A Woman of Consequence Page 13

  Her hands stilled upon her work and she looked through the arching curtain of yellow damson leaves to the bow window of the library, dimly perceiving two figures within. What was Mr Portinscale’s business with her brother? she wondered. Was it perhaps connected with this anxiety over Mrs Harman-Foote?

  Now that she considered the matter, she acknowledged that it was rather strange to see Mr Portinscale here at Badleigh Vicarage. For, although they were close neighbours, the two clergymen were, most certainly, not friends: Mr Portinscale being of rather an evangelical turn of mind which did not suit Francis Kent at all.

  Suddenly restless, Dido jumped to her feet, picked up her workbasket and started towards the house.

  She would not, of course, be so dishonourable as to try to overhear the gentlemen’s conversation … But she might, perhaps, gain a sight of the visitor as he left and be able to judge something of his mood …

  As she passed the library window she caught a glimpse of Francis sitting beside his desk – and Mr Portinscale pacing about on the carpet. And then, as she came into the hall from the garden door – and just paused for a moment in the shadow of the stairs – she saw that the library door was standing ajar.

  She became suddenly very dissatisfied with the lacing of her boot; she put her basket on the hall table and stooped down to put the lace to rights … And, as she was doing so, Mr Portinscale’s voice rang out very clearly from the library.

  ‘In God’s name, Kent! You have been in my situation; you know how difficult it is. Will you not put in a good word for me?’

  ‘It would have no effect,’ came in her brother’s calmer voice. ‘He is the master of Madderstone and will have all his own way. You had much better confess the truth.’

  ‘Please! I beg you!’ cried Mr Portinscale. Then he seemed to recollect himself and began to speak more quietly.

  Dido lifted her face, struggling to catch the words. And, rather unluckily, it was just at this moment that Mr Lomax, rounded the corner of the stairs – and saw her.

  Her little round face was tilted and sunlight from the stairs’ window showed cheeks glowing with fresh air, a curl escaping from her cap onto the softness of her neck and wide green eyes which had all the eagerness – though not perhaps the innocence – of a child’s.

  ‘Miss Kent! Whatever are you about?’ The blunt words were just saved from discourtesy by the unmistakable affection in his voice.

  She looked up, blushed and began to stammer out an account of coming in from the garden … and noticing that her bootlace was unfastened and being obliged to stop just here … and put down her workbasket … and …

  He raised his brows. His eyes strayed to the library door.

  ‘I was not …’ she began, but before she could say any more, the door of the parlour opened and Margaret sallied forth, dressed in her outdoor clothes and just pulling her gloves onto her hands.

  ‘Oh there you are Dido!’ she cried and stopped as she noticed her guest upon the stairs. She acknowledged him with a brief nod, before turning her attention back to her sister-in-law. ‘I have been looking for you this last half-hour and I assure you I can very ill spare the time. For I absolutely must pay my visits this morning; I am quite ashamed of how I am neglecting my neighbours. But now I find the apple pies are still to be made, and I would be very much obliged to you, if you would just spare a moment or two to speak to Rebecca about them and see that they are done. It will not take above ten minutes I am sure and then you may enjoy your walking about and letter-writing as much as you please.’

  And so Dido was obliged to quit the hall, without being able either to hear the end of the conversation in the library or to assure Mr Lomax that she had not been listening to it. And, as she started down the chilly stone passage to the kitchen, she did not know which circumstance to regret more.

  What was the situation which Francis had shared with Mr Portinscale? And why did Mr Portinscale wish Francis to intercede with Mr Harman-Foote? And did this matter relate at all to Mr Portinscale’s anxiety over offending that gentleman’s wife? These were questions which must occur and yet to even ask them was to feel ashamed. She was mortified to have been discovered by Mr Lomax in so base an act as listening at a door … Well, she told herself comfortingly, she had not actually been at the door. She had been on quite the opposite side of the hall; her ear had not been pressed to the lock …

  But still, she could not be comfortable about it. She ought not to have done it. This was curiosity at its most inexcusable. And he had known what she was about. The skin upon her neck prickled with discomfort at the thought.

