The Meaning of Night (45 page)

I plainly saw that Lizzie would be the more useful member of the partnership, and

that she would also keep her brother in line.

‘So you do not feel the same loyalty to your mistress as you did to her father?’

She shrugged.

‘You might say that, sir, though I would not.’ Lizzie replied. ‘But it is true that,

circumstances having changed so suddenly, we must look to ourselves a little more than

we used.’

‘Tell me, Lizzie, do you like your mistress? Is she kind to you?’

The question caused her brother to look at her a little asquint, as if in anticipation

of her reply, which did not come immediately.

‘I do not complain,’ she said at last. ‘That would not be my place. I am sure, as

my mistress has often told me, that I am slow and clumsy, and that I do not have the

delicate manners of the French girl that looked after her in Paris, and who she is always

setting up as an example to me. It may be, too, that I am stupid, for of course I would not

expect a lady possessed such accomplishments as Miss Carteret to think much of a poor

girl like me.’

She glanced in a deliberate way towards the volume of poetry lying on the table.

I thanked her for her frankness and wished her a very good night.

Outside the cottage door, after a little more discussion, the arrangements were

concluded. And so it was that John Brine, formerly Mr Paul Carteret’s man, together with

his sister Lizzie, Miss Carteret’s maid, became my eyes and ears in and around the

Dower House at Evenwood.

As John Brine and I walked back to the Dower House, I had one other matter I

particularly wished to set before my new agent.

‘Brine, I wish you’d tell me about Josiah Pluckrose.’

The effect of my words was extraordinary.

‘Pluckrose!’ he roared, his face colouring, ‘what have you to do with that

murdering scoundrel? Tell me, or by God I’ll knock you down where you stand,

agreement or no!’

Naturally, under normal circumstances, I would not for a moment have tolerated

such insolence from a common fellow like John Brine; even as things were, I was within

an inch of teaching him a lesson he would not forget, for I was easily his match in height

and weight and knew, perhaps better than he, how to conduct myself in such situations.

But I drew back; for, after all, what difference of opinion could possibly exist between us

regarding Josiah Pluckrose?

‘I have only one aim in view with respect to that gentleman,’ I said, with

deliberate emphasis, ‘and that is to send him as speedily as possible, with my very best

regards, to the deepest pit of hell.’ Whereupon Brine’s face took on a more compliant

expression and he began to apologize, in a fumbling embarrassed sort of way, for his

outburst; but I stopped him and told him straight away of my conversation with the

housemaid Mary Baker, though of course I did not go so far as to divulge my prior

acquaintance with friend Pluckrose.

And then he told me, in a quiet, feeling way, which almost endeared me to the

fellow, that he had once entertained what he termed a ‘fondness’ for Agnes Baker, which

it was left to me to interpret how I would.

‘Well, Brine,’ I said, as we walked under the gate-house arch, ‘I see there is

common ground between us on the matter of Josiah Pluckrose. But what I would

particularly like to know,’ I continued, feeling the need for another cigar, but having no

more about me, ‘is how such a man came to be associated with Mr Phoebus Daunt. I

cannot be alone in observing the incompatibility of the relationship. Can you tell me, for

instance, how Mr Carteret viewed the matter?’

‘Like any right-thinking gentleman would,’ said Brine, a little evasively. ‘I know,

because I heard him telling Miss Emily.’

‘Telling him what, Brine? Speak up, if you please, for there must be no secrets

now between us.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but it just don’t seem right, that’s all, speaking of what was said

privately.’

Damn the fellow for his scruples. A fine spy he was going to make! I reminded

him, rather pointedly, of the terms of our engagement and, after a moment or two, though

still somewhat unwillingly, he began to recount the substance of the conversation he had

overheard between Mr Carteret and his daughter.

‘His Lordship had given a dinner, and afterwards it fell to me to bring the master

and Miss Emily back from the great house in the landau. It’s an old thing that belonged to

Mr Carteret’s mother, but it gives good service and –– ’

‘Brine. The facts, if you please.’

‘To be sure, sir. Well, sir, as I say, I went up to fetch the master and the young

Miss back in the landau, and I saw straight away that something was up. Black as thunder

her face was as I helped her in, and Mr Carteret looking nearly as bad.’

‘Go on.’

‘There was a fair old wind that night – I remember that very well – and we had a

rough time of it on our way back, I can tell you, especially coming up from the river,

battered and buffeted and I don’t know what. But though the wind was hard in my face,

there were times when I could still catch what Master and Miss were saying.’

‘And that’s when Mr Carteret spoke of Pluckrose?’

‘Not by name, though I knew it was him the master was speaking of. He’d driven

a carriage up that evening with Mr Phoebus Daunt and another gentleman – it was that

same cursed evening that he first spied Agnes. There’d been some trouble in the servants’

hall – Pluckrose had been given his supper there while t’other two gents were upstairs

with the quality, and he’d threatened his Lordship’s butler, Mr Cranshaw. I heard all

about the rumpus from John Hooper, a footman up at the great house, who saw it all.

Well, we got home and I handed her out – Miss Emily, I mean – and blow me she fair

stormed into the house, with her father following and calling her to stop. And so I

brought the landau round to the yard and stabled the horses, like tonight, and then went

along to the kitchen, for ’twas a rare old night, as I say, and Susan Rowthorn would

always have a little something waiting for me, in the way of refreshment, as I might say,

on such a night. “Well,” says she when I open the door, “here’s a to-do. Master and Miss

are going at it hammer and tongs.” Those were her exact words: hammer and tongs. Now

Miss has a temper – we all knows that. But Susan says she’d never heard the like, doors

slamming and I don’t know what.’

