You see, all the gentlemen had gone ratting in the great barn, oh, two or three days before the ball. There had been a great many rats, you see. And they were to be chased somehow with the dogs – though quite how, Miss Sophia did not know because she could not bear the thought of it. So she had been at her instrument all the morning, because there was nothing like music to put anything unpleasant quite out of her head. Well, when the gentlemen came in to dinner they were all extremely vexed with Richard for not playing his part properly. And Tom Lomax swore a great many oaths. For she made no doubt Mr Tom had bet a great deal of money on his own dogs killing more rats than anyone else’s. Well, of course she knew nothing about the business of ratting, so she could not say quite what had happened, but it seemed that Richard was to have let the dogs go on a word or a signal or something; but he had not done so. Well, he said it was because he had not heard the signal. But she was quite certain that that was not the case because he was so very very distressed about it.
In short it was quite plain – at least to Miss Sophia’s penetrating understanding – that Richard had been overwhelmed by compassion for the rats. She could tell that he was too soft-hearted, much too kind to let the dogs kill the rats. He had let them escape on purpose.
And that was so like dear, dear Richard. He was so very, very sweet.
All this was run through with breathless enthusiasm while Miss Harris gravely nodded approval.
‘He is a dear boy.’ This was the remark of Sophia’s mother, who had followed Dido and now sat herself down beside her. ‘And what is more, he is a true gentleman. Richard has real good manners; the kind of manners which put everyone at their ease. He does not go out of his way to make other people feel inferior.’
Fearing a renewal of Mrs Harris’s grievances, Dido took the opportunity of a slight fit of coughing on that lady’s part to escape to the table where Margaret was (with considerable pride) doing the honours of the tea and coffee tray, which her ladyship was too indolent to perform herself.
She judged this to be a good opportunity of questioning Margaret on the subject of her future son-in-law’s character, since her duties prevented her from answering at any great length.
Between her pouring and her gracious smiling, Margaret gave Dido to understand that Mr Montague was a very pleasant young man. And that ‘that silly girl’ wasn’t likely to find a better one.
Dido took her teacup and stirred thoughtfully. ‘You think that he and Catherine are well matched?’ she asked. ‘You are sure they will be happy together?’
‘Oh yes,’ came Margaret’s reply in a voice fit to sour the cream in the jug she was holding. ‘Very well suited indeed. She has the upper hand of him already. He will do just what she tells him and that suits Miss Catherine very well indeed – spoilt madam that she is!’
The subject of whether Catherine was spoilt or not was an old argument between the sisters-in-law and Dido was about to retort with spirit when she became aware that Mr William Lomax had paused beside her in his way to returning his cup.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said in his pleasant, gentle voice. ‘You are enquiring about Mr Richard Montague?’
Dido replied that she was and, Mr Harris just then appearing in quest of coffee, they were able to step away from Margaret’s little domain.
‘It is very natural that you should wish to know about Mr Richard Montague and I am sorry that your meeting with him has been postponed,’ he said gravely. ‘I am sure he is as anxious to meet you as you are to meet him.’ Dido smiled at this kindly fiction. ‘But my dear Miss Kent, you may put your mind at rest. He is a very pleasant young man and I don’t doubt he will make your niece very happy indeed.’
Dido looked into the grey, penetrating eyes. ‘I confess I cannot help but worry,’ she said.
‘Of course not. Standing almost as a mother to Miss Kent as I understand you did for several years. And now she is engaged to a young man who you have never met. It is only natural that you should be concerned. But I don’t doubt that when you become acquainted with Mr Richard Montague you will be as happy in the prospect of the union as all their friends are.’ He glanced quickly at Margaret, but he was too well bred to mention the ungracious words he had overheard. ‘And I am sure too,’ he said in a lower voice, ‘that the marriage will not divide you from your niece. It will, no doubt, give her great pleasure to have a home of her own to which she can invite you.’
This conversation, though it undoubtedly formed the pleasantest part of Dido’s evening, did little to advance her enquiries, for she was left thinking less about Mr Montague than about Mr Lomax – how long he had been a widower; whether he had been too much attached to his first wife to marry again; and what a great pity it was that such a pleasant man should remain single.
From these reveries she was roused by Mr Harris, who came to her and said abruptly, ‘You want to know about Mr Montague?’
‘Yes,’ she said in some surprise.
‘Well, I shall tell you. He is not like his friend.’ He nodded in the direction of the pianoforte where Sophia Harris had now reseated herself – and where Tom Lomax was ceremoniously arranging music on the stand while he smiled and whispered to her.
Mr Harris’s weather-beaten face was tinged crimson with disapproval. ‘Miss Kent,’ he said, ‘Montague is a steady, decent young man. He tells the truth and he has a sense of duty: a sense of what is proper. In short, my dear, if you imagine a gentleman as different from Tom Lomax as he possibly can be, then you will have a pretty good picture of Mr Montague.’
And with that he walked off.
Considering the results of the evening’s work now as the carriage rattled into the yard of the Feathers, Dido could not help but feel that she had learnt more about the people to whom she had applied for information than she had about Mr Montague himself.
Hopton Cresswell was a pleasant village. It had a church with a lych-gate and a green with a broad, yellow-leaved chestnut tree and a fine gaggle of geese, who stretched their necks in a loud chorus of disapproval as the carriage rattled past. The Feathers itself was an old-fashioned house with a creaking sign, twisted chimneys and leaded casement windows – and a bustling yard, which suited Dido’s purposes very well indeed.
In just crossing the cobbles to the inn door of blackened oak, she fell easily into conversation with an elderly ostler and progressed very naturally from a discussion of his busyness (‘Running about so fast, miss, I reckon I’ll meet myself coming back soon’) to some enquiries about the size and nature of the village (‘Pretty big, miss, but all scattered about, if you know what I mean. We don’t like to live in each other’s pockets in Hopton Cresswell’) to a few compliments about the prettiness of the place and enquiries as to whether they saw many strangers at the inn.
‘Not so many, miss. We’re a bit out of the way for folk driving down to Lyme and the other seaside places.’
‘I see. In that case, you may be able to help me.’ She took refuge on the inn’s doorstep as a boy led past a skittish horse. She smiled her conspiratorial smile at the ostler – a wiry, tough-looking man who was not much taller than she was – and pitched her voice to carry over the clatter of hooves and hobnails which echoed off the walls. ‘There is a man who I think may have stayed here,’ she said. ‘He is an acquaintance of my niece and I ought to remember his name, but it has quite escaped my memory and I do not wish to appear rude when we meet again…’