  She pushed open the kitchen door and stepped into warmth and the smell of damson jam. At the wide, scrubbed table, Rebecca was just securing the lids upon the last of the pots.

  Dido delivered her message and then, obligingly, sat down at the table to peel apples while the maid carried away the jam to the pantry and began upon making pastry.

  It was a rather peaceful place in which to think, well away from Margaret’s intrusions – and the observation of Mr Lomax. The air was sweet with the scent of fruit and sugar and the bundles of drying rosemary and mint which hung above the table. An outer door was standing open upon the kitchen garden and pale October sunlight was streaming across the scrubbed flagstones, bringing with it a smell of warm damp earth and scraps of song from a particularly impertinent blackbird who now and then bobbed up to peer curiously into the room.

  Slowly Dido began to regain her composure and, as she watched the long green curls fall away from her knife, she told herself that she must never, never again let her curiosity lead her into impropriety …

  ‘That’s odd Mr Portinscale coming to see the master, ain’t it, miss?’ remarked Rebecca as she spooned flour into her bowl.

  Dido’s knife stilled. She looked up to see Rebecca with her round red face tilted questioningly, waiting for encouragement to go on. She resumed her peeling. ‘Yes,’ she said offhandedly, ‘I suppose it is. He does not often come.’

  ‘He ain’t a great one for visiting at all.’

  ‘Is he not?’

  ‘No, I reckon he thinks most folks are a bit too sinful for him to want to go visiting them.’ Rebecca paused a moment in her spooning and gave a quick half-smile.

  ‘He is certainly a very severe moralist,’ Dido acknowledged. And she smiled back – though she knew she was breaking one of her grandmother’s strictest rules and ‘being familiar with servants’.

  ‘Ah yes, miss,’ said Rebecca significantly, ‘he’s certainly got a great deal to say about other folk’s sins.’

  And that, reflected Dido, was the great danger of breaking strict rules: it so often achieved precisely what one wanted … She could not resist. It was clear that Rebecca was full of some gossip which she was quite longing to share. Despite the resolution she had taken only minutes before, she leant a little closer across the table. ‘Do you suspect that he is … a little less harsh upon himself?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, it ain’t my place to say, of course, but I can’t help feeling that’s a bit odd – him being such a great one for the ten commandments …’ Rebecca nodded significantly and began to work lard very vigorously into the flour, with the air of one who has a great deal she could say – if only she were not so charitable.

  Dido took another apple from the basket, cut into its thick waxy skin – and waited. Now that she was begun, Rebecca would not be able to stop herself.

  ‘… Well it is one of the commandments, ain’t it?’ Rebecca continued, half to herself, but with one questioning eye upon her companion.

  ‘To which commandment are you referring?’

  ‘Thou shalt not steal.’

  ‘Indeed!’ Dido’s knife stopped again. She stared at Rebecca. ‘Are you suggesting that Mr Portinscale has been stealing?’

  Immediately Rebecca looked frightened. ‘You won’t tell anyone I said it, will you, miss?’

  ‘No, no, of course I shall not. But are you sure of it? What has
he stolen?’

  Rebecca looked about her, as if she feared that the black-leaded range, or the clothes-horse, or even the coffee grinder, might somehow be concealing spies. When she was quite satisfied that they were alone, she dusted the flour off her hands. ‘Cake!’ she whispered.

  ‘Cake?’ The notion of the dry, severe clergyman purloining – and secretly devouring – cake was delightful, but scarcely believable. ‘Cake?’

  ‘And pie.’ Rebecca smiled as she poured a little water into her bowl and began to stir. ‘No end of it gone from the pantry, so his housekeeper says. Right angry she was about it and ready to beat the skin off the back of the poor boot boy. And then she found crumbs!’

  ‘Crumbs?’

  ‘In the reverend’s study.’ Rebecca shook a little flour onto the scrubbed wood of the table, lifted her pastry out of its bowl and took up her rolling pin. ‘Now, what do you say to that then? Stealing cake out of his own pantry!’ (It was clear that, to Rebecca, the fact that it was his own pantry only compounded the crime.)

