A Place of Confinement E-Book

Anna Dean

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Dido Kent Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 530

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Dido Kent's sister-in-law Margaret is attempting to marry her off to the ghastly clergyman Doctor Prowdlee, with his abominable side-whiskers. Dido, however, is determined to refuse him. As punishment she is sent on a journey as companion to her rich, hypochondriac Aunt Manners - whom the family wants to keep on the right side of. When they arrive at Charcombe Manor, Aunt Manners' childhood home, they find a mystery lying in wait for them. The rich heiress Letitia Verney has disappeared while visiting the house, and Mr Tom Lomax is suspected of abducting her. Dido, upon hearing his story, is inclined to believe in his innocence - but how is she to explain the impossibility of Miss Verney vanishing into thin air? And there is also the abandoned wing of Charcombe Manor to be considered. Why do lights appear there at night? The house is full of enigmas, with its memories of old family quarrels and its crying ghost that keeps visitors awake. As the mystery intensifies, Miss Dido Kent embarks on her most intriguing investigation yet . . .

Leseprobe

A Place of Confinement

ANNA DEAN

For my sister, Elizabeth Jane, with love

Contents

Title PageDedicationChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixChapter Twenty-SevenChapter Twenty-EightChapter Twenty-NineChapter ThirtyChapter Thirty-OneChapter Thirty-TwoChapter Thirty-ThreeChapter Thirty-FourChapter Thirty-FiveChapter Thirty-SixChapter Thirty-SevenChapter Thirty-EightChapter Thirty-NineChapter FortyChapter Forty-OneChapter Forty-TwoAbout the AuthorBy Anna DeanCopyright

Chapter One

Charcombe Manor, Saturday 18th April 1807

My dear Eliza,

I am in prison and I do not know how much longer I can bear my confinement. The crime I have committed does not merit such a severe punishment. I must find some method of escape, or else run mad …

Miss Dido Kent ceased writing and looked with disgust at the words on her page. They were marred by ink running from an overloaded, careless pen – and with all the selfishness of an overburdened mind.

She was thoroughly ashamed of the momentary weakness which had led her to write what must distress her sister. She drew in a long breath, wiped clean her pen and sat for several minutes composing herself before taking another sheet of paper from her desk and beginning the letter afresh.

My dear Eliza, (she wrote in a neat, restrained script)

Aunt Manners and I have at last arrived at our destination, and we are both well. At least, I have suffered no great injury in our journey and our aunt, though racked with ‘indescribable pains’ and ‘so weak she can scarcely stand’, is, you will be very glad to hear, quite determined upon not mentioning these facts – for she does not wish to trouble anyone. I know this because she tells me so – a dozen times every day …

She stopped again. It seemed impossible for Dido, once she had a pen in her hand, not to express what was on her mind. But dwelling upon her aunt’s offences would not do at all.

She lifted the dangerous instrument from the page and looked about for some unexceptionable topic; something which might amuse Eliza and raise her own spirits.

I like Charcombe Manor quite as well as I anticipated, she wrote. It has all the solidity, charm and beauty which I have heard described by other visitors. We found the house already full of company upon our arrival yesterday, but our host, Mr Lancelot Fenstanton, made us very welcome indeed. A whole hour’s speech was insufficient to express the vast debt of gratitude which our visit to his humble abode inspires.

My aunt’s letter informing him of our visit had arrived only the day before. And a mighty fine surprise it’d been. D— him if he hadn’t been smiling about it ever since! It was thirty years since she’d set foot over the threshold and he didn’t know how he’d make enough of her and her charming young friend.

‘Young friend’, Eliza – did you mark that? I like Mr Lancelot very well indeed! His gallantry is a littleextravagant, I grant. And if he did not look so handsome and laugh so much over his own nonsense, I might find him ridiculous. But one simply cannot mock a man who mocks himself continually.

I am writing now from the great hall. I sit here at my writing desk surrounded on all sides by old Flemish tapestries of hunting scenes; there is a broad hearth with black firedogs, a harpsichord which looks as if it may be a hundred years old, an ancient carved screen shutting out the doors to the offices, and a staircase with wide, shallow treads worn smooth by generations of Fenstanton feet. It is a very nice hall; but at present it has for me something of the nature of a prison. For ‘I cannot get out’, as Mr Sterne’s starling complains.

Aunt Manners is taking her afternoon rest, but is so very apprehensive of the indescribable pains returning that she has forbidden me to stray beyond the possibility of an urgent summons. Oh Eliza! I confess that the confinement of the past two weeks is beginning to tell upon my spirits – and my temper …

Dido stopped again, read over the letter, and decided that this, more moderate expression of misery might be allowed. If she was to be permitted no honesty at all, completing the letter would become impossible.

She continued as rationally as she could …

When Margaret devised this attendance upon Aunt Manners as punishment for my recent offence, she chose very well indeed. It is a heavy penance. Since our setting out upon this journey, I do not believe I have been permitted to stir fifty yards from our aunt’s side – except upon errands for her convenience. And there is no term fixed for my imprisonment. I have asked again and again how long we are to remain here, but cannot obtain an answer. Catherine has invited us to pay her a visit when we leave Charcombe and I am longing to go to Belsfield …

The pen halted again. Dido had now strayed onto ground which was much too dangerous. She had better not dwell on thoughts of Belsfield Hall, nor her reasons for wishing to be there.

What was needed, she decided, was a subject which would engross her and make her forget, for a while at least, her present state of exile – and the terrible cause of that exile. She laid down the pen and looked about.

Before her, the vast front door (thick enough – by its owner’s account – to withstand a cannon’s blast) stood open upon a sunny garden of dark clipped hedges and bright flower beds. Warm scents of gillyflowers and box made their way into the cool hall, together with the faint salty breath of the sea which was little more than a mile away.

On the lawn beyond the flower beds, Charcombe Manor’s other visitors could be seen walking about and sitting upon the green benches. Dido rested her chin in her hand and fell to watching them, for all the world as if she were sitting in a theatre looking out onto a stage.

