Michael Cox (19 page)

HE CLOSES THE door quietly behind him and stands, for several moments, regarding me with that unsettling inscrutability that reminds me so much of his mother.
‘Ah, Miss Gorst! I’ve come for that copy of
The Times
I brought up earlier.’
Then, observing the needle and thread in my hand, he remarks: ‘My mother is a hard task-master, I fear.’
What a sweet picture I must have made in my sober black, my work in my hands, compliant to the utmost degree! He could not have guessed the true character and ambition of the dutiful Miss Gorst, the lady’s-maid, nor the suspicions – of the most atrocious kind – that she now has of his mother.
In the brief silence that ensues, it is borne in on me once again what an uncommonly handsome gentleman he is: tall, slim, straight-backed, his clipped black beard and long hair making him look like some Assyrian potentate transported through time to the mundane nineteenth century.
Undeniably handsome, then; and I suppose, with his literary disposition to supplement his manly beauty, that I ought to have considered him a match for all the heroes of legend and fiction that I had ever read or dreamed of. Perhaps I did secretly harbour such a thought, although I was careful not to show it, and determined not to swoon before him, as many young ladies of my age might have done. Yet he fascinated me; and, in spite of his undemonstrative, and often high-handed, manner, I flattered myself that he regarded me with an unaccustomed degree of favour.
‘Do you remember,’ he is now saying, ‘when we spoke about the Cretan Labyrinth?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I reply, puzzled by the question. ‘I remember it very well, and also your kind offer to guide me through the labyrinth of Evenwood.’
‘You are right. I did!’
He falls silent again, then looks frowningly at me with his piercing black eyes – his mother’s eyes.
‘But you didn’t come to find me, so that I could fulfil my offer.’
‘I’m afraid, sir, I felt that it was not my place to trespass on your time.’
‘You seem very conscious of your place, Miss Gorst.’
‘That is as it must be, sir,’ I reply. ‘A lady’s-maid must always keep in mind that she has only one duty, and that is to do her mistress’s bidding. Beyond that, she has no individuality, as long as she remains in her mistress’s service.’
‘That is a rather severe philosophy, Miss Gorst, and one that I suspect you don’t really hold.’
‘Oh, I assure you I do, sir, having no other aim than to serve your mother. My own inclinations are of no account.’
‘And what were your inclinations with respect to my offer to show you Evenwood?’
He has now seated himself on the sofa and is resting his index finger against the side of his nose, tilting his head to one side in a gesture of anticipation at my reply.
‘It would have been very pleasant I’m sure, sir, to have explored the house in your company; but it would not have been proper. I am certain that, on reflection, you must agree.’
‘Proper!’ he exclaims, with a humourless laugh. ‘No, it would not have been at all proper for me to escort the new lady’s-maid around my mother’s house. But then I did not make the offer to a common domestic servant, did I? I made it to you, Miss Gorst,
in propria persona
. Do you know what that means?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But of course you do. Tell me.’
‘It means “in one’s own person”.’
‘Precisely. And by answering that question correctly, just as you did when I asked you about the Labyrinth of the Minotaur, you reveal a little more of your true self. Lady’s-maid, indeed!’
‘It is what I am, sir.’
‘It is what you pretend to be.’
His words momentarily alarm me; then I see that he is only expressing what his mother, as well as his brother and Mr Wraxall, have thought was the truth: that I am a lady’s-maid only through necessity.
‘You say nothing, Miss Gorst,’ he continues. ‘Come now, admit it. You are not showing us your true self, even though it peeps out most tantalizingly from time to time. What we see is not what you truly are.’
‘It matters not a rush, sir,’ I return, determined not to let my character’s mask slip. ‘The life I lived formerly has gone for ever, and I am perfectly content in my new one. And now, if you will excuse me, sir, I have work to do before my Lady returns.’
It is several moments before he speaks again. When he does, it is on a completely different subject.
‘You have not asked me about my poem,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know how we fared with Mr Freeth? And do not say that it is not your place to ask. That will only vex me, for I know you’re curious.’
‘I believe my Lady said that you will be seeing Mr Freeth again tomorrow, to conclude the arrangements. I assume, therefore, that your meeting today must have had a satisfactory outcome.’
‘Satisfactory is the word. Mr Freeth believes that
Merlin and Nimue
will be a great success, and that it will instantly make my reputation. What do you think of that?’
‘Is Mr Freeth a competent judge?’
I see in his eyes disbelief at what he plainly considers to be the effrontery of my question, although I intend neither presumption nor offence.
‘Competent? Freeth? Of course he’s competent. What a question!’
‘But I think my Lady said that Freeth & Hoare was a new concern. I suppose, however, that Mr Freeth and Mr Hoare must have had previous experience of the publishing business before establishing their own firm.’
His face darkens.
‘Perhaps you consider yourself to be proficient in these matters, Miss Gorst,’ he says, getting up from the sofa and moving across to pick up the copy of
The Times
from the table, ‘being – as my mother informs me – such a great connoisseur of poetry.’
‘Oh no, sir,’ I reply, feeling sorry – indeed, rather distraught – that I appear to have angered him. ‘I read only for my own pleasure, and I know that my taste is both conventional and unformed. In any case, I am sure that the opinion of a mere lady’s-maid is of no interest to anyone.’
My words are sincerely intended to placate him. I am distressed, however, that he seems to have taken offence at them, and at my apparent denigration of his poem.
‘Well, then, Miss Gorst’ he says, tetchily, folding up the newspaper, ‘I shall detain you no longer.’
When he reaches the door, he turns.
‘Oh, I have just remembered. I have several engagements tomorrow, and so would have been unable to show you the pictures at the National Gallery after all. I am sorry to have kept you from your darning.’

