Michael Cox (8 page)

STILL PUZZLED BY Lady Tansor’s strange behaviour, I devoted half an hour to writing up the evening’s events in my Book of Secrets. Then I lay down on my bed, and let my thoughts wander where they would.
It was not long before I began to think once more of Madame, and then of my old tutor, in whom my Lady had taken such an interest.
Dear Mr Thornhaugh! How I missed him! Like Madame, he had been a constantly reassuring presence in my life, almost for as long as I could remember. The first clear memory I have of him is of watching his tall, stooped figure walking up and down in the garden of the Maison de l’Orme one hot summer’s afternoon, for twenty minutes or more, in close conversation with Madame. With the exception of Jean, Madame’s serving-man, I had become accustomed to living solely amongst females. The sight of this strange man, with his long, lined, dark-hued face and prematurely greying hair hanging down about his shoulders, alarmed me at first, until Madame brought him to me later, to introduce him as my tutor. As soon as I saw his wonderful eyes, my fears instantly evaporated, and I knew that I had a new friend in my life.
‘How do you do, miss?’ he said.
‘
Réponds en anglais, ma chère
,’ said Madame, smiling.
As English was already as familiar to me as French, Madame being herself a fluent English speaker, I told Mr Thornhaugh, in his native tongue, that I was honoured and charmed to make his acquaintance, holding out my hand with prodigious earnestness as I did so, and then, for good measure, giving him a most lady-like curtsey.
He laughed at that, and called me ‘Little Queen’, after which he asked me a number of questions to judge how well I knew my lessons. Although they all required some concentrated thought, I acquitted myself well, to my great pride and delight.
‘You have done well, Madame,’ I heard him say to my guardian. ‘I can see that she will go to her lessons like a true-born scholar.’
I hope I do not present myself as an unbearable prodigy. My cleverness, if that is what it was, consisted merely in the possession of a naturally capacious memory, and a desire to fill it with factual knowledge. Beyond this mechanical capability to take in and then regurgitate what I had learned, however, I believe I was rather slow and stupid – I never could master long division or fractions, had a perfect horror of multiplication, and found geometry and algebra incomprehensible, whilst all the various branches of Science were for ever to remain closed books to me, even when Mr Thornhaugh tried later to open them.
My examination having been concluded to everyone’s satisfaction, Madame suggested that we should go back out into the garden, where we sat together, the three of us, beneath the shade of the chestnut-tree, drinking tea and eating lemon-cake.
Mr Thornhaugh talked incessantly, although I cannot now bring to mind anything of what he said. Only the impression of an unstoppable flood of glorious words and original opinions has stayed clear in my memory. To one who was already burning to acquire knowledge, he seemed little less than some magician of legend who had been granted the power to know all that had ever been known by man, and all that would be known hereafter.
Thus Mr Basil Thornhaugh took up his place in the house of Madame de l’Orme in the Avenue d’Uhrich. He was given four spacious rooms on the top floor, one of which, next to his book-filled study, was my school-room. Access to this floor was by way of a separate staircase, which led down into the rear garden, and allowed Mr Thornhaugh to come and go as he pleased. I rarely saw him in any other part of the house except his own, or in the garden; and he took his meals alone. If I woke during the night, I would often hear him pacing about his study, which was directly above my bedroom, and drew comfort from knowing that he was always there, just a few feet away, above my bed.
I wondered what he would do now that his pupil had flown the nest. He had remained a resident of Madame’s establishment after my childhood, engaged with his own reading and researches, although continuing to instruct me informally in those subjects that I found most to my liking, and when it was agreeable to both of us that he should do so. Yet although I had by then come to think of him as a friend, far more than as my teacher, he could never be encouraged to speak about himself or his family, and would always – sometimes a little intemperately – brush away my questioning. Consequently, I knew nothing about him, or where he had come from. No doubt because of this settled disinclination, he appeared – more than anyone I have ever known, before or since – to wish to live entirely in the present moment, almost by an effort of will; and if I enquired – as young ladies are, of course, obliged by nature to do – about some aspect of his past, before he came to Madame’s house, he would always say that his former life was no longer of any concern to him, and should therefore be of no concern to anyone else.
Only once did he give me an answer, when I asked him where he had been born. He told me that he had taken his first breath under French skies, which pleased me greatly, but he would tell me nothing further.

