Michael Cox (22 page)

THE SUNDAY FOLLOWING my adventure on the road from Easton, as we were coming out of church, Mr Randolph announced that he wished to walk back to the house rather than take the carriage. He then asked whether I would care to accompany him. This seemed a most ill-judged suggestion, and I looked enquiringly at my mistress, certain that she would not countenance such a thing. Mr Perseus, standing within earshot of his brother, certainly appeared to regard it with disfavour, pulling his coat around him and angrily striding off towards the lych-gate and the waiting carriage, his face clearly proclaiming the blackness of his mood.
‘I think, sir,’ I said to Mr Randolph, ‘that my Lady will wish me to go back with her.’
‘No, no,’ said Lady Tansor, who, to my great surprise, showed no sign at all of disapproval. ‘Go with Randolph if you wish. I have some letters to write when I get back, and Mr Thripp is riding over to discuss some parish business, so I shall not need you for an hour or so. Besides, some fresh air will do you good. You have been looking a little out of sorts lately.’
The carriage taking my Lady and Mr Perseus back to the house soon jingled off, leaving Mr Randolph and me to make our way down the lane we had taken on our first walk from Easton, and thence into the Park.
We speak of Mr Thripp’s sermon, and whether that verbose gentleman will ever learn the discipline of brevity; and of Mrs Thripp’s perpetual antagonism towards her husband; and then of this, and then of that, a digest of which would weary my readers.
All this time, Mr Randolph has been his usual good-humoured self; but as we are approaching the bridge, a change comes over him. The smiling, easy talk ceases, as if he wishes to say something to me that causes him difficulty. He falls silent for some time as we stand looking out over the Evenbrook, shimmering in the weak autumn sunlight, towards the great house. Then, as if he has suddenly taken courage, he asks whether I have left many friends behind in Paris.
‘A few,’ I return, puzzled by his question.
‘And do you miss them?’
‘Some of them, certainly; but I had a largely solitary childhood, and so have grown used to my own company. Self-reliance is a necessity for someone in my position, who has to make her own way in the world.’
‘But was there no special friend, whose company you miss?’
‘No, there was nobody like that, only when I was very young,’ I reply, thinking of Amélie, and continuing to be perplexed by his questions.
He considers for a moment.
‘So you have no one – no friend, I mean – to confide in?’
I reply that, having little to confide, I do not feel the lack of an intimate confidante. ‘And do
you
have a friend to whom you tell your secrets?’ I ask.
‘I suppose I do,’ he replies. ‘My best chum at Dr Savage’s academy, Rhys Paget – a very fine fellow. Of course I also have a fairly large acquaintance hereabouts; but Paget is more like, well, more like a second brother – not that I could ever confide in Perseus, of course, nor would ever want to.
‘Do you know, Miss Gorst,’ he then says, after a little more awkwardly silent reflection, ‘I think you
should
have a friend to confide in, and who could do the same for you. You – and they – would find it a great comfort, I’m sure, to be able to talk freely about – well, about things that you can’t talk about to others. We all have such things in our lives, and it don’t do to bottle them up, you know. Not at all. A secret shared is – well, I can’t quite recall what it is, if indeed it’s anything. What I mean is that it’s a very good thing, at any rate.’
‘Perhaps you’re right, sir,’ I say, thinking of my secret feelings for his brother. ‘The difficulty would be finding such a person. My social circle is a rather restricted one.’
‘Quite so, quite so,’ he says, returning my smile. ‘But you concede the principle?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, with a laugh, ‘I concede the principle.’
Just then, Mr Thripp comes trotting down the Rise, his terrier skittering about beside him, on his way to keep his appointment with Lady Tansor. A few words are exchanged as he passes over the bridge, and Mr Randolph and I then proceed on our way, talking inconsequentially once more, before parting at the Entrance Court gates.