12

Mrs Prout Remembers

I
Mr Thornhaugh Considers Possibilities

O
N THE
morning that we were due to return to Evenwood, my Lady went out early in the carriage, informing me that before we left Town she must pay a brief visit to an old friend who was unwell. This, I was sure, was not the true reason, but as I had to pack up her boxes and tidy her rooms, there was no opportunity to follow her, which I was burning to do.
When she returned, she was visibly out of sorts; and during the journey home remained irritable and uncommunicative by turns, complaining now that the carriage was too hot, or too cold, now that the motion of the train was making her ill, and then relapsing into sulky, fidgety silence, when she would try to read her book, or look listlessly out of the window, but being unable to settle to either.
As we approached Peterborough, however, her face suddenly lightened.
‘Nearly home!’ she cried, throwing aside her book, and the rug that had covered her lap.
‘I shall not go to London again unless it is absolutely necessary,’ she then declared. ‘Perseus shall go in my stead from now on, if there are matters of business that must be attended to. Or people shall have to come to me.’
‘But do you not find London fascinating, my Lady?’ I asked.
‘Fascinating?’
She took off her spectacles, and looked out of the carriage window.
‘Perhaps once, but no longer. It is dirty, and dangerous; and of course it holds memories for me that are far from pleasant. There are beauties and marvels, no doubt, that will always captivate, but I have seen them, and have no wish to see them again. Evenwood is my world now. I shall never tire of Evenwood.’
Then she turned her face towards me once more.
‘Oh, Alice, did I tell you? Mr Freeth was captivated – simply captivated – by Perseus’s poem. He read the first six pages of the manuscript and said that he did not need to read any more in order for him to declare – categorically – that it was a work of indisputable genius, which the house simply had to publish on its inaugural list. A contract was sent round this morning. He has consulted his partner, Mr Hoare, and they propose publishing the work in December, in a
de luxe
edition of two hundred and fifty copies. Alas, its being a new venture, they are unable to underwrite the costs themselves, the market for poetic works of this scale and ambition, according to Mr Freeth, being a somewhat difficult one just at present. But he has every confidence that a great many more copies will be instantly called for, once the reviewers have informed the public of its singular merits. Ah, here we are at last! We shall soon be home now.’

