Michael Cox (46 page)
Authors: The Glass of Time (mobi)
III
On the Ponte Vecchio
27TH APRIL 1877
WE BEGAN MAKING the arrangements for our return to England; but then, on the advice of her Italian doctor, our departure was postponed until Emily had regained sufficient strength for the long journey home. As a consequence of this delay, Mr Perseus took the opportunity to visit the distinguished Dante scholar, Professor Stefano Lombardi, in Rome, to discuss his poem. On the afternoon following his return to Florence, we resumed our walks. It was to be our last.
He spoke enthusiastically of the conversations that he had enjoyed with Professor Lombardi, and of the excellent progress he was making on his poem. We talked also of our imminent departure from Italy, both of us expressing regret that the climate had not effected the improvement in Emily’s health that had been hoped for.
We were walking back from the Belvedere, speaking of our mutual concern for Emily, when he asked whether I would accompany him to the Ponte Vecchio before returning to the Palazzo Riccioni.
The Ponte Vecchio, like the Rialto in Venice, is a street of shops, mostly those of goldsmiths, jewellers, and other workers of precious stones and metals. Before one of these establishments, we now stopped.
Through the window, I could see the proprietor, Signor Silvaggio, as proclaimed by the sign above the door, looking expectantly out on noticing the distinctive person of Mr Perseus.
CONVERSATION WITH MR P
Mr P:
Will you excuse me for a moment? I have something to collect from here.
I walk up and down for several minutes until he comes out of the shop holding a small velvet-covered box.
Mr P:
This is for you.
I take the box, and open it.
Inside is the most exquisite ring of diamonds and rubies, which flash in the gradually westering sunlight gilding the Arno, and streaming through the arches of the ancient bridge. EG:
Oh, but it’s beautiful! But I don’t understand. I cannot possibly accept such a gift.
Mr P:
It is not a gift, Miss Gorst – Esperanza. It is something far more. Have you not guessed?
He reaches forward to remove the ring from the box. He then takes my hand, and places the ring on my finger.
I am in a daze, almost faint with disbelief.
Mr P:
I have shocked you, I see. But surely you must know?
EG (lost in delicious confusion of mind):
What must I know?
Mr P (smiling now):
That this is a token of what I feel for you, and of what I wish us to be to each other. Will you accept it?
This astonishing declaration is delivered in a stiff, matter-of-fact manner, as if he were offering me a glass of wine; yet I see so clearly in his eyes both that it is most ardently and wholeheartedly meant, and the earnest hope that the implied proposal will be accepted. Against every expectation, every hope, the flame had indeed taken hold, and cannot now, it seems, be extinguished. I am overcome with sheer, irresistible joy that the seemingly impossible goal that Madame set me appears to have been achieved so easily, and in so short a space of time. I am to marry Perseus Duport, the future Lord Tansor, and through our union my father’s bloodline will be restored, and the Great Task accomplished. The gratifying sense of a solemn duty done, however, is as nothing to a far greater joy that now floods my heart. As I feel the ring encircle my finger, I know that I truly love Perseus Duport, that I will never love any other man, and – although he has not yet spoken the words I long to hear him say – that he loves me in return.
He tells me that he cannot now conceive of a future life of any worth or meaning without me. Everything has changed for him. The world has been remade by my coming to Evenwood, and nothing can ever be the same again. He is no longer the Perseus Duport he was only six months since. I have enslaved him completely, heart, mind, and soul. He has been living in perpetual ferment from the day we first met, all the old certainties quite crumbled away, a prey to daily – hourly – pangs of uncertainty, self-doubt, and bitter jealousy that my affections had been given to his brother. Work has been his only solace, his only refuge from the storm that has engulfed him – what he calls this unremitting assault on his peace of mind. But work is no longer sufficient; nothing, indeed, can ever suffice, except the absolute assurance that our lives will henceforth be indissolubly bound together.
These things, these wonderful, unpredicted things, and many more besides, he now confesses, reciting each admission and demonstration of his regard for me in an almost disconcertingly straightforward manner, as if every one were the plainest and most incontestable fact in the world. But I do not mind the steady self-control his displays, or that he has not fallen to his knees like some heart-smitten lover of romance; for a plain and simple fact has ever been my delight, and I almost wish that I could take out my note-book to write down each one, so that I might have them all by me for constant reference, like Mr Walker’s
Pronouncing Dictionary
, for the rest of my days.
