Somewhere here, if Annie Holmes was to be believed, there was a clue to one of those secrets. Somewhere among these paintings was the key to the trouble between father and son. She stood up and walked along the gallery, studying the pompous, painted faces as she had done many times before. None of them suggested any kind of solution to her.

The gallery ended in a wide staircase, which led down to the best bedrooms at the front of the house, and just to the left there was a dark, narrow pa.s.sageway that led to the back stairs. As Dido reached this point she heard a voice raised on the landing below. She paused beside the banister.

'Ah, boy! D'you mind coming here, sir!' It was undoubtedly the colonel's voice; there was no mistaking the hearty, archaic tone of it. But it had a pleasant, far from ill-tempered sound a indeed, it sounded almost affectionate, which made it rather surprising that it should be followed by the sound of nimble, running feet.

A moment later Jack's black head came bobbing quickly up the stairs. Dido stepped aside and the boy ran past her, turned into the dark pa.s.sage and was instantly lost to view.

She stood alone for a minute, reflecting that perhaps her notion of hide-and-seek had not been so very far from the truth after all. And then there was a sound of much heavier feet and the colonel's broad red face appeared.

'Ah, Miss er...' (Would it, Dido wondered, be only fair to inform him of her name, or was it allowable to leave him floundering with his ahs and ers for the rest of her visit?) 'Ah yes, m'dear. Have you seen young Jack? Did he come by you?'

'No,' she replied on an impulse. 'He did not come this way.'

'Ah, very well, very well. It's of no great consequence, y'know.'

He bowed and retreated. Dido turned into the narrow pa.s.sage, only to hear Jack's footsteps fading rapidly down the kitchen stairs.

She stood for a moment in the gloomy corridor, which smelt of dust and very old carpet, with just a suggestion of the roasting of long-forgotten joints from the kitchen. She shook her head. Before she came to Belsfield she had thought she was rather partial to puzzles and mysteries. She had a great regard for the work of such authors as Ann Radcliffe and Charlotte Smith, but lately she was beginning to suspect that her appet.i.te for the unexplained was surfeiting.

She could not even begin upon the wildest surmise as to why a military gentleman of rather advanced years should be pursuing a young footman about the upper corridors of a house a nor why the said footman should be so determined upon escape. There was nothing in Dido's experience to suggest a solution to that particular mystery.

She started back towards the gallery, then came to a standstill.

There was another painting hanging here upon the wall of the little pa.s.sage. Hanging where no one could see it. Even when she strained her eyes she received no more than a vague impression of a very large green and brown landscape in a heavy, ornate frame.

Was it perhaps a bad painting, put out of the way so that it did not spoil the effect of the gallery?

Dido was exceedingly fond of bad paintings; they appealed to that part of her that her sister called 'satirical'. After a little struggle, two broken fingernails and a bleeding thumb, she succeeded in unbolting and pus.h.i.+ng back one of the heavy shutters that covered a window almost opposite to the picture.

Light fell in upon it.

It was most certainly not a bad painting. Dido was no connoisseur, but she was almost sure that it was better than anything else in the gallery. For a moment she forgot everything else and simply enjoyed looking at it.

It must have been painted a little more than twenty years ago and it showed the Belsfield estate in all its grandeur and prosperity: the gardens, the elegant sweep of parkland, and even, in the distance, cattle grazing and corn in its stooks. The sun of late summer shone on a perfect day and so skilled had been the painter's hand that there in that stuffy, cramped s.p.a.ce she seemed almost to smell the ripening grain. It was a domain that any man would have been proud to possess. And Sir Edgar was proud; for there he was, pink-cheeked and proprietorial, in the shade of a fine large tree to the left of the foreground. There was no mistaking him for anything but the lord of this domain a with his confident stance and the marks of his status: his dog gazing up at him and his shotgun on his arm. His free hand rested on the back of an ornate iron bench upon which sat his lady, with young Richard, just a baby, in her lap.

