She paused, her face burning red in the cold, gloomy afternoon and her gloved hands pounding together in evidence of her inward agitation. They had walked out into the gardens for privacy and were now seated upon a wooden bench against a high, clipped yew hedge that formed a kind of alcove in which was placed a statue of a plump little boy that was so worn and moss-grown that it was impossible to determine whether he was pagan cupid or Christian cherub.
Sophia had listened to the news just as Dido had hoped she would: with strong emotion – but with good sense too. She was pleased to find that her assessment of the girl had been sound. The silly manner was, after all, not an essential part of her character. There was no trace of it to be seen now. There was instead a strange self-possession and, certainly, no lack of intelligence.
‘Something must be done about this,’ Miss Sophia was saying now. A strand of hair, damp from the misty air, fell down across her face and she pushed it back impatiently. She tapped a finger against her lip. ‘But what can we do?’ She shook her head. ‘Tell me, Miss Kent, what do you know of Mr Tom Lomax?’
‘Very little – but I know that there are few young men that I like less. His father seems to be a very respectable man.’
‘Yes. I wonder whether an appeal to Mr William Lomax might help us.’
‘I think not. I considered it; for I am sure he would be mortified by the way his son is behaving. But, from what Catherine tells me, I collect that Mr Tom is quite in the habit of defying his father.’
‘I have heard he has very heavy debts,’ said Sophia with a sigh.
‘Yes, his circumstances are, I believe, becoming desperate. He is holding his creditors off with promises and I think he is determined to make his fortune by marrying well, for he is too indolent to take up any profession.’
‘Ah! And that must make matters worse. For I do believe, from everything I have read, Miss Kent, that there are few things more dangerous than a desperate man.’
‘Quite so,’ said Dido. ‘And yet, perhaps we may be able to use his desperation – and his own plans – against him.’
‘You have an idea?’
‘Maybe – yes, I think I do.’
‘What is it?’
Dido hesitated. She could not quite say that in return for her help she wished to have her curiosity satisfied. Though that was the truth of the matter. ‘I wonder,’ she began cautiously, ‘whether, before I explain myself to you, you might explain yourself to me.’
Sophia folded her hands in her lap and stared down at the gravel. ‘I am sure I don’t know what you mean, Miss Kent,’ she said stubbornly.
There was silence between them for several minutes and the little sounds of the garden crept into their alcove: a little desultory birdsong; the rattle and scrape of a gardener’s rake working somewhere in the gravel; the splashing of the great fountain on the lower terrace.
‘I hope,’ said Dido quietly at last, ‘that Miss Harris is feeling better today?’
‘Yes. I thank you,’ said Sophia gravely. She was silent for several more minutes, then she sighed and gave her companion a sidelong look. ‘The proposal was unexpected,’ she explained reluctantly, ‘and Amelia was a little shaken by it. It will, of course, be refused – politely, regretfully. And the business will soon be forgotten.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Dido cautiously, ‘but I cannot help enquiring: was it her intention that the proposal should never be made?’
‘Of course it was!’ Sophia sighed again, more loudly, recognising that she would only hear Dido’s idea after she had explained herself. ‘If you are going to help us, Miss Kent, then I suppose it is only fair that I should be candid with you. We have never talked of our scheme to anyone before, but I think… Yes, I am sure, that in these circumstances my sister would agree with me that disclosure is justified.’ She said all this with such solemnity that Dido wondered what could possibly follow. ‘It is,’ she intoned with great dignity and weight, ‘our intention that no proposals of marriage should ever be made.’
Dido stared. ‘That is a rather singular aim for two young women!’
‘I have a notion,’ said Miss Sophia, primming up her mouth, ‘that it is more common than one might suppose, though most women do not perhaps go to quite the lengths that Amelia and I have adopted. But, you see, we were very young when we decided against marriage and had several years in which to perfect our scheme before we were in serious danger.’
Dido studied her companion carefully, for, despite what she had observed over the last three days, she could not quite judge how serious she was in this. But it seemed that Miss Sophia was serious in everything. She certainly showed no propensity to laugh at herself. ‘You intrigue me,’ said Dido. ‘May I ask why you came to such a decision?’
Sophia folded her hands and shrugged up her plump shoulders a little. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘that it was because of my dear mother’s attempts to make us marriageable. You look puzzled, Miss Kent! I had better explain. Mama, never having had the advantage of an extensive education herself, was quite determined that Amelia and I should be as accomplished as possible; that our minds should be improved and all our talents encouraged.’
‘I see.’
‘Well, we were provided with the very best masters and given every opportunity to learn. And, either because of the excellence of our education, or because of some natural taste in us, the undertaking was very successful; more successful, I suspect, than such programmes of study generally are. Too successful, I might almost say. For, by the time Amelia was fifteen years old and I was fourteen – when everyone expected, of course, that we should start to neglect our books for invitations and visits and hair curling – well, by then, we were both so devoted to our studies, so accustomed to finding pleasure in the serious business of books and drawing and music – that even a ball seemed an unwelcome intrusion upon our time.’
‘That is very singular!’
‘Is it?’
‘I do not think I have ever heard before of a young lady of fifteen who would not be happy to abandon her studies for a ball.’
‘Yet I see no reason,’ said Miss Sophia severely, ‘why there should not be as much variety of temperament among young women as among young men – and among young men we are not surprised to find examples of the serious as well as the trivial.’
‘Well, I suppose you are right,’ said Dido. ‘It may be that I am prejudiced by my memories of my own talentless struggles upon my mother’s old spinet and my wretchedness over drawing houses that would, despite my best efforts, look like mountains and chickens that looked like trees. There was only one thing which I hated more and that was arithmetic. I certainly had no more cause to love the visits of the drawing master and the music teacher than they had, poor fellows.’
‘But you are a clever woman, Miss Kent, and I think that you must have loved your books.’
‘Oh yes!’ cried Dido. ‘I was excessively fond of books. Provided, of course, that they came from a circulating library and had a great many handsome villains and horrid mysteries in them and were quite free from any serious moralising or instruction.’
‘Now,’ said Sophia, rather offended, ‘I am sure that you are mocking me and, furthermore, doing yourself a grave injustice.’