‘At about eight o’clock I think – for it was just before we went to cards.’
‘I wonder,’ said Dido after a pause. ‘Do you know if Mr Henderson wears powder in his hair?’
Miss Prentice looked all amazement. ‘Why, how remarkable that you should guess that, Miss Kent! Yes, indeed he does. He is a well-looking, tall man. He has very fine black side-whiskers; and he always has his hair very nicely dressed. And I think it is such a becoming fashion, do not you? And so few gentlemen take the trouble these days to put on powder. Yes, so very becoming.’ She smiled fondly – as if, perhaps, she was remembering a particular powdered gentleman from her distant youth.
Dido thought for a moment or two, then risked asking: ‘You are quite sure, that Mrs Midgely had a card party that day – that she was at home all evening.’
‘Oh yes. Quite sure.’
‘I just wondered whether…whether, perhaps, Mrs Midgely went herself to visit Mrs Lansdale that day.’
Miss Prentice’s little face twisted about in surprise. Her eyes widened. ‘Susan?’ she said, ‘Susan, visit Mrs Lansdale? No indeed! Why ever should you think such a thing? She was not at all acquainted with her.’
‘Oh but she was!’ cried Flora before Dido could prevent her. ‘She certainly had visited the house you know. We found her visiting card in Mrs Lansdale’s drawing room!’
There was a gasp from Miss Prentice: something between surprise and pain. All the colour drained from her round cheeks. Her lips moved but no sound came from them.
‘Miss Prentice? Are you unwell?’ Dido stood up and went to her – and was but just in time to catch her as she slipped from the chair in a dead faint.
Chapter Five
Next morning Dido walked beside the river – alone. She had received such a letter from her sister as made liberty and solitude essentiaclass="underline" such a letter as must turn her mind away from the mysteries surrounding her in Richmond: such a letter as must, for a while, even make her cease to wonder why Miss Prentice should faint upon hearing of her friend’s visit to Mrs Lansdale.
Dearest Dido, wrote Eliza, quite unaware that she was about to inflict severe pain upon her sister, I take up my pen to assure you that I put your questions to Mr Lomax at the earliest opportunity. However, I very much regret that I am not yet able to give any report of his opinion upon the matter of Mr Lansdale’s danger under the law. For, although he listened very courteously to my request, (and, by the by, he is a very pleasant man, is he not? And I quite agree with you as to his profile which I remember you describing as particularly fine. And I agree too about his kindliness and consideration, which I think are quite remarkable.) But, what I mean to say is that, although he attended to the matter like the perfect gentleman which I make no doubt he is – and I am sure he did not mean to disappoint you – for I do not believe it is in his nature to disappoint anyone. But, the fact is that before he could properly consider the matter, he was called away from Belsfield upon business. And, since he was not able to give any idea of when he may return, I am afraid that I cannot give any idea of when I may be able to send an answer to your questions. Though I assure you that I will send an answer just as soon as I have one to send…
Mr Lomax’s going away from Belsfield just now, and leaving her questions unanswered, was a severe blow. It spoke such an indifference to her and her concerns, as must make her doubt that he retained any affection for her at all…
How was it to be understood? Did he mean to convey to her some message? To let her know that she must think no more of him? Or had he merely forgotten the understanding which had seemed to exist – which had existed – between them? Was she become just another acquaintance whose requests could be brushed aside as convenience demanded?
These were the questions which had sprung up to torment her in the morning room as soon as she had read the letter. These were the questions which had followed her as she walked out. Now, seated upon an old log on the river-bank, concealed from the world by a willow which hung low over the water, she took the letter from her pocket, unfolded it and read it again.
The sunlight sparkled upon the slow running river. The air smelt of cool water and mud and wild garlic. Waterfowl slid lazily along upon the current and the turquoise wings of a dragon-fly flashed in and out of the tall rushes as Dido reread the hurtful words. But they had not changed. They conveyed the same message as they had back in the morning room.
He was indifferent. If he had ever cared, he cared no longer… Unless… Unless it was only a show of indifference designed to release her from an attachment which he felt could never be fulfilled. There were, after all, such obstacles to their ever coming together, that he might well feel the kindest thing to do was to put an end to all hope.
She let her letter fall into her lap, turned her eyes upon the shining water, the long strands of weed swaying in the current and the brown velvet heads of the rushes, and considered this idea.
It was true that, at present, it was impossible for an engagement to be formed between them. Prudent, clever and hard-working though Mr Lomax was, his financial affairs were in disarray. There was a son by his first marriage – a hateful, dissolute boy. And this son had gaming debts: debts which would have put him into prison, had his father not pledged himself to pay them.
Dido had no notion of how long the paying of these debts would take – how long it might be before Mr Lomax could, with a clear conscience, make her an offer. Perhaps he had decided, after long and painful consideration (her heart insisted that the consideration should be painful – she loved him too well to excuse him from suffering) that he should give her up.
She smiled. This was a great deal better than supposing him to be indifferent… But… The smile slipped away from her lips. But it was, in fact, just as hopeless. For if he had decided they were not to be together, what was to be done about it? She must accept his decision. She must not pursue him – no gentleman could bear such forwardness…
The dazzling water beyond the curtain of willow leaves shifted and blurred as tears forced themselves into her eyes. And she sat for some time lost in misery and loneliness, hardly aware of anything around her.
It was a slight, unexpected movement which first roused her from wretchedness.
Something small was drifting and spinning upon the water. She blinked away her tears and peered through the overhanging leaves; it was the inevitable reaction of strong native curiosity. An irregular fragment of…something, was drifting in the current, a point of dullness on the gleaming stream. Another joined it, and another. They drifted slowly in amongst the bulrushes – more and more of them collecting among the thick green stems.
Dido wiped her eyes and, hardly knowing what she was doing – or why she was doing it – she leant over the river. There were torn fragments of paper slowly darkening in the water and beginning to sink.
Interested in spite of her misery, she pushed aside a twig of willow and looked upstream to learn whence the pieces of paper had come.
On a sandy bank a few yards away stood a woman – a small woman in a brown dress – urgently tearing at a bundle of papers and throwing the pieces down into the river. Now and again she would look quickly to left and right as if to ensure she was not observed, then she would return to her tearing and throwing.
As she finished her task and shook the last fragments from her hands she lifted her head in relief. The sun shone full upon her face… It was Miss Prentice.
Dido stared, wondered…and looked down at the pieces of paper drifting within her reach among the rushes. Some of them were already sunk down into the mud – but many others were still floating, the black words upon them still visible. She hesitated, struggled against temptation – and failed. In one swift movement, she stooped, plunged her hand into the cool water and snatched up some of the pieces.