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‘It is just as he described it,’ cried Catherine happily. ‘I know we will find him here.’

She began to run towards the house, but Dido, following at a more sedate pace, could not share her certainty. The place had an unpromising appearance to her. There was no smoke issuing from the chimneys and the windows all looked dark. Her heart sank. Drawing closer, she discerned not a few weeds in the gravel of the drive, and when she came up to Catherine she found her staring in amazement at the gates, which were locked together with a great length of rusty chain.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Catherine wretchedly and she took hold of the gate and shook it, but all the good that did was to stain her gloves with rust.

‘He is not here,’ said Dido gently. ‘It is plain that no one has lived here for many years.’

Catherine continued to stare at the house. ‘I was so sure…’ Tears gathered on her eyelashes and her lip trembled. ‘Aunt Dido, I was so sure he would be here.’

‘I know, my dear, but really there was no reason why he should be.’ She put an arm about the girl for she looked as if she might faint. They stood for some moments staring at the blank face of the house and the dark windows seemed to stare back at them. Dido shivered. ‘Come, there is no use us staying here in the wind. We had better walk back to the others.’

But Catherine resisted and held her ground, stubbornly watching the house as if by willing it, she could make her lover be there.

‘Is the young lady unwell? Can I be of assistance?’

Dido turned and saw an elderly gentleman hurrying anxiously along the track towards them with a pair of terrier puppies playing about his ankles. ‘No, thank you,’ she said, stepping forward to shield Catherine’s distress. ‘We are just a little disappointed. We had hoped to find friends of ours living here.’

‘Here?’ said the man. ‘Well now, there’s been no one here at the Old Grange for many a year.’

‘Are you sure?’ cried Catherine, almost pleading. She passed a hand across her face to wipe away the tears – and left a smear of rust on her cheek. ‘We are looking for a Mr Montague. Do you know him?’

‘Montague?’ the man repeated, and then was distracted by the puppies, who, now that he was standing still, were having a fine time worrying at his gaiters. He released himself by picking up a stone from the track and throwing it as hard as he could across the turf. The little dogs bounded happily after it. ‘Montague? No, it’s a very long time since anyone of that name lived here. Not since that little boy was here with his tutor. And that would be, well now, let me see. Fifteen…no, it must be sixteen years ago because it was just after we first came here and before my dear wife died. I remember that because she used to feel so sorry for the poor little chap. Many’s the time, after we’d seen him out here playing, she’d go home and weep, bless her tender heart!’

‘Sorry for him?’ asked Dido quickly and Catherine too gave the gentleman a look of some surprise.

But the puppies were back now and he had forgotten their conversation in the more pressing business of searching for another stone and keeping his bootlaces away from sharp little teeth. When they had again bounced off on a fruitless errand, Dido repeated her question. ‘Why did your wife feel sorry for the little boy, sir?’

The man rubbed at his chin. ‘Well now,’ he said. ‘Fine looking little chap he was and yet…well…’

Dido and Catherine looked at each other in puzzlement. ‘You mean he was sickly?’ said Dido.

‘Yes…sickly.’ The old fellow had gone red in the face and he shuffled his feet on the track as if he knew not what to say. ‘Sickly in the head, if you know what I mean,’ he added at last. ‘Well, the fact is, it was plain for all to see, he was weak in his wits.’

‘I see,’ said Dido as calmly as she could and put herself forward so that Catherine might be spared from speaking. ‘How very sad. And how could you tell that there was anything wrong with the boy?’

‘Well now, you see, we’d see him out in the garden. Just between ourselves, I fancy the physicians had said the sea air would benefit his health. Though it was plain to me that nothing could be done for him. I have no great opinion of physicians, myself. Take your money and make all manner of promises…’ He paused. ‘Well, yes, as I was saying, the boy would be out in the garden in all weathers, rain or shine, summer or winter, and my wife and I, we’d call out and say “how do you do?” and he’d never say a word. Just wave his hands at us, he would, and make a kind of roaring sound. Very sad. Very sad.’

Dido felt Catherine’s grip tighten upon her arm and, indeed, she herself felt rather shaken by this strange account. But she was now becoming so accustomed to her role of discoverer of truth that it was natural for her to exert herself and to extract as much information as she could.

‘And what of the tutor? Does he still live in Lyme?’ she said. ‘Do you happen to remember the name of the man who was tutor to young Master Montague?’

The elderly gentleman rubbed thoughtfully at his chin again. ‘No, I am not sure I ever knew his name,’ he said. ‘But I would certainly know him again if I saw him. There’d be no mistaking him. Very tall fellow, he was, with flaming-red hair. I remember my dear wife used to say…’ He stopped suddenly at the sound of frantic yelping in the distance. ‘Little devils are down a rabbit hole again!’ he cried, and, with a hurried bow and an apology, he was off across the turf.

Dido and Catherine stood for several minutes staring at one another, hardly knowing what to think. Then, still in silence, they linked arms and started slowly back along the track towards the town. A little way off they could see the old gentleman on his knees bellowing furiously into a hole in the ground.

‘Catherine, my dear…’ Dido began after a little while.

But Catherine merely shook her head. Her heart – and, no doubt, her eyes – were too full for conversation to be attempted.

Dido held her arm in silent compassion and they walked on through the scent of salt and wild thyme with seabirds wheeling and calling over their heads.

She was not sorry to have time to reflect, for her own mind was overflowing with troubling thoughts. What exactly was Mr Montague’s present state of health? How much was he recovered from the little boy who roared and waved his hands about? How severe were those fits of headache which caused him to leave his parents’ home? And how might the sickness in his mind affect his actions?

Stealing a glance at Catherine’s white, shocked face, she guessed that she had, so far, seen little to distress her in the behaviour of her lover. Well, she had not known him long…

And yet, there was something in the girl’s manner which demanded Dido’s respect, something which spoke of a deeper attachment, a love founded more in reality and less in romantic notions than she had previously suspected…

They walked on in silence towards the lights of the town.

Chapter Fifteen

…This sickness in Mr Montague might explain so much. It provides a motive, not only for Sir Edgar’s dislike, but also for his determination to marry the young man quickly to a girl who scarcely knows him – even though that girl has no great fortune and no family worthy of note.

Could this be the reason for the hidden picture and the withholding of the family name? No, it could not of course have been a reason for the naming, for the child’s affliction would not have shown itself until he was a few years old. No, I think my first surmise is sound and Sir Edgar does indeed doubt his paternity. For there is still my lady’s physic to be considered.

You have my thoughts just as they arise, Eliza. I do not know what I write – nor what I think. But it is a great relief to write to you and I sincerely hope that you will not be so very unreasonable as to expect sense from me.