III
Mrs Ridpath

IN DUE COURSE, all the arrangements for my departure to England had been put in hand, and I finally left Paris in the second week of August 1876.
Madame and Mr Thornhaugh accompanied me to Boulogne, where we stayed in the Hôtel des Bains for the night. The next day, we drove to the station in the Faubourg de Capécure, from where I was to take the tidal-express to Folkestone. There, on the crowded and noisy platform, I said my tearful good-byes to Madame.
‘Be strong, my dearest child,’ she said, as she kissed me. ‘I know how hard this is for you, but all will be well, if you only trust in me, and patiently allow me to guide your actions. As you come to know more about why you are embarking upon this great enterprise, you must also learn to follow your own instincts, and act accordingly. For be assured, there is that within you that will lead you to the fulfilment of your destiny.’
And so we parted. I waved from the window until she disappeared from view, and then sank back in my seat, overcome with every emotion that parting from a loved one – perhaps for ever – can engender in a human breast.
My only comfort was that it had been agreed that Mr Thornhaugh would accompany me to London, to see me settled into my temporary lodging, where I was to stay before journeying to Evenwood. Without him beside me on the journey, I do not know how I could have borne the terrible sense of separation from everything I held most dear. Little by little, however, as the shores of England grew ever closer, I began to feel better, as my old tutor brought me back – with such gentle and considerate persuasion – to my former state of determination.
Arrived in Folkestone, we put up at the West Cliff Hotel, taking the train to London the next morning. At last we arrived in Devonshire Street, where I was to remain, under the care of an old friend of Mr Thornhaugh’s, until the time came for me to attend my interview with Lady Tansor.
My temporary guardian was a slight, sandy-haired lady, of some fifty years, with a kind face and bright, darting eyes, who immediately put me at my ease. She ushered us in with many solicitous enquiries about our journey, sat us down in the drawing-room, and rang for refreshments.
‘Esperanza, this is Mrs Elizabeth Ridpath,’ Mr Thornhaugh had said as we entered. ‘She’s an old and trusted friend of mine and will take the greatest care of you while you are here.’ Then, more seriously, he added: ‘She knows everything, Little Queen.’
Mrs Ridpath leaned forward and took my hand.
‘I know that being here must be very strange and unsettling for you, my dear; and so you must tell me if there is anything I can do to make you comfortable and happy, for the little time you are with me. Mr Thornhaugh and Madame de l’Orme have taken me into their confidence, and I want you to know that I shall never betray the trust that they have placed in me. You may depend on me to the last, just as you depend on them.’
She kissed me on the cheek, and said that, after tea, she would show me to my room, and then I might have a rest if I wished, or we could all walk out together for a little into the nearby Regent’s Park.
‘Oh, let us go out!’ I cried, feeling suddenly full of hope and confidence. ‘I’m not in the least bit tired!’
And so, after we had drunk our tea, we all three set off, and soon found ourselves in the Park.
Mr Thornhaugh wished me to see the Zoological Gardens, where we passed a pleasant hour or so. Then we strolled back through the Botanic Gardens, and past the grounds of the Toxophilite Society, before returning to Devonshire Street. Throughout the whole of this little excursion, Mr Thornhaugh had entertained us, in his usual effervescent manner, with his knowledge of the Park, and of London in general. I wanted him to remain in England longer than he had proposed – indeed, I importuned him as hard as I could to do so; but he had a return ticket for the tidal-express that left Charing Cross the next morning, and was adamant that he must not leave Madame alone in Paris any longer than they had arranged, for she would be anxious on my account, and eager to know how I was.
Having been absent for many years from the city where he had once lived, Mr Thornhaugh had arranged to see several old friends at a hotel in the Strand, where he also intended to stay the night.
‘Good-bye, Little Queen,’ he said, as we stood on the steps of the house in Devonshire Street. ‘I do not need to tell you that you will be constantly in our thoughts, and that we have made every effort to shield you from any kind of peril.’
He then asked me a most unexpected question.
‘Did Madame ever tell you why you were named “Esperanza”?’
I had to admit that I had never considered the question before.
‘She once told me that it was because you were your late father’s dearest hope,’ said Mr Thornhaugh, ‘in whom he placed all his trust. Do not ask me to explain her words: you will comprehend them by and by. And now I must leave. I have no other parting speech to make. Madame has said all that is needful. I will say only this: be brave, Little Queen, for this is a great thing that you do, as you will one day understand.’
So saying he shook my hand warmly; but then, instead of releasing it, took it in both of his and held it.
Then he broke away, smiled, and was soon lost to view.

