A Gentleman of Fortune (5 page)

‘…I believe the business
must
come soon to the attention of the magistrates,’ she was declaring happily as Flora turned pale. ‘It is a very shocking business, and much to be regretted for the sake of the whole neighbourhood.’

‘Though I can hardly understand how the neighbourhood has been injured by it,’ said Dido sharply, ‘since it has only gained a subject about which it may talk at a time when news from town is rather thin.’

Colour mounted in Mrs Midgely’s broad, rouged cheeks. But, luckily, she was prevented from replying by the arrival of a note which sent her hurrying off in high spirits to ‘consult with Mary directly.’

As the door closed behind her a silence fell upon the room which was very welcome to all three remaining ladies. But poor Miss Prentice was looking anxious. She sat for several moments, her little hands fidgeting in her lap. ‘Oh dear,’ she said at last, ‘I rather fancy that her note is about poor Mary going away.’

Flora looked concerned. ‘Is it true, then,’ she asked Miss Prentice quietly, ‘that Miss Bevan is to go out as a governess?’

Miss Prentice nodded sadly.

‘I had heard it spoken of,’ cried Flora, ‘but, you know, I hardly gave the rumour credit. For I am sure Mrs Midgely has as pretty a fortune as any woman in the world! And she has not another creature to leave it to. I do not at all see why she cannot provide for poor Mary.’

‘Well, if I must give my opinion, neither can I,’ said Miss Prentice. ‘I never heard this plan of making her a governess until just a few months ago. And I am sure it was always the intention of Colonel Midgely to provide for the girl when he took her in. But he has been dead a year now and…’ She checked herself and gave a smile, turning her little face to one side as she did so. ‘Well, well, it is no business of mine to have an opinion on the matter, is it Mrs Beaumont?’ She sighed deeply. ‘But the poor, dear girl is being so very brave about it. She has set her mind to it, I know, and has had her gowns packed and her travelling dress ready this last week.’

Flora politely hoped that Miss Bevan would find a situation with a pleasant family and then introduced more general topics to take the poor lady’s mind from the distressing subject.

Dido was quite struck by this new view of Mrs Midgely’s character. It certainly showed a hardness of heart and, perhaps, a love of money. But how these qualities might bear upon her determination to harm Mr Lansdale, she could not quite determine…

She turned her attention back to little Miss Prentice, who was now chatting quite merrily. Sitting with her little pink hands folded in the lap of her plain brown dress, a neat grey curl hanging on either side of her cap, she was a pleasant sight – delightfully eager and animated. She was perhaps a year or two older than Mrs Midgely but there was about her something which suggested she had once been pretty in a small, unobtrusive way.

Dido could not help but think her cheerfulness out of place in the dark, confined little parlour. But, it seemed, the deficiencies of her present home were more than compensated, by its being in so fashionable a place as Richmond. Miss Prentice certainly shared her friend’s interest in ‘the neighbourhood’. Only, while Mrs Midgely valued fashionable people for the reflected grandeur she believed they threw upon herself, Miss Prentice’s regard for them was perfectly disinterested: she delighted innocently in wealth and titles as a naturalist delights in the birds and beasts that he watches.

‘And I hear that Sir Hugo Wyat is to take the red house near the top of the hill.’ she was saying now. ‘And Sir Hugo’s is a very old title. I do so love the old titles. There is such solidity about them, is there not? Such Englishness! And so, when Sir Hugo comes, that will be three Baronets residing here in this street. Which is so very… For last summer, I understand, there was but one.’

‘You do have some very – interesting – neighbours,’ said Dido, looking thoughtfully out into the bright sunshine beyond the window, at the dusty road and Knaresborough House. From here it was possible to see the whole of the sweep and the house-front, with the smooth green lawns sloping upward to the dark mass of laurel bushes that shut out the offices at the back of the house.

‘Ah!’ cried Miss Prentice, following her gaze. ‘You are thinking of the Lansdales, I don’t doubt. It is a sad business,’ she continued in a half-whisper, ‘and, for myself, I do not care what Susan says. If I must give my opinion, I am all for the young man. He seems a very pleasant gentleman indeed and he always bows very prettily when he walks past and sees me at the window – which not many fine young men would think to do.’

Dido smiled and ventured to say, ‘You have perhaps heard of the death of Mrs Lansdale’s little dog?’

‘Oh yes. I have indeed!’

‘Mr Lansdale tells us that it went missing on the evening that its mistress died. And I wondered… You have such a remarkably clear view of the house and its grounds… I wondered whether you might have seen what became of it…’

‘No.’ Miss Prentice thought carefully. ‘No, I do not believe that I did.’

‘But I daresay you saw the butler searching the garden for it?’

Miss Prentice looked very thoughtful and pressed a bent finger to her lips: seemed pleased that, for once, she had indeed been asked to give her opinion. ‘No, I cannot say that I remember that at all. But Mary came to sit with me for a little while after dinner, and Susan had company that evening. Mr Vane and Mrs Barlow came to play at whist – and I went in to join them. Dear Mary insisted that I join them. “You must come”, says she, “for I am sure I cannot bear to think of you sitting all alone”. Which was so very… So, you see, I do not think I was by the window for long.’

‘I quite understand. But, I wonder, what exactly did you happen to see that evening?’

Miss Prentice considered very carefully, so gratified to be consulted that she did not seem to wonder at Dido’s motives. ‘Well now, let me see,’ she said, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. ‘What can I remember? This is like that game we used to play when we were children. Did you play it too? With all the little objects – reels of thread and pennies and oranges and I know not what – all put upon a tray and then a cloth put over them and we must say all that we could remember.’

