explain it to me.’

‘Very well, I shall. It is really very simple, though I confess that I was for some time unable to see it. Because Mr Montague did indeed lose his fortune in those few moments in the ballroom, did he not? He is not the heir to Belsfield. It is not he who should now be coming home to take his father’s place.’

He did not confirm, or deny, he merely continued to regard her over his fingers.

‘He lost his fortune that night and he did not lose it through the uncovering of some misdemeanour that cost him his father’s favour. He could not. Because, as your son was at pains to point out to me, the Belsfield inheritance is not dependent upon anyone’s goodwill. It is entailed.’

His face remained impassive. ‘Very well then, Miss Kent, what is the answer to your riddle? How can a young man so quickly lose his prospects of inheritance?’