A moment of silence

young man and he has no wish to expose himself to the curiosity of the world. He wants no other life than the one he lives at present. It is his expressed wish that the deception should continue.’

‘But,’ said Dido wretchedly, ‘unless Richard Montague can tell Catherine the truth, he and she can never be reconciled.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘My only hope is that I can persuade the new Sir Edgar to a partial disclosure. It will not be easy. He is a very stubborn man and, as I am sure you will understand, it is a difficult time to persuade him to anything now, when he is mourning the loss of his wife.’

‘You have told him everything?’ asked Dido fearfully.

‘Yes and he bears it as well as any man could, but it has been a heavy blow. Until I wrote my account I believe he had no idea but that his wife was safe in Dorchester with her mother and feared rather that she had abandoned him than that she had come to harm. His first wish now is to be left alone to grieve in peace. To gain his consent to such a disclosure of the truth will be an uphill task. But…’ He hesitated and looked down as if he was suddenly interested in one of the letters on the table. ‘But if your happiness depends upon it, Miss Kent, then it must be done.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

…Well, Eliza, the outcome of Mr Lomax’s persuasion is a very happy one for Catherine. The partial disclosure which he has achieved has extended not only to her, but, very properly, to Francis and Margaret too. And now she has gained the first desire of her heart and she will be able to marry the man she loves without being burdened with parental approval.

It all hung in the balance for a while. And it almost seemed that Francis and Margaret would give the union their blessing in spite of everything, for, by Mr Lomax’s careful management, Richard is to have all the appearance of inheritance. However, after due consideration, Margaret has declared that a younger son is, after all, a younger son and, as she observes, everything depends upon the goodwill of his brother. And then there is the matter of Edgar’s affliction – or the ‘bad blood’, as she insists upon styling it. And the end of it all is that she has urged Catherine to give up Richard in the strongest possible terms. Consequently, Catherine has been able to take offence at the insult offered to her beloved, in the best romantic tradition, and Francis and Margaret left Belsfield this morning promising not to attend the wedding.

Which is all highly satisfactory.

Of course, Catherine has not achieved that abject poverty to which she aspired; but, though she will not confess it, I think she has recollected that some of the consequences of poverty – such as old pelisses and pattens – are not conducive to happiness. She certainly bears the prospect of riches with remarkable fortitude.

She is very happy indeed and, though it is quite impossible that she should remain for ever in her present state of bliss, I see no reason why she should not enjoy a very contented life here at Belsfield. I have at last met Richard Montague, and I like him. He has not a shining intellect, but he seems to have remarkably good principles for the son of such a father. He defers rather too much to Catherine’s judgement, but he also has a great respect for the opinion of Mr Lomax and I hope that that will prove a steadying influence in their future life.

They plan to marry as soon as the period of deep mourning is completed and for Catherine the greatest difficulty lies in maintaining an outward show of proper sadness. Though she is not alone in that.

Her ladyship looks remarkably well. She almost smiles. Catherine expects that she will marry her mysterious lover as soon as decency permits. But I do not anticipate it, for I do not believe that any such gentleman exists. I say nothing of this to Catherine, because, Eliza, I am beginning to fear that the truth behind the rumours of adultery is even more shocking than it appears. I have been considering the matter carefully and I cannot help but think that the reports all originate with Mr Bartley, who has, more than once, supplied her with that terrible medicine. And I am inclined to believe that that is not concerned with any misdemeanour of hers.

You see, I keep remembering how her husband used to sit beside her, seeming so solicitous and always asking if she had taken her medicine. And how wretched the question made her – how she would look away and twist her rings about. Was it, I wonder, that patent stuff that he was urging her to take?

A few days ago I would not have believed such a thing possible among civilised Christians. But now, Eliza, I know the terrible lengths he was prepared to go to in order to conceal his son’s affliction. To what extremes of infamy was he prepared to go to ensure that another child was not born with the same infirmity? That he did not take the course of a gentleman and exercise restraint upon himself is all of a piece with his tyranny and selfishness…

Well, I doubt not that you think I am talking wildly now. But I cannot help but observe that my lady seems not only vastly content, but that she is also growing plump; and that she has given over twisting her rings and that she now sews instead. Nor can I help noticing that the article she is working upon looks remarkably like a christening gown…

* * *

Dido stopped, feeling, as she often did, that her pen was behaving like a runaway horse and taking her to places that she had not intended to go. She had certainly not meant to mention this matter in her letter.

There was a kind of forbidding reserve about Lady Montague, even now, which made such speculation seem a liberty. She had suffered during her marriage, certainly; but the extent of that suffering would probably never be known to anyone but herself. Of all the people at Belsfield, Dido felt that she was the one she understood least; wrapped as she was in silence and invalidish dignity, it was impossible to get at exactly what she thought or felt – or to understand what she might be capable of doing…

She hurriedly put her pen into the rack in order to put out of reach the temptation of writing down her thoughts. The time had come, she told herself, to stop asking questions and to put a curb upon her curiosity. There was nothing else useful for her to do here at Belsfield. There was nothing to be gained by wondering about such things as the footsteps she had heard, the light she had seen moving about on the landing, on the night that Sir Edgar died; or in remembering that it was her ladyship who kept a large supply of laudanum.

Sir Edgar had died by his own hand. He had overheard Dido and Lomax talking and he had known that he was discovered. That is how it had happened. There was no point in wondering whether someone else had heard of his guilt and taken upon themselves the role of executioner… Nor in remembering the behaviour of the dog.

But it was strange… It was very strange that the dog, sensing someone at the door, had gone towards that someone…Because the dog always ran away and hid when Sir Edgar was close by…

There was nothing else useful for Dido to do at Belsfield, but she would have gladly stayed with Catherine until the wedding could be celebrated. However, that was not to be, for unmarried women must not expect to remain where they cannot be useful. Within a week of Sir Edgar’s death a letter arrived from her brother George which forced her to change her plans.

George was a captain in the Regulars and his regiment had been ordered away from home just as his very nervous young wife was approaching her first confinement. Dido must go into Hampshire without delay to bear her company.

‘I am very sorry to hear that you are going,’ said Mr Lomax as he and Dido sat companionably beside the hall fire on her last day.

The house was quiet for it was empty now of its visitors. The Harrises were gone home and Tom Lomax was off to some horse races. And Colonel Walborough had hurried away to visit an old army acquaintance who was living near Bristol in very straitened circumstances – with four unmarried daughters.

This morning Richard and Catherine were walking in the grounds and her ladyship was in her chamber. In the hall the great clock was ticking steadily and the spaniel was dozing and whining in her sleep. For some time Dido’s