Michael Cox (51 page)

33

In Which Certain Truths are Faced at Last

I
Love Denied

A
S I
stand outside Perseus’s study, I begin to wonder whether
I should have sought Madame’s instructions on what I should do in the dramatically changed circumstances. My mind, however, is quickly made up. I know what must be done, for the sake of the Great Task, and that I must do it as soon as possible, or my courage will surely fail me.
There are tears to brush away; then, taking a deep breath, I am about to knock on the door when it suddenly opens.
‘Esperanza!’
He is standing, book in hand, dressed in a plum-coloured dressing-robe that reaches to the floor. His long hair is crowned with a black velvet smoking-cap, his shirt is unbuttoned at the neck, and a lighted cigar is clamped between his teeth. For an instant, the painted image of Phoebus Daunt as the Turkish Corsair, and the photograph of him, coalesce with the living face of his son, and I find myself staring, openly fascinated, at the tall figure framed in the doorway.
‘I was on my way to the Library,’ he informs me, with a warm smile of greeting. ‘Why weren’t you at dinner?’
I tell him that I have been at North Lodge.
‘With Wraxall?’
‘Yes. I hope you approve of him?’
‘Approve of Wraxall? Why, certainly I approve of him. We have had little to do with each other, but I hear only good things of him, and of course his professional reputation precedes him. I am glad that he seems to have taken you under his wing.’
Suddenly overcome by a desire to flee from what I have come here to do, I then apologize for disturbing him, and make some excuse to go; but he reaches out and gently takes my hand.
‘No, no,’ he urges. ‘Come in, by all means. I’ve been working long enough tonight.’
A log fire is burning in the grate, but Perseus finds gloom conducive to poetic composition; and so the only other sources of light in the vaulted stone chamber are supplied by a single candle on his desk, and by a small lamp on a table by the fire.
Being at first unsure of what I should say, by way of preparation for the task before me, I rather stumblingly express the hope that his business in London has gone satisfactorily.
‘Quite satisfactorily,’ he returns, showing me to a chair by the fire. ‘Mr Orr says that the legal side will be perfectly straightforward.’
‘And what of Mr Freeth?’ I then enquire, struggling to maintain a cheerful tone. ‘Come now, tell me what he thought of
Dante and Beatrice
. I’ve been longing to know.’
‘Oh, hasn’t Mother told you? He thought that it represents – so far – a signal advance, in terms of poetic achievement, on my previous effort. His considered professional opinion is that it will do very well.’
I tell him that I am delighted to hear it; I then pause, to compose myself in readiness for my next question.
‘And – if I may ask – when will you speak to Lady Tansor concerning our engagement?’
‘Is that what you really came to ask me?’ he asks. His smile has returned, but now it is teasing, in a rather sweet, reassuring way. He does not wait for me to answer.
‘Tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I shall tell her tomorrow, after luncheon.’
He leans towards me, and takes my hand again.
‘Please don’t concern yourself,’ he says, giving me a most tender look. ‘Mother will make no objection. I am certain of it. I have an answer to every objection she can possibly raise. My happiness is everything to her, and no one can make me happier than you. She knows what it is to love.’
He does not qualify this remark; but of course he is alluding to his mother’s love for Phoebus Daunt, not to Colonel Zaluski, the man he thinks had been his father.
‘And do you love me, then?’ I ask.
He gives me an incredulous stare.
‘Haven’t I told you so?’ He sounds almost offended.
‘You’ve told me many things with respect to your feelings for me,’ I reply, returning in my mind to that ever-memorable afternoon on the Ponte Vecchio; ‘but you have not said that you love me – only that you wish to marry me. The two are not necessarily the same.’
‘So you wish me to tell you, in plain language, that I love you? Is that it?’ His tone is still playful, although his eyes give back a faintly anxious look.
‘Only if you so wish, and if it’s true.’
‘Surely you know by now that I cannot play the lover,’ he says, not scornfully or boastfully, but with a kind of regret. Then, more meditatively: ‘It’s curious. I can write of love, and write well of it, I think; but I’ve been cursed with a reticent nature, which I deplore, but fear I cannot alter. So you will get no
billets-doux
from me, no rivers of tears, no fervour of abandonment. Will you mind that, my sweet Esperanza? Mind having a poet for a husband who yet cannot tell you he loves you every hour of the day, unless you ask him?’
He releases my hand and reaches down to pick out a log from the basket to throw on the fire.
‘No,’ I return. ‘I won’t mind. It’s the sincerity of the feeling that counts, of course. You might tell me that you loved me and not mean it. I don’t place much value on the mere words, only on what lies behind them.’
He takes my hand again, and my heart begins to beat harder with dread at what I am coming to.
‘And you are right to do so,’ he says, softly. ‘Words mean nothing, in themselves, and are treacherous – dangerous – for that reason.’
‘Even the word “love”?’
‘Especially the word “love”,’ he replies, ‘which is as pregnant with danger and deception as the passion it describes.’
‘So you consider love to be a dangerous passion, then?’
‘Most assuredly. Every poet must.’
‘But it can be otherwise. Surely, as a poet, you also know that to be true?’
‘Certainly – indeed, such love is the subject of my new poem; but the fact remains that words may lie and dissemble, as well as speak the truth. Love can raise the heart to holiness; love can be tender and ennobling; but love can also corrupt and destroy.’
We both fall silent, as the log he has thrown on the fire begins to flare and crackle. Then he reaches forward to touch my cheek.
‘But I will gladly speak the words, my dearest girl, and mean them, too,’ he says. ‘Here they are, then: I—’
‘No!’ I cry, leaning over and placing my finger on his lips. ‘Please, do not say them. It was wrong of me to ask you to tell me something I already know in my heart to be true, just for the satisfaction of hearing the words. But I don’t need you to say them, truly I don’t.’
‘I know!’ he exclaims. ‘I’ll put it all into a poem. How would that be?’
I tell him that a poem will do very well.
‘Then it’s settled. I’ll take up my pen as soon as you’ve gone, and will deliver the result to you, in person, tomorrow – perhaps in sonnet form.’
As he finishes speaking, I experience such a sharp pang of anguish and despair at what I am about to do that I have to turn my head away, fixing my eyes on the now flaming log in the grate.
