For a moment confusion threatened to overwhelm her and it was nothing but her determination not to show weakness in front of him that kept her on her feet. He was watching her, cruelly eager for any sign of pain on her face.
‘So you see,’ he said. ‘All this “I have nothing to offer you and it is only right that I should release you from our engagement” is nothing but hog-wash. The truth is, he’s tired of the girl and wants rid of her. In fact, I don’t believe he was ever wholeheartedly in favour of the match at all. It’s the old man that’s got his heart set on it.’
Hot blood ran to Dido’s cheeks at the insult. ‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘what your motive can be, Mr Lomax, in telling me this?’
He rose slowly from his chair and bowed to her. ‘I merely wish to be of service to you, Miss Kent. I mean to put you on your guard. It is very unwise of you to keep asking questions which can only result in the truth coming out and dear Catherine being very badly hurt by it.’
And with that he strode past her and crossed the hall to the billiard room, whistling as he went.
Left alone, Dido sank down into a chair as if the life-force had been drained out of her. It was impossible to know exactly what to think; but every possible thought was unpleasant and the clearest of them all was that if Tom had spoken the truth about the settlement of the estate, then it changed everything.
Chapter Twelve
Dido was miserable.
She had struggled for some time over Tom Lomax’s assertion that the Belsfield estate was entailed, reasoning that it could not be true. She would not believe that Catherine could have been so deceived. Surely she had properly understood the expectations of the young man before the engagement was formed.
But she could not comfort herself with that thought for very long before honesty forced her to admit it as all too possible that Catherine’s exaggerated notions of disinterested love had prevented her from even asking about such things.
However, she did continue to cherish a hope that Tom might be lying – for she had very little reason to suppose him honourable or truthful – until she made enquiries, in roundabout terms, of his father one evening as they were sitting together by the fire. And he confirmed Tom’s account exactly.
Her disappointment must have shown on her face, for he immediately asked what was amiss. ‘I am sorry if I have said anything to make you uncomfortable.’
‘Oh no,’ she said quickly. ‘I am quite comfortable, thank you.’
And, despite her worry over the entail, that was true. At that moment she was comfortable. She and William Lomax had by now fallen quite into the habit of conversing companionably by the hearth while the others played at cards. It had come to be Dido’s favourite part of every day. He was a very pleasant companion: clever and full of information and yet always ready to listen in his turn, and so quick in understanding her strange comments and observations as to make her feel that she too was clever – which is always the greatest recommendation in a companion.
She felt quite resentful of Sir Edgar when business of his took Mr Lomax away to the library after tea and left her to spend her time reading – or rather sitting with a volume open before her while she stared blankly at the page and listened for the opening of the library door.
And then, on the very evening that he explained the entail to her, Mr Lomax informed her – with a very pleasing degree of regret – that he would be leaving early on business the next morning and expected to be away from Belsfield for several days.
Dido was very miserable. There was no one else in the house whose society afforded her so much pleasure. And her enquiries into Mr Montague’s disappearance had, after a rather promising beginning, come to nothing and left her surrounded by questions which she could not answer.
And there was, in addition to all this, a suspicion that she was being excessively foolish; a suspicion that there were truths, not only staring her in the face, but actually crying out at her to notice them, shrieking at her – and laughing at her behind her back for her stupidity.
She was sitting in the gallery one morning, meditating upon all this and attempting to establish exactly what she knew and what she could surmise. The sum total was not very promising.
If Tom Lomax was to be believed then the scene in the ballroom was nothing but a pretence, a kind of elaborate charade enacted to deceive Catherine. But if that was so, she could not understand why the charade should have been played so badly. Pollard might only be a friend of Mr Montague’s impressed into the scene, but why had he played his part so badly? Why had he not spoken? An appearance of conversation had been necessary to make the charade believable – and yet he said nothing.
No, even though she was forced to believe Tom about the entail, she could not believe the conclusion he had drawn. Mr Montague had not set out to deceive Catherine. It was, after all, a lie which could easily be detected, for it seemed everyone in the house knew about the settlement of the estate.
But that only left the possibility that Mr Montague had told the truth when he said that he was a poor man. And how could that be? Since even if Sir Edgar was a bully who had no affection for his son, he could not disinherit him.
It made no sense at all – or else she was too stupid to understand the sense that it made.
It was while she was in this state of despair that a letter was delivered to her. And its contents did nothing to raise her spirits. It was from her sister and had been written two days ago.
Dearest Dido,
I take up my pen with a heavy heart, for I know you will not like to read what I know I must write and I cannot remember when I have ever written to you before without being sure that you will welcome my letter.
Dearest, are you not being as blind as poor Catherine? You are so very tender-hearted, for all your pretence of being satirical, that I fear you are failing to see guilt where it is most obvious. It is quite natural that you should do so, of course, for it seems to me that the guilty man is particularly plausible and charming. And I do not mean to set up my opinion against yours, nor pretend to possess your quickness of mind, but it may be that some things are seen clearer at a distance.
To own the truth, I distrust your Mr Lomax. I mean Mr Lomax senior, not the son, who, by your own account, you do not trust, and very rightly I am sure. Though he is, of course, still very young and it is to be hoped that he may turn out well in the end. Oh dear, I am getting quite off the point, but one should always try to think the best of one’s fellow creatures, which makes it all the harder to say what I am quite determined to say – even though you may be as angry with me in the end as Catherine is with you.
Dearest, have you considered the possibility of Mr Lomax’s guilt? I know that it is very difficult to do so. But we have to believe that someone is guilty. Unless it is possible that the poor woman died through some terrible accident. Has that possibility been properly considered? I think that it should be.
But to return to Mr Lomax. If we have to think someone a killer, then why not him? We have reason to suppose him an adulterer. Now, maybe it is to Tudor House that his carriage conveys her ladyship. Perhaps that is the purpose of that establishment. Perhaps Mr Blacklock is not Richard Montague, but William Lomax. After all, Mr Lomax is not always at Belsfield. Do you know where he resides when he is not in his employer’s house?
Do you not see how likely all this is? I have been thinking about it a great deal. Mr Montague, you see, discovered what was carrying on. That was the family shame that he wrote of in his letter. The visitor to Tudor House, Mr Pollard, who was probably, by some coincidence, a friend of Mr Montague’s, informed him (I mean Mr Montague) of it at the ball and he immediately told his father about it.