II
The Day of Days

THE EVENING OF the dinner to mark Mr Randolph Duport’s twentieth birthday finally arrived. My Lady had taken great delight in tricking me out in one of her unwanted gowns from last season, telling me that I looked very well indeed, and really quite handsome, adding – in a sly, woman-to-woman way – that she would not be at all surprised if I did not break one or two hearts that evening.
At the dinner, I found myself placed at the lower end of the long table in the Crimson-and-Gold Dining-Room, next to Miss Arabella Pentelow, a whey-faced maiden of about my own age, with a put-upon look and very little to say for herself. As the heiress to a stupendous fortune, Miss Pentelow was one of several young ladies there present – with their quietly combative mammas – whom my Lady had marked out for consideration as possible matches for Mr Randolph, having a strong desire to see him married and ‘off her hands’ (as she once said in my hearing) as soon as he attained his majority.
On my other side was seated – of all people – the ridiculous Mr Maurice FitzMaurice, who spent the whole of the dinner responding monosyllabically to all my attempts at conversation, in the many intervals of which he threw yearning glances at my Lady, seated in splendour between her two sons.
With two such neighbours, I was thankful that my Lady kept me pretty busy, throughout the dinner and when we ladies withdrew. A stream of requests was issued via Barrington, who appeared silently at my back at regular intervals to whisper them into my ear. Her Ladyship was feeling a draught – off I was despatched to fetch a shawl. Her Ladyship was a little warm – off I went to remove the shawl to an adjacent room and bring her favourite Japanese fan. Her Ladyship was concerned that the Bishop had been placed too close to the fire – off I tripped to ask his Lordship, on her behalf, whether he was quite comfortable (he was). Still they came, these ingeniously conceived commands, all designed – I had no doubt – to remind me that I was present as her maid and general agent, not as her guest.
There were several toasts to the health of Mr Randolph, after which a neighbouring magnate, Lord Tingdene, a plump, fish-faced gentleman, gave a speech – almost rivalling one of Mr Thripp’s sermons in its tedious prolixity – in which he sycophantically extolled the unrivalled virtues and achievements of the Duport family since the days of the 1st Baron, while consigning to eternal perdition all those of the present day who strove against the proven perfection of inherited privilege.
Mr Randolph received all the salutations and congratulations with every appearance of satisfaction. His brother, who had led the toasts, wore his usual imperturbable expression, modified by an occasional weary smile, whilst my Lady shone, and smiled, and was graciously hospitable, although perhaps I alone perceived the little signs of strain and fatigue around her eyes.
The evening finally drew to a close. My hopeful dreams had come to nothing. Mr Perseus had appeared distracted, and we barely exchanged a word. Soon after the ladies and gentlemen reassembled in the Chinese Salon, he had been carried off to the Billiards-Room by a company of young gentlemen, noticeably unsteady on their legs, and I did not see him again. I continued to wait on my mistress until the carriages were called at one o’clock; yet even when the last guests had departed, I had still to undress her and see her to bed, although by then I could hardly keep my eyes open.
‘You did well tonight, Alice,’ she said as I was about to leave. ‘Everyone admired you, as I knew they would. Now off you go. I shall need you at the usual time tomorrow, you know, so no excuses.’
It was a little before two o’clock when I closed the door to my Lady’s sitting-room and stepped out into the gallery. As I did so, a figure emerged out of the shadows at the head of the stairs.
‘Mr Pocock informs me that the dinner was a great success,’ says Mrs Battersby.
‘I believe so,’ I answer.
‘I am glad, for Mr Randolph’s sake.’
We stand for a moment, eyes locked.
‘Well, good-night, Miss Gorst,’ she says at length. ‘I still have a deal to do before I retire, but your duties are done, I think. And so I wish you pleasant dreams.’
With these words, she turns, and is gone as suddenly as she had appeared.

MR RANDOLPH HAD left Evenwood soon after his birthday, intending to spend several weeks in Wales with his friend, Mr Rhys Paget, who had been unable to attend the dinner because of some family business. To my disappointment, Mr Perseus had also been absent, in London; and so the days went by in weary succession, as I waited for his return to brighten my dull life of service with new dreams.
To compound matters, I had nothing to report to Madame. Mr Armitage Vyse had made no further visits to Evenwood; and, despite determined efforts, I had found no incriminating or suspicious documents of any kind in my Lady’s apartments, and nothing to connect her directly with the murder of Mrs Kraus, except my transcription of the note I had found under her pillow in Grosvenor Square. And still I waited for Madame’s third letter. I had no choice, it seemed, but to continue mending, and washing, and cleaning, and dressing my Lady in her finery, until that long-awaited day came, when I would know at last the purpose of the Great Task.
December came on, and with it the anniversary of Phoebus Daunt’s death, observed annually by my Lady, as Mr Randolph had told me, by a visit to his tomb in the Duport Mausoleum.
On the morning of the 11th, after I had dressed her, my mistress informed me, in a subdued, strained voice, that she would not need me until two o’clock that afternoon, when she wished me to read to her for an hour or so.
‘Do you know what today is, Alice?’ she asked.
‘Yes, my Lady,’ I replied, without hesitation.
‘Of course you do,’ she said, fingering the locket containing her dead lover’s hair.
I left her; but I did not return to my room, for I had determined on a bold plan.

