But he shook his head. ‘I have made a promise, Miss Kent. I have given my word…’
‘To a man who was not worthy of your loyalty!’ she cried, unable to contain herself any longer. ‘You have given your word to a tyrant and a murderer, Mr Lomax. His behaviour dissolves all ties and duties…’
Suddenly she was overwhelmed. Worn down as she was by sleepless nights and days of restless activity; shocked by the death of Sir Edgar and by her own discoveries; worried for Catherine and more disappointed than she dared own in the man before her, she found that she was quite unable to hold back tears. They rose up, scalding her eyes and choking her words. For a moment she was blind and deaf to everything but misery.
Then she became aware of a strong warm hand laid over her clenched fists and an anxious voice speaking at her side. ‘My dear Miss Kent, please do not distress yourself. I shall do everything I can to help you.’ She looked up and saw him bending over her with great concern. He was looking at her clearly and directly. ‘I am not quite the scoundrel you take me for…’ he began fervently and then seemed to recollect himself. He took away his hand and sat down at the table. ‘You must understand that when I spoke just now of making a promise to Sir Edgar, I did not refer to the man who is dead – I spoke of the present Sir Edgar – the young man who, of course, inherited that title the moment his father died.’
Dido stared at him.
‘It is his own wish to remain hidden from the world. When, at just sixteen, he agreed to his father’s proposal of seclusion, I thought that he would perhaps change his mind as he grew older. And, if he had given the word, I was prepared to support him in exerting his claims. But he never has changed his mind. He is a very quiet, scholarly young man and he has no wish to expose himself to the curiosity of the world. He wants no other life than the one he lives at present. It is his expressed wish that the deception should continue.’
‘But,’ said Dido wretchedly, ‘unless Richard Montague can tell Catherine the truth, he and she can never be reconciled.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘My only hope is that I can persuade the new Sir Edgar to a partial disclosure. It will not be easy. He is a very stubborn man and, as I am sure you will understand, it is a difficult time to persuade him to anything now, when he is mourning the loss of his wife.’
‘You have told him everything?’ asked Dido fearfully.
‘Yes and he bears it as well as any man could, but it has been a heavy blow. Until I wrote my account I believe he had no idea but that his wife was safe in Dorchester with her mother and feared rather that she had abandoned him than that she had come to harm. His first wish now is to be left alone to grieve in peace. To gain his consent to such a disclosure of the truth will be an uphill task. But…’ He hesitated and looked down as if he was suddenly interested in one of the letters on the table. ‘But if your happiness depends upon it, Miss Kent, then it must be done.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
…Well, Eliza, the outcome of Mr Lomax’s persuasion is a very happy one for Catherine. The partial disclosure which he has achieved has extended not only to her, but, very properly, to Francis and Margaret too. And now she has gained the first desire of her heart and she will be able to marry the man she loves without being burdened with parental approval.
It all hung in the balance for a while. And it almost seemed that Francis and Margaret would give the union their blessing in spite of everything, for, by Mr Lomax’s careful management, Richard is to have all the appearance of inheritance. However, after due consideration, Margaret has declared that a younger son is, after all, a younger son and, as she observes, everything depends upon the goodwill of his brother. And then there is the matter of Edgar’s affliction – or the ‘bad blood’, as she insists upon styling it. And the end of it all is that she has urged Catherine to give up Richard in the strongest possible terms. Consequently, Catherine has been able to take offence at the insult offered to her beloved, in the best romantic tradition, and Francis and Margaret left Belsfield this morning promising not to attend the wedding.
Which is all highly satisfactory.
Of course, Catherine has not achieved that abject poverty to which she aspired; but, though she will not confess it, I think she has recollected that some of the consequences of poverty – such as old pelisses and pattens – are not conducive to happiness. She certainly bears the prospect of riches with remarkable fortitude.
She is very happy indeed and, though it is quite impossible that she should remain for ever in her present state of bliss, I see no reason why she should not enjoy a very contented life here at Belsfield. I have at last met Richard Montague, and I like him. He has not a shining intellect, but he seems to have remarkably good principles for the son of such a father. He defers rather too much to Catherine’s judgement, but he also has a great respect for the opinion of Mr Lomax and I hope that that will prove a steadying influence in their future life.
They plan to marry as soon as the period of deep mourning is completed and for Catherine the greatest difficulty lies in maintaining an outward show of proper sadness. Though she is not alone in that.
Her ladyship looks remarkably well. She almost smiles. Catherine expects that she will marry her mysterious lover as soon as decency permits. But I do not anticipate it, for I do not believe that any such gentleman exists. I say nothing of this to Catherine, because, Eliza, I am beginning to fear that the truth behind the rumours of adultery is even more shocking than it appears. I have been considering the matter carefully and I cannot help but think that the reports all originate with Mr Bartley, who has, more than once, supplied her with that terrible medicine. And I am inclined to believe that that is not concerned with any misdemeanour of hers.
You see, I keep remembering how her husband used to sit beside her, seeming so solicitous and always asking if she had taken her medicine. And how wretched the question made her – how she would look away and twist her rings about. Was it, I wonder, that patent stuff that he was urging her to take?
A few days ago I would not have believed such a thing possible among civilised Christians. But now, Eliza, I know the terrible lengths he was prepared to go to in order to conceal his son’s affliction. To what extremes of infamy was he prepared to go to ensure that another child was not born with the same infirmity? That he did not take the course of a gentleman and exercise restraint upon himself is all of a piece with his tyranny and selfishness…
Well, I doubt not that you think I am talking wildly now. But I cannot help but observe that my lady seems not only vastly content, but that she is also growing plump; and that she has given over twisting her rings and that she now sews instead. Nor can I help noticing that the article she is working upon looks remarkably like a christening gown…
* * *
Dido stopped, feeling, as she often did, that her pen was behaving like a runaway horse and taking her to places that she had not intended to go. She had certainly not meant to mention this matter in her letter.
There was a kind of forbidding reserve about Lady Montague, even now, which made such speculation seem a liberty. She had suffered during her marriage, certainly; but the extent of that suffering would probably never be known to anyone but herself. Of all the people at Belsfield, Dido felt that she was the one she understood least; wrapped as she was in silence and invalidish dignity, it was impossible to get at exactly what she thought or felt – or to understand what she might be capable of doing…