  ‘It is quite … extraordinary.’

  ‘It certainly is. And another extr’ordin’ry thing is he ain’t getting no fatter for it – nor is he stinting himself on his meals neither.’ She set about her rolling, nodding sagely. ‘If you ask me, that looks like he’s feeding someone – secret like, you know.’

  Chapter Twenty

  … But, Eliza, I am sure I cannot conceive who the reverend gentleman might be feeding. He is certainly not a man who is noted for random acts of charity. Nor can I believe him to be one who would keep a good deed hidden.

  So, whatever can he be about? Does this theft from his own pantry have anything to do with his odd conversation with Francis?

  It is quite remarkable the way in which, once one has begun upon solving a mystery, one discovers so many strange and inexplicable things that it is impossible to know which are of importance and which are not. Indeed, I believe that we live surrounded by all manner of strangeness: that our neighbours all have secrets to hide, of which we know nothing until one chance circumstance causes us to begin enquiries.

  Well, I am quite sure that you are shaking your head over that idea, for I know that you believe me to be too suspicious in general. I have not your remarkable talent for thinking only the best of my fellow men and women.

  But I am growing quite uneasy about the Reverend Mr Portinscale.

  At dinner I asked Francis the purpose of Mr Portinscale’s visit and he said that he had come to discuss poachers. By Francis’s account, the Rev. Mr P. believes that, since Mr Harman-Foote cannot be persuaded to take strong measures, the other gentlemen of the neighbourhood should unite against this ‘wicked assault upon property’.

  Francis was, as you may imagine, no more anxious to exert himself in this cause than he is in any other. Though Margaret, I might add, took a rather different line. She was all for a little hanging and transporting – and opined that a man-trap or two would not go amiss either.

  By the time we were got onto dessert, she was considering the merits of flogging. But enough of the pleasant dinner-table discourse of this household! It would be cruel if I were to continue; I should only make you discontent that you are not here to join in such elegant diversions!

  To return to Mr Portinscale. Is it possible, Eliza, that he knows something of Miss Fenn’s death? Could he have killed her in a passion of rage and abhorrence when he discovered that she was not the virtuous woman she appeared to be?

  The facts of his having made his offer immediately before her disappearance and his obvious discomposure at her refusal do rather tell against him. And I have been considering again Mrs Philips’ account of his ‘attentions’. She reports that they had continued all summer; that the pair were quite in the habit of walking out together ‘nearly every fine day’. Now, that would seem to suggest that Miss Fenn, if not exactly encouraging his attachment, was, at least, fond of his society.

  Does that not seem rather remarkable to you, Eliza? That such a very handsome, passionate woman, firmly attached to another man, should freely choose to be in company with such a dull fellow as Mr P? Although, perhaps I should bear in mind that Mr Portinscale might have been a very different man then – before his hair became thin and his own resentment and self-consequence got the better of him.

  And there is the annotation in the bible to consider too: Miss Fenn’s feeling response to Mr Portinscale’s discourse upon the tenderness of husbands – which might also suggest that she felt some affection for the speaker …

  No, I cannot make it out at all!

  I try again and again to look into the heart of this remarkable governess and find mysteries and contradictions at every turn.

  If only she had had a confidante: a friend with whom she shared at least some portion of her feelings and her hopes. She certainly does not seem to have confided in her pupil. Which is, I suppose, not to be wondered at. To talk with any degree of freedom to a girl of thirteen would be extremely indelicate. But maybe there was some other friend. I think I had better consult with Mrs Philips over this.

  For I must at any rate go to the abbey again today. I cannot be at ease in my mind until I have replaced the letter in the bible. I cannot keep it. I had considered making a copy before returning the original; but that did not seem honourable.

  She paused in quite a glow of virtue – but then felt compelled to add:

  Nor do I find that it is necessary, for every word is fixed in my memory.