Now here might be matter to distract her thoughts from her own ills!

She took her penknife from the desk and sat for several minutes thoughtfully mending her pen. Then she laid down the knife, turned once more to her page – and began upon a new topic.

Eliza, I believe that there is something amiss among the other people gathered here at Charcombe Manor. This is not a house at ease with itself. I had begun to suspect it even before our delightful host had completed his speech of welcome.

You see, for all Mr Fenstanton’s fine words and compliments, there has been a coldness in our reception – a grudging silence – among the other guests. I hardly know how to describe the feeling which hangs over the house. But if you have ever inadvertently walked into a room in which people were making love, or else quarrelling with one another, you may be able to imagine the sensation. We are supernumerary; we have intruded. This house is filled with unfinished conversations and anxieties which must be hidden from us.

One cannot help but feel uncomfortable … And one cannot help but feel curious too …

Dido’s eyes travelled back to the bright garden beyond the open door. She would dearly love to walk out into the sunshine – but dared not attempt it for fear of her aunt’s summons. However, though she was denied fresh air, exercise and society, she might at least observe the unfolding of the household’s drama. When a woman is in a state of disgrace and exile, she is well advised to snatch at amusement where she can …

And, as she looked out, the guest who immediately caught her attention – the figure which, as it were, held dominion over the green stage – was Mrs Augusta Bailey, marked out by the brilliance of her scarlet shawl and the dramatic clasping of her hands to her breast as she addressed Miss Martha Gibbs who strode restlessly beside her.

… Mrs Bailey, wrote Dido, is, of everyone presently gathered here, the most discomposed, the most nervous – and the most resentful of our arrival.

Mrs Bailey is the wife of Mr Lancelot Fenstanton’s ‘very oldest friend’; but Mr Bailey is away at present on business overseas. Mrs B is rather a pretty woman with a very high opinion of herself and her consequence in the world. She is a little rouged and powdered, and possessed of a figure which is almost youthful. However, there is a certain stiffness in the way she walks, a slight creaking when she sits down, which suggest there may be a little more to Mrs Bailey than is allowed to meet the eye. I am sure there is ten years more to her age than she is willing to allow.

And, whatever the secret may be which is being concealed here, I am sure it concerns Mrs Bailey rather nearly …

Dido tapped one finger upon the table as she considered …

In point of fact, I believe the mystery to be all about the ward of Mr and Mrs Bailey – a Miss Letitia Verney: a young lady I have not yet met, but have heard talked of. When my aunt enquired after Miss Verney upon our arrival yesterday, Mrs Bailey turned as red as her shawl and became most remarkably interested in our journey hither and indescribing to us the extremely fine weather we are to enjoy during our stay.

As you know, it is not in Aunt Manners’ nature to notice or be pained when her remarks offend others, which is fortunate for her – else she would live in a continual state of suffering. But I could not help but notice that her question was unwelcome, and I began immediately to take a great interest in the name of Letitia Verney. I soon found out that Miss Verney is a very beautiful young lady of nineteen who has been in the care of Mr Bailey since she was a child. She is the particular friend of Miss Martha Gibbs – who has been invited here on that account. I understand that Miss Gibbs, Miss Verney and Mrs Bailey all arrived together at Charcombe Manor about a fortnight ago …

The pen stilled once more as Dido gazed out into the bright garden, this time turning her attention upon Miss Gibbs who was loping awkwardly beside Mrs Bailey. She was holding on to her bonnet with one hand, for the breeze was almost dislodging it – though it did not appear to be stirring her companion’s hat at all. And it seemed all of a piece with the hapless Miss Gibbs’ character that the wind should vent its spite upon her bonnet and nobody else’s …

… I found myself seated beside Miss Gibbs at dinner yesterday, so I took the opportunity of expressing the – very understandable – hope that we shall meet her friend Miss Verney during our stay at Charcombe.

Oh Lord! But she did not know about that! For there was no knowing was there? And her spoon was dropped into her soup plate and the conversation was lost in a great mopping up of soup with a napkin – which ended in the overturning of a flower vase.

Yes, all in all, I am almost sure that it is Miss Verney who is making the company uneasy. Or perhaps I should rather say that it is the lack of Miss Verney which is making the company uneasy. For she has not yet appeared, and her whereabouts are never mentioned …

I should dearly love to know what has become of her – and why her absence is causing so much anxiety …

Dido’s pen was halted yet again – this time by an urgent drumming of hooves upon the high road.

Out in the garden the shadows were beginning to lengthen and the spring day was growing cool. The company was gathering upon the upper lawn now, preparing for a return to the house.

From her seat in the hall, Dido could look past the lawns, along the length of the carriage drive which rose gently to tall iron gates shaded by beech trees which were just breaking into leaf. The gates stood open and, on the road beyond, she could now see a horse approaching – and turning into the drive at a speed which set the gravel dancing about its hooves.

Everybody on the lawn turned to look, and Lancelot Fenstanton began immediately to run towards the house. He joined the rider as he dismounted at the foot of the steps, and the two men fell into an earnest conference.

Dido would have dearly loved to know their subject, but their voices were pitched inconsiderately low. The rider drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to Mr Fenstanton, remounted and started off along the carriage drive.

Mr Fenstanton remained upon the step, broke the seal of the letter with a quick movement and began to read. And he proved to be one of those people who must read aloud. Dido could see his lips moving, hear the rhythm of the words. So eager was she to catch the meaning too that, insensibly, she had risen from her chair – taken a step towards the door – when Mr Fenstanton ceased reading and turned about.

She sat down with her heart beating rapidly, earnestly hoping that her impertinence had not been detected. But the gentleman was in the hall now and he looked so very anxious that she felt authorised to cry out, ‘I hope you have received no bad news, Mr Fenstanton.’

‘Ha! Bad enough!’

‘I am very sorry to hear it.’

Lancelot Fenstanton stood a moment beside the door, beating his hat against his leg and gazing out along his carriage drive as if he had never seen it before. Then he crossed the hall in long strides, threw himself down in the chair opposite Dido and tossed his hat onto the table.