Thus I stand on the Ponte Vecchio, for five glorious minutes and more, mutely listening to Mr Perseus Duport’s declaration, with the afternoon sun in my eyes, in blissful disbelief.
What has happened is so utterly unanticipated, yet so completely in accordance with the entire inclination of my own heart, even though I have barely acknowledged my true feelings for him to myself, that at first I am unable to speak. I find my tongue at last, however, and begin to show a proper reluctance, as a wooed lady ought – at least as they often do in the novels I have read. I dip my head; I blush; I look away; I take off the ring to give back to him, although he places it insistently back on my finger. Then, to test his resolve, I put up all the obvious objections – of which there are a great many. What will Lady Tansor say? She will forbid the match, surely? What will the world say? The scandal! The gossip! The disgrace! How can I possibly believe that he wishes to marry his mother’s former maid? I have nothing to offer him – no fortune, no expectations, no family connexions. Surely such a marriage is impossible for the Tansor heir?
I then make the observation that his feelings towards me appear to have undergone a most remarkable change. EG:
It is not so long ago that you appeared to dislike me, when you thought I liked your brother better.
Mr P (vehemently):
No! Quite the contrary, I assure you. I acted out of affection and concern. From the very first moment I saw you, I was certain where our acquaintance would lead, if desire could be crowned with success. But I do not possess a demonstrative nature, and could not easily say what I truly felt in my heart. It made me disagreeable to you, I’m sure, for which I am truly sorry. But I have determined to change – I
have
changed, as you must see. I have held back, behind a pretence of indifference, for too long. I’ll do so no more. You see how eloquent my feelings for you have made me!
I remind him that he had once spoken of the Duport duty to marry well. He brushes this aside, saying that he is acutely sensible of every objection that could be made to our union, but that he cares nothing for them; that he would once have thought it inconceivable that he could ever be in the position in which he now finds himself, but that he is of age, and able to take his own decisions on his future. Mr P:
You are an orphan, and you came to Evenwood as a servant. But you were not bred for service; you are a lady born, as anyone can see. I know it, my mother knows it, and soon all the world will know it. You are poor, it is true, but I have money enough, and you are fit, in every other way, my dearest Esperanza, to be the wife of the next Lord Tansor. No one will be able to deny that I have, indeed, married well.
There is more – much more – in this vein. He tells me again and again that he is a changed man through me; but he is not.
He is the same Perseus Duport who quizzed me concerning the Cretan Labyrinth on my first morning at Evenwood, only now Love has uncovered those aspects of his nature that his upbringing had taught him to conceal. I know he will always be proud, always unbendingly conscious of his superior place in the world. He will never suffer fools gladly, or spontaneously exhibit his innermost thoughts and feelings, and he will never wholly break free from his imprisoning self-regard. Yet these outward expressions of his protective instincts do not repel me, as they have formerly done; for they do not represent the whole man. He possesses a far finer nature than his faults have allowed him to reveal. This I know, from what we have shared during the past months – the walks and conversations, the smiles and laughter, the companionable silences.
These have disclosed to me what no one else, I am sure, has ever seen: the secret heart of Perseus Duport.
At last, taking both my hands in his, and with sweetly formal gallantry, he puts the question I had hardly dared to hope ever to hear him ask. My amazement is complete when he takes my hand, kisses it, and then, looking deep into my eyes, slowly speaks the words (as I have since verified) of
Dante when he first met the young Beatrice:
Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi.
*
We leave the bridge and stand, arm in arm, before the
Palazzo Pitti. Swallows wheel and swoop above us. All over the city, bells clang out the hour.
I have given him his answer.
AT PERSEUS’S REQUEST, our engagement was to remain a secret until we returned to England and he could inform his mother in what he called ‘the proper circumstances’. There were also many matters, of a legal nature, to be set in train. Finally, he asked – a little shamefacedly – whether I would permit him to take back the ring, until these matters could be finally settled. Seeing no harm in these arrangements, and having my own reasons for keeping our engagement from public knowledge for the time being, I readily agreed, and wrote immediately to Madame to tell her the great news.
We left the Palazzo Riccioni at the beginning of May. The journey home was slow, requiring many extra stops along the way in order for Emily to rest.
Perseus and I maintained a most proper neutrality at all times, only occasionally exchanging little conspiratorial glances and fondly suggestive smiles, as lovers in our situation might be expected to do. Sometimes, as we waited for the carriage to be brought up, and he was sure that we were not observed, he would gently touch my hand, while saying nothing, and often looking into the distance, as if he were unaware of my presence next to him. As for me, I remained quietly receptive during these little dumb shows, although I would try to signal to him, as best I could, that his meaning was fully reciprocated.
