A Woman of Consequence

‘Captain Laurence!’ she cried, spinning back to face him and seeing his cheeks red with emotion. But, before she could say another word, the drawing room bell in the row above their heads clanged into life. They both stared up at it. Footsteps could be heard rapidly approaching from the kitchen.

Mr Lomax seized her arm. They ran together for the door, and only just succeeded in gaining the hall before a footman sauntered out behind them – still whistling a hornpipe under his breath.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It was jealousy! That was the cause of Mr Lomax’s change of heart. Jealousy of Captain Laurence!

Dido could not even frame the thought without laughing out loud.

‘I do not see what there is to laugh about,’ said Margaret sourly as they got into the carriage. ‘In my opinion the evening was quite spoilt by that unpleasant little episode. Such a scream! When I was young, girls were not brought up to make such an exhibition I am sure!’

‘Poor young lady cannot help having a nightmare,’ said Francis mildly. ‘Not to be wondered at. Her brain is not yet set to rights.’

‘Quite so,’ murmured Dido and they all lapsed into silence, shivering a little, for the coach seemed very cold after the heat of the abbey’s good fires.

But when she looked across at the dark outline of Mr Lomax, swaying slightly as the carriage began to move, coat collar turned up, hat pulled down: when she thought of him as being consumed by Shakespeare’s ‘Green-eyed Monster’ – and upon no better evidence than the captain’s commonplace gallantry in the drawing room – she felt her lips once more forming themselves into a smile.

But now the carriage was creaking and crunching over the gravel of the sweep; the lights of the house were left behind; her smiles passed unseen, and censured only by herself.

Indeed, she ought not to smile. Jealousy was a very severe character flaw – not something to be taken lightly. But Dido now found, to her dismay, that this discovery of weakness – this proof that he was not the model of perfection she had taken him for – did not diminish her affection at all, and she was fallen so deeply into love that a flaw could have all the charm of a virtue. Which was a very great shock to her, and a mighty revelation, for she had lived six and thirty years in the world innocently supposing only merit to be loveable.

Suddenly the carriage lurched to a standstill – and Margaret screamed.

‘What the devil?’ Francis let down the glass and peered out into the night, letting in a foggy damp which caught at the back of Dido’s throat.

There was an answering curse from the coachman, quickly suppressed with an apology. ‘Thought I saw someone sir,’ he called. ‘Looked like a fellow running across the lawn from the old pool.’

Francis leant out further. ‘Can’t see a thing … except, what’s that over there? Looks like a lantern swinging about.’

‘Where? In the ruins?’ asked Dido. ‘Is the light upon the gallery in the ruins?’ She tried to look for herself. But the carriage was in motion again now and Margaret was demanding the glass be put up before the carriage lining was spoilt by damp.

‘Yes, it may be in the ruins,’ Francis conceded as he secured the glass and settled back into his seat.

‘Oh! I would dearly love to know what is carrying on there.’

‘Then you had better ask the intrepid captain to investigate,’ said Mr Lomax quietly.

Dido made no reply to that – and passed all the rest of the journey silently condemning her own cruelty. She should say something. One slight remark hinting at her low opinion of the captain would suffice. She could say enough, even in the presence of Margaret and Francis, to make him comfortable. It was barbarous to remain silent and allow his suffering to continue! But she found that she could not make up her mind to do away with his jealousy. It was just too delightful – and too convenient.

For while he remained jealous he would listen without condemning her. He would be prepared – perhaps even willing – to discuss her mysteries in order to prevent her confiding in the perceived rival.

Ah, dear! And she had been used to think of love as an ennobling and elevating passion. She had never imagined it could be the cause of such unkindness.

‘You look pleased,’ said Mr Lomax as he handed her from the carriage. ‘The evening’s discoveries have been helpful to you?’

‘Oh! Yes, thank you.’ They walked slowly up the vicarage steps and she stole a glance at his face in the pale light shining out into white mist through the open door. There was a kind of hope and expectancy …

Just one small, slighting remark about Laurence would be enough …

Instead, she paused as they came into the hall and said quietly. ‘I have been reconsidering your kind offer, Mr Lomax.’

‘My offer?’

‘Your offer to be my confidant. I think I should like very much to talk matters over with you.’

‘Ah! I am sure I am very honoured.’ He bowed, took the shawl from her shoulders and looked about the hall. Francis was gone away to the library to put the finishing touches to a sermon and Margaret was just climbing the stairs. He suggested they walk into the parlour, and there, beside the sunken embers of the fire, she told him of her visit to Great Farleigh – and her suspicion that Penelope was the daughter of Miss Fenn.

‘It seems – if I am permitted to make such an observation – a rather overstrained conclusion.’

‘No, it is not a conclusion: it is a suspicion.’

‘I beg your pardon. It seems a rather overstrained suspicion.’

‘Perhaps it is; but I mean to test the truth of it by finding out about Miss Lambe’s history.’

‘I see.’ He was standing by the hearth, one hand resting upon the chimney piece and he now turned his face away to stare down at the dying fire. She suspected that he disapproved this course of action but was making a valiant attempt to hide this opinion. After a short pause he said, ‘May I ask how Miss Lambe’s … parentage might prompt the cruel trick which was played upon her this evening?’

‘I think someone wishes to drive her away from Madderstone. It does, I grant, seem a rather strange method of persuasion,’ she added hastily. ‘But, knowing Miss Lambe’s romantic disposition, I cannot help but think it might be an effective one.’

‘Upon that point, I must give way to your superior knowledge of the lady’s character,’ he said graciously, his eyes still fixed upon the embers. ‘But do you suspect Mr Coulson of acting on his own behalf, or do you believe he took on the role of ghost at someone else’s prompting?’

Dido smiled at his determination to suppress any hint of censure and there was a short silence as she collected her thoughts. ‘I believe,’ she said slowly at last, ‘that it is perhaps Mr Harman-Foote who wishes Penelope to leave the neighbourhood. I think he may have persuaded Mr Coulson into the charade.’ She hesitated: there was an idea gradually forming in her mind which she particularly wished to try out upon him. ‘You see,’ she said carefully, ‘if Penelope is indeed Miss Fenn’s daughter, then the man to whom she wrote that very … affectionate letter – the man she addressed as “Beloved” – must be suspected of being the father.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, raising his eyes at last from the fire and looking at her rather anxiously.

‘And the reputation of that man would be endangered by the girl being here in the neighbourhood. His good- name might be best guarded by frightening her away.’

‘But you are forgetting, Miss Kent: Mr Harman-Foote cannot be Miss Fenn’s “Beloved”. As I have had the pleasure of explaining to you – the handwriting in the letter is certainly not his.’

‘No, no,’ she cried immediately. ‘I am not forgetting it at all.’ And then, ashamed of her sharpness, she went on more gently. ‘I confess it was very foolish of me not to have considered the handwriting before. I am particularly grateful to you for drawing it to my attention.’

‘I am very glad to have been of service to you.’

‘But,’ she continued, ‘although I accept your conclusion that Mr Harman-Foote cannot have been the man to whom Miss Fenn wrote, I think that, after all, he might have prompted Mr Coulson to play the part of a ghost.’

He said nothing – only raised his brows.

‘It is possible he was acting not on his own behalf – but for the sake of someone else.’

He still said nothing, but he had turned to face her now; his elbow was resting on the mantleshelf, the tips of