He bowed his head with something of the air of a good-natured little boy puzzling over his lesson. He was a well-looking man of about forty and his countenance seemed made for smiling. He was not above average height, but powerfully built; his black hair was only touched with grey at the temples and the lines in his rather tanned face seemed all fashioned by laughter and an outdoor life.

He looked up, caught Dido’s watching eye and smiled broadly. ‘I’ll tell you what, Miss Kent,’ he cried, ‘I think you are suspicious of us all!’

Dido coloured and disclaimed immediately, but he was not to be put off.

‘Yes, yes, I see how it is,’ he said. ‘Dear Mrs Manners may have noticed nothing, but you,’ he waved the letter in his hand, ‘I fancy you have been taking the measure of things ever since you arrived. I am right, am I not?’

Dido was not used to being understood so very easily. She would have to be a little careful of Mr Fenstanton …

‘I am very sorry if I have seemed impertinent,’ she said, ‘but I confess that I have detected a certain … uneasiness in the house. I hope there is no great trouble.’

‘Ha! Yes, we are uneasy enough, I should think! And, do you know, I said to dear Mrs Bailey yesterday that we might as well tell you all about it. For it’s damned awkward keeping secrets within the house, and I’m sure you won’t breathe a word of it.’

‘No, indeed I shall not,’ said Dido virtuously. ‘Am I to understand that it is a rather delicate matter?’

‘About as delicate as it can be! The long and the short of it is,’ he said, picking up his hat and turning it about in his hands, ‘our Miss Verney has disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’

‘There is no other way of telling it, Miss Kent. Two days ago a young man called upon her here. A gentleman she has known for some time and who was come to stay with friends ten miles away. Mrs Bailey had already hinted to me that she was a little uneasy about the acquaintance. But we did not any of us think there was any great danger. However, Miss Verney went out walking with this young man – and she has not been seen since.’

‘You fear that she has—’

‘It seemed plain that they were off to Scotland together and we’ve had men searching for them along the turnpike – making enquiries at the inns. We have traced a carriage to the Bristol road.’

He looked so very dejected that Dido very much wished to help him. She watched him compassionately as he began to tap a finger fretfully upon the table. ‘The young lady’s going must be a very great worry to you,’ she said.

‘It’s the very devil!’ he cried. ‘For poor old Reg Bailey – he’s Miss Verney’s guardian, you know – he asked me particularly to watch over the girl while he’s away settling his affairs in Antigua.’ He sighed extravagantly. ‘But I thought Miss Verney was a sensible girl; high-spirited, certainly, but never foolish. I had no idea of her getting into this kind of scrape. And I’m damned if I know how to get her back.’

Dido smoothed the soft barbs of her pen. ‘Is Miss Gibbs not able to supply any information?’ she suggested. ‘A young lady’s intimate friend is often a party to such a scheme.’

‘No, poor little Martha Gibbs knows nothing at all. She is as shocked as the rest of us.’

Or so she claims, commented Dido internally. ‘And what of Miss Verney’s maid?’ she asked aloud. ‘For I understand that in cases of elopement the young lady’s maid is generally the first to be enquired of.’

‘A very wise practice, I don’t doubt. But, unfortunately, no use in our case. For the maid is gone with the mistress. She – the maid – seems to have engaged a chaise from the Bull at Old Charcombe.’

‘And Miss Verney went away in that chaise?’

Mr Lancelot rubbed unhappily at his brow. ‘Why, I think she must. For the postillion reports taking up a lady not far from our gates at some time about five o’clock.’

‘Only a lady? There was no gentleman with her?’

‘No, only a lady and her maid. Which is damned odd, ain’t it? I suppose she meant to meet with her gallant again upon the road, but it’s a very strange way of carrying on.’ He studied his companion a moment as she sat thoughtfully brushing her pen across her cheek. ‘It’s a puzzle, ain’t it?’ he said. ‘And I’ll tell you what – I fancy you are rather partial to a puzzle, Miss Kent!’

Dido blushed; he was certainly too keen an observer for comfort.

‘Now, now, there is no need to look so bashful. For I do not mind your being interested at all. Why,’ he cried, throwing wide his arms, ‘I hereby authorise you to be as impertinently curious as you wish. Ask what questions you will! Pry into anything you choose!’

‘Thank you. You are very kind, sir.’

‘I only condition for your finding out in the end what has become of Miss Verney.’

‘I wish I might. But I doubt I can succeed where others have failed.’

‘Hmm.’ Fenstanton tapped a finger meditatively upon the table and considered his companion very closely. Her little round face was, as the saying goes, ‘past its first youth’, and the plain white cap ought to signify sedate spinsterhood. But there was something about the way in which Miss Kent wore her cap – something in the way the bright brown curls could not be contained within it, but spilt out onto cheek and brow – which was not sedate at all. And, though the fine green eyes were at present demurely downcast, there was in them a mixture of lively calculation, inquisitiveness and downright deviousness which is by no means usual in ageing maidens …

Perhaps Mr Fenstanton was tempted to hope that she might succeed in the task. He leant closer across the table. ‘I should be very glad of your assistance, Miss Kent. And I understand that we are to have the pleasure of your company some weeks. Mrs Manners has promised me that she will stay at least until the end of the month—’

Dido’s dismay must have been writ clear on her face, for he stopped short. ‘Ha! But I think you are wanting to return home.’

‘Oh no!’ She turned away in confusion – dreadfully aware of his keen gaze – and, between the fear of seeming ungrateful for his hospitality and all the painful remembrances which the word ‘home’ called forth, she did not know how to look or what to say. For, in point of fact, Dido was a true exile: wretched in her state of wandering, yet knowing that there was no safety in returning. Life as her aunt’s companion might be dull and humiliating; but at home, back in Badleigh, a far worse fate awaited her …

‘I am very happy here, Mr Fenstanton,’ she assured him. ‘And you are quite correct in thinking that mysteries interest me. I confess that Miss Verney’s absence had already begun to exercise my mind.’