He did not travel back with us from London to Evenwood, but remained in Grosvenor Square for several more days – ostensibly, and, indeed, in fact, to inform Mr Freeth on the progress of his new poem, and to obtain that gentleman’s professional opinion on the six or so cantos that he had composed in Italy. His principal purpose, however, was to take advice on the various legal matters connected with our impending marriage.
An hour or so before Emily and I commenced our journey back to Northamptonshire, he came up to my room. He said he hoped that it would not be long before he could request an interview with his mother, adding that we could then begin to plan for a formal public announcement. I, of course, gladly made all the appropriate replies, receiving a gentle kiss on the cheek by way of reward; and so we had parted.
At long last, on a most unseasonable day of violent wind and intermittent lashing rain, our carriage drew up once more before the front doors of the great house of Evenwood, on which I now looked with new eyes. As Emily was being helped out by James Holt, striving valiantly to hold an umbrella over her, a sudden violent gust bore away a posy of pale paper flowers from her hat, whirling it rapidly skywards towards the soaring cupola-topped towers and the scudding black clouds high above.
She gave a little cry, almost of pain, and then stood for a moment, watching the fragile petals disperse into oblivion, as if each one were a pathetic emblem of doomed hope.
‘They were my mother’s,’ she sighed. ‘And now I shall never see them again.’
Then, with a sad smile of resignation, she turned to me.
‘Come, my dear. Time for tea, I think.’
END OF ACT FOUR
ACT FIVE
Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
Twelfth Night
(1601)
30
I
Sukie’s Secret
E
VENTS NOW
began to unfold with giddying swiftness.
A day or so after Emily and I arrived back at Evenwood, Sukie brought me a letter from Madame. As she was withdrawing, the little maid had hesitated at the door, before turning back towards me, her face flushed.
‘Please, Miss Alice,’ she said, plaintively, ‘will you tell me something?’
‘Of course I will, if I can,’ replied I, suddenly alarmed at her distressed expression, for she was such a naturally cheery soul. ‘What on earth is it? Come back, dear, and tell me.’
‘I want to know if I’ve done wrong, keeping this.’
Reaching into her pinafore pocket, she took out a grubby piece of paper, which she then handed to me.
‘I found this in a gown her Ladyship told me to put away,’ she explained, ‘with the ones we moved from the old wardrobe in the South Wing, when the roof leaked. It was a lovely gown, and quite new, but her Ladyship said that the colour didn’t suit her, and she never wished to wear it again. So I took it away, but a comb fell out of one of the pockets – a lovely tortoiseshell comb, with a pearl inlay. So of course I thought I must look into the other pockets, to see whether there was anything else that might have been left in them.
‘And then I found the piece of paper. Oh, Miss Alice, I read it, though I know I shouldn’t have done. It was wrong of me, for I saw straight away that it was written to her Ladyship. But when I started, I couldn’t stop. It was so queerly written, though I didn’t understand it.
‘Then when Alf Gully was here at Christmas-time – I always think of him as Alf Gully, even though he’s now a great man in the Detective Department, for we grew up together – well, Alf said to keep a look-out for strangers, and it was then I remembered that Charlie Skinner had told me he’d seen a strange old woman, walking with her Ladyship one evening, up and down the Library Terrace.
‘When I heard this, I thought at once that it must have been the person who’d written the letter. I don’t know why, but I didn’t say anything to Alf Gully. I didn’t want to get into trouble for keeping the letter, and so I put it back under my mattress. But it’s been worrying me something dreadful, Miss Alice, and so at last, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I told Mother, and she said I must give the letter to you, for you’d know what best to do. So there it is. Did I do wrong? Please tell me.’
‘No, Sukie,’ I said, taking her hand to reassure her. ‘You didn’t do wrong. And if you did, it was only a very little wrong, and now you’ve made amends. So run along now, dear, and don’t worry any more. I’ll decide what best to do.’
She thanked me, with such sweet and touching gratitude, and off she went, leaving me with the soiled and creased sheet of paper, torn in places, on which was written, in an ugly, unrefined hand, badly spelled, and in a ludicrous, half-educated style, with many words heavily underscored, the following extraordinary communication:
MY LADY,—
Many long years have past & a great weight of water – as I might say – has also past under a great many bridges since I had the honor of adressing yr Ladyship – as you are now but were not then. But I flatter myself that you will not have forgotten me – nor the good service I gave you.