THE DUPORT MAUSOLEUM – a strange, domed structure, in the style of an Egyptian temple – stands in dismal isolation on the south-eastern edge of the Park, in the midst of a clearing bordered by tall, densely planted trees, and smaller clumps of yew and elder. The path leading up to the great metal doors, curiously decorated with inverted torches, was muddy, and thickly carpeted with pine needles and slippery, decomposing leaves blown into the clearing from the tree-lined approach road. The doors – guarded on either side by two stern-looking, sword-bearing stone angels, pitted and lichen-covered – I found to be locked fast; and so I withdrew a little way, concealing myself beneath a dripping tree to await the arrival of my Lady.
I passed a most uncomfortable time, reading through my note-book to relieve the tedium, until at last I heard the sound of an approaching vehicle.
A minute later, my Lady had descended from the carriage, a large key in one hand, and had begun walking slowly up the leaf-strewn path; the carriage then departed, leaving us alone in this melancholy spot.
As she entered the Mausoleum, I quit my hiding-place and ran towards the double doors, one of which she had left ajar, allowing sufficient light into the building for me to make out the general character of the interior – a rectangular entrance hall, beyond which three wings led off a large central space containing several imposing tombs.
I watched my Lady walk, with solemn deliberation, to the wing directly opposite the entrance. As she disappeared from sight, I stepped into the gloom.
The main chamber was dimly illuminated by a dirtied-over lantern at the apex of the dome, by the feeble light of which I stole as quietly as I could towards the arched entrance through which Lady Tansor had just passed. There I halted.
In the walls of the vaulted, semi-circular space that I now saw before me could be made out a number of gated wall-tombs. Before one of these, my Lady was now standing, statue-still. Only the sound of a few desiccated leaves being blown about the floor by a sudden draught of air broke the heavy silence.
For the first time since entering the Mausoleum, I began to be sensible of the danger I was in. Discovery would surely bring catastrophe. Even if my presence remained undetected, I must contrive to make my way out before my Lady, to avoid being locked in this ghastly place. Yet my curiosity was now so great that I foolishly ignored my fears, and tip-toed forwards.
My Lady was no more than five or six feet from me, as I stood in the deep shadows of the arch, hardly daring to breathe. Then she sank slowly to her knees before one of the wall-tombs, and pressed her cheek against the padlocked gates.
With an anguished moan, she reached up and, with sudden ferocity, grasped the gates with both hands. For a moment or two she remained thus; then she began to pull at the iron bars with all her might – harder, then harder still, in a desperate, but pitifully futile attempt, as it seemed, to wrench them out by main force, and so join her lover in his eternal bed-chamber.
Shaking her head from side to side, she now began to sob – such a baleful, inconsolable sound as I had never before heard. Was there any comfort, in heaven or on earth, that could ever assuage such pangs? It was a sight indeed to see my proud mistress humbled so, brought low by what even she, the 26th Baroness Tansor, could never remedy. Death had taken Phoebus Daunt from her, and would never give him back.
How we strive to hide what we really are! In spite of all she could do, the shadow of Time was daily creeping over the once-radiant Miss Emily Carteret, as it creeps over us all, leaving behind the indelible marks of its progress. She would have wished no living person to see her in this condition of utter subjection, just as she would wish no one to see her without her morning mask of subtly applied lotions and powder, with which puny weapons she daily sought to defy the years. But
I
had seen what she tried to hide, as I was now witnessing her powerlessness to break free from the enslaving past.
In the fallen world, beyond this house of death and decay, she was a person of the greatest consequence – envied, still desired, unassailable; but not here. Who would know proud Lady Tansor now, raw-eyed and helpless? She was strong in wealth, mighty in inherited rank and authority; but she was weak and defenceless in this perpetual servitude to the memory of Phoebus Daunt.
The sight of this poor lost creature, on her knees, weeping uncontrollably before the tomb of her long-dead love, is pitiable indeed, and moves me greatly; but I can offer her no succour and comfort, soul to human soul, as I would have done for any other person. I turn away, tears in my eyes.
Minutes pass, and still my Lady remains kneeling before the tomb, pulling at the iron gates in a most frantic and pathetic manner. Then, on a sudden, she rises to her feet, turns, and begins walking towards the archway in whose shadows I am hiding.