‘Oh Dido! Why must you always argue?’ cried Harriet impatiently, her face reddening. ‘When all’s said and done, nursing must always belong to women like you and me – women who are too old for love.’
Fortunately Harriet turned away just then to gather up Penelope’s clothes with efficient, angry little movements. She did not see her friend’s blush and involuntary start. There was a short silence before Dido returned to the attack.
‘But on this occasion I
‘Now,’ said Harriet, folding her arms and frowning, ‘you are being satirical – and you know that I particularly dislike your being satirical. Can you wonder at my not wanting such an argumentative companion?’
‘But …’
Just then the patient began to stir and both women turned to look at her. Harriet went to her side immediately. ‘Please, Dido, just do as I ask and take Lucy home. And … as for an assistant …’ She paused and watched the face upon the pillow thoughtfully for a moment. ‘If they can do without old Nanny at home, then tell them to send her. She is used to nursing … Yes, Nanny will do very well indeed.’ She gave a weary smile. ‘Now go please,’ she urged. ‘Our talking is making her restless.’
Dido left the sickroom and walked slowly down the elegant sweep of Madderstone Abbey’s great staircase, pausing for a moment to gaze over the curve of the banister to the pattern of coloured marble on the hall floor below. She could not help but wonder why Harriet should be so very determined to keep Lucy away from the captain …
It was an odd little mystery and one which, she decided, she must get to the bottom of soon – but, meanwhile, there was something else troubling her: Harriet’s theory that an unmarried woman of more than thirty should devote herself to being useful and give up all thoughts of love. It was – like most of Harriet’s utterances – common cant. An unmarried woman over thirty was considered of no importance to anyone. She must make herself as useful as she might.
And, of course, Harriet knew nothing of Dido’s true situation. No one but Eliza knew that, within the last half-year, she had been solicited – and solicited by a very agreeable, handsome man – to change her name.
The affair between herself and Mr Lomax was a cause of very real anxiety to Dido; she suffered all the anguish which strong affection, combined with profound doubts as to the wisdom of a marriage, can produce in a sensitive, intelligent mind. But, nevertheless, she found it rather provoking that she should have to suffer all the pain of indecision over his offer, while enjoying none of that consequence which a proposal of marriage usually bestows upon a woman!
Smiling at her own vanity, she continued down the stairs, but stopped again upon seeing below her in the hall the sleek black head of Harris Paynter, the young surgeon. There was something furtive in his movement: a looking-about to see whether or not he was observed. Dido could not help herself; she immediately stood very still – and observed him.
He was now standing irresolute, holding a folded paper in his hand. He appeared to be upon the point of delivering a note. In half a minute his mind was made up: he stepped to a small table where lay several letters – just brought from the post office. He slipped his note in among them, turned and hurried away towards the back of the house.
Dido waited until the sound of his steps died away and then slowly continued down into the hall. Propriety demanded that she walk directly to the drawing room door – curiosity argued for a detour towards the table … She stopped. The folded note could be clearly seen among the sealed letters. She took one step closer. There was a name written upon the note:
Now why, she wondered, was a humble surgeon writing messages to the lady of the house – and delivering them with such evident caution?
Her friends were all gathered in the drawing room – an elegant, modern apartment with pink sofas, and a harp beside the pianoforte, a triple mirror above the chimney piece, some very pretty portraits, an abundance of small tables, and windows cut down to the ground – which ought to have opened upon lawns and trees, but which presently showed a view only of mud and toppled trunks.
The little girls, she found, had been tempted away to the nursery with toys and treats, but young Georgie still held his ground among the grown-ups, playing a rough, noisy game with a doll his sisters had left behind, and quite determined not to miss anything of interest which might be carrying on.
Lucy was seated upon one of the pink sofas, recovering from her distressing visit to the sickroom with the help of aromatic vinegar and the attentions of Captain Laurence – who was telling her a tale of a young seaman under his command who had once taken just such a fall as her friend and who ‘was climbing up the mainmast within a se’night’.
The carriage was already ordered to take them back to Badleigh. As Dido entered the room Mr Harman-Foote stepped forward from his post beside the hearth to assure her of this. ‘Best have you both home as soon as we can!’ he declared. ‘You must be feeling pretty well done-up. Damned bad business this!’
She thanked him, honouring his kindness even as she shrank from the loudness of his voice, which, she always fancied, was better suited to the Shropshire ironworks that had made his fortune than it was to the confines of a drawing room.
A large, red-faced man of forty or so, he was much addicted to the smoking of tobacco, and fragments of the ‘blessed leaf’ habitually festooned the straining buttons of his waistcoat. Mr Harman-Foote had the reputation among other men of being capable of great anger. There was even a – rather admiring – tale current in Badleigh and Madderstone of his having fought a duel and ‘marked his man’ when he was much younger. But his manner towards women was unfailingly courteous, and one could not help but like him.
However, he was now regarding Dido rather anxiously. ‘What says the surgeon?’ he asked. ‘Must the young lady stay here long? Can she not be moved?’
She was rather surprised by the lack of hospitality which the question implied and, as she hesitated over an answer, Mrs Harman-Foote appeared at her side.
‘Why, of course Miss Lambe must remain here, my dear,’ she said firmly. ‘We cannot think of moving her.’ She took Dido’s arm and led her off into one of the deep bay windows. ‘An invalid must be disturbed as little as possible,’ she declared firmly. ‘There must always be complete calm in a sickroom, you see. Complete calm. It is a principle of mine. Miss Crockford should ensure there is no noise and as little light as possible …’
She continued to talk for some time, settling Harriet’s duties to her own satisfaction, the comfortable authority of her voice only a little impaired by its having to rise continually above the dreadful noise which her son was making.
The doll was now being made to climb the back of a chair in lively imitation of Penelope mounting the gallery steps. As it reached the top, it cried out (in Master Georgie’s stentorian tones): ‘Ah! There’s a ghost!’ There followed a scream so loud it interrupted the conversations of everyone in the room, and the unfortunate thing was dashed down violently onto the floor. There was an ominous cracking sound from its china head.
‘Poor Georgie,’ murmured his affectionate mother. ‘He has been excessively upset by this terrible accident. He must be comforted and reassured.’
Dido could not quite think that it was comfort or reassurance which the child required just now. As she watched him begin once more upon the game and steeled herself for a repetition of the scream, she had some rather different ideas …
‘It is of the first importance,’ continued Mrs Harman-Foote, ‘that he should be brought to believe that there was no ghost upon the gallery.’
‘Yes …’ said Dido doubtingly, ‘but, in the meantime, do you not think …’ She was prevented from continuing by a scream even louder than the first and an even more ominous crashing and cracking of china.
‘Oh! Poor child!’ grieved the mother and turned confidingly to Dido. ‘He is so easily upset. And by no means so strong as he looks – as I always tell his father when he argues for his going away to school.’
‘Indeed!’ said Dido, who, though not having a very high opinion in general of public education, was beginning