The manner of our parting in Franzenbad was very unpleasant. It cost me dear & – what you may not know – has brought me & my poor dear boy much down in the world with suffering and difficulty.
Perhaps you have put those times out of mind – tho I dont think so – & I assure you that I havent. But here is a chance for you at last to make up for casting me & my boy off so cruely.
Now – besides what is in my head concerning those times, wch tho I cannot prove will allways be in my head – I now have something that
will
prove the cause of all the business & wch I am
very
sure you will wish to keep privilly to yrself for the rest of yr days.
To put the matter straight & clear before you I will tell you this much my Lady – it is a
letter
to a late
noble person
in wch
everything
is set out as plain as day – wch was careless of you my Lady but good for me as it has now proved. It was written as you may recall on a
certain day
that meant much to you – & I suppose yr feelings got the better of you. You spilled perfume on it – do you remember? But it was not posted as you thought but my boy kept it for his own reasons and didnt tell me. But now it is found again & is in
my
hands.
I wd wish you to have yr letter back – as is only right for it is yr property – & I am an honest woman. But I must live & so I am very willing to give it to you – for a consideration of my suffering these
20 years
past – wch is a
very
long time my Lady.
I have a fancy to see you again & to take some country air – & so wd ask that you send word as soon as may be care of Mrs J. Turripper…[paper torn and creased] then I shall bring the [illegible along torn crease: ‘letter to show that’?] it is genu[ine]. But you shant keep it until you or an agent have paid what is due to me – I shall tell you how much when I see you at yr grand house.
Write soon
my Lady – for old times sake.
No tricks
.
Yrs faithfully –
B.K. (Mrs)
I laid the letter down. Added to my own testimony of encountering the writer at the Duport Arms, it provided powerful confirmation that Emily had met the late Mrs Barbarina Kraus here at Evenwood, not long before the unfortunate woman’s body had been hauled out of the Thames at Nicholson’s Wharf.
I could easily picture the scene – the old lady slopping along the terrace in her worn and filthy shoes, a bent and ugly goblin figure beside the tall, noble form of her victim, barely suppressing her malicious glee at having haughty Lady Tansor in her power at last for some wrong that she claimed had been done to her, whilst my Lady strives to maintain her dignity and self-command in the face of her tormentor.
Then I imagined the clutch of freezing fear that Emily must have felt when shown the letter in which, as it would appear, some great secret had been carelessly set down, and which she must now prevent from being published to the world at any cost.
Inspector Gully had been right. It was a case of blackmail, pure and simple. Mrs Kraus had met her untimely end because of a forgotten letter, still carrying the faint scent of long-dead violets, over which her poor infatuated son had dreamed for twenty years and more.
Had the killing of Mrs Kraus been explicitly contemplated by Emily from the first? Could I believe this, even of my father’s betrayer? Perhaps her instructions to Mr Vyse had been exceeded – deliberately or otherwise – as they had been when her father had been attacked on the orders of Phoebus Daunt. Then I had a sudden vision of Mr Vyse’s cruel eyes as he listened to her. I could even imagine what he might have said in reply:
No half-measures in such cases, my Lady, no half-measures…
And then the insinuations and circumlocutions, uttered so soothingly, so reassuringly; the knowing looks, no words necessary, everything perfectly understood.
Do not concern yourself, my Lady. All will be made well, if you only place the matter in my capable hands
…
The source of his power over her was now plain. She had been so bewildered by events that she had failed to appreciate the folly of taking such a man into her confidence. In delivering herself from the clutches of Mrs Kraus, she had become caught in the toils of someone more dangerous still.
Placing Mrs Kraus’s letter in my pocket, I next turned to the communication from Madame.
She began by congratulating me, most warmly, and at some considerable length, on my success with regard to Perseus, confessing that she herself had doubted whether this absolutely necessary outcome could be achieved. She had also considered whether it would pose any risk to our enterprise to take Mr Wraxall into our confidence. To my relief, she saw no objection to it, and was therefore happy to allow me to use my discretion as to how much I should reveal to him of my purpose in coming to Evenwood, and when it would be best to do so, although I was prohibited from revealing my true identity to him, or to anyone else. To Lady Tansor alone, and to no other person, could the truth eventually be made known, when the proof of her crimes had been finally gathered in.
With her letter was one from Mr Thornhaugh:
LITTLE QUEEN,—
The end of yr Great Task is now in sight. Keep yr nerve, & all will be very well.