I HAD MUCH to tell Madame regarding my adventure in Dark House Lane, and the note I had found under my Lady’s pillow, obliging me to sit up until well past midnight composing a long letter to her. I had expected to receive an immediate reply, and began to feel both annoyed and anxious when none came. A week went by, then ten days. At last, a letter arrived – but it was from Mr Thornhaugh, informing me that Madame’s sister had been taken gravely ill, and that she had been obliged to go to Poitiers to be with her. Mr Thornhaugh, it appeared, had also been absent from the Avenue d’Uhrich, although he did not say why.
‘Your information concerning Mr Armitage Vyse, & his visit to the public-house in Billingsgate,’ he wrote, ‘was of the greatest interest to Madame.’
What a marvellous detective you have become, Little Queen! And what courage & resourcefulness you showed in following Mr V. But you must not take unnecessary risks. That must be
strictly
understood. I add the stern admonition of your old tutor to the advice of your new acquaintance, Mr Pilgrim (whom I desire very much to shake warmly by the hand) that you must
never
again go to such a place as the Antigallican alone.
Returning to Mr V, Madame thinks as you do: that there is some new mystery here, concerning this gentleman & Lady T, which may be helpful to our cause, if it can be solved.
Madame knows nothing – yet – of this Mrs Kraus, having only read, as you have, the report in
The Times, &
so cannot be certain of identifying her with ‘B.K.’ But she agrees with you that the coincidence of the initials appears too great to fall back on any other conclusion.
This being so, it would seem that a woman has been murdered, in the most violent manner, who is connected in some way with yr mistress. Can it be deduced from these few, though eloquent, clues that Lady T and Mr V were directly responsible for instigating the death of the Kraus woman, through the agency of Sweeney Yapp? Madame and I think it can – but why it was necessary for this apparently insignificant person to suffer such a fate is, I confess, beyond both of us for the moment.
Madame tells me to say that she is conscious that you remain anxious to receive her third, and final, Letter of Instruction, in which the true cause of yr being sent to Evenwood will be laid before you at last. She wishes me to assure you, once again, that this will be in yr hands, as she promised, by the close of the year.
In the meantime, she urges you to watch Lady T ever more closely. If our inferences are correct, there will almost certainly be consequences to the death of the Kraus woman that even she may not be able to escape – with or without the help of Mr A.V.
Madame also notes that you have made little mention of the Brothers Duport in yr letters, which has surprised her. She is interested to know what communication you have had with them, and what yr impressions are of each.
Ever yr affectionate,
B. THORNHAUGH

II
The Coming of the Heir

ON A DARK and pinching morning, not long after receiving Mr Thornhaugh’s letter, I awoke from a dream of snow.
Since coming to England, I had often dreamed of snow. In my dreams, I am running from something through soft, stinging flurries, not from the nightmarish horror that pursued me in the shape of little Anthony Duport, but from something that, in some inexplicable way, is familiar to me. Yet although I am certain that it appears to mean me no harm, I am nevertheless anxious to flee from it; and so to an urgent desire to elude my pursuer is added an equally urgent curiosity to know why I should be seeking so strenuously to escape from something that I am sure will not hurt me.
At last, I know that I have given my pursuer the slip, and I experience a sweet sense of relief, as if some oppressive burden has suddenly been lifted from me. I sink down into the snow and look up – with a strange joy in my heart, and with white flakes falling gently on my face and hair – at the grey, laden clouds high above.
I had been awoken from this dream by a soft knocking at my door. When I opened it, I was greeted by Sukie’s freckled face.
‘Did I wake you, Miss Alice?’
‘Well, perhaps you did,’ I replied, ‘but it was time I was up and about. Come in, dear.’
She puts down her pail and mop, and looks nervously about her.
‘Mrs Battersby?’ I ask.
She nods.
‘I must be quick,’ she says. ‘Her Ladyship wants all her old gowns moved over to the North Wing. She thinks they’ll be spoiled if the roof leaks again. And such a job! I believe every gown she’s ever worn since she was a girl are in those cupboards, even quite new ones she’s grown tired of – and shoes as well, and I don’t know what, and everything to be taken away, and then the place cleaned out. Megan Bates is already up there, but I had to see you to tell you.’
‘Tell me what, dear?’ I asked.
‘Why, that Mother is quite better! Dr Pordage says that it’s the most remarkable recovery he’s ever seen – and of course he takes all the credit. But then she’s a Garland, and Garlands are sturdy folk, as anyone round here will tell you.’
Of course I was delighted to hear Sukie’s news, and we continued to speak for some little time until she said that she must get on, as Mrs Battersby was certain to appear shortly, to assure herself that the removal of Lady Tansor’s gowns was proceeding satisfactorily.
‘But Charlie said you wanted to speak to me, Miss Alice,’ she said, picking up her pail and mop.
I told her that I was curious to know a little more of Lady Tansor’s marriage to Colonel Zaluski, if she could tell me.
‘Oh, I could tell you something about that,’ she replied, ‘but Mother could tell you much more, and would, I’m sure, be happy to.’
Thus it was arranged that I would call on Sukie and Mrs Prout after church the following Sunday.