‘That’s good! Now,’ he said with a confiding air, ‘I shall tell you the strangest part of the story.’ He looked down at the letter in his hand. ‘You see, all my previous ideas have been stood upon their head. I have just now received the oddest message.’

‘And is the message from Miss Verney?’

‘No. It is from the young man.’

‘Is it indeed? And where is he? What does he say?’

‘He is still here in Charcombe. And he says he don’t know where the young lady is any more than we do.’

‘But that is not possible! Miss Verney walked out with him and has not been seen again. What does he say became of her? Did she leave him to go away in the chaise?’

Mr Lancelot shook his head. ‘He says he knows nothing about a chaise. He says they returned together to the house at five o’clock – or just a few minutes after. He says he stood beside the gate and watched her walk along the carriage drive and in through the front door.’

‘How very odd!’

They had both turned now to the door and were gazing out at the sunny gravel drive which was no more than a hundred yards long and had not so much as a bush to obscure it.

‘It is more than odd,’ said Mr Fenstanton, ‘it is impossible. For at five o’clock the whole company was gathered here in the hall. This room was not empty from four o’clock until the dinner bell rang at half after five. And Miss Verney did not walk in through that door. The fellow is lying.’

‘But how strange that he should tell such a very poor sort of lie. Why has he not invented a more believable tale to hide his villainy?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know, Miss Kent,’ said Mr Fenstanton, gazing out at the gravel and the gates. ‘But he is lying. Young ladies cannot simply vanish while walking along a carriage drive and through a door.’

Chapter Two

… Young ladies cannot simply vanish, can they, Eliza? Mr Fenstanton is in the right there. If a lady disappears from one side of a door she must appear upon the other side of it. We live in a rational age and cannot tolerate anything which goes against nature.

But why does the young fellow tell such an unbelievable story? And why is he still in Charcombe? Has the world come to such a pass? Are young men grown so very indolent that young ladies must now abduct themselves?

I do not like this business at all. It must be put to rights.

But I rather wonder how this latest news will be received by my fellow guests. Will it surprise them as much as it surprises me? Or is there someone here within the manor house who knows more than they are telling about Miss Verney’s disappearance?

I rather think that there is. Such a sudden, mysterious removal argues for an accomplice …

Dido stopped writing and watched Mr Lancelot Fenstanton as he hurried down the steps to share the news with Mrs Bailey and Miss Gibbs, who were still walking together on the upper lawn.

She had her eye fixed upon Miss Gibbs, for as the ‘intimate friend’ she must be the one most suspected of complicity. How would she look when the letter was shown to her?

The girl looked up anxiously as Mr Fenstanton approached and moved towards him – as if wishing to escape her companion. But Mrs Bailey caught at her arm and the gentleman addressed them both with his news.

Mrs Bailey began to remonstrate before he could even finish talking. She was shaking her head, clutching the red shawl dramatically to her bosom. Mr Fenstanton handed the paper to her – as if to prove he had been telling the truth. But all the while Miss Gibbs stood unmoving, one hand still tethering the wayward bonnet as its long ribbons flapped about her face, her eyes fixed intently upon the stout figure of Mrs Bailey. She seemed to be interested only in her companion’s behaviour. There was no sign of shock upon her own account.

In fact Dido could not escape the impression that the contents of the letter had been no surprise at all to Miss Martha Gibbs …

But no sooner had she reached this very interesting conclusion than she was distracted by the approach of a third lady.

In a dainty flutter of white muslin, Miss Emma Fenstanton – Mr Lancelot’s young cousin – came running along that part of the carriage drive which led away to the stables at the back of the house. She moved with such energy and elegance that she seemed almost to dance across the lawn. She had a parasol in one hand and a book beneath her arm. She immediately drew the master of the house away from the others and the two fell into a lively conference.

Perhaps he was telling her about the letter. They were walking away together; they had almost gained the terrace before the house and Dido was in hopes of hearing their conversation – Miss Emma seemed distressed. She was clinging now to her cousin’s arm. And she seemed to be pleading with him.

In her eagerness to hear what was passing, Dido leant towards the door, but the light, girlish voice was lost in the breeze. And when Mr Lancelot replied he spoke quietly. The genial look was gone from his face: he looked stern.

What, Dido wondered, was little Miss Fenstanton asking that displeased him so much? Was she making some plea on behalf of the vanished Miss Verney? She was shaking back her short black curls; there was a look of entreaty upon her pale face as it turned up gracefully.

But the gentleman was immune to her charm. He spoke briefly with every appearance of firmness, and walked away, leaving Emma gazing after him, her arms crossed about her book. She stamped a small foot in irritation. Then stood for several minutes, lost in thought.

At last she seemed to take some decision and began to walk purposefully towards the house.

She stopped a moment in the darkness of the porch, and looked about with the quick little movements of a hunted animal. It appeared that she might have private business to conduct in the house which she did not wish to be overlooked. Perhaps, thought Dido, that private business related to the vanished lady …

Miss Emma was running into the hall now. She crossed to the library door, unaware of the silent observer in the shadows. But then, with her hand upon the lock of the library door, she looked about – and saw the inquisitive figure sitting with her writing desk at the hall table. ‘Miss Kent!’ she cried. ‘Why, I thought everybody was in the garden!’ She moved away from the door – as if she did not wish to be suspected of having any interest in it.

‘But why, why, why do you sit inside on such a delightful day? Whatever are you up to?’ Emma skipped across the hall and laid her parasol and her book on the table. (The book, Dido noted with some surprise, was the dry and worthy Dr Gregory’s Advice to his Daughters.)

Dido pleaded her aunt’s indisposition as her reason for not joining the company in the garden, and Miss Fenstanton sat down beside her with a look of sympathy on her merry little face. ‘Ah dear,’ she said, ‘how delightful it must be, to be as rich as Mrs Manners and able to torment all one’s relations! I hope that I may be as rich one day – and then I shall be horribly tyrannical.’ She gave a little laugh – in any other girl it might have been a giggle, but in Emma it was a laugh, musical and gentle on the ear. ‘I shall make a dozen different wills and threaten everybody with not leaving them a penny! It will be such fun!’

