Chapter Twelve
Dido woke from an odd dream of despair, loneliness and cold, encroaching water, to find that she had fallen asleep remarkably awkwardly. Her writing desk was still upon the bed and the covers were slipping away from her, leaving her feet exposed and thoroughly chilled.
It was still rather early. The light falling through the little window was thin and grey, and there was no movement from the house below, only the slow heavy sound of Rebecca descending the attic stairs to begin her duties.
She pulled up the covers and attempted to rub some warmth into her frozen feet, but the gloom and wretchedness of the night seemed still to hang about her. Nor was there much comfort to be found in anticipation of a day carrying out Margaret’s orders as the vicarage was prepared for its visitor.
In fact, there was but one way to dispel desponding thoughts: she drew the little writing desk back onto her knees, turned herself about to gain as much light as she might from the window, and resumed her letter:
… I mean to be rather selfish this morning, Eliza. I shall keep to my room until Margaret has gone out upon her early morning errands and then I shall attempt an escape to Madderstone. It is not a course of which I think you will approve, but I am quite determined to pass as much of the morning at the abbey as I am able – for once Mr Lomax is here it may become rather more difficult to pursue the matter of Miss Fenn’s death.
And, while I wait for Margaret to leave the house, I shall attempt to divert your thoughts – and my own – by giving an account of an amusing and very surprising little encounter which followed my discoveries at the pool yesterday.
I was just turning away when I saw that I was not alone. Silas Crockford was walking along the opposite bank, with a very distracted look upon his face and a pencil and a tablet in his hand.
Poor Silas … It is odd, is it not, how often the epithet accompanies his name? But I cannot help it, it is nearly always ‘poor Silas’ with me. Perhaps it is his sickly air; or his sisters’ constant chiding; or his great brown eyes and little pointed chin which always put me in mind of a child. I do not know why it should be, but there is something which never fails to arouse a pitying fondness whenever I see him. And yesterday he appeared more than usually pathetic, for, can you guess what he was about, Eliza?
He was attempting to write a poem.
It is true: little Silas Crockford has turned poet! He told me all about the poem he is writing: it is the tragic story of the Grey Nun’s doomed love and is to be composed ‘in the style of an old-fashioned m … minstrel’. Of course, he begged that I would not mention the matter to Lucy or Harriet. For he was sure there would be ‘a g … great carry-on’ about it if they knew.
I agreed immediately upon secrecy, but I doubt my complicity will result in a work of towering literary merit, for the poor boy did not seem to be going on very well. He showed me his page and was very eager to know whether I could suggest a rhyme for ‘drooped’ or ‘b … bonnet’. ‘W … what do you think, Miss Kent? I should be very g … glad to know your opinion.’
Altogether this did not seem to be a proper way of going about the business of poetry to me. At least, I do not think that Mr Pope ever asked advice, nor can I suppose that dear Mr Crabbe is forever troubling his friends for rhymes. Though, of course, I may be wrong. I know very little about poetic genius … Except that I believe I know what has turned young Silas into a poet.
He is in love, Eliza!
I began to suspect it as soon as he mentioned poetry, for the two generally go together, do they not? But I became sure of it soon after, when he asked in a very anxious voice if I could assure him that Miss Lambe was quite out of danger.
I said that I believed she was, but his anxiety did not seem to be entirely done away. He shuffled his feet about like an embarrassed schoolboy, evidently wishing to ask more, though it was some minutes before he could manage to stammer out, with flaming cheeks, ‘I s … suppose that she is a great deal in c … company with C … C … Captain Laurence?’
Poor Silas! Oh dear, I have said it again. But the pain in his eyes cut me to the heart. ‘Oh no,’ I said quickly, ‘I am sure she is not in company with the captain at all. She is still too unwell to leave her bedchamber. So, of course, he cannot visit her.’
‘I am very g … glad of it,’ he stammered. ‘That is, I am glad she does not see the c … captain, I am not g … glad she is unwell …’
He stopped and we both stood quietly for a moment or two, looking down at the muddy waste, and the dark pool of water in which were reflected flying storm clouds and the last light of the day.
I was thinking he had little chance of succeeding with Penelope if he were indeed opposed to such a man as the captain – and I believe his thoughts had taken a similar turn. For he soon shook his head regretfully and said – very fast, in the way he does when he wishes to express his thoughts before the stammer can intervene – ‘I had hoped, that while Pen … Miss Lambe was with us at Ashfield, we – that is, she and I – would be able to improve our f … friendship. I hoped that before she returned to Bath I should be able to d … d … dec … to tell her how I feel. But then there was this c … confounded accident, Miss Kent, and now she is sh … shut away from me … And C … C … C … And Laurence is there on the spot with her all the time …’ His poor face burnt as red as the sunset reflected in the water.
I expressed my concern at this unfortunate situation – and he became confiding.
‘Henry,’ he said eagerly, ‘– that is, Mr Coulson, you know – he says that I should declare my passion, that I should write such an ardent letter, Miss Lambe could not resist. That I should tell her I will d … die if she is not k … kind to me. Henry says that that sort of thing never fails with women.’
I ventured to suggest that Mr Coulson’s information might be a little inaccurate.
‘So you think I had better not?’ he said
Oh dear, Eliza, he looked so wretched! I could not help myself: I turned matchmaker on the spot!
‘But,’ I said firmly, ‘it may be possible for you to convey your sentiments – to raise yourself in Miss Lambe’s esteem – without an outright declaration.’
He looked doubtful. ‘The devil of it is, Miss Kent, if I don’t d … declare myself, then I cannot write to her at all. For that would be most improper – c … corresponding, you know, when there is no engagement. Harriet w … w … w …’
‘Harriet would be very angry indeed. Yes, I quite see your point.’
We both considered a while. It was becoming more gloomy than ever. The sound of the workmen’s axes had ceased, and, overhead, rooks were calling harshly as they flocked to roost in the park. I was wondering how such a dear, gentle boy as Silas might gain the advantage of a worldly fellow like Captain Laurence with his coarse good looks and his interminable stories of high-seas gallantry, and I confess that, for a while, I was utterly perplexed.