Place of Confinement
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Authors: Anna Dean
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Contents
For my sister, Elizabeth Jane, with love
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 little extravagant, 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 in describing 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 …