I entirely concur with Madame concerning Wraxall. I know him, by reputation, to be a man of the highest integrity & discretion, possessing besides a most extraordinarily penetrating & subtle intellect. You could have no better ally.
Madame and I are so very proud of you, Little Queen, as we know yr father would have been. It is a great thing you are doing, hard though it is. You have shown yrself – in every possible way – to be truly worthy, both of the Great Task, & of the ancient Duport blood that flows through yr young veins. For everything you have accomplished, and for what yet remains to be done, believe me, you will be most amply rewarded.
Yr very affectionate old Tutor,
B. THORNHAUGH
P.S. Madame and I were most shocked to hear of the unfortunate demise of R. Shillito. But London is a dangerous place, even in these modern times, & it wd have been awkward, to say the least, had R.S. finally brought to mind the true identity of ‘Edwin Gorst’. It is, I regret to say, an ill wind…
Having established that Mr Wraxall had returned to North Lodge a few days earlier, I now sit down to write him a note, asking whether I might call at his earliest convenience.
It then occurs to me that I should seek out Charlie Skinner, to see what he has to say concerning the rendezvous that he had witnessed between Emily and Mrs Kraus. So off I trip, down the back stairs, and into the white-washed corridor leading to the servants’ hall. There, to my surprise, I find Mr Randolph.
As he comes down the corridor towards me, the door to the servants’ hall is pulled softly shut by some unseen person within; but I pay little heed to this, for Mr Randolph is asking me how I am, and how I had liked Florence, and what I had seen and done there, and telling me how splendid I look,
et cetera
,
et cetera
– a veritable torrent of rapid questions and remarks, to which I hardly have time to respond before another comes my way. Then, suddenly taking my arm, he ushers me, rather unceremoniously, towards the back stairs again.
It is a fine warm day. At Mr Randolph’s suggestion, we step outside. Soon we are sitting together on a stone bench overlooking the deep dark waters of the fish-pond, enclosed within its high grey walls.
‘And how did my dear brother conduct himself in Florence?’ he asks. ‘Was he an amenable companion? I do hope so.’
As I cannot tell him the truth, I say that Mr Perseus was much occupied with his new poem, and that we had seen little of each other as a consequence.
‘Ah, the great new work!’ he exclaims, with a rather forced laugh. ‘What a marvel my brother is.’
Falling silent, he gazes distractedly at a shoal of large silver-and-gold fish and their progeny, which is gliding languidly towards a patch of sunlit water.
‘You’re aware, I hope, Esperanza,’ he says of a sudden, nervously passing his hand through his hair, a habit he has whenever he is struggling with some weighty matter, ‘how much I admire you?’
‘Admire me?’
‘Yes, indeed. I consider it admirable, in every way, that you’ve come here, an orphan and lacking the comfort and support of friends, and yet you’ve made yourself so much a part of our family – and indispensable, as I well know, to my mother. I hope you’re happy. I suppose you
are
happy, aren’t you? I – we – would hate to lose you, you know.’
I reply that I have no intention of leaving Evenwood, as long as I can be of service to his mother.
‘I believe it’s a rare blessing in this world,’ he then observes after a little pause, and in a tone of absent reflection, almost as if he were thinking aloud, ‘to know what makes us happy – truly happy – and then to be given the means of securing it.’
‘And do you know what makes
you
happy?’ I ask.
‘Oh, yes!’ he returns, with a sudden burst of passion. ‘Absolutely. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.’
For a moment, I think that he is about to unburden himself at last regarding his feelings for me; but, as Evenwood’s bells begin to chime out eleven o’clock, he jumps to his feet to announce that he has business to conduct in Easton.
‘I haven’t forgotten our last conversation, you know,’ he assures me, as we are saying our good-byes. ‘It’s been constantly on my mind that I promised to speak to you, on a matter of the greatest importance to me. But there have been reasons that have prevented me from saying what I must, and will, say to you, and so I hope that you can be patient with me, for just a little longer. May I beg that of you?’
Greatly relieved that I have been spared once again – for a time at least – the moment when I must reject his proposal and confess that I am to marry Perseus, I tell him that I shall be happy to hear what he has to say to me whenever he is ready.
He gives me a grateful smile and walks quickly away, through the creaking iron gate in the far wall, and down the gravel path leading to the stables, leaving me alone in the bright May sunshine, wondering how I shall tell him that I can never be his.
