Michael Cox (50 page)

MADAME HAD BEEN utterly, dangerously wrong. I should not have been instructed to marry Perseus in order to reclaim what had been taken from my father. Perseus was not the rightful heir, as he and all the world believed, and he never could be, for his illegitimacy would now bar him from the succession. It was Mr Randolph, the scorned younger son, the fruit of the legitimate union between Lord Tansor’s cousin, Miss Emily Carteret, and Colonel Tadeusz Zaluski, who was the true heir; and it was Mr Randolph whom I must marry.
How can I describe what I feel when this realization comes sweeping over me, in a sudden torrent of despair? To have my heart’s true desire snatched away from me – so cruelly, without warning, destroying every hope that I have come to cherish for my future as Perseus’s wife – is the most bitter blow imaginable, and I have to force back the tears so that I can continue with my examination of Mr Barley’s black box.
Of the three remaining documents, two are single sheets of paper, on which the clerk had set down brief depositions concerning the visits that Lady Tansor had paid to Mr Vyse in Old Square, together with transcriptions of what he had overheard of their conversations on those occasions.
The third and last item is another letter, an original, in Emily’s hand, still in its envelope. With the light fading, I raise the letter close to my face, the better to read it.
Then I start back. What is it?
The faintest residue of an odour, almost imperceptible, yet unmistakable: the still lingering scent of long-lost years.
The smell of violets.

OUT OF MR Barley’s black box I have plucked the very letter that Conrad Kraus had kept hidden for over twenty years, the precious relic that he had preserved of the beautiful lady whom he had accompanied to Bohemia in his youth, and whom he had continued to reverence – perhaps even love – in his poor, pathetic way ever since; the letter with which his vengeful mother had thought to blackmail the object of her weak-brained son’s futile infatuation, but which had led instead to her destruction.
The writer herself had thought the letter destroyed; but when it at last fell into his hands, the man she had foolishly trusted to protect her had immediately seen its worth, just as doomed Mrs Kraus had done.
Would you know, at last, what it contained, this deadly epistle, written to Lord Tansor from Franzenbad by Miss Emily Carteret, twelve days before her marriage to Colonel Tadeusz Zaluski?
Here it is, then, as I faithfully transcribed it into my note-book – that constant companion of mine since the day I first began my employment as maid to the 26th Baroness Tansor.

II
The Perfumed Letter
MISS EMILY CARTERET TO THE LATE LORD TANSOR
11TH MARCH 1855