Miss Fenstanton did not mean to be unkind. Such flights of fancy were common with her. But Dido blushed; any reminder of her own situation – her enforced attendance upon her aunt and the mercenary motives which must be imputed to it – was painful. She said nothing, and studied her companion so that she might provide a description for Eliza.

Though she was but sixteen, there was a look of good health and high spirits about Miss Emma; an air of blooming womanhood. And so it was a shock to look close and find that there was little actual beauty in face or figure. Her complexion was good, but her nose was insignificant and her eyes, though bright, were rather small. But, pleased with herself and with the world, Emma Fenstanton had never considered the possibility that she was not pretty. And, possessed of such certainty within herself, she carried her point with all observers. She passed everywhere for a beauty.

At the moment there was one decided flaw in her looks which appeared as she drew off her gloves and laid them beside the book on the table.

‘Your hand is scratched,’ remarked Dido solicitously.

‘Oh!’ Emma laughed again and looked down at her hand. An angry red mark ran across the white skin, beaded with blood which was but recently dried. ‘I scratched myself on a rose bush while I was gathering flowers this morning.’ She indicated a large vase which stood near the hearth.

Dido made a civil remark upon the prettiness of the flowers’ arrangement; but all Emma’s attention was now fixed upon the open door, beyond which could be seen the small plump figure of her father, Mr George Fenstanton.

He was hurrying purposefully across the lawn towards the house.

Emma jumped up, took her parasol and book from the table and ran out onto the steps – as if she did not wish to be discovered within doors.

‘Now then, miss!’ boomed Mr George as he all but ran against his daughter on the front steps. ‘I’ll thank you to stop a moment and listen to me.’

He took her arm and paused a moment, struggling for breath after his brisk walk across the lawn.

He was a short, round, oddly smooth-looking man in a tight green coat. His pink scalp showed through the sparse white hair of his head and his busyness and self-consequence showed through every movement that he made, every word that he spoke. And when Mr George was feeling particularly self-important, some odd arrangement of his teeth made a whistle of his breath.

‘What are you about?’ he demanded, still holding his daughter’s arm.

‘Nothing, Papa.’

He snatched the book from under her arm, read its cover and handed it back to her without a comment. ‘Now, I don’t like the way things are carrying on,’ he said, whistling loudly. ‘Did I see you just now quarrelling with your cousin Lancelot?’

‘No, Papa. We were not quarrelling, merely talking.’

‘Well, miss. I’ll thank you to remember your duty. This is a fine opportunity for you to catch Lancelot – while the Verney heiress is out of the way. And I expect to see you smiling at him – not quarrelling.’

‘Yes, Papa. I shall smile.’ Miss Emma turned up her face and displayed a dazzling – but mischievous – smile that was all made up of dimples and white teeth and sparkling black eyes.

George Fenstanton seemed blind to the danger of the smile. Looking pleased with himself for having resolved this little matter, he linked his arm firmly through his daughter’s, and steered her back to the company on the lawn.

Left alone in the hall, Dido indulged herself with some rather suspicious thoughts about the lively Miss Emma. Why had she come into the house? And why had the discovery that she was not alone prevented her from completing her purpose?

And it was very doubtful that Emma had been telling the truth about the scratch on her hand. The vase by the hearth contained lilacs, and lilies aplenty – but there was not a single rose. In fact, as well as Dido could recall, there were as yet no roses blooming in Charcombe Manor’s garden. Miss Fenstanton would have had little reason to approach a rose bush …

Chapter Three

… Well, perhaps Miss Emma Fenstanton has some knowledge of Miss Verney’s plans and is pleading her cause with Mr Lancelot … Or perhaps Mr George Fenstanton has quietly disposed of Miss Verney in order that his daughter may have a better chance of marrying Mr Lancelot.

By the by, Eliza, the existence of this Mr George burst upon me when we arrived at Charcombe Manor. He is the brother of our Aunt Manners and also of Mr Lancelot’s late father. I had no notion of her possessing a surviving brother, for I have never heard one word of him from her lips – unlike ‘my dear nephew, Lancelot,’ about whom we have all been hearing for ever.

And I notice that she has little more to say to Mr George than she has of him, scarcely ever addressing him unless she has the opportunity of contradicting him.

I confess that I can feel little regard for the man myself. He is a pompous, prosing fellow – and I have noticed that he is very much attached to Charcombe Manor in a jealous, younger brother sort of way. I do not doubt that it would suit him very well indeed to see his child married to the present owner (though I do not believe the child herself has much enthusiasm for the scheme) … Perhaps he has taken extreme measures to bring about a match! Perhaps Mr George is atthe heart of Miss Verney’s odd ‘elopement’ which appears to be no elopement at all.

I declare, when one comes to consider the matter there are all manner of interesting possibilities!

I watched very closely this evening to see the effect of this latest news – the young man’s claim to have escorted the lady safely home. All the older members of the company – Mr Lancelot, Mr George Fenstanton, Mrs Bailey and my aunt – are united in a disbelief of the young man’s account. He is a thorough-going villain in their eyes.

As one might expect, the two young ladies are less inclined to condemn, youth being always predisposed to trust and excuse.

Martha Gibbs and Emma Fenstanton, I should say, have such a friendship as two young ladies thrown together in a country house – without possessing a thought or feeling in common – may be supposed to have. They are confederates in working a chair cover and sit over it every evening, conversing very comfortably; in no danger of ever understanding one another on any subject beyond the choice of threads and patterns.

Merry little Miss Fenstanton considers it ‘a great lark’ that the young man knows not where Letitia Verney is. And she doubts not he is ‘as foolish as other men – even though they do say he has a handsome face’.

To which Miss Gibbs solemnly replies, ‘Lord yes! It is just as you say. He has a very handsome face indeed and one cannot believe such a fine man is a liar.’

