was quite out of danger.
I said that I believed she was, but his anxiety did not seem to be entirely done away. He shuffled his feet about like an embarrassed schoolboy, evidently wishing to ask more, though it was some minutes before he could manage to stammer out, with flaming cheeks, ‘I s … suppose that she is a great deal in c … company with C … C … Captain Laurence?’
Poor Silas! Oh dear, I have said it again. But the pain in his eyes cut me to the heart. ‘Oh no,’ I said quickly, ‘I am sure she is not in company with the captain at all. She is still too unwell to leave her bedchamber. So, of course, he cannot visit her.’
‘I am very g … glad of it,’ he stammered. ‘That is, I am glad she does not see the c … captain, I am not g … glad she is unwell …’
He stopped and we both stood quietly for a moment or two, looking down at the muddy waste, and the dark pool of water in which were reflected flying storm clouds and the last light of the day.
I was thinking he had little chance of succeeding with Penelope if he were indeed opposed to such a man as the captain – and I believe his thoughts had taken a similar turn. For he soon shook his head regretfully and said – very fast, in the way he does when he wishes to express his thoughts before the stammer can intervene – ‘I had hoped, that while Pen … Miss Lambe was with us at Ashfield, we – that is, she and I – would be able to improve our f … friendship. I hoped that before she returned to Bath I should be able to d … d … dec … to tell her how I feel. But then there was this c … confounded accident, Miss Kent, and now she is sh … shut away from me … And C … C … C … And Laurence is there on the spot with her all the time …’ His poor face burnt as red as the sunset reflected in the water.
I expressed my concern at this unfortunate situation – and he became confiding.
‘Henry,’ he said eagerly, ‘– that is, Mr Coulson, you know – he says that I should declare my passion, that I should write such an ardent letter, Miss Lambe could not resist. That I should tell her I will d … die if she is not k … kind to me. Henry says that that sort of thing never fails with women.’
I ventured to suggest that Mr Coulson’s information might be a little inaccurate.
‘So you think I had better not?’ he said
Oh dear, Eliza, he looked so wretched! I could not help myself: I turned matchmaker on the spot!
‘But,’ I said firmly, ‘it may be possible for you to convey your sentiments – to raise yourself in Miss Lambe’s esteem – without an outright declaration.’
He looked doubtful. ‘The devil of it is, Miss Kent, if I don’t d … declare myself, then I cannot write to her at all. For that would be most improper – c … corresponding, you know, when there is no engagement. Harriet w … w … w …’
‘Harriet would be very angry indeed. Yes, I quite see your point.’
We both considered a while. It was becoming more gloomy than ever. The sound of the workmen’s axes had ceased, and, overhead, rooks were calling harshly as they flocked to roost in the park. I was wondering how such a dear, gentle boy as Silas might gain the advantage of a worldly fellow like Captain Laurence with his coarse good looks and his interminable stories of high-seas gallantry, and I confess that, for a while, I was utterly perplexed.
But then I considered the character of the lady … And I saw a possibility.
I suggested to Silas that his poem might make a great appeal to Penelope’s romantic disposition … and that the character of a poet might make an even greater appeal.
He looked more than a little frightened, but he is not lacking in understanding and he caught my meaning well enough. And so, before we left the side of the pool, we had agreed upon our plan. When he has written some part of his great ballad – I was careful not to condition for the completion of the whole, which I rather fear may never be accomplished – when some part of it is completed, he is to show the work to me; and I am to convey it to Penelope.
Do you not think it a rather good plan, Eliza? I am extremely proud of it.
I grant that there would seem to be some danger in the probable badness of the verse; but I am trusting that Penelope’s taste in such matters is not too nice.
It will not be easy, for Harriet has always opposed any attachment of her brother’s – love no doubt being considered as dangerous to his constitution as ragouts and port wine. But I confess that I am very glad to have another scheme on hand to divert me a little from gloomy thoughts. And I would dearly love to rout Captain Laurence. Somehow, I just cannot like the man. Nor can I escape the feeling that I have detected in him some kind of duplicity or deception. And yet I cannot quite remember what it is that has made me suspect him.
For some reason my mind keeps returning to that moment upon the gallery when we saw the men discovering the bones. It seems ridiculous to suggest it, Eliza, but I feel as if in that moment he revealed something about himself: something very suspicious.
Chapter Thirteen
Dido emerged cautiously from the vicarage sweep and looked about her.
It was a dull, raw morning; shreds of mist lay about the gravestones in the churchyard, and all the spiders’ webs on the vicarage railings were thickly beaded with moisture. There had been rain in the night and the ruts of the village street were full of puddles. Beyond the black and white front of the inn, the usual little knots of women were gathered upon the steps of the baker’s and the milliner’s shops; but, though Dido looked very carefully, she could not distinguish Margaret among them.
Very much relieved, she set off along the street at a brisk pace, her thoughts all fixed upon a stile beyond the village forge which led, through a little copse, to the Madderstone footpath. Once over this stile she would be beyond Margaret’s sight – and free to spend the morning as she pleased.
She passed the Red Lion in safety, and the baker’s, with its warm yeasty scent. She was passing under the chestnut trees on the village green and was just daring to hope … when a voice called out her name.
She gave a guilty start. However, it was not Margaret, but Lucy Crockford who was hurrying over the yellow carpet of fallen leaves.
‘My dear friend!’ she cried, ‘I am so very glad to have met with you! For I must speak to you on a matter of the utmost importance … and … delicacy.’ Her face coloured coyly – until it matched almost exactly the pink satin lining of her bonnet.
‘Indeed?’ said Dido looking anxiously about her. ‘But I am afraid I am in rather a hurry just now.’
‘Then I shall walk with you.’ Lucy linked arms and leant close to talk as they walked on. ‘You are on your way to Madderstone to visit the poor invalid I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh! It makes me quite wretched to think of dear, dear Penelope lying sick,’ said Lucy in her slowest most languishing voice. ‘No one feels these things as I do! I declare, I had rather be sick myself than see someone I care about suffer! You will laugh at me for it, I am sure, but it is quite true.’
Dido showed no inclination either to laugh or to reply, but only to walk on as fast as Lucy’s dragging arm would allow.
‘I wish,’ continued Lucy, ‘that I might come with you to Madderstone and sit a while with poor Penelope! But I dare not attempt it!’
‘I see no need for caution. I do not believe there is any infection in a broken head.’
‘Oh, but it is so dangerous to my nerves. I feel things so very deeply. Captain Laurence …’ there was a conscious glance as she spoke the name, ‘says that it is extremely uncommon for a woman to be so exceedingly sensitive, so very alive to the feelings of everyone around her. He thinks it something quite remarkable. But I am sure that, if I am remarkable, I had much rather not be. As I tell the captain, it is a dreadful trial to me. Harriet of course is different. She