Hotel Adler
Franzenbad

MY LORD,—
I had not intended to write to yr Ldship today, for I have no news of substance; but I was in such distress of mind, on rising this morning to a cold grey dawn, that I did not know what else might relieve my pain & despair other than to pick up my pen, on this most terrible anniversary day, & set down my thoughts in a few inadequate words, & send them to the only other person in the world who is able to comprehend how I feel.
Three months to the day! Three short months – & yet how long, how infinitely long, have been – & continue to be – each week, each day, each hour, each second, without his dear, adored presence in the world! And still the wound of unutterable grief bleeds, day & night, & indeed I believe that it will never be staunched.
I see him constantly in my dreams, his poor white face lying in the hardly paler snow, his open unseeing eyes staring up at the cold stars, his precious life-blood yet spreading all around; but still – even in death – he was beautiful, was still my adored Phoebus!
And then I see, clasped in his frozen hand, the paper on which his murderer had copied out those exquisite lines, with which the name of Phoebus Rainsford Daunt will be eternally associated.
But what is most horrible to bear – & you will think it strange and inexplicable – is the memory of the last cigar he ever smoked, bearing his favorite Ramón Allones brand name, the end still glowing in the freezing gloom, for it had fortuitously fallen from his lips on to the top of a low wall, where the snow lay less thickly. Such a trifling, insignificant thing, and yet I cannot rid my mind of it.
What cuts me to my very soul is that I
knew
it would come to this –
knew
that he would perish at the hands of that obsessed madman Glyver, & that I would be left to grieve until death took me too.
It was on waking one morning from another of the terrible visions of impending, fatal disaster that were then nightly invading my sleep, and which – I truly believed – nothing could prevent, that I suddenly thought of a course of action, which, if successful, might help those who survived the catastrophe – you & I, my Lord – to bear what must be borne.
Certain that the maniac Glyver would not rest until he had wreaked mortal vengeance on his rival, for the injuries that he imagined he had suffered at his hands, I went to dear Phoebus on the day following our dinner in Town with Ld & Lady Cotterstock – do you remember? He laughed at my fears, of course, said Glyver had not the power to hurt him – indeed, that the power was all in his own hands. But in this, my dear love – thinking too little of his enemy’s murder-ous & ungovernable determination to prove his false claim to be yr Ldship’s son and heir – was calamitously mistaken. The truth was far otherwise – as you & I now know, to our eternal sorrow.
Having begged him to take the greatest possible care to protect himself, which he promised to do, I then urged that we must seek to arm ourselves against the worst happening, by devising a way to thwart the impostor, if we could, and deny him his illusion of victory.
He listened to my plan; said nothing at first; then sought to dissuade me from the course I had proposed. His objections were many – both moral (as you would have expected of him), & practical – and most earnestly expressed.
Principal amongst them concerned yr Ldship’s position, which of course he was ever most anxious to protect from public opprobrium. I could not then answer for how yr Ldship would view the as yet unforeseeable consequences of what I contemplated, tho’ I hoped & believed, with all my heart, that yr support & sympathy might at last be secured.
At length, he saw that I was right. With what courage he conceded that the lunatic might succeed, despite taking every precaution, in doing him mortal harm. But he did not flinch from the dread prospect, nor would he fly from it. He was a man, indeed!
And so, as you now know, from that day forth, until the last fateful evening, we became man & wife in all but name and legal form. Then, with mingled joy and grief, I discovered that I was with child! His child! – the son or daughter of yr Ldship’s chosen heir, in whom, even if my fears proved groundless, my darling boy would live, and be for ever remembered.
The worst had happened. The madman had succeeded in the exercise of his brutal will, just as I had foreseen. And yet a kind Fate had quickly granted (beyond, I can now confess, my most sanguine expectations) the means of salvation.
I am conscious that I ought not to be so frank in writing to yr Ldship. You will say – rightly – that I have been dangerously injudicious, having already laid some of these things before yr Ldship, and when I promised circumspection, as far as was possible, in our correspondence. But I find I cannot help myself. I must give vent to the tumult within me – & it is to yr Ldship that I instinctively turn. Besides, once received through our trusted intermediary, you will, I know, destroy this, as we agreed, & as I feel sure that you have destroyed my other letters.
It is the day, I think, the accursed
11
th day of every month, that raises up this tumult within me. I cannot describe the dread I feel as each one approaches – & then the sense of desolation when waking on the day itself, as I did this very morning. It overcomes me utterly, driving away all other thoughts & sensations. Yet it is also a day of sacred observance, on which I must for ever, each succeeding month, & especially on the
one
day, worship the memory of him who will always rule my heart, & who has made it impossible for me to love any other man.
Mrs Kraus has just arrived to dress me, & so I must conclude, & once more find strength – for his sweet sake, & yours, my dear sir – to bring our enterprise to a successful conclusion.
I shall now send Conrad, who is standing sullenly by the door regarding me as I write, in that peculiar abstracted way of his, to ensure that this goes by the first mail coach.
Until my next, when I trust I shall be more myself, I am, my Lord, yr loving & grateful daughter, by adoption & affection,
E. CARTERET

III
The Portrait

‘WELL, MY DEAR,’ said Mr Wraxall, as I came back into the sitting-room, carrying Mr Barley’s black box. ‘Is all clear to you now?’
‘Where is Mr Barley?’ I asked, seeing the vacated chair.
‘He was obliged to return to London this evening,’ returned Mr Wraxall. ‘Mrs Wapshott’s son has just taken him to Easton in the trap. Well? Do you see it now?’
He regarded me expectantly.
‘I see it.’
I sat down; he drew his chair close to mine, and we began a conversation that lasted for nearly an hour, until darkness began to fall, and Mrs Wapshott appeared at the door to light the lamps. So we continued to talk, until we could talk no more.
For a while we sat saying nothing, listening to the ominous rolling of distant thunder. Then we heard the sound of the trap returning from Easton.
‘When will she be—’
Mr Wraxall held up his hand, to prevent my saying more.
‘Enough now, my dear,’ he said, quietly. ‘All that is in Gully’s hands, but I do not think it will be long. Now then, let me call John, to take you back to the house.’

