A Woman of Consequence

transporting – and opined that a man-trap or two would not go amiss either.

By the time we were got onto dessert, she was considering the merits of flogging. But enough of the pleasant dinner-table discourse of this household! It would be cruel if I were to continue; I should only make you discontent that you are not here to join in such elegant diversions!

To return to Mr Portinscale. Is it possible, Eliza, that he knows something of Miss Fenn’s death? Could he have killed her in a passion of rage and abhorrence when he discovered that she was not the virtuous woman she appeared to be?

The facts of his having made his offer immediately before her disappearance and his obvious discomposure at her refusal do rather tell against him. And I have been considering again Mrs Philips’ account of his ‘attentions’. She reports that they had continued all summer; that the pair were quite in the habit of walking out together ‘nearly every fine day’. Now, that would seem to suggest that Miss Fenn, if not exactly encouraging his attachment, was, at least, fond of his society.

Does that not seem rather remarkable to you, Eliza? That such a very handsome, passionate woman, firmly attached to another man, should freely choose to be in company with such a dull fellow as Mr P? Although, perhaps I should bear in mind that Mr Portinscale might have been a very  different man then – before his hair became thin and his own resentment and self-consequence got the better of him.

And there is the annotation in the bible to consider too: Miss Fenn’s feeling response to Mr Portinscale’s discourse upon the tenderness of husbands – which might also suggest that she felt some affection for the speaker …

No, I cannot make it out at all!

I try again and again to look into the heart of this remarkable governess and find mysteries and contradictions at every turn.

If only she had had a confidante: a friend with whom she shared at least some portion of her feelings and her hopes. She certainly does not seem to have confided in her pupil. Which is, I suppose, not to be wondered at. To talk with any degree of freedom to a girl of thirteen would be extremely indelicate. But maybe there was some other friend. I think I had better consult with Mrs Philips over this.

For I must at any rate go to the abbey again today. I cannot be at ease in my mind until I have replaced the letter in the bible. I cannot keep it. I had considered making a copy before returning the original; but that did not seem honourable.

She paused in quite a glow of virtue – but then felt compelled to add:

Nor do I find that it is necessary, for every word is fixed in my memory.

Dido rather fancied that her feet were wearing a path between Badleigh Vicarage and Madderstone Abbey. But it was a pleasant walk, she reflected as she hurried once more through the wood.

She paused upon a footbridge that crossed the busy little stream. From here a broad ride led away into Madderstone village. The trunks of the overarching beeches were as grey and sombre as cathedral stone; but the leaves burnt red-brown upon their curving branches – and also on the floor of the ride. The day was mild and the sun was fetching up a slightly spicy scent from fallen beech-mast. Pigeons murmured comfortably and, somewhere close by, a woodpecker was, once again, at work.

As she rested, the scene enlarged. Mr Lomax appeared in the ride, walking towards her with long, hasty strides. He seemed to be in some agitation: his head was bowed in thought, his hands clasped behind his back. He kicked at a pebble with such violence it rustled away through the fallen leaves and splashed down into the brook.

‘Miss Kent!’ He stopped abruptly as he caught sight of her. There was such a look, such a fierce struggle for composure, as made her fear the meeting was unwelcome. But at last he bowed and came to stand beside her on the bridge – and seemed willing either to rest there with her, or to accompany her back along the ride if she wished it.

He had, he said, been paying a call at the abbey. ‘There is a degree of acquaintance. We have met when I have visited a friend in Shropshire …’

He stopped speaking and regarded her so intently that she began to wonder whether there was something amiss in her appearance. However, it soon transpired that it was not her looks which were at fault.

‘Mr Harman-Foote,’ he continued in a tone of quiet control, ‘has been telling me of his wife’s distress at the horrible discovery in the lake: her unwillingness to believe that the poor woman took her own life.’

‘Oh!’ Dido turned her eyes resolutely upon the water gliding away beneath them; she watched a bright leaf as it spun around in an eddy, trapped by the pressure of water.

‘He informs me that you have undertaken to help her prove there was … some other cause of death.’ She stole a glance at his handsome, clever face. The brows were raised in a question, the strong jaw set in obstinate disapproval – but there was anxiety in the grey eyes. ‘Is it true?’ he asked.

She fixed her gaze once more upon the spinning leaf and reminded herself that his ill moods ought to concern her no longer. Now that her refusal was given she should be no more upset by his displeasure than pleased by his compliments.

‘Yes, it is true,’ she said firmly. ‘And I am very sorry if you do not like it. But if you had seen the poor lady’s wretchedness I am sure you would agree that I must help her.’

‘I have had the pleasure of knowing you too long to ever doubt your compassion. However …’ His fingers beat restlessly upon the wooden rail of the bridge.

‘Your judgement is against me?’

‘My judgement …’ he began hastily. ‘Or rather my advice …’ He stopped himself. ‘But, no, I am sorry. I have no right to advise you, Miss Kent. You have not chosen to bestow that privilege upon me.’

She coloured uncomfortably at the allusion and there was a short pause, filled only by the song of water and the woodpecker’s stutter. She knew that, in a moment – when he had regained his composure – he would begin talking upon indifferent subjects like the well-bred man that he was: a remark upon the weather perhaps, or the beauty of the season …

And that would be worse than his disapproval! She did not wish for indifferent subjects. She might talk of those with everyone else in the world. But with him she had learnt the exquisite pleasure of reason, of ideas discussed and argued in a rational manner. And she found that she could not relinquish it.

‘Very well,’ she said, raising her face with an inviting smile. ‘I shall not ask your opinion of my conduct; but what is your opinion of the subject?’

‘The subject?’

‘Do you believe that the coroner was correct in declaring for suicide?’

‘Ah!’ He looked wary. ‘I have no reason to believe him incorrect.’ He replied cautiously.

‘Have you not? Perhaps Mr Harman-Foote failed to mention to you the very material fact that Miss Fenn’s letters have been removed from her room.’

‘No. He mentioned it. And perhaps I should add that he also mentioned the loss of the young woman’s ring – for I am sure that is the next matter you will bring to my attention.’

Her smile broadened. ‘And do these strange thefts not suggest to you that someone has a secret to hide – some motive for wishing the circumstances surrounding Miss Fenn’s death to remain in obscurity?’

‘That, I grant you, is one interpretation.’

‘You believe that another is possible?’

‘I do.’ He said gravely. ‘Do you wish to hear my interpretation?’

‘Most certainly!’

‘Well, Mrs Harman-Foote’s suffering at the discovery of the corpse is very evident; it is entirely possible that someone with her best interests at heart might remove the remembrances of her friend in order to prevent her dwelling upon the unpleasant subject.’

‘But there has been no such effect. The losses have only added to her distress.’

‘I did not say the actions were well judged,’ he countered, ‘only that the motives might be kindly.’