Michael Cox (33 page)

I TAKE MY way home through the church-yard, stopping for a while to sit in the porch.
I have not been there long before I hear the sound of footsteps approaching down the gravel path. As I look up from my reverie, I see Mr Perseus, book in hand, staring down at me from the top of the porch steps.
‘Good-morning to you, Miss Gorst,’ he says, with an awkwardly half-hearted smile. ‘I observed you coming out of the Prouts’ cottage and thought you might be glad of some company on your way back to the house.’
I am thrilled by the proposal; but, once more thinking that accepting it might displease my Lady, I make myself politely refuse it, saying that I would prefer to remain where I was for a little longer. I truly believe that I have made him a suitably courteous reply, although it pains me to turn him down. To my surprise, however, his face darkens.
‘Upon my word, Miss Gorst,’ he exclaims, in a sudden burst of angry exasperation, ‘you make it hard on a fellow, when all he wants is to be agreeable.’
His reaction to my gratefully expressed refusal appears out of all proportion to the offence, and I cannot help feeling hurt by his critical tone.
‘I hope, sir,’ I reply, my colour rising, ‘that I have never shown you anything but the respect and consideration due to your station, and proper to my own position in your household.’
He does not reply, and turns on his heel to go; but then he swings back towards me.
‘This is badly done, Miss Gorst,’ he says, descending the steps into the porch. ‘Very badly done. You’ll allow, I hope, that from the moment of our first acquaintance I have tried my best to extend the hand of friendship to you?’
Still unsure how I have offended him, I find it difficult to frame a reply, and so make no attempt at one, which only seems to enrage him the more.
‘You still say nothing, I see,’ he says, giving me the most affronted look. ‘Do you play games with me, Miss Gorst?’
To this wholly unjustified accusation I again think it prudent to make no reply. Instead, I get up from the stone bench on which I have been sitting and make to leave, but he puts out his arm so that I cannot pass up the steps.
‘Will you just satisfy my curiosity, Miss Gorst,’ he says, ‘and tell me what you find so objectionable in my behaviour towards you? There are some, you know, who might say that I demean myself by showing such favour to a former servant, even one who was, it seems, born into a superior station in life.’
I see then that all his blustering is only partly due to my refusing his offer to accompany me back to the house, and that it really has some other cause. What is even more curious, as I look into his eyes, is that my own vexation at his intemperate words has now quite melted away.
‘If you will excuse me, sir,’ I reply, ‘but I think that the less that is said on this matter, the better.’
Rightly concluding that I am determined to end the conversation, he steps aside to allow me to ascend the steps.
I leave him standing in the porch and walk hurriedly towards the lych-gate, which I am about to open when he catches up with me.
‘This is for you,’ he says, not in the least angry now, and holding out the book he has been carrying. ‘I’ve inscribed it, so you may as well have it. Do with it what you will.’
I take the book from him, and he goes on his way back up School Lane towards the main road.
He has given me a copy of
Merlin and Nimue
, in the
de luxe
edition published by Messrs Freeth & Hoare. On the fly-leaf he has written, in an elegant flowing hand:

To Miss Esperanza Gorst, affectionately, from the Author. December,
MDCCCLXXVI.

