Here, however, in the fire-lit sanctuary of his own small room, there was no shortage of books. He had inherited his father’s collection and had added to it until it overflowed the shelves to cover every available chair and table. Books were stacked upon his desk and he was now peering around them.
‘Ahem, yes. Well, it’s this Bath plan, you see …’
‘Yes, what of it?’ Dido asked briskly. Years of experience had taught her there was little to be gained from waiting for Francis to finish his sentences. ‘You do not wish me to go?’ She removed a dictionary and two volumes of Ovid from a chair and sat down.
‘Well, as to that … I daresay it could be … And God knows, you’ve had few enough treats lately.’ He gave a quick smile, reminding her suddenly of the kindly older brother who used to read the Arabian Nights to her. He opened a drawer in his desk, took something out and hurriedly pushed it towards her. It was a little pile of five gold sovereigns. ‘Buy yourself something pretty while you are away – a cap, or a gown or …’ He gave another vague wave – clearly at a loss to know what it was that women spent money on.
Dido considered the coins – and his offer – eagerly. She knew there were but a few shillings left in her purse; and, since her regular allowance had disappeared with Charles’s bank, heaven only knew when such riches would be within her grasp again. And the visit to Bath represented an opportunity of being with Mr Lomax – continuing their ‘open and honest discussion’ without Margaret’s agonising intrusions.
But still she hesitated. ‘I would not wish to rob you, Francis.’ She always felt a kind of awkward pity for him and, besides, the money and the holiday would be dearly won if they were to be the cause of more arguments and economy in the vicarage. ‘Are you certain it will not inconvenience you?’
‘No,’ he said, looking steadily at her, his black eyes bright under bushy grey brows. ‘Take it, Dido. Take it and go to Bath. I hope things are not got quite so bad that … I should think I can give my sister a few pounds without being obliged to teach Latin lessons again, or I would not …’
‘Oh!’ Dido put her hand to her mouth as sudden understanding flooded her brain, blotting out for a while even solicitude over Mr Lomax. ‘Of course!’ she cried delighted at the memory. ‘I had forgotten, Francis, you used to take in pupils before you came to Badleigh!’
‘I have certainly not forgotten it,’ he said feelingly. ‘Though I do not see why …’
But she was not listening. ‘“You have been in my situation. You know how difficult it can be!” That is what Mr Portinscale said when he came to visit you last week!’
‘Dido!’ cried Francis raising a finger. ‘I do believe you are still in the habit of listening at keyholes! I thought you had grown out of it years ago. I remember Grandmother Kent saying …’
‘I was not listening at a keyhole,’ said Dido with dignity. ‘I was quite across the other side of the hall. Mr Portinscale just happened to be talking very loudly – and you had left the door open.’
Francis smiled.
‘But my point is,’ she said hurriedly, ‘that you and Mr Portinscale have both taught little boys their Latin. That is the situation you have shared.’ Several ideas were coming together in her head now as she remembered the rest of the conversation. ‘Francis,’ she demanded, ‘why did Mr Portinscale come to see you that day? Why did he wish you to intercede with Mr Harman-Foote?’
‘Ahem. Well, I do not think …’ Francis avoided her eyes and began to open the largest tome on his desk. ‘It was not a matter he would want … Now, if you will excuse me, please, I am rather busy. There is a reference I wish to find for Sunday’s sermon …’ He put on his spectacles and turned a page.
But Dido was not about to allow a mere brother to evade her questions. She had had many years practice at teasing brothers. She leant across the desk and laid both hands upon the page of his book. ‘I shall not leave your library,’ she said, ‘I shall not cease talking to you until you tell me.’
‘Really, this is too bad! You cannot—’
‘Did he confess something to you?’ she said, smiling up at him and still holding her hands upon his page. ‘He did, did he not? He confessed that he had lost his temper with young Georgie. He had struck him, had he not? I know that he had. I saw the bruise!’
Francis gave a long sigh. ‘I wonder that you need to trouble me with questions when you know so much without …’
‘You mean, of course, that I am right!’ she cried, tapping her hands delightedly on the book. ‘And when you said he should confess all because “he is master at Madderstone”, you were not referring to Mr Harman-Foote at all, you were referring to Georgie himself.’
‘Yes,’ said Francis with a resigned sigh. ‘I was. You are quite right. Now will you give me some peace?’
But Dido was thinking – without lifting her hands. ‘And so you did not intercede for him?’
‘No, I did not,’ said Francis, with a defeated sigh. ‘It would have done no good. That young imp truly is master at the abbey. If he told his mother what had occurred, poor Portinscale would lose the favour of the great house and my interceding would only turn Mrs Harman-Foote against me as well, and then Margaret would …’ He tried to inch his book out of the sisterly grasp.
‘And now,’ said Dido, ‘the young imp rules Mr Portinscale as well. The unfortunate man is reduced to buying the child’s silence – with cake.’
Well satisfied with herself, she released the book, picked up her money and hurried away at last to the damp, but blissful solitude of the moss hut.
Here was one small mystery solved, she thought happily as she settled upon the bench … No, when she considered carefully, she saw that there were two mysteries solved. For a little reflection upon Margaret’s dull account of her visit to the great house revealed also a solution to Mr Paynter’s secret correspondence with Mrs Harman-Foote!
Why, this was turning into a remarkably successful day!
She checked herself abruptly, shocked at her own hard-heartedness. How could these thoughts occupy her so entirely after the affecting interview with Mr Lomax? Within the last hour a man had told her that he loved her – and here was she thinking only about Latin lessons and cake!
How very shameful. Was it possible that her own ideas were of more importance to her than a man’s regard? Perhaps, she thought guiltily, she was constitutionally unsuited to love, and Mr Lomax was destined to become no more than a memory, like Mr Clarke … and the other men she had danced and flirted with as a girl.
No. She shook her head immediately with an affectionate smile and watched the black branches of the damson trees drip yellow leaves and water drops into the long grass. No matter what the outcome of their ‘experiment’, he would always be dear to her. His virtues – and his faults – would always form her very ideal of what a man ought to be.
Mr Lomax’s rights revived, but the high spirits of successful mystery solving brightened the prospect. Now she was inclined to be sanguine. The bow and the smile had certainly been favourable …