The ruling character of the whole thing was pride, from the stance of the new father, to the magnificent scale and quality of the painting and the elaboration of curling scrolls and gilding on its frame.

And yet, here it was hidden away in this dark pa.s.sageway. Why?

Dido frowned and chewed at the end of her pencil. It felt as if she was a little girl again and back in the schoolroom puzzling fruitlessly over long division. Her head hurt. Everything seemed dark and confusing.

Something in this picture had had to be hidden. But what? Not the landscape, nor the wife, surely. For all his tyranny, Sir Edgar was a conscientious landlord and an attentive husband. Could it be Richard that he wanted to hide?

And then, with the suddenness of that stiff old shutter swinging open (and without so much as a split nail) light poured in upon her mind.

She understood.

She ran back into the gallery and turned about and about until she was dizzy. The cracked and grainy Edgars and Annes and Elizabeths stared down in contempt of her slowness.

It was so very obvious to her now that she had been looking at the wrong thing in this gallery of portraits. She should have looked, not at the pictures themselves, but at the names beneath them. There they were, the holders of this estate, ranked down through history: Edgar after Edgar after Edgar.

But the latest Sir Edgar, to whom the tradition of his family was as essential as the air that he breathed and the blood that ran in his veins, had not given his son the family name: he was Richard, not Edgar.

Why?

Dido spun round with her hand to her mouth. Was it because he had come to suspect that the boy was not his son?

And was that why he had hidden away that proud portrait of fatherhood and inheritance?

Chapter Thirteen.

...It is very shocking, Eliza. I am almost tempted to echo her ladys.h.i.+p and declare that one does not know what to think. But, truly, I think that it could be so. I cannot get it out of my head. That Sir Edgar and his lady should live with such a secret between them! And how wretched Mr Montague must be if he knows about it! I have pa.s.sed a near sleepless night with thinking about it all a which I tell you, of course, on purpose that you may scold me and entreat me to have more care for my health.

It is a matter to which I must give a great deal more thought before I quite decide whether I believe or disbelieve it. However, it is not entirely without a brighter aspect. For I have at last succeeded in saying something which pleases Catherine. You see, of course the great advantage that there is to her in all this. The man she loves bears the stain of illegitimacy a though Catherine will naturally not allow that there is any stain and talks very stoutly of how he is not to be held accountable for the sins of others. But, since she does not expect her liberality to be shared by Francis and Margaret, she gleefully antic.i.p.ates being soon relieved of the burden of their approval.

I, as you have probably guessed, am rather less happy, being a great deal less certain that if he is disinherited they can live on love alone. But this is not a serious worry for me because I do not believe that this discovery can explain anything beyond Sir Edgar's dislike of Mr Montague. For, no matter how certain he may be of the young man's fathering, he could never prove it, nor, I think, cut off the entail on such grounds. Catherine, however, is quite sure that this is the information Mr Montague received at the ball a the reason he describes himself as a poor man. She talks happily of cases she has read of in newspapers in which men have been able to deny fatherhood; but I think she is led astray by her strong desire to starve in the company of her beloved. Which starving, you must understand, will be accomplished in the most elegant manner possible and will never be accompanied by such unromantic expedients as old cloaks or the preservation of shoes with pattens.

Human nature is a very strange thing, is it not?

I make that highly original observation, not because I suppose that you need it to be pointed out to you, but purely for the purposes of composition, because the next thing which I particularly want to write about is a further ill.u.s.tration of its truth.

Colonel Walborough.

I apologise for running on so rapidly, but there is little time for writing and there are things which I must tell you about the colonel.

He sat beside me at dinner today. This is not, in itself, a strong proof of the strangeness of his nature, though I was extremely surprised to find that he had at last discovered my name. And, by the by, he left me in no doubt that he had discovered it, for he used it at every opportunity. But the style of his conversation was a great shock to me.

