The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries) (18 page)

Yet of course she did not. A second or two of horrible struggling followed, and he was properly repulsed by her, with a strength that surprised him. She finished by cracking him across the face again, this time with enough force he felt he might have a bloody nose as a result.

Then, just as he was getting back his balance, the door opened and Mrs Ridolfi came in. She looked at him, he felt, with utter contempt.

“Ah, Paulina, is it time for me to warm up already?” said Mrs Morgan.

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Ridolfi.

“Mr Carswell was just leaving,” Mrs Morgan said, and turned away from him.

Chapter Twenty-four

Why had he attempted to kiss her her? In what part of his disordered brain had he imagined that might improve matters? Had that wretched book somehow contributed to his reckless, wanton behaviour?

He had gone into the Minster in order to meet Major Vernon, but he could not yet face him, and had turned into one of the gloomy side chapels, relics of another age, that were such a feature of the building. This one still contained an altar with a smudgy old painting of the Virgin Mary above it, and he considered throwing himself onto his knees in front of it, out of habit as much as anything. He felt ashamed enough to repent – to have kissed her was an act of incalculable folly, the actions of an idiotic boor. But he did not prostrate himself. He had spent enough time on his knees and it never seemed to profit him. He ran his hands through his hair and turned away.

He saw then that he was not alone. In the dustiest, darkest corner, partially obscured behind a vast white marble tomb covered in swooping putti, he noticed a woman was sitting on the bench built into the wall. There was something familiar about her, and as he approached her he saw it was Kate Pritchard.

“We seemed destined to discover each other,” he said, and wondered if fate was trying to tell him something, for after Mrs Morgan, he was again presented with the very different charms of Miss Pritchard.

“Because we are both looking for places to hide, perhaps,” she said. “I saw Lord Rothborough out there.”

“And I saw your father,” said Felix. “Though he can’t have any objections to your being here, I am sure.”

“You have no idea of the extent of his objections,” she said.

“May I?” he said indicating the bench where she sat.

“Of course.”

“Have you come to hear her sing again?” he asked.

“Have you?”

It was a little disconcerting to be asked a question in response to his own, but he supposed she was trying to avoid answering him directly. He wondered why she was so cautious and why she was hiding.

“No, most definitely not,” he said. “The less I have to do with Mrs Morgan the better.”

“Then why are you here?” she said.

“I am here to meet Major Vernon. Have you seen him?”

She shook her head.

“What has Mrs Morgan done to offend you?” she asked. “You sounded so vehement – you don’t mind me saying so, I hope.”

More questions, he thought, and wondered if he ought to adopt the same defensiveness. But there was something about her which made him unable to be anything than candid.

“It is rather what I have done to offend her,” he said, and pressed his hands to his face. “I have been excruciatingly foolish. Beyond foolish.”

“I’m sure that is not the case.” He felt her hand press his shoulder. He glanced at her pale face in the shadows, and her enquiring yet sympathetic expression moved him. He put his own hand over hers which remained on his shoulder, and squeezed her hand in return.

“You’re too kind,” he said, and removed her hand and laid it on her lap. “I don’t deserve sympathy, that I do know.”

“Everyone deserves sympathy, no matter what,” she said. “And love is a great tribulation. Is that what this is about?”

“Love – well, I’m not sure it’s as noble a sentiment as that. I rather think it’s – well you know...” He pulled away his hand, feeling ashamed to touch her with such thoughts in his head.

“You should not be so harsh on yourself. She is impossibly attractive – so beautiful and talented. I should be surprised if a man did not find her like a siren. Her voice is so faultless – it cuts into one.”

“Yes, a siren,” he said, “that is what she is. Then I must stop my ears with wax and tie myself to the mast.”

“Perhaps, Mr Odysseus,” she said.

“He had his Penelope and his Ithaca. To keep him on course.”

“Yes, indeed he did.”

The choir began to sing and silence fell between them as the music surrounded them.

He watched her listening again, just as he had the other night. She displayed the same concentration, but not the rapture. That had clearly been Mrs Morgan’s doing.

Now Miss Pritchard was beating time with her finger, her head moving with the music, and she frowned once or twice, as if displeased at what she heard. Then after a particularly pronounced wince, the choir stopped, almost as if she had been directing them herself and had thrown up her own hands to stop them.

