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One source of distress is that I believe I have misjudged Catherine. I think that her affection for Mr Montague goes a good deal deeper than I have thought. You see, she was so very upset by the old gentleman’s words this afternoon, struck almost senseless by them, in fact. And, lately, Eliza, I have begun to wonder whether I might not have been too hasty in thinking her only slightly acquainted with Mr Montague; for one might perhaps become rather well acquainted with a man in a short time – if there was a very remarkable coincidence of temperament and the time was passed in rational converse on subjects that were of interest to both, rather than in the idle chatter of the ballroom – or card table…

Well, that is all quite by the by; the material point is that Catherine is now suffering a good deal and I have persuaded her to go to her bed.

So now I have a little time for quiet reflection here in the inn parlour, for the gentlemen have gone about business of their own – in the tap room or stables, I suppose – and I am sitting here in very companionable silence with the Misses Harris. The candles have been lit and the shutters closed and the fire is roaring in the chimney with the wind that is blowing in from the sea, and altogether we are very cosy here – with the occasional sound of wheels and horses outside to remind us that other folk are still abroad and make us glad that we are at rest for the night. Miss Sophia and I are writing our letters while Miss Harris is engaged upon her drawing – which, by the by, is vastly improved. Despite her efforts to conceal it, I contrived a peep just now. The giant sheep is gone and the perspective is very good and, all in all – as well as one can judge of such an incomplete performance – it promises to be a very fine picture indeed. How very strange!

It seems that I must amend my opinion of her as an artist – though not as a companion. I cannot say that I find either of them winning upon my affections. In the absence of the gentlemen not even Miss Sophia has anything much to say. And I am beginning to suspect that they are both naturally of a rather taciturn disposition and that Miss Sophia only exerts herself into chattering emphasis because she mistakenly believes it is becoming. Why do young women think that they must put on such airs to catch husbands? Were we ever such fools, Eliza? Well, well, I suppose we were, and I am allowing myself to wander quite off the point.

Perhaps when Mr Montague absents himself from home it is not entirely a matter of free choice. Perhaps the establishment at Hopton Cresswell has been formed as a place of concealment when his behaviour is disturbed. Exiled from his family, cut off from equal society, might a lonely, impressionable young man not all too easily form an unsuitable attachment?

And Mr Pollard was once Mr Montague’s tutor. Or so it would seem by the old gentleman’s description. And that accords well with him being now ‘a university man’, as the ostler described him. Catherine said that he looked like a professional man and his profession is no doubt the Church, for I am sure I remember Edward telling me once that only clergymen can hold posts at the university.

So what was his mission at the ball? I will not fall into the common modern cant of deriding all clergy; like the dutiful daughter of a clergyman that I am, I shall take it as an article of faith that a man so ordained must have had an honourable motive. Did he come to urge Mr Montague to confess his sins?

But why did he not speak? How could Mr Montague have guessed his meaning by a look? I keep coming back to that silence in the ballroom. I feel that if I could but understand that then I would have the key that unlocks all this mystery.

I am sorry for this rambling talk, Eliza. But I feel that there is an answer here in all this, and I am too stupid to find it.

I keep trying to remember everything that Charles and Edward used to tell us about the rules of argument and debate when they were at Cambridge and I heartily wish that my own education had had a little more logic in it and rather less playing of disastrously bad scales upon the spinet.

But then, to be fair upon our poor mother, I do not suppose that the solving of mysteries or the detection of murderers was much in her mind when she devised our schooling.

However, I may lay claim to one fairly rational thought today and that concerns Mr Harris and Tom Lomax – and their visit to the shrubbery. I am almost sure that they are both lying about it. Why are they lying? Well, Mr Harris is a member of the family and might easily be persuaded to hold his tongue about anything that he saw that day. And Tom? Well, might he not very easily be bribed into silence? Do you see my meaning? Perhaps the fortune which he looks forward to does not come from marriage.

Distasteful as any interview with Mr Tom Lomax must be, I rather think that I shall be forced to contrive another tête-à-tête with him and see what I may discover.

I am sorry, Eliza, I will have to break off my letter in a moment. The gentlemen have returned and… Now that is very strange indeed!

Eliza, I am sure I am not mistaken. When the door opened just now, Miss Harris changed the picture on her drawing board. I am sure she did it. She pulled out another paper from underneath and placed it over the drawing she was working on. I shall drop my sand shaker and try to steal a look at the drawing board as I retrieve it…

Yes! I was right. The monstrous sheep is back!

Now here is another mystery. Why should a woman who can draw very well pretend incompetence? And now I remember something else… But I must stop now; Tom Lomax is moving this way

Dido was abroad the next morning before anyone else from the Belsfield party had stirred from their beds. She was able not only to take a long, thoughtful walk on the Cobb – where the beauty of white-capped waves dancing under the first narrow beams of sunlight did little to soothe her troubled mind – but also to take a little wander about the village and the church.

She turned back towards the inn, sunk even deeper in thought than when she left it and, a little way from its door, she met with Sophia Harris, who was also returning from a solitary walk. Miss Sophia had a remarkably serious look upon her face and she was lacking the fussy curls about her ears. Her hair was simply dressed in a tight, uncompromising knot at the back of her head. To Dido’s mind, it improved her appearance considerably.

Together the two women made their way along the narrow street where yawning housemaids were washing doorsteps and clattering pails, and errand boys were hurrying past with baskets of bread and pitchers of milk.

They were engaged first in exclaiming upon the beauty of the morning and the place. And then Dido took the opportunity of adding, ‘I shall be pleased to see your sister’s drawings of Lyme when they are finished. She draws extremely well.’

‘Does she?’ said Sophia in some confusion. ‘That is… Yes, I think that she does. But I am her sister, so I don’t doubt that I am prejudiced.’

‘I cannot but notice, however,’ said Dido cautiously, ‘that her performance is somewhat…variable. But perhaps it makes her nervous to be observed at her work?’

‘Yes, yes I suppose that it does.’

They walked on a little way. Dido tried to read her companion’s feelings from her face – but could not make them out: her lips were tightly compressed and two little lines above her nose puckered her brow. ‘It is quite remarkable, is it not,’ continued Dido, ‘how the presence of another person can distract us? It can quite spoil the execution of a drawing – or a piece of music.’