In short, the colonel has heard the account of my skill as a future-gazer, which Catherine has been spreading so a.s.siduously. And it was about that that he wished to talk. Did I often foresee the future? he wanted to know. And had I known about my gift for long? And a most particularly a what did I see in his future?

And I wondered that such a sensible man and one so successful in his profession should attach so much importance to such nonsense. It is so very strange, is it not, that men can be very clever about some subjects and foolish about others? With women I believe it is different; we are either wholly sensible or wholly foolish.

Well, the colonel talked so through the soup and the fish, with a digression or two upon the different modes of fortune telling that have fallen within his observation in various parts of the world, and I began to hope that there would be no need for me to satisfy him with a fortune; but, just as the mutton was put upon the table, he began to press me for an answer.

'A man of action like yourself will make his own fortune,' I said, meaning to be very clever and to flatter him into dropping the subject. 'You can have no use for future-gazing.'

But, unfortunately, that only took me deeper into the matter. He confessed that in his professional life he did indeed, as I so aptly put it, make his own fortune. No man more so. There he never had a doubt; had never yet had to ask for anyone's advice and sincerely hoped he would never need to. G_ _! m'dear, he'd put a gun to his own head rather than ask for help. With men and weapons he always knew just what to do. But, he didn't quite know why it should be. Never had understood it, don't y'know; but in matters of the heart a and here he cast a rather fearful look across the table at the Misses Harris a he had not quite the same d_ _ _ _d certainty.

He was not, he confessed, always quite the thing in society. Didn't know what to say to the ladies. Indeed, sometimes he felt it necessary to quite shut himself away. Like a hermit of old a don't y'know.

And he talked on until I began to fear that all the hopes and accomplishments of the Misses Harris would come to nothing if I did not oblige him with a rea.s.suring fortune.

So I have agreed that I will soon look into his palm to see what I may of his future a though I do not quite know when this will be achieved since the colonel is as anxious as I am that we have no audience for the performance and I do not know how we are to gain a tete-a-tete without arousing the jealousy of the Misses Harris. However, I am determined that when it does take place I shall use the opportunity to discover a little more about him. I most particularly wish to know why he has so recently broken his resolution against marriage a has something occurred in his private life to incline him towards matrimony a or perhaps to free him for an advantageous match?

For, you see, a very intriguing thought came to me when the colonel spoke of sometimes shutting himself away. Eliza, you write in your letter that Mr Blacklock might be Mr Lomax, and I have wondered whether he is Mr Montague. But could he not also be Colonel Walborough a or indeed Mr Harris, or Sir Edgar, or Tom? Gentlemen are so free to move about in the world; they are not fixed in one place as women are.

I have contrived to send a message to the bobbing maid by Jenny the housemaid, whose home, you will remember (if you have been paying my letters the very close attention which they deserve) is at Hopton Cresswell and who, I am glad to find, is due to take her monthly day off again very soon. I have asked whether it is possible to discover from Mrs Potter's Kate what Mr Blacklock's appearance may be.

Unfortunately, before I can hope to receive any reply to this enquiry, I must go to Lyme. It is all quite settled. We are to travel there tomorrow and spend the night at an inn in the town. It is, as Catherine says, to be a regular exploring party, comprising myself and Catherine and the Misses Harris, escorted by the colonel and Tom Lomax. Sir Edgar condescendingly hopes that a little excursion will cheer the ladies and take our minds off the unpleasantness of late events and regrets that his public duties prevent him from availing himself of the honour of accompanying us, etc etc. Her ladys.h.i.+p is not to be of the party; she is indisposed. (I very much fear that she has procured a replacement for the physic which I poured away.) Mrs Harris stays behind to bear her ladys.h.i.+p company, and Margaret remains here too a because she wishes that she had been the chosen companion and, no doubt, hopes to prove herself better suited to the office.