I cannot help but wonder about Miss Martha Gibbs – I am sure she was not surprised to hear that the young man denies all knowledge of abduction …

You will probably find my enthusiasm for this mystery unbecoming, Eliza; but I know you are too kind to begrudge me a little diversion from the duties of a niece. Life as a lady’s ‘companion’ is excessively dull. I may not walk abroad for fear of my aunt being ‘seized suddenly’; if I am detected with a book in my hand, she is immediately taken with the desire of having ‘a comfortable chat’; and I am scarcely allowed to be in company.

I am writing now in Aunt Manners’ bedchamber; she is unwell and has retired early. I am required to sit with her until she sleeps, to guard against the possibility of her being seized so very suddenly as to make her unable to ring the bell. It is an acute sickness of the ‘enervating’ sort which overcame her at teatime – just after she was disappointed in the forming of a whist table when all the young people vetoed cards and decided that dancing was to form the evening’s entertainment.

She has taken a glass of wine and a particularly large dose of the brown medicine which is generally of use in cases of ‘enervating’ seizures. And I hope that she is on her way to sleeping now …

She stopped writing again, and raised her head to listen. The sound of a lively Scotch air came very faint from below. The dancing was yet in progress.

Dido had been surprised that the company should be so very merry while Miss Verney’s fate remained uncertain. But Mr Fenstanton and Mrs Bailey were determined that no rumours of elopement should begin to circulate. For the sake of the young lady’s reputation everything was to be smoothed over – and her absence explained by that convenient cover-all of ‘visiting friends’.

The Parrys, a family of neighbours who knew nothing of the business, had walked up to the manor after tea. And since there were three grown-up young Mr Parrys, and not one inconvenient daughter, there were probably gentleman enough in the hall that even Dido might be asked to dance …

Of course, at six and thirty, such calculations should be beneath her notice. And besides, why should she expect to be entertained at Charcombe? The very purpose of her being here was that she might suffer every pain of neglect and insignificance, until she had learnt her duty to her family …

But there is something so very inviting about a Scotch air – even when it is rattled out upon an old harpsichord.

She looked across the wainscoted chamber – very gloomy beyond the candle’s light. In the high bed with its four posts and its dark crimson curtains, her aunt lay very still, her fingers just clutching the edge of the sheet, her eyes shut tight, her soft little face composed beneath her starched white nightcap.

Was she sleeping? Might it be possible to creep down and join the dancing? A little company, a little exercise would be delightful … And it might be possible to learn more about Miss Verney’s disappearance …

Dido laid down her pen, rose very quietly and began to tiptoe about the room, putting to rights her aunt’s possessions. She folded the dressing robe which had been left across the bed’s foot and put it away in one of the pair of closets that flanked the fireplace. Then she took from the side of the bed the pretty new slippers of green silk which the maid had but just finished sewing in their journey thither. She noticed that the backs were already trodden down, and shook her head over the damage as she put them away, for she never could bear to see good shoes injured needlessly.

Mrs Manners did not stir as she worked and Dido began to hope that escape might be possible. She crept slowly towards the door …

‘My dear?’ The voice was weak: the voice of a woman barely alive and about to whisper a parting benediction.

‘Are you there?’

‘Yes, Aunt.’ She sighed and went to the bedside.

‘Oh, I wondered where you were got to. I feel so very unwell.’ Mrs Manners peered up short-sightedly at her niece. One hand released the covers and fastened itself upon Dido’s wrist. It was a dry little hand, heavily burdened with rings. The bones in it were as delicate as a bird’s; but its warmth and strength were strangely at odds with the weakness of the voice.

‘Shall I send for an apothecary?’ suggested Dido.

‘No, I do not wish to be a trouble to anybody.’ The hand tightened, the thick gold of the rings bit into Dido’s wrist.

‘But if you are unwell …’

‘I am not one to make a fuss over a little illness,’ whispered Aunt Manners, closing her eyes. ‘I am too much used to suffering! But—’ Her eyes opened again suddenly. ‘I recall there is scarcely any brown medicine left and we shall not be able to get any tomorrow for it is Sunday. You must go to Charcombe early on Monday, Dido, and find a medical man who can make some more.’

‘Yes, Aunt.’

‘You must seek out the best physician in Charcombe.’

‘Yes, Aunt. And shall I ask him to visit you?’

‘No. I do not wish to have any clumsy country apothecary about me. You must find out all you can about the man … And then I shall decide whether I wish to employ him.’

Mrs Manners lay back upon her pillows; her blue eyes – slightly clouded by the influence of physic – were fixed upon the carved oak tester of the bed with such an air of patient suffering as Dido believed would have irritated a saint. Though she could not but admit that the attitude was gracefully done. Selina Manners was now well past fifty, but her famous beauty was not entirely worn away, for it went deep into her bones, her very being; and the features beneath the lace and ribbons of her nightcap had still an arresting perfection in their form, though the enchanting eyes which had once enslaved the wealthy Mr Manners were faded and weak; the lips thinner, less red.

‘Now, my dear,’ she said in a voice blurred by oncoming sleep, ‘you and I shall have a comfortable chat.’

‘Oh!’ Dido was tormented by the sound of the dance still seeping through the uneven floorboards.

But there was no escaping the chat and, unfortunately, at such moments Mrs Manners found no subject more comfortable than the offences of all her relations who were, by her account, intent upon ‘getting money off me. Between my kin and poor Mr Manners’ own family, I am worried to death!’

‘Yes, Aunt,’ murmured Dido, miserable with boredom and an obscure kind of guilt. It was a common refrain. She could have supplied every word of it herself and she well knew that she was expected to contribute nothing to the conversation. ‘Yes, Aunt, very true’ was all that was required.

Mrs Manners’ lids flickered sleepily, peeling up oddly and revealing rather more white of the eye than is usual. But she continued to struggle against the narcotic.

‘But I am too clever for them all,’ she gloated sleepily. ‘They shall not get the better of me. They shall see!’

