Chapter One
Bellfield Hall,
Monday, 23rd September 1805
My dear Eliza,
I must begin another letter to you, although it is not
six hours since I sent my last. I have some news to
communicate which I think will surprise you not a
little.
Miss Dido Kent hesitated, her pen suspended over the
page. All her education and almost thirty years’ experience
of writing letters had not quite prepared her for this
situation. As well as she could recall, the rules of
etiquette said nothing about the correct way in which to
convey the news that she now had to impart. However, her
governess had once told her that the very best style of
writing was that which gave information simply and clearly
without any excess of sensibility.
She dipped her pen into the ink and continued.
There has been a woman found dead here – in the
shrubbery – this evening.
She read what she had written, thought for a little
while, then added:
It was the under-gardener who found her.
Her sister would wish to be reassured that it was not a
member of the family, or one of their guests, who had made
the horrible discovery.
Looking at the words gleaming blackly in the light of her
candle, Dido thought for a moment how strange it was that
something so extraordinary should be contained within the
familiar, flowing pattern of the script, looking no more
strange than a report upon the weather or an account of a
sermon heard in church. Then she continued, her pen
beginning to move more steadily as she found herself drawn
away from the simple giving of information to that
commentary upon men and women which seemed to come most
naturally to her whenever she had a blank page before her.
No one knows who the dead woman can be. Sir Edgar and
Lady Montague are quite sure that they know nothing of her.
They are both, of course, deeply shocked. He, as you may
imagine, is very much exercised over ‘what people will
think,’ and how a dead woman in his shrubbery is likely to
reflect upon ‘the honour of the family name’. Altogether, I
think it is the novelty of the event which distresses him
more than anything else; if only his ancestors – those
innumerable previous Sir Edgars who stare at one from dark
portraits in every conceivable corner of this house – had
suffered the shock before him, then dead women in
shrubberies would be a family tradition and hold no horrors
for him at all. Meanwhile, her ladyship sits upon her sofa
and wrings her hands and declares that ‘one does not know
what to think’, hoping, I suppose, that someone will tell
her what to think and so save her the trouble of forming an
opinion of her own.
Her sister-in-law, Mrs Harris, is quite as animated upon
the subject as my lady is languid and has been occupied with
relating every shocking detail which she has been able to
gather or can imagine – details which a woman of more sense
would not give credit to, and one of more breeding would
certainly not retail in the drawing room. Her husband,
though one must believe he is a sensible man – or at least a
clever one, or else how would he have made such a fortune in
India? – instead of trying to check her, hangs upon her
words and laughs over her extravagances as if they were the
pinnacle of feminine wit and vivacity – a very disgusting
display of conjugal affection which I think we might be
spared from a husband and wife with more than twenty years’
married life behind them – and two grown daughters into the
bargain.
The daughters in question are, I believe, as undecided as
her ladyship over ‘what one should think’ and want to know
whether interest, horror or indifference would be most
becoming – or at least which Colonel Walborough would find
most becoming. Although I think it might be a kindness to
just mention to them that neither Miss Harris’s pursed-lip
silence, nor Miss Sophia’s excessive sorrow over the death
of ‘the poor, poor unfortunate woman,’ are likely to charm a
sensible man.
The colonel himself seems to have expressed all that he
feels upon the subject with a long, rather dull story which
he told us at dinner about a similar incident that occurred
when he was stationed in Bahama – at least I think it was
Bahama. It was somewhere that has very hot weather and odd
diseases. The colonel has not quite that power of narration
which chains the listener’s attention. And then, when the
story was done, Mr Tom Lomax must try to enliven our dessert
by calling on Mr Harris to better it, since he was sure,
from all he had heard from his numerous acquaintance in the
place, that India was ‘as full of strange and shocking
events as ever Bahama was.’ That sally did not amuse anyone,
least of all Mr Harris, who seemed to be extremely
discomposed by it; though I confess I liked it rather better
than Mr Tom’s next attempt at wit, which was to lament that
his friend Richard was not at home to ‘see all this carry
on, which by G_ _ is as good as play!’ Which distressed poor
Catherine terribly and I thought it quite unpardonable of
him to draw attention to Mr Montague’s absence in that way.
I was glad when Mr William Lomax – his father – spoke the
only bit of sense we had heard all evening, calling him to
order and reminding him to show a little respect for the
dead. By the by, I am excessively fond of Mr William Lomax;
he is so kindly and so well made and he has a very fine
profile. He has also the very great recommendation of being
a widower. And, all in all, I am rather sorry that I gave up
the business of falling in love some years ago.
Well, I have given you a picture of them all now – except
those who, I make no doubt, you most wish to hear of. And I
expect to be thoroughly called to order by you in your next
letter for abusing my fellow creatures so dreadfully.
Remember that I quite rely upon your strictures, for why
else do I allow my pen to run on so cruelly, but that you
may prove yourself my superior in candour and liberality as
you are in everything else?
And as for our nearest relations, well, they are as you
have probably imagined them. Margaret is almost as concerned
for the health and welfare of the name of Montague as Sir
Edgar can be, for, ever since Catherine’s engagement to Mr
Montague, she has considered the name as pretty much her
own. And I daresay Francis feels the same; though I have not
seen him. He left on business to town some hours before I
arrived here. And dear Catherine? Well, to own the truth,
she is too distressed over the business I explained in my
last to notice much what happens around her. And yet, if
this matter is not settled soon, I fear it will hurt her
dreadfully.
You see, there is to be an inquest. It seems it cannot be
avoided because of no one here even knowing who the dead
woman is. Even the servants – and I have spoken to most of
them myself – cannot guess who she might be. Though I
suppose they may be lying.