Catherine is quite wild to go. She is very certain that she will find Mr Montague at Lyme, upon which she plans to throw herself into his arms, declare that she cares not whether they have bread to eat or not, so long as they can be together, and so live out the rest of her days in blissful poverty.

Oh, Eliza, I wish I too could believe that it will all be so easily settled!

Chapter Fourteen.

Lyme was as beautiful as everyone had promised, and, afterwards, Dido very much regretted that she had not been in a state of mind to do justice to its views. The hours that she spent there were too crowded with incident and surprise to leave her memory with more than an indistinct impression of waves sparkling in autumn suns.h.i.+ne, a steep hill leading down to the curve of the bay, pretty little old houses tumbling almost into the sea and, of course, the great stone bulk of the famous Cobb, stretching out into the water like a sleeping monster.

She was enjoying this prospect about two hours after their arrival. She had walked out onto the Cobb, leaving her companions gathered around Miss Harris, who was attempting to capture the scene upon her easel. Dido rather doubted her success, for she seemed to have so poor a grasp of perspective that a lopsided sheep grazing upon the low cliffs looked almost large enough to devour the town; it was partly to conceal her laughter that she had separated herself.

It was exhilarating to be alone on the exposed stone walk with the wind driving the white-crested waves about her and snapping at her bonnet ribbons, and she was not pleased to see Colonel Walborough walking intently towards her, red-faced, head bowed against the wind, hands clasped behind his back.

'Ah, Miss Kent, I wondered whether this might be an opportunity...' he began and was then forced to pause from lack of breath. 'My fortune, don't you know,' he reminded her and held out a large, plump hand. 'You were so kind as to say that you would read my palm.'

'Oh yes.' Dido looked down at the hand and wondered what she ought to do with it. The rage for palmistry had not yet arrived at Badleigh and she had never witnessed the science. But she bent her head over the proffered hand and endeavoured to look wise.

The sunlight showed up calluses on the palm a no doubt caused by weapons and the reigns of horses. The lines crisscrossing the hard skin were unremarkable. What struck her most forcibly was the childish shortness of the big, square nails, which were bitten down almost to the quick.

'Ah, yes,' she said slowly with a shake of her head, which she hoped suggested profound musing. 'I see that you are very worried about something, Colonel Walborough. Something is troubling you a great deal.'

'You are right, m'dear. That is quite remarkable! Can you see that in my hand?'

'Oh yes,' Dido a.s.sured him. 'It is all here to be read in your hand.' She smiled and held aside the unruly ribbons of her bonnet, which were flapping about her face. 'Now, let me see,' she said, thinking much more of how she might discover information than reveal it. 'There is something very strange here in these lines. Very strange indeed.'

She looked up and saw his eyes fixed intently upon her and his broad cheeks glowing in the wind. She could almost fancy that he was holding his breath. 'Colonel, I see that you have lately undergone a change of heart. That you have taken a decision to alter the course of your life.'

'Miss Kent, you are quite remarkable!'

'Thank you, Colonel Walborough. You recognise what I am talking about?'

'Oh yes.' He looked anxiously about him. Their companions were still gathered about the easel. Miss Sophia's earnest chatter was borne to them on the wind, followed by an extravagant laugh from Tom Lomax. 'What I wish you would tell me, m'dear,' he continued in a low, hurried voice, 'is whether I am right in making that change. It is so d.a.m.ned hard to be sure. Will it answer? Will it bring me all that I hope it will? Don't you see? That's what I need to know.'

Dido bent lower over the plump hand that was still held out expectantly and made a pretence of studying it. The waves slapped upon the wall of the Cobb; a seagull shrieked and laughed as it fought its way up the wind. The hand before her began to shake a little. She gave a long sigh. 'I am sorry, Colonel, it is very difficult to decipher... Perhaps if you could explain a little to me about the nature of this change in your life a and why you have made it. Then I might be better able to understand...'

