A Woman of Consequence

married, I make no doubt he will sing a different tune. And then of course it will be entirely in his hands. A woman owns nothing after she is married: her fortune will be his. He will be entitled to wring every last penny he can get out of Ashfield.’

‘Oh, Harriet!’ cried Dido feelingly, ‘marriage is so very final, do you not think? I do believe a woman needs all her wits about her for the business – and she had better not choose a husband while she is distracted by love.’

But Harriet’s mind turned more upon particulars than general principles. ‘Soon,’ she said sadly, ‘Penelope will be recovered enough to return to Bath. Silas, Lucy and I are all to accompany her. But I fear that Captain Laurence is planning to go too. I think he plans to meet us there – and make his offer to Lucy during our visit.’

‘It would, I suppose, be his first opportunity to speak without appearing inconsiderate of your friend’s illness.’

‘Dido, you must come with us and help me prevent it.’

‘Upon my word, Harriet, now you are telling me what I must do. It would seem that I am never to have a moment’s peace between you and Lucy and Mrs Harman-Foote!’

‘But you will come, will you not? It will be an opportunity to put all your satirical cleverness to good use.’ Harriet gave a weary smile. ‘You can do some good for once instead of only laughing at us all.’

‘What a very kind invitation! I shall consider it.’

Harriet was about to press the point but was prevented from doing so by the appearance of a housemaid come to say that Mr Paynter was out in the passageway and would like a short conference with Miss Crockford before coming in to see his patient. Immediately Harriet was on her feet, setting her cap straight, smoothing her gown and preparing to give an account of her nursing. But, at the door, she hesitated a moment to say, ‘Remember, I am relying upon you.’

The door closed behind her and Dido was left alone in the still chamber with only the sleeping girl, the gentle lapping of flames and the tap-tap of rain at the window for company.

Her thoughts were far from comfortable. She was deeply concerned for Harriet – and for Lucy too. And then, when she turned her head and looked upon the peacefully sleeping Penelope, she felt an even graver disquiet.

For here was an unscrupulous man who had deliberately made two young women in love with him. Two young women who were – to put the matter kindly – not remarkable for their sense. Why had he done it? And what would be the end of it all for them?

For the plain woman with a fortune it might end in a loveless marriage which would bring ruin on her brother and sister. But what was to be expected for the beautiful and penniless girl …? What were his motives in pursuing her? A girl with no father or brothers to protect her, guarded only by the mistress of a common school.

The fate he had planned for her might be infinitely worse.

Expelled from the sickroom by the surgeon’s arrival, Dido walked slowly out onto the landing which overlooked the hall and leant thoughtfully upon the gilded stair rail. Below her was spread Mr Harman-Foote’s dazzling new floor of coloured marble. High above her head rain pattered on the cupola, but otherwise the house seemed unusually quiet – there was only the murmur of voices in the room behind her, and the faint beating of a toy drum drifting down from the nursery.

Harriet’s communications had, she found, depressed her spirits and disturbed her in more ways than one. For now her mind was making invidious comparisons …

It was, of course, regrettable that Edward Crockford had failed to safeguard the futures of his daughters – but at least he had tried. Her own father had made no attempt to circumvent those severe laws of inheritance which impoverished daughters to the benefit of sons. The bulk of his small fortune had been spent on the education of his sons, and the remainder inherited by them …

She stopped herself. She was too near to being angry with her father – a man who had never been anything but kindly and tolerant towards her. Naturally he had never doubted that the boys would provide for their sisters – as they had. Eliza and Dido might be poor, but they would never be destitute, never lack for a home – though that home might not always be to their taste …

She must not succumb to self-pity. A diversion was absolutely necessary and she began immediately to look about for a suitable means of continuing her enquiries.

Beyond the high sash windows, rain continued to sweep across the lawns, cutting off the possibility of a visit to the ruins or the pool. Her eyes strayed on along the carpeted length of the passage – and came to rest at last upon the door of Miss Fenn’s room … Thus fixing her wandering thoughts upon the disappearance of the letters.

This would be an excellent opportunity for taking a look about the bedchamber alone. Would it be allowable to venture in there unaccompanied …? Yes, she thought that it might. She crept quietly to the door. She would, of course, explain her actions later to Anne. She was sure that she would not disapprove.

And yet, as she opened the door, she could not quite escape a feeling that she was doing something wrong: intruding. It was maybe the lingering presence of the apartment’s mistress which caused such a feeling of awkwardness.

The room seemed larger by day, and the stronger light falling through the tall, unshuttered windows also brought forward the intricate pattern of the wallpaper, the beauty of the needlework in the bed-hangings, the rich wood of the furnishings.

It was a very fine room indeed. And, as she hesitated just inside the door, Dido wondered again at its having been allotted to a governess. The most comfortable attic – or the very humblest family room – would have been a more usual choice. An idea insinuated itself into her mind: an idea she would have been ashamed to speak aloud …

It would have been the widowed Mr Harman himself who decreed where the young woman was placed; was it possible that he had chosen this room because Miss Fenn was more than a governess? Dido blushed at framing the thought – but framed it none the less: was it possible that she had been the old gentleman’s mistress?

She looked about and Miss Fenn’s few, simple possessions, thrown into sharp contrast by the room’s luxury, rebuked her for the thought. The plain hairbrush and writing desk, the text above the bed, certainly had not the appearance of belonging to an immoral woman. The black bible looked particularly humble and virtuous on the fine polished mahogany of the bedside table – and cried aloud against the horrible idea.

She crossed the room, picked up the bible and found that it bore every indication of constant use. She turned a page or two and saw the marks of a pencil everywhere – underlinings and neat little commentaries crammed into the margins. It would seem that Miss Fenn was one of those exceedingly pious women who make notes upon the sermons they hear every Sunday.

There is something about the writing of those who are dead – it seems to promise a connection with the past. Dido moved eagerly towards the light of the window to read more closely. And, once there, she was taken with the idea of trying to discover whether there was any page which had been studied more than the others. A favoured passage might reveal much about the lady’s character.

She closed the book, placed its spine in one hand and, carefully giving way to the inclination of the pages, waited to see at what place it would, most naturally, fall open.

The attempt was more successful than she had dared to hope.

The leaves hardly fluttered before opening at one place so very decisively that there could be little doubt of the book having been held in that position for some time. She turned into the full light of the window.

The bible had opened at the third chapter of Saint Paul’s letter to the Colossians and there were two verses underlined: Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as it is fit in the Lord. Husbands, love your wives, and be not bitter against them.

And in the margin was written: Mr Portinscale spoke  very movingly in his sermon today upon the second part of this commandment – the duty of tenderness which a husband owes to his wife.

Did he indeed? thought Dido. It was not a subject upon which she could imagine Madderstone’s clergyman being eloquent …

But, before she could pursue her thoughts any further, there came the sound of quick footsteps outside in the gallery. She started – as guilty as if she were about to be detected in a crime – and hurriedly closed the book. And, as she did so, something – something which had been shaken loose by her handling – fell from inside the back cover onto the floor.