Michael Cox (43 page)

27

The Temptation of Mr Perseus

I
Mr Perseus Takes My Part

‘M
ADEIRA!’
At a stroke, all my plans had been thrown into confusion. Leaving England was the very last thing that I had anticipated, as well as the least desired. The Great Task demanded that I must put aside all personal considerations, and find a way to marry Mr Perseus if I could, even though I continued to feel that such a thing was beyond my power to achieve. Delay might prove fatal; and for the reason I shall now relate.
Emily had lately informed me that it was her eldest son’s intention shortly to take up residence in one of the many London properties owned by the family, as being more convenient for the furtherance of his literary career. Perseus Duport in London! The heir to the Tansor Barony – and a poet to boot! What an irresistible honey-pot he would be for every unattached young lady of fortune and rank in London to buzz round – just as Mr Maurice FitzMaurice and others buzzed round his mother.
Emily had often spoken of her ambitions for her favourite son, the greatest of which was an early marriage, in order to secure an heir of the next generation; for she was as zealous as her predecessor had been to ensure the continuity of her line. What if I returned from Madeira to find that he had been ensnared by some scheming beauty, or had even – Lord forbid! – fallen in love, leaving my father’s dream of restoring his birthright through me forever unrealized? Did I also feel a stab of painful apprehension on my own account that, faint though the hope of marrying him was, his affections might be bestowed on another? I did – I own it; but our proposed destination caused me further alarm. Had Madeira really been Dr Manley’s unbiased recommendation, or was there some more ominous motive at work?
Plunged as I was into confusion and uncertainty by this sudden turn of events, suspicions began to take hold in my mind that Emily had discovered my true identity; that she did not really intend to go to Madeira at all, but was playing some subtle game with me, using her knowledge of who I really was, first to taunt, and then to expose me.
Detecting the anxiety caused by these disquieting thoughts in my involuntary exclamation, Emily had once again fixed me with one of her most Delphic stares.
‘Why do you sound surprised that I should wish to go to Madeira?’ she asked, querulously. ‘Dr Manley says that it would be the very best place for my recuperation, and for its agreeable English society. Many of my acquaintance have also told me of the beneficent effects of the climate, and yet you seem strangely unwilling to go there. Why is that?’
‘I only meant that I am a rather bad sailor – and the voyage is a long one, I think.’
I hoped that she might regard this excuse sympathetically; instead, she became even more indignant.
‘Really, Alice, that’s extremely selfish of you. Is not my health more important than a little temporary discomfort? It surprises me very much – very much indeed – that you should say such a thing.’
As she continues to chide me, I perceive the absurdity of my earlier fears, realizing now that she is only being herself – the spoiled child she has always been, and will always be: vain, egotistical, and intolerant of the slightest trace of presumption on the part of those – almost the majority of her fellow creatures – whom she considers to be below her. My confidence now restored that she remains unaware of my secret self, I decide to submit apologetically, knowing also that she will not be argued out of her decision to go to Madeira in her present aggrieved mood.
The effect is immediate. Her look softens; I ring for tea; and tranquillity is soon restored.
‘Now, dear,’ she says, as the maid comes in to light the lamps, ‘we must begin to make our plans. I shall need new clothes, of course, as will you, and so we shall delay our return to Evenwood tomorrow until the afternoon, in order to make that trip to Regent Street I promised. Goodness, I’m feeling revived already! Dr Manley is right. I have been too long in England. A change of scene, and blessed sunshine, is exactly what I need to restore my spirits.’
She is then seized by the notion of writing to Sir Marcus Leveret, to ask whether he would arrange suitable accommodation in Lisbon, our first port of call before the onward journey to Madeira.
‘Paper, dear – quickly! – and something to write with!’
She gestures, with excited impatience, towards the writing-desk.
‘We must make notes as we go along, you know,’ she says as I return to the sofa with several sheets of paper and a pencil. ‘There are so many things to remember.’
For the rest of the afternoon, she feverishly busies herself with making lists of all the things we shall require for our journey, and with scribbling notes to herself. The next morning, we ride off in the carriage to Regent Street. Emily is pale, and I can see that she has not slept well, although she did not call me to sit with her. Once at our destination, however, she appears to rouse herself, and we spend three hours in various opulent, glass-fronted emporia, where of course Emily is treated with the utmost servility, until she has ticked off all the items on her lists and I have been measured for several new gowns. At last we return to Grosvenor Square to rest until it is time to catch our train.
As we set off, I glance idly out of the carriage window.
A man is standing on the corner of North Audley Street. A man with white hair, and thick black eye-brows.