‘Yes, Aunt, I am sure they shall.’

‘My brother George is the worst of them all. And he thinks he has got the better of me.’

Dido began upon another anodyne reply, but as she spoke she noticed that her aunt’s sleepy eyes had come to rest upon her own hand – where there was a ring missing; the great ruby from the middle finger was gone, leaving in its place a deep white groove to testify to the many years it had been worn.

‘Aunt, where is your ring?’

‘It is nothing. Do not say anything about it.’

‘But—’

‘It is nothing.’ The little white hand fluttered briefly in a regal gesture of dismissal. ‘George may have it if he wishes. He thinks he has got the better of me …’ She gazed up at the tester for a moment, nodded very wisely in its direction. ‘I do not care about it, however. I have not come here to oblige him.’ She shook her head wisely. But the brown medicine had won at last. Her lids flickered and closed. A moment later her lower lip dropped slightly and a thin snore rattled out.

Dido breathed a sigh of great relief, but found that the hold upon her wrist was not relaxed. Through the old, uneven floorboards came the tormenting sound of the dance; the candle burnt still beside the writing desk, but even her letter was beyond her reach while that hand confined her wrist. There was nothing to be done but to settle herself as comfortably as she might upon the narrow bedside chair and wait to be released.

She gazed down for a moment or two at the delicate finger with its telltale groove. The missing ring was of considerable value. Why should Mrs Manners give such a generous gift to a brother she did not seem to like?

It was another intriguing puzzle.

But, despite her efforts, Dido found that she was too tired and dispirited to dwell for long upon intriguing puzzles. Thoughts of her own wretched situation were rising up to engulf her weary brain …

Chapter Four

The cause of Dido’s punishment and present exile from the home of her brother and sister-in-law at Badleigh Vicarage was a certain Doctor Jeremiah Prowdlee. It was on Doctor Jeremiah Prowdlee’s account that she was fixed here at her aunt’s side, doomed to an indefinite sentence of measuring out medicine and listening to a litany of complaints.

Doctor Prowdlee was the new rector of Upper Marwell – a parish adjoining Badleigh. He was a large man with a high, white, shining dome of a head which did not seem to have lost its hair so much as allowed it to slip down about the face, where it clung on tenaciously. He had a puritanical turn of mind, a pompous air – and a family of children which filled a pew and a half in his church.

There was no longer a Mrs Jeremiah Prowdlee. She had died (possibly of exhaustion and depressed spirits, in Dido’s opinion) some months before her husband came to Upper Marwell.

When the doctor arrived in their midst during the previous autumn, Dido had, perhaps, been insufficiently alert to the danger of a man with a dead wife and a pew and a half full of children. For she was at that time very much occupied with other concerns.

Retrospectively she was keenly aware of how very often Doctor Prowdlee had, at Margaret’s invitation, intruded upon their evenings with his wheezing breath and his awkward compliments. (‘I hear that it is to your fair hand that I may attribute the excellence of this seed cake, Miss Kent.’ And ‘Your sister has been telling me of your invaluable assistance in sewing for her little boys.’) But, at the time, it had not seemed alarming at all. And, even when her neighbours began to enquire rather often after ‘dear Doctor Prowdlee’ as if she had some privileged knowledge of the man’s state of health, she attributed it to nothing more than that kind of solidarity which is generally supposed to exist among clergy families.

But the true peril of her situation had burst upon her one fine spring morning when her brother, Francis, was struck down by a bad sore throat and Doctor Prowdlee (most obligingly) rode over to Badleigh to ‘do the duty of the day’.

The sermon had been very long and of that sort which suggests the speaker only is in accord with the will of God and all the rest of the world in error. The doctor’s text was taken from the Book of Proverbs. ‘Who can find a virtuous woman?’ he intoned solemnly, his eyes sweeping the assembled bonnets and upturned faces. ‘For her price is far above rubies.’ And then he was launched upon an impassioned condemnation of the ‘independence of spirit’ which was abroad in young women today, the result, apparently, of their reading ‘disgusting and revolutionary books’ – and dancing too much. By Doctor Prowdlee’s account, the men of today were as hard-pressed to find a virtuous woman as the patriarchs of the Old Testament …

Though, mused Dido as she listened with but half an ear, today’s men had the advantage, for they had only to find one virtuous wife apiece, whereas the patriarchs had had to secure two or three – to say nothing of concubines … But perhaps virtue was not required in a concubine …

She blushed and upbraided herself for the thought. Such ideas were, no doubt, the product of excessive dancing and reading – though she could not recall ever having read anything very dangerous or revolutionary.

She was watching a bumblebee blundering about the stained-glass sandals of a saint in the window beside her, and thinking that its stout body, thin black legs and persistent self-important drone made it rather resemble the doctor, when she became aware that her sister-in-law was looking at her – and smiling. Margaret rarely smiled – and never in Dido’s direction.

Rather alarmed, Dido looked about for a cause and discovered Doctor Prowdlee leaning over the pulpit, his broad face pink and shining with emotion above his black whiskers and white surplice. ‘A virtuous woman,’ he was saying, in a rather softened tone, ‘“looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness”. Fortunate is the man, my friends, who finds such a woman!’

And he was looking directly at Dido.

‘In point of fact, the entire congregation was looking at me,’ she cried distractedly to her sister-in-law afterwards. ‘At least, the female half of the congregation was looking at me.’

‘But of course it was,’ said Margaret impatiently, ‘for everyone has noticed his attentions to you this past month. They have all been waiting for him to make you an offer – and have been crying out upon your good luck! As well they might!’

She need not say more – she need not remind Dido of her age, her poverty, her dependence upon Margaret and Francis for a home. It had all hung, palpable but unspoken, in the chill air of the parlour, where the bright bars of the grate were unsullied by fire (because there was a gleam of sun in the March sky and it was, by Margaret’s account, ‘a wicked waste to burn coal while the sun shines’).