“I knew they wouldn’t manage that,” she said. “The tenors are so ragged at the moment without poor Mr Barnes.” She added with a sigh, “Poor poor man.” He saw her shiver, and he reached for the shawl that lay pooled on the bench and arranged it about her. “Thank you,” she said and gave him such a warm smile of gratitude that for a moment he felt his misery lift. “You did say you had seen Lord Rothborough?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Then I will stay here a while longer, if you don’t mind. I doubt he will find me here.”

“And Major Vernon?”

“He may find me. He is far better at searching things out.”

“That I had heard. Do you think...” she broke off. “Do you think he will find who murdered Mr Barnes?”

“I am sure of it,” said Felix. “He has a great talent for getting the truth out of people. He was curious about last night, by the way. A ribbon fell from your dress and he picked it up.”

“Oh, that is where it went!” she said. “Oh dear.”

“I did not tell him who you were, but he has a way of guessing at things. You must forgive me if he does realise it was you. He is so acute.”

“I could not blame you for that, Mr Carswell. It was my conduct that was at fault. I ought not have asked you to do such a thing I know but...” She broke off, biting her lip.

“We are back to the Siren again I think,” said Felix, pushing his fingers through his hair, and looking up at the vaults. “I wish she had never come here.”

“It will pass, I’m sure of it,” she said. “Sooner or later.”

“I suppose so. And I have friends to help me – you will let me call you a friend, Miss Pritchard?” he said, glancing at her.

“It would be an honour,” she said.

And in that moment he believed he might have found a cure for his folly: marriage and a sweet, companionable wife. He found himself thinking of the house that Lord Rothborough had spoken of, and although he disliked the implications of Lord Rothborough’s actions, it was possible to see the utility of them. If a house was to be forced on him, he might as well use it for his own ends.

“You must come and see my house,” he said, with decision. In his mind, embarking on this conversation was akin to talking of marriage. For what man could marry without a house?

“Your house?” she said.

“I told you I think that I am going to be a man of property. Some place belonging to Sir Robert Arden.”

“Not Ardenthwaite?” she said.

“You know the place?”

“I’ve seen over it,” she said. “It is a fine old house – and very large. And the gardens are so pretty. It is all old-fashioned though. Perhaps you don’t like that sort of thing.”

“I don’t know what I like, to tell you the truth. Well, I did not care for Holbroke. You have seen over that?”

“Yes.”

“A great showy soulless monster of a house,” said Felix decidedly. “Ardenthwaite is not like that?”

“No, not at all. It is as I said, old-fashioned, and romantic. There are mullion windows and stained glass, and some of the floors slope alarmingly. But there is a great gallery at the top of the house which has the most wonderful view over the moors. You can see the sea from there on a fine day.”

“You liked it then?”

“Yes, I did. Very much.”

“It sounds pleasant,” he said.

“It is. You are lucky man, Mr Carswell.”

“It sounds like the sort of house that needs a mistress,” he said.

“I’m sure there will be no difficulty about that,” she said with a smile.

“We did discuss the question of our eloping,” he said as lightly as he could.

“That was just a piece of nonsense.”

“Nonsense can turn into sense. Sometimes?” he said. She looked at him. “It would not be so ridiculous, would it, to consider?”

“You are pragmatic, Mr Carswell.”

“Yes, well, perhaps, but you don’t find me objectionable, and I certainly don’t find you objectionable. You would have everything you wanted. I could do that for you – you’d have an establishment, and you’d be someone in the county, should you wish it – Lord Rothborough would see to that – I am sure he would love you as a daughter –”

“Enough!” she said. “This
is
nonsense. You cannot make a silly joke into a marriage proposal. You don’t feel a jot for me. You are only tired of being in thrall to Mrs Morgan. Do you think that making love to me will cure you of that?” He could not answer. “And what am I to do if it doesn’t cure you? If we find ourselves in Switzerland on our wedding journey and you pining for Mrs Morgan still? That is not how good marriages are made. There must be mutual passion. There must be mutual love. It is not a business arrangement.”

There was a silence while he took in what she had said.

“Forgive me, it was ridiculous,” he managed to say.

“Of course I forgive you. You are half-mad over Mrs Morgan, that excuses it,” she said. “We cannot expect reason from you.”