21

A Child is Born

I
My Lady Seeks Reassurance

M
R PERSEUS
did not come down to dinner that evening, which spared me the embarrassment that I had anticipated, although I missed his joining us. Mr Randolph was quiet and pensive and soon left the table. My Lady also seemed out of sorts.
Later, as we were sitting with our work by her sitting-room fire, she looked up from threading her needle.
‘By the by, Alice,’ she said, ‘what news from your fascinating Mr Thornhaugh? Is he still labouring on his
magnum opus
?’
‘It keeps him continually absorbed,’ I replied, ‘as all great and worthy enterprises must.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Did you ever tell me the subject of this great endeavour?’
‘It is a history of alchemy, from the earliest times.’
‘Alchemy? The turning of base metals into gold?’
‘It is more than that, or so I understand. Mr Thornhaugh regards it as a system of mystical philosophy – a philosophy of spiritual transformation.’
‘Spiritual transformation,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘Well, well. A noble subject, indeed. And when will the work be finished? I think, after all, that it would interest me to see it.’
‘I’m not aware that Mr Thornhaugh has a definite date in view.’
‘That is always the way with these scholars,’ she sighed. ‘They can never bring matters to a close, but must go on and on, forever delving and delving, until they drop dead, and then the thing is never done. My father was a thoroughgoing scholar, and an unusually systematic one; but even he took too long to complete the history of our family that he had undertaken – and, indeed, he never did bring his labours to fruition, despite all I could do to help him in the latter stages of gathering and arranging the necessary documents.’
She returned to her work. The fire crackled, and the clock ticked; all was warm and cosy, with only the pitter-pattering sound of rain against the window to disturb the comfortable silence.
‘Alice, dear.’
I looked up enquiringly.
‘I must ask you a question – and I hope you can answer it honestly, and not take offence. Will you promise to do that, dear – as a friend?’
What could I say? Only that I would try my best to satisfy her.
‘Although naturally,’ I added, mischievously alluding to her previous refusal to divulge the reason why the great friendship of her life had been severed, ‘I could not break any pre-existing confidence.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Then tell me what you wish to know.’
‘Well, it’s this. Have you been completely truthful with me, on every point concerning yourself, your upbringing, and so on – everything you’ve told me on that subject since coming to Evenwood? There has been no deceit, has there, dear? No deliberate pretence or duplicity? Can you assure me of that, on all you hold most sacred?’
I express hurt and surprise at the question, and ask whether she has any cause to doubt what I have told her about myself.
‘No, no!’ she cries, apparently anxious to reassure me. ‘You mustn’t misunderstand me. Of course I trust you, and have no reason at all for doubting you.’
‘I suppose someone has been speaking against me,’ I venture, adopting an aggrieved tone.
‘No one has spoken against you, Alice. I only wanted to be sure that I am not giving my trust and affection to someone who will reject them, as – you must excuse me…’
She lays down her work, and raises her hand pathetically to her brow.
A little compassion seems in order; and so I gently take her hand and, looking sympathetically into her eyes, ask whether she is alluding to her former friend.
She nods, averting her eyes.
‘The wound is still raw, I see.’
‘Forgive me, Alice dear. I should not have put you in this position. It was wrong of me to ask such a question, as if you’ve ever given me any reason to mistrust you. But I must be sure – completely sure – that our friendship will be built on a firm foundation of mutual trust and frankness. I could not bear to be disappointed once again, by the painful dissolution of an attachment on which I’d placed the highest value. We
must
be faithful to each other.’
‘No secrets,’ I say, with another allusive smile.
‘No secrets.’
‘Well, then,’ I continue, in a brisk but conciliatory manner, ‘I shall answer your question. I have kept nothing from you concerning myself. I am the person you believe me to be, and no other: Esperanza Alice Gorst, born a month prematurely in Paris on the 1st of September in the year 1857. Would you have her history again, in a nutshell?
‘She was an orphan who knew neither of her parents, and was consequently brought up by an old friend of her mother’s, Madame Bertaud. She came to England, to reside with another of her mother’s friends, the late Mrs Emma Poynter, in October 1875, and secured her first position in service, as maid to Miss Helen Gainsborough, two months later. She then applied to become maid to you, my Lady, in which she succeeded – against all her expectations, but very much to her satisfaction. And that, brief though it is, is the truth – and nothing but the truth – concerning Esperanza Alice Gorst.’
‘Bravo, Alice!’ cried my Lady. ‘You have shown true spirit under fire, and have come through it bravely – as I knew you would. But you
have
hidden something from me, you know.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Your true character. You are submissive no longer, Alice – I sense that strongly, although you still pretend that it’s your nature to be so. Don’t look so startled! I like you all the better for it. It is testimony to what I have always known: that we are kindred spirits. It is only circumstance that disguises the person you really are. And now I have released you from subservience, so you may be yourself at last!’