Shivering with cold and emotion, Dido still hugged her worn pelisse about her shoulders as she laid down her prayer book and, with a great effort, suppressed her horror of the pew and a half full of children, the vigorous black side whiskers and the very notion of being such a ruby as had been described in the sermon. ‘I am sure,’ she said, seeking refuge in the forms of propriety, ‘I am very flattered by Doctor Prowdlee’s good opinion of me. But I do not think that he and I would suit one another.’

Margaret’s lips thinned with fury. ‘Do you mean that you will refuse him?’

‘You forget, dear sister,’ said Dido repressively, ‘that the gentleman has not made me an offer. He has only paid me a – rather public – compliment.’

‘But he will offer,’ protested Margaret. ‘And you will refuse him? At six and thirty! I call that very selfish indeed when you know—’ She stopped herself. Even Margaret’s scanty notion of good breeding would not quite allow her to say outright that Dido was a burden upon her brothers. ‘You know that your entire family would rejoice to see you so respectably provided for.’ She pulled her gloves slowly from her hands, finger by finger, and added quietly, ‘It would, Dido, be a great relief to all your brothers to know that you were settled.’

Dido shrank into painful silence. She hoped with all her heart that her brothers loved her too well to wish her unhappily settled. But there was no denying that the fortunes of the family were very bad at present: the collapse of her brother Charles’s bank had been a blow to them all, and her brothers would be very glad to be relieved of the burden of her maintenance. But would they wish her to sacrifice herself?

Of course, the main point was that Margaret would rejoice to see Dido settled in Upper Marwell with Doctor Prowdlee, the children and the abominable whiskers. So there was nothing to be gained from further discussion. She resolved upon waiting quietly for the proposal – and refusing it quietly when it came.

But she had been denied the opportunity of refusal. For, within a very few days of this extraordinary sermon, a letter arrived in Badleigh parsonage from the widow of the wealthy Mr Manners – Dido’s mother’s brother. Mrs Manners was setting off upon a journey to visit her own relations in Devonshire and, requiring a companion, she had selected Dido from among her multitude of nieces.

Margaret had immediately accepted the invitation upon her sister-in-law’s account and seen them off with very great satisfaction. For Mrs Manners was childless, and, consequently, her fortune – and its future disposal – were of great interest to her entire family; she was a lady who must be sedulously courted.

And besides, attendance upon an elderly relative promoted that very picture of domestic womanhood which Margaret was most anxious to foster in Doctor Prowdlee’s mind. While the gentleman could not make his offer, he could not be refused; and, in the meantime, it was to be hoped that Dido might be made so utterly miserable – might be brought to loathe the condition of dependent spinsterhood so much – as to view Upper Marwell’s crowded rectory in a favourable light.

It was certainly not intended that she should be released from her present servitude until she was willing to accept the honour of becoming Mrs Prowdlee.

Dido roused herself at last, cold and cramped, from her desponding thoughts and found that Aunt Manners’ hold had relaxed. She was sleeping now, her mouth hanging slightly open, her lower lip trembling with her snores. The candle by the writing desk had burnt out and the only light came from the dying embers in the grate; no sounds rose from below. It would seem the company was all abed.

Dido’s spirits were severely depressed by the remembrance of Doctor Prowdlee, and she was worn down by close attendance upon an uncongenial companion. And yet, she reminded herself, there was one comfort.

In exiling her sister-in-law to Charcombe Manor, Margaret had unwittingly bestowed a blessing. For Charcombe was but ten miles from Belsfield Hall. At Belsfield Hall there resided a certain Mr William Lomax; and it was, in point of fact, the many charms and perfections of this gentleman which rendered the sermons and the side whiskers of Doctor Prowdlee particularly repulsive.

If only Dido could get to Belsfield, then perhaps she might find a solution to all her problems …

‘It won’t do at all,’ said Mrs Manners suddenly and her hold reasserted itself.

Dido started and looked down at the faded, perfect little face sunk in the pillow. The eyes were wide, but unnaturally dark in appearance, and they seemed to be fixed upon some distant object. ‘Aunt Manners, are you feeling unwell?’

There was no reply for several minutes. The eyes continued to stare upon the distance, persuading Dido that her aunt was not quite awake – though she did not seem to be quite sleeping either. This half-and-half state was perhaps some effect of brown medicine. At last Mrs Manners continued, in a confiding tone. ‘A woman cannot escape, you know. Once they have chosen who she is to marry, she must do her duty by her family.’

Dido shifted uncomfortably in her seat, for the words touched rather closely on her own musings. ‘Are you talking of Miss Verney?’ she said.

‘Letitia is a poor foolish girl.’ Mrs Manners moved her head restlessly upon the pillow. A long white curl escaped from her cap and unravelled across her cheek. ‘She will be at Birmingham now,’ she said.

‘Birmingham?’

‘Yes. She will have lain at Bristol last night and reached Birmingham today if they drove the horses hard. In three days’ time she will get into Scotland – and then it will be too late.’

‘You must not worry about it, Aunt,’ Dido soothed.

And then an idea occurred.

Mrs Manners seemed to be asleep – or at least only half sensible – and yet she heard, she answered questions. Perhaps this was the moment for obtaining information she would not give when she was in her senses.

Dido leant closer and spoke very quietly, but clearly. ‘Aunt Manners, when shall we leave Charcombe?’

There was a pause. The little face on the pillow creased, the lips worked together a while, making a tiny rustling sound. Then: ‘I cannot leave Charcombe until Letitia is got back.’

‘Ah!’

‘Lance must get her back – and then everything can be settled.’

Well, thought Dido, sitting back in her chair, if the finding of Letitia Verney was the necessary preliminary to Mrs Manners’ removal from Charcombe, then Miss Letitia Verney must be found without delay.

It was refreshing to discover that there was something to be done. Dido’s was an active disposition, better suited to struggling against her imprisonment than quietly accepting the punishment which had been laid upon her. She would help Mr Fenstanton to recover Miss Verney, and then she could escape from here and pay her visit to Belsfield. Her days of suffering and penance might soon be over.

Chapter Five

Where was Miss Letitia Verney?