‘Has something happened?’ he asks, seeing my discomfort.
It has come: the moment when I must thrust a knife deep into the precious heart of Perseus Duport – and into my own.
When I still do not answer, he asks again, more urgently, whether anything is wrong.
‘Are you still concerned at how my mother will receive the news of our engagement?’ he asks, when I continue silent. ‘Be assured that—’
‘No!’ I break in, resolved now to grasp the nettle, come what may. ‘It’s not that.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘I cannot marry you.’
My words seem to hang in the air, like the reverberations of a tolling bell. I wait for him to speak, but no words come. The burning log casts a lurid orange light over the chamber. Outside, the wind begins to howl about the many-towered house; and still he says nothing.
At last he rises from his chair, picks up his cigar, which he has placed on the table beside him, and takes a long draw on it. Then he locks his great dark eyes on mine.
‘You have a reason, I suppose?’
His voice is cold now, hard and threatening, all its former softness gone.
‘I do not love you, Perseus. I never have, and I never will.’
Each word tears my heart asunder. This is the hardest thing I shall ever do in this life: to tell the man I love above all others that I do not care for him.
He takes another long draw on his cigar.
‘You’ll forgive me for mentioning it,’ he says, after briefly considering his reply, ‘but you gave me a rather contrary impression in Florence, on more than one occasion. But it seems now that you were – how can I best put it? What is
le mot juste
? Ah, yes, I have it!
Lying
.’
Feeling the sting of his sarcasm, I make a weak attempt to mitigate what I have just said with more untruths.
‘I hope you will recall that I have never told you I loved you. I have come to regard you with affection, and of course I cannot help but be gratified – deeply gratified – by the exceptional honour you have paid me by asking me to—’
‘Honour! You may say so! Honour! A proposal of marriage from the heir to one of the most ancient and distinguished families in England! An honour indeed, for an orphan of uncertain lineage.’
His anger is now in full flood; but I know that he speaks in this hurtful way because the pride that has sustained him for so long has been grievously – perhaps even fatally – wounded.
‘Well, Miss Gorst,’ he continues, abandoning himself to every disagreeable trait in his character, ‘you’ve led me a merry dance, I see. You truly are without ambition, to reject a proposal that would have made you one of the most envied women in the land. I was mistaken, it seems. You
were
born to be a lady’s-maid after all, and nothing more.’
What can I say to him? He has every right to feel injured and aggrieved by my apparent rejection of what he has offered me, sincerely and unconditionally. At length, head bowed, unable to look him in the eye, I say that I cannot blame him for speaking so, acknowledging that I have done him a great wrong.
‘I shall always esteem you, but I do not love you,’ I say again, feeling sick to my soul at the lie, ‘and it is best that I acknowledge it now. I cannot unite myself to you – or to anyone – without love, although I may lose what the world will think me mad for rejecting.’
‘But could you not have learned to love me, then?’
His face is immobile, but the question is put almost pleadingly; yet now it has come to it, I steel myself to give no quarter.
‘I do not think so.’
He says nothing, only drops his still-glowing cigar into a metal bowl, brimful of old butts and cold ash. For some moments he sits, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair, contemplating his reply, and looking so like his mother.
‘You say you cannot marry me,’ he says at last, ‘because you do not love me. I now find that I cannot love someone who does not love me in return. Who, then, holds the superior position?’
In a somewhat more placatory voice, he quickly adds: ‘Well, there is no need to answer. It seems to me that we have each been sadly mistaken in the other.’
I do not – cannot – make any reply, but sit, head bowed, as he gets up from his chair and walks over to his desk. Opening one of the drawers, he takes out a small object, and comes back over to stand before the fire.
In his hand is the velvet-covered box containing the ring that he had bought from Signor Silvaggio’s shop on the Ponte Vecchio.
‘Does this bring back any memories?’ he asks, in the most cutting tone.
‘Of course,’ I answer. ‘Very fond memories indeed.’
He opens the box. The brilliant gems flash and gleam in the firelight.
‘Hmm. A pretty thing. One of Signor Silvaggio’s best. But as you appear to have no need of it any more, well then—’
He turns, and throws the box, ring and all, on to the fire.
‘The ring will not be consumed,’ he says, watching the flames begin to work on the velvet box, ‘for the fire will never be hot enough. But I shall give instructions for it never to be cleared away. It will stay there, in the ashes, to remind me of this charming episode in my life, and as a warning never to trust a woman again.’
I am appalled and distressed by what he has just done; but still I sit, in wordless desperation, as he resumes his seat, and lights another cigar.
‘Of course I see how it is,’ he goes on. ‘Despite your assurances to the contrary, there’s another party in the case. My dear brother has got the better of me for once. But I don’t care to discuss the matter any further. You’ve said enough, and done enough.’
Another long draw on his cigar.
I do not even have the strength to deny, once again, that I love Randolph, knowing that it would serve no purpose to do so.
‘I shall say nothing of this to Mother, of course,’ he resumes. ‘However, I shall absolutely insist to her that you must leave Evenwood as soon as matters can be so arranged.’
I try to appear unconcerned, although I ask him what reason he will give for depriving Lady Tansor of someone on whose companionship she has come to depend.
‘Oh, I shall contrive something, never fear,’ he replies, confidently. ‘And if I can’t, well then, I shall simply say that you must go, without giving a reason. Mother, you know, can refuse me nothing. It’s a very great advantage, to be the favoured eldest son.’
With some difficulty, I persuade him to allow me to tell his mother in my own time that I have decided to leave Evenwood, to seek some new life in France. To this hastily conceived contrivance, he at last reluctantly agrees.
For several moments we both sit, listening to the wind, and staring into the fire. Nothing is said, for there is nothing more to say. He loves me, as I love him; but I have lost him for ever. The Great Task has prevailed.

