A Woman of Consequence

‘They are not the kind of thing a lady ought to concern herself with,’ she finished for him, closing the door and stepping into the room. ‘Yes, I am aware of that – though I am very grateful to you for taking the trouble to warn me of the danger.’

He watched her uneasily as she crossed to the window and looked down into the street where the chaise was just drawing away. ‘However,’ she said, ‘I am also aware that Captain Laurence is, at this moment, setting off for Madderstone – upon business for “that wretched fellow”. And,’ she added distractedly, ‘he must be prevented from completing that business. The safety of a friend of mine depends upon his being prevented.’

She put a hand to her brow, almost overwhelmed by the thoughts rushing in upon her. Mr Lomax stepped back to the window seat. ‘You had better sit down and tell me all about it,’ he said quietly.

She hesitated. He would not like many of the things which she had to say: he would be shocked – disgusted, perhaps, to hear them from her lips. But the words were on the point of spilling out of her. It would be agony to hold them back. She had to speak.

And, perhaps this was the moment at which all their theories must be tested. For, if he could bear to hear her now without objection, then that miraculous union might yet stand within the compass of belief.

She sank down gratefully on the window seat and drew in a long breath. Behind her she could still hear the agonising sound of chaise wheels speeding towards Madderstone Abbey, and around her the inn was coming to life: footsteps echoed on the stairs as the maids carried up hot water, voices were calling out below in the public rooms and the smells of coal smoke, hot bread and coffee filled the air. The day was advancing; soon she must return to Madderstone and face the difficulties and dangers which awaited her there.

But, for now, she could indulge herself in the exquisite relief of talking – of sharing her ideas with a mind she knew could meet hers in understanding.

She folded her hands in her lap, as demure as a child preparing to recite a lesson, turned her face into the sun’s warmth and began to ‘tell all about it’ – starting with the information she had gained upon her recent visit to Mrs Nolan, and the conversation between Captain Laurence and his friend which she ‘happened to have heard as she passed through the parlour just now.’

By the time she reached this point he was watching her with interest: the tips of his fingers were coming together … ‘And so, you believe that Mr Harman-Foote is Miss Lambe’s father?’ he said as she paused.

‘No.’ She continued resolutely, without apologising for the indelicacy of the subject – for it had to be said; but she turned away her face to the window so that she was watching the smoke of the town’s breakfast fires roll across the sunny roofs as she said, ‘No, I do not believe that he is Penelope’s father at all.’

‘You think the schoolmistress is lying?’

‘No, no, I am sure her information is correct – so far as it goes. I believe Mr Harman-Foote has indeed supported Penelope these last fifteen years. But, it does not necessarily follow that he has been prompted by either duty or guilt. I think his only motive has been benevolence.’

‘That,’ he acknowledged, consideringly, ‘would accord well with his character. I have a great regard for the man and I would be very happy to believe him innocent. But what is your proof?’ He stopped, smiled. ‘You see, Miss Kent, I have such confidence in your reasoning that I am sure you have proof.’

‘And your confidence is not misplaced. My proof lies in the behaviour of Captain Laurence. You see,’ she said, ‘I believe the captain knew that Miss Fenn had gone to the pool on the day of her death – and suspected that she had died there. But, for fifteen years he said nothing of his suspicions – and then, about two months ago, he began making enquiries. He followed the same trail as I did, through the information of servants, to Great Farleigh – and Penelope. And he also persuaded Mr Coulson to drain the lower pool.’

‘But this is no proof of your case!’ he cried. ‘Laurence’s most probable motive was to expose Harman-Foote’s guilt and subject him to blackmail.’

‘No, no,’ she said eagerly. ‘I do not think so. If his intention was to get money from Mr Harman-Foote, why did he not approach him with his discoveries? Why did he come here to Bath – and tell Lord Congreve?’

‘Congreve?’ The gathering interest in Lomax’s face was all swallowed up in alarm. The very name seemed to make him uneasy.

‘What would you say,’ continued Dido eagerly, ‘if I told you that His Lordship is Penelope’s father?’

‘Ah!’ he frowned and hastened to supply an explanation himself; in order, no doubt, to save her ‘concerning herself’ with unsuitable information. ‘You believe that Congreve … forced his attentions upon this woman Elinor Fenn – when she was maid to old Mrs Foote. That he got her with child. And that, out of compassion, Mr Harman- Foote persuaded his mother to recommend her as a governess.’

‘Do you not think it possible?’ she asked.

‘No!’ he protested warmly. ‘No I certainly do not!’

She tilted her head and looked up at him questioningly. ‘And what, pray, is the weakness in my reasoning?’

‘I regret to say there are so many weaknesses I scarcely know where to begin.’ His face was frowning severely in the sunshine, criss-crossed by the shadows of the window-leads. ‘A disgraced maid become a governess! It was most unsuitable. And yet you believe that two such respectable people as Mrs Foote and Mr Harman were complicit in the deception?’

‘I believe that they must have both known the truth of the young governess’s history. Otherwise the plan could not have been carried out.’

‘No!’ he cried. ‘This is very poor reasoning. I knew Mrs Foote. She was a very proper lady. She would not have taken part in such a business.’

‘So, I cannot convince you that this story is true?’

‘I am afraid you cannot. It is nonsense … That is,’ he added, recollecting himself, and bowing slightly awkwardly in the confined space of the window seat. ‘I would not contradict a lady …’

‘No, no Mr Lomax,’ she cried immediately, ‘you are forgetting that there is to be open and honest discussion between you and I. Please contradict me as much as you wish. You must be as free to mention my errors as I am to mention other people’s crimes.’

‘Must I?’ He looked at her in surprise – then laughed, set his elbow on the edge of the window and leant towards her, shaking his head. ‘Then I shall contradict you. My dear Miss Kent,’ he said in gentle challenge, ‘I would suggest that you are talking nonsense.’

‘Yes,’ she said, smiling serenely up into his eyes. ‘I know that I am.’

‘You know?’

‘Yes, of course this tale is arrant nonsense! And yet,’ she added, ‘you failed to mention the one most startling piece of evidence against it – the very comfortable bedchamber which was allotted to Miss Fenn at Madderstone.’

‘The bedchamber?’ he repeated, rather confused by this sudden turn of events. ‘Why should that be significant?’

She hesitated over answering the question. A part of her would have liked to jump up at this point and walk about the room – for there were a great many ideas and suspicions crowding in upon her now and her mind was always clearer when her body was in motion. But she did not wish to move away from him. Honest and open discussion was, she found, rather pleasantly conducted at rest together upon the sun-warmed window seat, where his long fingers played restlessly within inches of her face and she could see the tiny dark flecks which the sunlight revealed in the grey of his eyes.

‘In the theatre,’ she said, striking out into another branch of reasoning, ‘I suggested to you that the key to all our mysteries might lie in the face of Lord Congreve’s present mistress.’

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘Well, afterwards – in the lobby – I contrived to look more closely at that young lady’s face.’

‘And what did her face reveal?’

‘It revealed a great deal of grease and powder; but not quite enough – not enough to hide a blackened eye, a bruised cheek and a split lip.’

‘Congreve!’ he cried in a voice of controlled fury. The restless fingers formed an involuntary fist. He smote the ancient frame of the window and set the panes rattling.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I believe him to have been the source of the injuries – for I remember Harriet telling me once that it was his unkind treatment of his wife which ended his marriage.’