DINNER WAS OVER by the time I returned. In the Drawing-Room, as I entered, I could see that Emily, sitting broodingly alone by the fire, was angry.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked, testily.
There was no reason to deceive her; indeed, I felt seized by a kind of taunting boldness, knowing what I now knew, as I answered.
‘To North Lodge.’
She could not prevent a faint flush of apprehension from colouring her sallow cheeks, but as usual quickly contrived an air of unconcern.
‘And how goes the brilliant Mr Montagu Wraxall?’ she asked, in an affectedly sarcastic tone. ‘Surely his business here must soon be finished? Lancing has found a new tenant for North Lodge, and it is now rather inconvenient to us for Mr Wraxall to be here any longer than is absolutely necessary. We have been more than generous in allowing him to remain there for so long, with the freedom to come and go as he pleases, as if the place were really his.’
‘I believe there is still some work to be done on his late uncle’s papers,’ replied I; ‘but he is well, thank you, and sends his compliments.’
‘Well,’ she said, with a dismissive sniff, ‘that is kind of him, I’m sure. But I wonder, dear, what you and he can find to talk about. You’ll allow, I think, that there is a certain disparity of age and experience between you, which does not – on the face of it – suggest a natural affinity of either opinions or interests.’
‘Oh,’ I replied, fixing her with a steady look, ‘Mr Wraxall has a wide mental view of the world. You would be surprised, I think, how many common interests we share.’
To this she said nothing, but smoothed down her dress, in an exaggeratedly uncaring manner, before pointedly picking up her coffee-cup and taking a sip.
I sat down opposite her and, mimicking her indifference, took up a copy of
The Times
from the low table that separated us, and began to leaf idly through it.
After several minutes’ silence, I asked if Mr Perseus had returned from London.
‘Yes,’ she replied, absently, staring once again into the fire. ‘This afternoon.’
‘And what was Mr Freeth’s opinion of the new work? Favourable, I’m sure.’
She gave a weary sigh.
‘I believe so.’
Her fractiousness had ebbed quite away, replaced now by a strange, unreceptive vacancy.
‘Are you feeling well, dear?’ I asked, laying down the newspaper.
‘What did you say?’
‘I asked whether you were feeling well.’
‘Oh yes, quite well,’ she replied, still staring into the dying flames.
‘But perhaps you should retire,’ I suggested, looking up at the clock. ‘You are still feeling the exertions of the journey home, you know, and must take every possible care not to weaken yourself further. Come, let me take you up.’
To this she wearily consented, and took my outstretched hand. Slowly, arm in arm, we went out into the vestibule.
At the foot of the staircase, we paused for a moment to allow her to catch her breath – something I had observed had become increasingly necessary lately, even after the slightest exertion.
‘Such a wonderful likeness,’ she remarked, seeing me glancing at the portrait of the Turkish Corsair.
‘Likeness?’ I asked. ‘Of whom?’
She laughed in disbelief.
‘Why, of Phoebus, of course, you silly goose! Surely everyone in the house knows that. Who else could it be?’
I felt a prize fool for not realizing this before, especially after finding the photograph of Daunt in the secret cupboard. The portrait had been painted in the summer of 1853, as Emily now informed me, soon after the publication of Daunt’s tragedy
Penelope
, when his reputation was at its height. After his death, it had been placed in its present position by Lord Tansor, as a memorial to his chosen heir. No doubt the sitter had assumed this consciously Byronic pose to indicate that he was, in point of genius, the noble poet’s successor.
Thoughtlessly, I told her that I had always seen a resemblance to Mr Perseus, and wondered that others had not seen it also.
Her mouth tightened. I had unnerved her; but, as ever, her capacity for self-possession soon asserted itself.
‘Yes, I’ll allow that there is some superficial likeness,’ she said. ‘It’s the beard, I suppose, and I will readily concede that Perseus has a naturally dashing look about him that agrees very well with the original. But they are not so very like, you know, if one looks closely. Come now, dear, won’t you help me up the stairs? You have an old lady for a friend now.’
As she did not wish to call Miss Allardyce, I assisted in undressing her, like the old days of not so very long ago, and then helped her into bed.
‘Will you take some drops?’ I asked. ‘Just a few, to settle you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, laying her head back on the pillow, and closing her eyes. ‘I think I will. I don’t wish to—’
But she left the sentence unfinished, and I turned to open the bedside cupboard, where the bottle of tincture was now kept.
After I had administered the drops, she asked me to read to her until sleep came. When it did, I replaced the book – one of her dead lover’s, of course – on the shelf, quietly closed the bedroom door, and made my way, heart pounding at the thought of what I must do, to the second floor of the South Wing.