THE TIME CAME at last for me to leave Devonshire Street, just a few days after celebrating my nineteenth birthday with kind Mrs Ridpath. The journey north to Northamptonshire was uneventful; and, as I have already described, I duly secured the position as Lady Tansor’s maid.
Now my first day at Evenwood had come to an end. The succeeding days and months were to be very different; but this one most memorable day marked a boundary between the life I had known with Madame, and my new one serving Lady Tansor. It also constituted the first stage of the yet unrevealed Great Task that Madame had set me.
I had at least achieved my first goal. The seeds of my future had been sown; but what harvest would eventually be reaped?
For now, I had a day of vivid memories and tumbled impressions to store away: a great room of crimson and gold; sombre ancestral faces looking down at me as I passed; the smell of countless long-unopened books, asleep in their coffins of leather; Sukie Prout’s wayward curls and freckled face; a secret, silent court, with a fountain playing in its midst, and white doves fluttering down from a clear blue sky; my Lady’s dark tresses pulled through the bristles of a silver hair-brush, and her fingers tracing out letters on a window-pane; a beautiful long-haired Cavalier boy in blue silk breeches with rosettes on his shoes; still, dark water, with fish moving silently beneath; and, lingering in my mind’s eye as sleep began to creep gently over me, the faces – each so striking, each so strangely contrasting – of my Lady’s two sons.

4

Nightmares and Memories

I
A Dream of Anthony Duport

T
HAT NIGHT, I
awoke from sleep in terror, wrenched into trembling consciousness by a new nightmare.
I dreamed that I was being pursued through a white void, impenetrable on every side. It was neither mist, nor snow, nor the clinging miasmic fog of London, but something denser and stranger. I felt the most intense, stinging cold about my bare feet and face as I ran, not knowing to where, or why, I ran, nor who my pursuer might be, only that I must escape at all costs. My terror increased with every step as I began to hear the sound of someone breathing hard at my back, and gaining on me second by second.
At last I could run no more, and cried out for help. Yet even as my cries were absorbed into the surrounding void, all fell suddenly silent.
The breathing had stopped; the pursuing footfalls could no longer be heard. Had I escaped?
I stood a while, looking about me, straining to see or hear whether anyone was there, until, out of the thick white blankness, stepped a little boy, with hair to his shoulders, wearing blue silk breeches, and rosettes on his shoes.
He smiles at me – such a beguiling, innocent smile.
‘I do not know my name,’ he says, with tears in his eyes. And then, so imploringly that it nearly breaks my heart, he asks: ‘Please, can you tell me who I am?’
I yearn to reach out and comfort him, and tell him that I did indeed know his name; that he was Anthony Charles Duport, born in 1682, a hundred years before Mr Pocock’s father, and that he would one day grow up to become the 19th Baron Tansor. But as I move towards him, to enfold him in my arms, his beautiful, entreating face begins to distort, and then dissolve slowly into corruption – hair, and flesh, feature by feature – until it degenerates at last into a hideous grinning skull, still set atop its former elegantly clad little body.