THE FOLLOWING EVENING, Emily and I dined alone in the Crimson-and-Gold Dining-Room.
Mr Randolph was still absent, in Wales once more with his friend Mr Rhys Paget, whilst Mr Perseus was sequestered upstairs, at work on a new poem. Later, however, he came down to the Drawing-Room, where Emily and I were reading by the fire.
‘Perseus, dear,’ cooed his mother as he entered, ‘there you are. Come and sit with us. We missed you at dinner.’
This being the first time that we had met since our return from Town, and no doubt mindful of his mother’s presence, he was obliged to put on a show of civility towards me. Settling himself on the sofa next to his mother, he began to ask, in a mechanical tone, a number of predictable questions. Had I enjoyed my stay in London? Which of the sights had I found most interesting? Was not the Victoria Embankment one of the great marvels of the age? To these, and his other enquiries, I replied courteously, but briefly, being aware of Emily’s searching eye upon me.
‘And now,’ he continued, sounding a little piqued, ‘you’re to go further afield, I think. To Madeira, I hear.’
Emily closed her book, and laid it aside. Seeing this, Perseus enquired what she had been reading.
‘Oh,’ she said, with a careless air, ‘only Mr Harcourt’s hand-book to Madeira.’
*
Mr Perseus reached over to pick up the book, and then began to leaf cursorily through it. He was on the point of closing it up again when he paused.
‘Where did this come from?’ he asked, flicking back through the preliminary pages. ‘Not from the Library – it has no book-plate.’
To my amazement, his mother began to blush.
‘It belongs to Mr Shillito.’
‘Shillito? How did you come by it?’
Although she struggled to conceal it, Emily’s discomfiture was only too plain; indeed, I could not recall having seen her placed in such an awkward position before, and was on tenterhooks to know the cause of her embarrassment. Yet even under the inquisitive stare of her son, she quickly regained her composure.
‘If you must know,’ she said, ‘it was obtained for me from Mr Shillito by Mr Vyse, who then kindly arranged for it to be sent over to Grosvenor Square.’
The heir did not appear to find this explanation to his liking.
‘Ah, Mr Vyse!’ he exclaimed, with an ironic smile. ‘I should have known. He seems to have become quite indispensable to you, Mother.’
Emily bridled slightly; but nothing her son said, it seemed, could provoke her.
‘Not indispensable, dear,’ she said, calmly; ‘but Mr Vyse has been a good friend to me, and to our family, since your father died, as you must know, and I continue to value his advice.’
‘Did Mr Vyse advise on where you should go to recuperate?’
‘No. He merely endorsed Dr Manley’s recommendation.’
‘I see. But has Mr Vyse been to Madeira himself?’
‘I do not believe so; but of course his friend, Mr Shillito, knows the island well, having passed several months there some years ago. Don’t you remember, dear? It was the most remarkable thing, but he recalled meeting a man there by the name of Gorst. Such a curious coincidence, was it not?’
‘Not so very curious,’ Mr Perseus replied. ‘There must be many people in the world who share the name, and it is not beyond impossibility that one of these may have visited Madeira at the same time as Shillito. Besides, what does it matter, one way or the other?’
I was grateful to him for taking my part, and he saw it. Yet here was a curious thing. Having given him an appreciative look, which he appeared, by the merest inclination of his head, to acknowledge, I experienced a faint, though fleeting, current of mutual feeling flowing between us. It was gone in an instant, but it thrilled and encouraged me nevertheless.
‘It matters, dear,’ Emily was now saying to her son, ‘because it is possible that this person Mr Shillito met on Madeira might have been related to Alice.’
‘I think Miss Gorst said that she was not aware of any family association with the island – am I right, Miss Gorst?’
I looked up from my book, which I had been pretending to read with avid attention, and confirmed that he was correct.
‘But that means nothing,’ Emily objected. ‘Your guardian, Madame Bertaud, might not have known that your father, for instance, had visited the island.’
For a second time, Mr Perseus takes it upon himself to interject on my behalf.
‘Really, Mother. Miss Gorst has told us that she knows of no family connexion with Madeira, and that should suffice. Even if the man that Shillito met there was her father, I ask again: what does it matter?’
‘I merely feel that it would be interesting for Alice to learn something concerning her father that she did not previously know, especially now that she is to visit Madeira for herself.’
‘Perhaps,’ he returns, looking towards me, ‘that’s for Miss Gorst to decide.’
‘If you please,’ I say, feeling their eyes upon me, ‘I would prefer it if we changed the subject. I never knew my father, and I have always found a kind of solace in my ignorance, which I would like to preserve if possible.’
‘You see, Mother?’ says my new champion. ‘Miss Gorst finds the subject disagreeable, so let there be an end to it.’
‘Very well, dear,’ Emily replies, with an indulgent smile. ‘You are in a rather cross mood, I see. I expect you’ve been working too hard, and smoking too much. But by all means let us speak no more about Madeira. In any case, I am feeling rather tired now. I shall retire early, I think.’
So saying, she picks up Mr Shillito’s book, kisses her son, and leaves the room, without saying a word to me.