  Dido rather fancied that her feet were wearing a path between Badleigh Vicarage and Madderstone Abbey. But it was a pleasant walk, she reflected as she hurried once more through the wood.

  She paused upon a footbridge that crossed the busy little stream. From here a broad ride led away into Madderstone village. The trunks of the overarching beeches were as grey and sombre as cathedral stone; but the leaves burnt red-brown upon their curving branches – and also on the floor of the ride. The day was mild and the sun was fetching up a slightly spicy scent from fallen beech-mast. Pigeons murmured comfortably and, somewhere close by, a woodpecker was, once again, at work.

  As she rested, the scene enlarged. Mr Lomax appeared in the ride, walking towards her with long, hasty strides. He seemed to be in some agitation: his head was bowed in thought, his hands clasped behind his back. He kicked at a pebble with such violence it rustled away through the fallen leaves and splashed down into the brook.

  ‘Miss Kent!’ He stopped abruptly as he caught sight of her. There was such a look, such a fierce struggle for composure, as made her fear the meeting was unwelcome. But at last he bowed and came to stand beside her on the bridge – and seemed willing either to rest there with her, or to accompany her back along the ride if she wished it.

  He had, he said, been paying a call at the abbey. ‘There is a degree of acquaintance. We have met when I have visited a friend in Shropshire …’

  He stopped speaking and regarded her so intently that she began to wonder whether there was something amiss in her appearance. However, it soon transpired that it was not her looks which were at fault.

  ‘Mr Harman-Foote,’ he continued in a tone of quiet control, ‘has been telling me of his wife’s distress at the horrible discovery in the lake: her unwillingness to believe that the poor woman took her own life.’

  ‘Oh!’ Dido turned her eyes resolutely upon the water gliding away beneath them; she watched a bright leaf as it spun around in an eddy, trapped by the pressure of water.

  ‘He informs me that you have undertaken to help her prove there was … some other cause of death.’ She stole a glance at his handsome, clever face. The brows were raised in a question, the strong jaw set in obstinate disapproval – but there was anxiety in the grey eyes. ‘Is it true?’ he asked.

  She fixed her gaze once more upon the spinning leaf and reminded herself that his ill moods ought to concern her no longer. Now that her refusal was given she should be no more upset by his displeasure than pleased by his compliments.


  ‘Yes, it is true,’ she said firmly. ‘And I am very sorry if you do not like it. But if you had seen the poor lady’s wretchedness I am sure you would agree that I must help her.’

  ‘I have had the pleasure of knowing you too long to ever doubt your compassion. However …’ His fingers beat restlessly upon the wooden rail of the bridge.

  ‘Your judgement is against me?’

  ‘My judgement …’ he began hastily. ‘Or rather my advice …’ He stopped himself. ‘But, no, I am sorry. I have no right to advise you, Miss Kent. You have not chosen to bestow that privilege upon me.’

  She coloured uncomfortably at the allusion and there was a short pause, filled only by the song of water and the woodpecker’s stutter. She knew that, in a moment – when he had regained his composure – he would begin talking upon indifferent subjects like the well-bred man that he was: a remark upon the weather perhaps, or the beauty of the season …

  And that would be worse than his disapproval! She did not wish for indifferent subjects. She might talk of those with everyone else in the world. But with him she had learnt the exquisite pleasure of reason, of ideas discussed and argued in a rational manner. And she found that she could not relinquish it.

  ‘Very well,’ she said, raising her face with an inviting smile. ‘I shall not ask your opinion of my conduct; but what is your opinion of the subject?’

  ‘The subject?’

  ‘Do you believe that the coroner was correct in declaring for suicide?’

  ‘Ah!’ He looked wary. ‘I have no reason to believe him incorrect.’ He replied cautiously.

  ‘Have you not? Perhaps Mr Harman-Foote failed to mention to you the very material fact that Miss Fenn’s letters have been removed from her room.’

  ‘No. He mentioned it. And perhaps I should add that he also mentioned the loss of the young woman’s ring – for I am sure that is the next matter you will bring to my attention.’