He took a step closer to her and lowered his voice to a whisper that was all but torn away on the breeze. 'Well, the fact of the matter is, m'dear, that I've made up my mind to...enrol my name in the lists of Hymen, as they say. In short, I plan to marry, Miss Kent, and it ain't something I ever thought to do.'

'Yes, indeed, I see,' said Dido, nodding sagely over his palm. 'Yes, that would explain this great change in your future, which is written so clearly here.' She pondered again for the s.p.a.ce of time that it took for three waves to break on the Cobb wall. 'Mmm, I cannot quite make out still whether your decision will increase your happiness... Perhaps if I knew why you had decided to break through your resolution of not marrying...'

'Well, you see, Miss Kent,' he whispered, 'this is the way it is. And this is quite in confidence, don't y'know?'

'Oh yes, I will be very discreet.'

'Well, this is the way it is. There's this uncle of mine; old fellow and pretty sick too, likely to pop off any day now. And he's got a monstrous big estate and I'm the only kin he has in this world. So, you see the way the land lies, don't you?'

'Oh quite! Naturally you look forward to inheriting and I am sure it is a great comfort to your uncle to know that his property will pa.s.s into such good hands.'

'Ah, yes. But the devil of the business is, m'dear, that he ain't that comfortable about it. You see, he's heard rumours about me.' He gave a spluttering cough. 'Ill-natured gossip that I won't trouble a lady with... But the old fellow has taken against me and he won't put his name to the will until I "regularise my life", as he terms it.'

'And that regularising must take the form of matrimony?'

The colonel nodded.

'I see.'

So, thought Dido immediately, the colonel fears only respectable ladies. He is, in fact, a libertine and a womaniser. She was sure it must be so, despite what the other men said about him, for she could think of no other irregularity in a man's life for which marriage might be considered a cure...

She stood in thoughtful contemplation of the hand for several moments longer. His reply had presented her with a dilemma. Should she advise him to marry or not? The trick she had undertaken for her own ends had given her a power which she did not want.

His motives for marriage were selfish and his character, apparently, doubtful. But how eager to be married was Miss Harris? How acutely did she feel the approach of three and twenty? And, in a prudential light, it would be a fine match for her...

Well, these were questions which the lady must decide for herself.

'Ah! I understand now,' she said raising her eyes to his red, anxious face. 'This was why I found your hand so difficult to read. You see, Colonel, your future happiness depends entirely upon how you act now. It is written here that you will find true contentment only with a woman who exactly understands the demands of your uncle. You must explain to any lady you ask to marry you the reason why you have broken through your lifetime's resolution of remaining single.'

'I think,' said Catherine a little more than an hour later, 'that Colonel Walborough will make an offer to Miss Harris before the day is over. I see that they are walking out together along the beach.'

'Hmm,' said Dido thoughtfully, 'and that leaves Mr Tom Lomax to entertain her sister.'

'Why do you look so ill-tempered? I did not know that you disapproved of love-making.'

Dido made no reply, but it pa.s.sed through her mind that she did most heartily disapprove when either one of the two gentlemen making love might fairly be suspected of murder. For, with them both so set upon matrimony for their own mercenary reasons, might not either one of them have destroyed a woman who stood in his way?

She sighed deeply and they walked on a little way in silence. They were now upon a rutted track and had left the town a little way behind them. The voices of visitors had faded and there was nothing about them but short, sheep-bitten gra.s.s; no sound but the rush of waves and the crying of gulls overhead.

Suddenly Catherine stopped, turned to her companion and surprised her greatly by saying very rapidly, 'Aunt Dido, there is something I must tell you. Something about Richard. I did not like to tell you before. But now that you are going to meet him, I feel you should know it. If you don't you may ask questions that will pain him. You have got to be such a great asker of questions lately.'

'Have I?'

'Yes, you know that you have. It is all: How? And who? And where? with you now.'

'My dear, you did ask me to discover things.'

'Yes, but I did not mean...' She stopped helplessly and brushed away the strands of hair that the breeze was blowing across her cheek.