I HAD WOKEN from my dream with the sound of a bell ringing in my ears.
As the nightmare began to recede, I realized that it was the bell that hung in the corner of my room, just above the fire-place, with which my Lady had said that she would summon me if I was required during the night.
Putting on my robe, and all of a tremble still from the nightmare, I lit a candle, and ran down the stairs to my Lady’s apartments.
She was sitting up in bed – a monstrous black thing with heavy, blood-red velvet hangings, densely carved with grotesque figures of fauns and satyrs, and other mythological creatures – her head thrown back against the piled-up pillows.
I had put the candle down on a table by the door, leaving the rest of the room illuminated only by the flickering remains of the fire that I had earlier lit. The glow, however, was enough to show me Lady Tansor’s shadowed face, pale as death, and her disordered hair, spread out across the pillows like a billowing cloak.
She was looking at me intently, yet her mind seemed to be in some other, more terrible, place, as if she were being held fast in a mesmeric trance. I rushed to her, fearing greatly that she had been taken ill.
‘My Lady!’ I cried out. ‘What is the matter? Can you speak?’
She turned her stricken face towards me, and I saw tiny beads of perspiration standing out on her forehead. I saw, too, the encroaching marks of irresistible time.
She stared at me mutely; then, gradually, colour began to return to her cheeks, and she opened her mouth to speak.
‘Alice, dear,’ she said, in a hoarse whisper. ‘I heard a scream. Was it you?’
‘A bad dream, my Lady,’ I replied. ‘Nothing more.’
‘A bad dream!’
She gave the most dreadful, mirthless laugh.
‘How bad was your dream, Alice? As bad as mine? I do not think so.’
‘May I fetch you something, my Lady?’ I enquired. ‘Some water, perhaps? Or shall I send Barrington for the doctor? I fear you may have taken a chill from your walk on the terrace this evening.’
‘What did you say?’
She was now sitting upright, staring at me with a most fearful expression of alarm.
‘Did you stay in the bed-chamber, as I instructed?’
‘Yes, my Lady, of course. I only thought that the night air might have—’
She raised her hand to signal that I should say no more, then sank back against the pillow.
‘I am quite well now,’ she sighed. ‘I require only the sweet oblivion of a dreamless sleep. Is it possible, do you suppose, to sleep without the intrusion of dreams? I think that it must be, and that it is a most enviable condition. Do you often have nightmares, Alice?’
I told her that I had been afflicted with periodic night-terrors since childhood, although they were now less frequent disturbers of my sleep than formerly.
‘Then we are fellow sufferers,’ she said. ‘But you are more fortunate than I am; for I find that mine increase alarmingly with every year that passes. Oh, it is a fearful thing, Alice, to have your precious sleep constantly taken from you, night after night, and never given back!’
She had reached forward to grip my hand as she spoke, and I saw the dread returning momentarily to her great dark eyes.
‘Perhaps you might read to me again,’ she said, quietly, ‘just for a very little while.’
She pointed to a small volume, with marbled boards and a gilded spine, lying on the table beside her bed.
‘Page one hundred and twenty,’ she said. ‘The first poem.’
I picked up the book and opened it, briefly glancing at the titlepage as I did so. Of course it was yet another work from the pen of Mr Phoebus Daunt: the miscellany of poems, lyrics, and translations entitled
Rosa Mundi
,
*
which she had been reading on the day of my interview.
I turned to the poem she had requested me to find. Placing the open book on my lap, and lighting the bedside candle, I began to read.
The poem was only six stanzas long. When I had finished, Lady Tansor asked me to read it again. All the while she remained motionless, her head laid back against the pillows, staring out beyond the thick red hangings of the bed towards the window, which framed a pale, lunated moon hanging above the distant woods.
‘Again, Alice,’ she said, without stirring.
And so I read the poem for a third time, and then a fourth, by when I had it perfectly by heart.
‘Enough,’ she sighed. ‘You may leave me. I shall sleep now, I think. I shall ring for you, should I need you. If not, then you must be here early tomorrow. I have a great deal to do. Seven o’clock, if you please.’
She closed her eyes, and I put out the candle. Softly shutting the door behind me, I returned, exhausted, to my room.