II
The Tables are Turned

I SLEPT BADLY that night, rising early with an aching heart, and a head to match. The day that lay before me would be a momentous one; for I had determined that I could not wait for Mr Randolph to propose to me in his own good time, but must go to him as soon as possible and bring matters to a speedy conclusion. The prospect of marrying him was not a wholly distasteful one: many happy marriages, I was sure, were made with a great deal less mutual liking than he and I enjoyed. He loved me, I was certain of it; for my part, I felt fondness enough to give myself to him, if it served my father’s great cause. None of this, however, gave me any comfort, for my heart had been broken by the sacrifice that I had been forced to make. As the wife of Randolph Duport – now, although he did not yet know it, the future Lord Tansor – I might pass a life of enviable ease and comfort; but that gave me scant consolation for what I had lost.
As I was taking my breakfast, Barrington came in with a note from Mr Wraxall, asking whether it would be convenient to go over to North Lodge later that morning.
‘I am expecting Inspector G,’ he wrote. ‘He has some news, which it is important for you to hear. And so I hope you will be at liberty to join us, in another convocation of our triumvirate.’
On the advice of Dr Pordage, Emily was confined to her bed for the day and did not require me to attend her; and so, after a hasty cup of coffee, I repaired to the Drawing-Room to write my reply, then called for a footman to take it over to North Lodge.
On my way back upstairs, I encountered Charlie Skinner, carrying a tray of coffee and morning comestibles. This, most fortuitously, he was about to take up to Mr Randolph, who, complaining of a headache, had sent down to say that he would take his breakfast in his room.
‘If you give the tray to me, Charlie,’ I said, ‘I’ll take it up to Mr Randolph.’
‘Well, miss, if you’re sure,’ Charlie replied, grinning approvingly at this shameless breach of domestic etiquette.
‘Before you go, Charlie,’ I said, ‘do you remember an old woman visiting Lady Tansor, one evening last September, soon after I came here?’
He began to scratch his head.
‘Old woman,’ he replied, now pursing his lips in a visible effort of concentration. ‘Ah!’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘The witch! Small ugly party. Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble!’
He gave a gravelly chuckle at this demonstration of his literary wit.
‘You saw her, then?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, miss. Saw, and heard a bit, too. Then I told Sukie Prout.’
‘You say you heard something?’
‘Just a name,’ he said. ‘Gentleman’s name.’
‘What name, Charlie?’
‘Christmas guest, miss. Mr Vyse.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Something about a letter she’d got with her, the witch I mean, which she kept waving under her Ladyship’s nose. She said it was a valuable – what was the word?’
He pursed his lips once more, and furiously scratched his big round head, with its spiky crown of straw-coloured hair.
‘Commodity! That was it. A most valuable commodity.’
‘Thank you, Charlie,’ I said, taking the tray from him.
‘At your service, as always, miss,’ he replied, taking a step back, winking, and then honouring me with one of his smartest salutes.