She laid her hand over his, and he was moved to take it up and kiss it, feeling thankful for her good sense and mercy. Another woman could have used such a moment entirely for her own ends, but she had not. When she did marry, her husband would be a lucky man, he thought, and in the spirit of friendship he leant forward and kissed her cheek, just as one might kiss a bride.

And as he did, he heard footsteps behind them. He turned, and to his horror saw Dean Pritchard accompanied by Lord Rothborough.

“Katherine, what are you doing here?” Dean Pritchard said. “Did I say you could leave your mother? Did you have my permission to leave the house? And what are you doing here, with this man?”

“There is nothing going on, sir, I assure you,” Felix said, jumping to his feet and putting some distance between himself and Miss Pritchard. “We were just talking –”

“Mr Carswell, please, the truth,” said Miss Pritchard. “My dear, it is better that we tell the truth at once.” And she reached out and grabbed his hand. He was so astonished by that “my dear” that he did nothing to prevent it. “Mr Carswell has just proposed to me, Papa, that is what has been going on.” She was now squeezing his hand so violently that he thought she might crack his fingers. Her hand was so strong, he supposed, from all that piano practice. He was obliged to put his other hand over hers in a covert attempt to get her to release him, but she held fast, and the impression given must have been one of a couple hand-fasting in front of witnesses.
Which is what she wants,
he began to realise.

“Is this true, sir?” said the Dean turning towards him.

“Yes,” he managed to say. “I did and –”

“And I have accepted,” Miss Pritchard said, clear as a bell.

In Pitfeldry, they would be as good as married after that, Felix thought. His father spent a great deal of time trying to persuade people to come and marry according to the book in church, but the old system still prevailed.

But this was Northminster, and Scotch marriages were not legal. Neither would the Dean’s daughter and the Marquis’ bastard be allowed to enter into any such contract independently. He felt the depressing truth of that as much as the disapproving eyes of Lord Rothborough on him. They were not free agents. Their position made slaves of them. A farm servant and a maid had more liberty.

Even before Miss Pritchard had finished saying “accepted” the Dean marched forward and pushed Felix roughly to one side, breaking their handclasp. Felix could not help being a little relieved, but he did not at all like the way Pritchard shook his daughter roughly by the shoulder. He was moving to pull him away for himself, when he felt Lord Rothborough’s restraining hand on his arm.

“Take your daughter home, sir,” said Lord Rothborough, quietly and mildly. “This is not the time nor the place.” At this Dean Pritchard released her and she turned so that Felix met her glance, which was imploring him. She was begging for his collusion. But why? What on earth was she doing, when only a moment ago she had spoken so plainly?

“You are right, you are right...” muttered the Dean, gathering his thoughts. Then he drew himself up and turned to Felix. “You, sir, will be so good as to call on me first thing tomorrow morning and explain yourself! Katherine, we are going home!”

Felix was left alone with Lord Rothborough. There was a long, rather uncomfortable silence, and then Lord Rothborough spoke.

“What a pretty business,” he said. “And I thought you had learnt your lesson in this department. You understand what I expect of you, I trust? When you speak to him tomorrow you will retract your proposal. You can find some excuse for it. It isn’t pleasant, but you are not marrying that girl!”

And then to crown it all, in another part of the Minster, Mrs Morgan began to sing.

“Ah,
cara
,” murmured Rothborough. He turned and walked away towards the sound of the Siren.

Chapter Twenty-five

Giles sat with his brother-in-law in the Minster, listening to Harrison and Mrs Morgan sing the duet “Who calls my parting soul from death?” from Esther by Handel.

Harrison was a transformed man. He had shaved and was now dressed with considerable elegance in a well cut frock coat and immaculate linen. He wore a figured silk waistcoat that would have cost at least three guineas – a discreet and handsome design with which Giles could not find fault. In all respects he perfectly matched Mrs Morgan in both looks and bearing – and he did not look the least out of place. He was every inch the professional singer. Of the disgraced, truculent and resentful clerk there was little sign. Giles found it hard not to be impressed by this, and as for his voice – even though he knew he was no great judge, it struck him as excellent. It was sweet-toned, perfectly controlled and still suitably manly. His performance was full of emotion but did not veer into into an excessive show of passion. In short, it was appropriate for his part as the virtuous hero and lover of a queen.