Free A Gentleman of Fortune by Anna Dean

group, provided herself with a volume of Moss Cliff Abbey and, while pretending to read, listened intently to the talk around her. In the course of ten minutes she learnt a great deal. She heard: that there was a new preacher from Northamptonshire visiting Saint Mary’s – who was expected to preach a very interesting sermon on Sunday, which would be ‘all about the French and their terrible way of carrying on’; that ‘Mr Vane, the apothecary, believes that Mr Lansdale killed his aunt’; that there was thieving carrying on in the shops of Richmond, with two bottles of eye tincture stolen from the apothecary and a whole ten yards of ‘good yellow ribbon’ from the haberdasher; that Sir Joshua Carrisbrook’s new wife was ‘Quite lovely! but just a bit of a girl, not half his age,’ and, finally, that ‘Mr Vane is gone to the magistrate today to tell him that Mr Lansdale poisoned his aunt…’
    As this last piece of news burst upon her, Dido was just reaching the head of the room. There was a broad table here and a chair beside it, into which she sank as she watched the speaker – an elderly woman in a black gown – hurrying off to spread her tidings elsewhere.
    It was just exactly what she had most dreaded hearing!
    Her first thought was for Flora. She would be most dreadfully distressed. It was to be hoped that she had not heard it in the shops; that it could be kept from her for a little while at least. And her second thought was for justice. There was, when one looked into the case, so much to make Mr Lansdale appear guilty, that he was in grave danger of hanging even if – as she was more than half-inclined to believe – he was innocent. She must do everything in her power to prevent such a terrible mistake.
    ‘It is altogether too shocking for words, the things people are saying about poor Mrs Lansdale!’ said a voice from the other side of the table. ‘Do you not agree, Miss Kent?’
    Dido looked up to see Miss Merryweather, the lady who presided over the library. She was a remarkably refined woman. Her features were so refined that they seemed incapable of smiling and were fixed in an expression of strong sensibility. Her tightly curled hair was so refined that it did not stir when she moved her head, but rather clung about her face as if pasted in place. And as for her voice…it was positively tortured with refinement.
    ‘I myself,’ she whispered confidingly as she took her seat beside the table, ‘I myself am deeply affected by the poor lady’s death!’
    ‘Oh!’ said Dido, in some surprise. ‘Were you acquainted with Mrs Lansdale, Miss Merryweather?’
    ‘Oh yes! Vastly well acquainted!’
    ‘Indeed! Then I suppose she visited the library rather often?’
    ‘Oh no! Not at all. What I mean to say is, I had not actually met her – for she was quite an invalid, I understand – but, aside from that, I knew her very well indeed.’
    ‘Did you?’ said Dido, becoming more interested. ‘I am not sure that I quite understand you.’
    Miss Merryweather shook her head – without disturbing the clinging curls one iota. She pressed both hands to her breast. ‘I knew her heart ,’ she declared in a refined whisper. ‘I knew her heart.’
    Dido was exceedingly diverted, but more at a loss than ever. ‘And how,’ she asked, ‘did you gain such an intimate knowledge of the lady?’
    ‘Why! From books of course!’ cried Miss Merryweather, casting out her arms to indicate her shelves. ‘From the books which she read. There is no surer way of knowing a person. The books which we choose, Miss Kent, are a veritable window upon our souls! A window upon our souls!’
    ‘Are they?’ cried Dido – aghast at how her own soul might appear when viewed through such a window.
    ‘Oh yes!’ Miss Merryweather folded her hands demurely upon the table and sighed feelingly.
    Dido pondered upon this idea for a moment or two. ‘And what do you know of Mrs Lansdale’s soul?’ she ventured to ask at