III
Put On a New Mask

AFTER EMILY HAS gone, and the Drawing-Room door has been softly closed by the footman on duty, I am left alone with Mr Perseus Duport.
I struggle, without success, to think of something to say; and so, after a short period of strained silence, I make to leave but he immediately leaps to his feet.
‘Before you go, Miss Gorst, I have something I wish to say to you. Will you hear me out? It concerns our conversation, after you had been walking by the Lake with my brother.’
He hesitates for a moment, and then clears his throat.
‘I should not have spoken as I did,’ he resumes, ‘and so I hope you will forgive me. I promise to conduct myself in a better fashion henceforth.’
His words, though few, are expressed with a simple, unassuming sincerity that touches my heart, for I see how much it has cost his proud nature to speak in this unaccustomed way.
I tell him that I would never presume to seek forgiveness from my Lady’s eldest son for anything he might choose to say to me, to which he gives a little dip of his head to signal his appreciation of my words. I then thank him for his kindness in taking my part on the matter of his mother’s proposed trip to Madeira.
‘As to that,’ he replies, ‘thanks are unnecessary. You have your reasons, it seems, for not wishing to go there, and I have mine for preferring that my mother should go elsewhere for her recuperation.’
‘But it seems that her mind is made up,’ I reply, ‘and of course I must go with her, wherever she decides.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘let us see what can be done. My mother ought to consider your wishes in this matter, for it’s very clear that you have become more than a paid companion to her. She has been too much alone since my father’s death, and has fallen under – let us just say undesirable influences. But you have been good for her, Miss Gorst, for which you have my gratitude.’
‘I can assure you, sir, that I shall always do my best to serve your mother as she deserves.’
He assures me in return that he has no doubt of it. I wish him good-night and start to move away, but he takes a step forward to prevent me.
‘With your permission, Miss Gorst, I have just one more thing to say.’
He holds me with his beautiful eyes, so like his mother’s, in which I can see the flickering flames from the fire behind me reflected back. I am suddenly aware that my throat is dry, and that my heart is beating a little faster.
‘I recall that, during our previous conversation, you favoured me with a confidence concerning your feelings for my brother. You assured me, I think, that your regard for him was of an unexceptional character – I believe those were your words?’
I confirm that his recollection is correct.
‘May I ask, then, Miss Gorst, whether you would be willing to inform me concerning the nature of my brother’s feelings for
you
?’
‘Perhaps, sir,’ I reply, a little unsettled now, ‘you should put that question to Mr Randolph Duport.’
‘My brother and I are not in the habit of sharing confidences.’ The tone of his voice is now a little harder, the set of his handsome face a little sterner. ‘As will have been apparent to you, Miss Gorst, Randolph and I are so very different, in every way. Even as boys we led our separate lives, and have continued to do so. My position in the family has also put a certain distance between us. My brother has a convivial way about him, which wins people over. He is an excellent shot, rides famously well to hounds, and I freely acknowledge his superiority at billiards. But he lacks both ambition and application, and possesses little of the true Duport character. If some misfortune were to befall me, and he should succeed our mother in my stead, what use will billiards be then? The things that matter most – I refer of course to the family’s many interests and, above all, to the duty we owe to those from whom we have inherited everything we both now enjoy – mean little to my brother. To me, however, they are everything.’
He has now reverted to his customary manner and is once again the 27th Lord Tansor in waiting, proud and cold.
‘We have become strangers to each other, my brother and I,’ he resumes, ‘which is why I have ventured to ask
you
, Miss Gorst, whether you believe that his regard for you is of the same unexceptional character as you assure me yours is for him.’
How am I to answer him? I am convinced that Mr Randolph loves me, and that he wishes to make me his wife; yet even though I must reject his proposal when it comes, I draw back from confessing the truth to his brother, feeling certain that no good will come of it for either Mr Randolph or myself. A little jealousy on Mr Perseus’s part might perhaps aid my cause, but I cannot take the risk that it might also damage it irreversibly.
I therefore boldly meet his anticipating stare and say that I really cannot speak for Mr Randolph Duport, but that I have no reason to believe that his feelings for me are any different from mine for him. I regret the lie, but the gratified look on Mr Perseus’s face immediately vindicates the need to tell it.
‘I was in error, then?’ he asks, after a brief reflective pause.
‘In error?’
‘To believe that an understanding, of a personal nature, exists between you and my brother?’
‘Has he said this?’ I ask, confident that he has not.
‘As I told you, Randolph and I are not in the habit of sharing confidences. He has said nothing to me.’
‘Mr Randolph has been very kind to me,’ I admit. ‘But as you yourself remarked, he has a convivial way about him, and I confess that I find his company agreeable, as he appears to find mine. But as to an understanding, as you call it, that is altogether another matter.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ is his reply. This is all he says, but I see the relief in his eyes that even he cannot conceal.
He accompanies me to the door, and we walk in silence to the foot of the vestibule staircase, where we stand again in front of the portrait of the Turkish Corsair.
‘You mentioned certain undesirable influences on her Ladyship,’ I hesitantly remark.
‘I think you know the – gentleman – to whom I was referring.’
‘May I ask whether you believe that this person has had a hand in your mother’s decision to travel to Madeira?’
‘That is possible,’ he returns, ‘although the reason for his doing so is unclear to me at present. It is enough, however, that the likelihood of an involvement exists. I shall speak to my mother tomorrow on the subject. And so, Miss Gorst, I shall wish you good-night.’
He gives me an unsmiling bow, and looks towards the glazed front door.
‘I see the rain has stopped. I think I shall take a turn on the terrace. I have a good deal to think about. Good-night again, Miss Gorst.’