‘Yes,’ said Dido, ‘it is just like the game, is it not?’

‘Well…’ She closed her eyes. ‘I do not remember the dog. No, he was not there. Nor the butler. I saw Mr Lansdale: he drove away in his barouche… And I believe I saw the maids going away to their homes… And a beggar came and stood against the gate post… And then I saw Mr Henderson. I saw him walking across the lawn in his way to the front door.’

‘Mr Henderson?’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Prentice, opening her eyes. ‘Mr Henderson is the gentleman who used to live in Knaresborough House before the Lansdales came there. He left it but three days before they came.’

‘And are you quite sure it was him?’

‘Oh yes. I remember it very clearly, for I remarked upon it to Mary. “Why look!” I said, “here is Mr Henderson come to call upon Mr Lansdale”. Because Mary was a little acquainted with him you see. At least she was a little acquainted with his daughters.’

‘And at what time did you see him?’

‘At about eight o’clock I think – for it was just before we went to cards.’

‘I wonder,’ said Dido after a pause. ‘Do you know if Mr Henderson wears powder in his hair?’

Miss Prentice looked all amazement. ‘Why, how remarkable that you should guess that, Miss Kent! Yes, indeed he does. He is a well-looking, tall man. He has very fine black side-whiskers; and he always has his hair
very
nicely dressed. And I think it is such a becoming fashion, do not you? And so few gentlemen take the trouble these days to put on powder. Yes, so very becoming.’ She smiled fondly – as if, perhaps, she was remembering a particular powdered gentleman from her distant youth.

Dido thought for a moment or two, then risked asking: ‘You are quite sure, that Mrs Midgely had a card party that day – that she was at home all evening.’

‘Oh yes. Quite sure.’

‘I just wondered whether…whether, perhaps, Mrs Midgely went herself to visit Mrs Lansdale that day.’

Miss Prentice’s little face twisted about in surprise. Her eyes widened. ‘Susan?’ she said, ‘Susan, visit Mrs Lansdale? No indeed! Why ever should you think such a thing? She was not at all acquainted with her.’

‘Oh but she was!’ cried Flora before Dido could prevent her. ‘She certainly had visited the house you know. We found her visiting card in Mrs Lansdale’s drawing room!’

There was a gasp from Miss Prentice: something between surprise and pain. All the colour drained from her round cheeks. Her lips moved but no sound came from them.

‘Miss Prentice? Are you unwell?’ Dido stood up and went to her – and was but just in time to catch her as she slipped from the chair in a dead faint.

Next morning Dido walked beside the river – alone. She had received such a letter from her sister as made liberty and solitude essential: such a letter as must turn her mind away from the mysteries surrounding her in Richmond: such a letter as must, for a while, even make her cease to wonder why Miss Prentice should faint upon hearing of her friend’s visit to Mrs Lansdale.

Mr Lomax’s going away from Belsfield just now, and leaving her questions unanswered, was a severe blow. It spoke such an indifference to her and her concerns, as must make her doubt that he retained any affection for her at all…

How was it to be understood? Did he mean to convey to her some message? To let her know that she must think no more of him? Or had he merely forgotten the understanding which
had
seemed to exist – which had existed – between them? Was she become just another acquaintance whose requests could be brushed aside as convenience demanded?

These were the questions which had sprung up to torment her in the morning room as soon as she had read the letter. These were the questions which had followed her as she walked out. Now, seated upon an old log on the river-bank, concealed from the world by a willow which hung low over the water, she took the letter from her pocket, unfolded it and read it again.

The sunlight sparkled upon the slow running river. The air smelt of cool water and mud and wild garlic. Waterfowl slid lazily along upon the current and the turquoise wings of a dragon-fly flashed in and out of the tall rushes as Dido reread the hurtful words. But they had not changed. They conveyed the same message as they had back in the morning room.

He was indifferent. If he had ever cared, he cared no longer… Unless… Unless it was only a show of indifference designed to release her from an attachment which he felt could never be fulfilled. There were, after all, such obstacles to their ever coming together, that he might well feel the kindest thing to do was to put an end to all hope.

She let her letter fall into her lap, turned her eyes upon the shining water, the long strands of weed swaying in the current and the brown velvet heads of the rushes, and considered this idea.

It was true that, at present, it was impossible for an engagement to be formed between them. Prudent, clever and hard-working though Mr Lomax was, his financial affairs were in disarray. There was a son by his first marriage – a hateful, dissolute boy. And this son had gaming debts: debts which would have put him into prison, had his father not pledged himself to pay them.

Dido had no notion of how long the paying of these debts would take – how long it might be before Mr Lomax could, with a clear conscience, make her an offer. Perhaps he had decided, after long and painful consideration (her heart insisted that the consideration should be painful – she loved him too well to excuse him from suffering) that he should give her up.

She smiled. This was a great deal better than supposing him to be indifferent… But… The smile slipped away from her lips. But it was, in fact, just as hopeless. For if he had decided they were not to be together, what was to be done about it? She must accept his decision. She must not pursue him – no gentleman could bear such forwardness…

The dazzling water beyond the curtain of willow leaves shifted and blurred as tears forced themselves into her eyes. And she sat for some time lost in misery and loneliness, hardly aware of anything around her.

It was a slight, unexpected movement which first roused her from wretchedness.

Something small was drifting and spinning upon the water. She blinked away her tears and peered through the overhanging leaves; it was the inevitable reaction of strong native curiosity. An irregular fragment of…something, was drifting in the current, a point of dullness on the gleaming stream. Another joined it, and another. They drifted slowly in amongst the bulrushes – more and more of them collecting among the thick green stems.