LISTEN! DO YOU hear it? It is the sound of a stick – tip-tap, tip-tap – echoing through the cold evening air. It is Mr Armitage Vyse, descending the front steps on his way to his carriage, for his Christmas visit to Evenwood is over.
As he is about to step into the carriage, he turns and looks up, his lean, flamboyantly moustachioed face illuminated by the lantern held up by his man, Digges. Our eyes meet.
He smiles – such a smile! Broad and lingering, in which is comingled ingratiation and intimidation. It seems to say: ‘Look to yourself, Miss Esperanza Gorst, for I have you in my sights.’ If he means it to frighten me, he succeeds. I strive to maintain my composure; but, knowing what he is capable of, my heart begins to thud. Then, with a slight bow, and still smiling, he doffs his hat, slowly replaces it, and climbs into the vehicle.
I am standing at one of the Picture Gallery windows, watching the bobbing lamps on his carriage as they fade and then disappear into the darkness. My Lady has a headache, and has retired early. As I left her, she confirmed her decision to spend some days in London, having, she says, overcome her previous aversion to the capital, and repeating her desire to take me about a little in society. So we are to depart for Grosvenor Square on the first day of the New Year, which my Lady never cares to celebrate. I feel apprehensive; but, despite the proximity of Mr Vyse, I shall be glad of the change of scene, and for the opportunity, perhaps, of seeing Mrs Ridpath again.
After I had watched Mr Vyse’s carriage leave, and was about to go up to my room, Sukie had come panting up the stairs, holding a package.
‘I’m so sorry, Miss Alice, I should have brought it over this morning, but I overslept, and it quite went out of my head. It came yesterday.’
The package contained a further sheaf of shorthand extracts from my mother’s journal. Two hours later, with midnight approaching, I had completed my transcription of the new extracts.
I poured some water into a bowl to rinse my inky fingers. Then I wept.

II
To France

DRAWN FROM THE JOURNAL OF MISS MARGUERITE BLANTYRE
AFTER THEIR SECRET departure from Madeira, drawing on the little money that my mother had at her personal disposal, supplemented by the sale of some of her jewellery, my parents took ship for Mallorca. There they took lodgings in a house near the La Seo Cathedral in the city of Palma, temporarily adopting the name of Edward and Mary Gray, supposedly brother and sister. They remained only a short while on Mallorca, my father being certain that they would be pursued, and soon left the island for Marseilles.
After a hard and circuitous route northwards, they were finally married in Cahors, on the 15th of January 1857. These are my mother’s reflections on that memorable event, written from the Des Ambassadeurs Hotel the following day:
For the first time in my life, I take up my pen to write my journal as
Mrs Edwin Gorst
– no longer Marguerite Blantyre, or Mary Gray!
Edwin and I were married yesterday, Thursday the 15th of January, in the Church of the Sacré-Coeur. It took such a very little time to become someone else – the wife of my dearest
Edwin, whom I shall always love, until Death takes me. And now I am his – truly and completely his – in every way a wife should be, and I cannot think how I may ever live again without his dear presence.
The inn is not very clean, but the food is excellent, and the city – where Fénélon
*
was a student – is delightful. This morning, on coming down to breakfast, I was addressed by one of the waiters, for the first time, as Madame Gorst! It sounded so strange and matronly – to be considered a
madame
, and no longer a
mademoiselle
! But then, through the day, as I grew used to it, I found myself wishing to hear myself so addressed by every stranger who passed us in the street, so thrilling were the words to my ear. Madame Gorst! Mrs Gorst!
Edwin, who was withdrawn and silent for the last stage of our journey here from Montauban, is altogether changed – optimistic, affectionately attentive, and wonderfully voluble on the various ancient buildings and antiquities that surround us here.
As we walked around the city this morning, arm in arm through the pale winter sunshine, smiling and laughing at the thousand and one little, but infinitely precious inconsequentialities that all lovers make their own, I felt that I would never be so happy again – nor did I care if it were so.
In those all-sufficient hours, I was more truly alive, I believe, than I have ever been in my life, and could conceive of no possible augmentation of that wondrous completeness, in this life or the next. Whatever came, whatever trials I might undergo, I would always be armoured against despair – against even the terrors of death – by the memory that I had once, for a brief instant of time, walked through Paradise with my dearest Edwin.

III
The Avenue d’Uhrich

DRAWN FROM THE JOURNAL OF MARGUERITE GORST
IN THE LAST week of January 1857, my parents at last arrived in Paris, taking lodgings above the shop of a colourman
*
in the Quai de Montebello, on the Left Bank of the Seine, overlooking the Île de la Cité. Here they intended to make a temporary home until they could safely remove to England without fear of pursuit and discovery by my mother’s uncle or his agents: her cousin and former fiancé, Fergus Blantyre, and his friend, Mr Roderick Shillito.
The owner of the shop above which they lodged, a Monsieur Alphonse Lambert, was a softly spoken and ungrudgingly generous man of about sixty years, with an invalid wife under his care. His good nature allowed my parents a considerable degree of latitude with respect to their rent; for by the time they reached Paris, their little stock of money had dwindled almost to nothing.
One day, my mother offered to assist their landlord in the shop, as a way of meeting their obligations until the rent-money then due could be found. She quickly became thoroughly at home amongst the easels, palettes, canvases, brushes, casts, and all the other articles sold by Monsieur Lambert, who just as quickly appears to have regarded her as an indispensable addition to his business.
As well as charming Monsieur Lambert’s customers, my mother also displayed an immediate aptitude in the preparation of colours and, having drawn and painted since girlhood, revealed an artistic ability of no common order in the sketches and pictures of the neighbourhood that she soon started to produce, and which she shyly placed before the professional eyes of Monsieur Lambert for his opinion.
Then, one fine spring morning, to the proprietor’s surprise and delight, a gentleman, entering the shop with his daughter, for the purpose of buying her some colours and some brushes, chanced to see one of these productions, admired it, and enquired whether it was for sale. Soon my mother was obliged to abandon her duties in the shop and was given an attic room by her landlord, where she happily turned out views of the Cathedral and the
quais
that found an eager market amongst visitors to those picturesque areas of the city.
My father, meanwhile, occupied himself with occasional literary work, and with acting as an agent for his wife’s artistic endeavours. He would spend long hours seeking out new patrons, delivering her drawings and paintings to them, and selecting new views and subjects for her to depict.
On his return one day from delivering a view of the Conciergerie to a gentleman in the Rue de St-Antoine, my father suddenly announced that they would be leaving the Quai de Montebello within a matter of days.
My mother was naturally astounded by the news, until he explained that, quite by chance, he had encountered an old acquaintance – a Madame de l’Orme, whom he had known, through a mutual friend, when living in London some years previously. This lady, of about my father’s age, was now a widow, but had been left well provided for by her late husband. On hearing of their situation, and living alone in a large house in the Avenue d’Uhrich, she had made the suggestion that my parents should take up residence with her, free of rent. They could occupy the whole of the second floor of the mansion, comprising half a dozen comfortable and well-appointed rooms, amongst which was a spacious, well-lit corner apartment that could be fitted up as a studio for my mother.
To this proposal my father had agreed, with apparently very little persuasion on the part of Madame de l’Orme. My mother, less willing to leave the Quai de Montebello, and the modest but perfectly comfortable life that they enjoyed with Monsieur Lambert, at last reluctantly agreed to the plan; and so, in June 1857, they moved their few belongings, together with my mother’s artistic materials, into Madame de l’Orme’s house in the Avenue d’Uhrich.