‘And what was the cause of the upset, do you suppose?’

‘Oh, I don’t suppose, sir. I had everything pat and in apple-pie order from Susan.

She’d heard everything and noted everything, just as it happened, as is her way. I don’t

know, sir, as you hadn’t ought to have brought her into your employ rather than me.’

He smiled a stupid smile, and I silently damned him and his feeble attempt at

humour.

‘Get to it, Brine, and quickly,’ I said impatiently. ‘What did the woman tell you?’

Now, to spare you any more of John Brine’s ramblings, I intend to present my

own account of what happened on that fateful evening, when Josiah Pluckrose came to

Evenwood in the company of Phoebus Daunt, and Mr Carteret and his daughter fell out

with each other for the first time in their lives. It draws directly on the recollections of the

Carterets’ housekeeper, Mrs Susan Rowthorn, and of John and Lizzie Brine.

Returned to the Dower House, having been bumped and blown all the way, Miss

Carteret ran inside, with her father calling after her, and went straight up to her room,

slamming the door behind her. She had barely had time to ring for her maid, Lizzie Brine,

when there was a short knock at the door and her father entered, still in his great-coat,

and still in an extremely agitated state.

‘Now this will not do, Emily. Really it won’t. You must tell me all, or you and I

shall never be friends again. And that’s the long and the short of it.’ With which he

removed his spectacles and began to polish them furiously.

‘How can I tell you all when there is nothing to tell?’

She was standing before the window, her travelling cloak over her arm, her hair

disarranged from the wind, which continued to howl all around the house. Dismayed and

still angered by the turn of events, and feeling that she had been humiliated by her father,

she was in no mood for conciliation.

‘Nothing to tell! You can say that? Very well. Here it is. You will have nothing

further to do with that man, do you hear? We must of course observe the decencies of

social intercourse with our neighbours, but there must be nothing more. I hope I make

myself clear.’

‘No, you do not, sir.’ Her anger was now uncontained. ‘May I ask of whom you

speak?’

‘Why, Mr Phoebus Daunt, of course, as I said before.’

‘But that is absurd! I have known Mr Phoebus Daunt since I was six years old,

and his father is one of your most valued and devoted friends. I know you do not esteem

Phoebus as others do, but I own myself amazed that you should take against him so.’

‘But I saw you, at dinner. He leaned towards you, in a distinctly . . . ’ He paused.

‘In a distinctly intimate manner. Ah! You say nothing. But why should you? That’s your

way, I see, to let me think one thing while you are doing another.’

‘He leaned towards me? Is that your accusation?’

‘So you deny, do you, that you have been secretly encouraging his . . . his

attentions?’

He had placed his hands in his pocket and was rocking back and forth on his

heels, as though to say, ‘There! Deny it if you can!’

But deny it she did, and with a kind of cold fury in her voice, though turning her

head away as she spoke.

‘I do not know why you treat me, so,’ she went on, angrily throwing her cloak on

the bed. ‘I have, I hope, been ever attentive to your wishes. I am of age, and you know I

could leave here tomorrow, and marry anyone I pleased.’

‘But not him, not him!’ said Mr Carteret, almost in a moan and passing his hand

through his hair as he did so.

‘Why not him, if I so chose?’

‘I beg you again to judge him by the company he keeps.’

She stood for a moment waiting to see if her father intended at last to elaborate

further on his statement. Just then came another knock at the door. It was Lizzie Brine,

who found her mistress and Mr Carteret facing each other in silence.

‘Is anything the matter, Miss?’

She looks at her mistress, then at Mr Carteret. Of course she has heard the door

slamming, and the sound of angry voices. Indeed she has been lingering in the passage

for some time before making her presence known. And she has not been alone, for the

housekeeper, Susan Rowthorn, assiduous as ever in her duties, has found a pressing

reason to climb the stairs as quickly as her short legs will carry her in order to inspect the

room adjacent to Miss Carteret’s, which contains a connecting door, the keyhole of which

Mrs Rowthorn feels obliged – no doubt for good housekeeping reasons – to place her eye

against.

‘No, nothing is the matter, Lizzie,’ said Miss Carteret. ‘I shall not need you

tonight after all. You may go home. But be here sharp in the morning.’

And so Lizzie bobs and departs, slowly closing the door behind her. But she does

not go home immediately. Instead she tip-toes into the adjacent chamber to join Mrs

Rowthorn, who, crouching down by the connecting door, turns and places a finger on her

lips as she enters.

Left alone once more (or so they think), father and daughter stand awkwardly for

a moment or two, saying nothing. It is Miss Carteret who speaks first.

‘Father, as you love me, I must ask you to be plain with me. What company is Mr

Phoebus Daunt keeping that appears to be so abhorrent to you? Surely you do not refer to

Mr Pettingale?’

‘No, not Mr Pettingale. Though I do not know that gentleman, I have no reason to

believe anything ill of him.’

‘Then whom do you mean?’

‘I mean the other . . . person. A more loathsome, villainous creature I have never

seen. And he calls himself an associate of Mr Phoebus Daunt’s! You see! This

swaggering brute, this . . . this Moloch in human form, comes here, to Evenwood, in the

company of Mr Daunt. There now: what do you say to that?’

‘What can I say?’ she asked. She was calm now, standing framed by the curtained

window in that characteristic pose of hers, hands crossed in front of her, her head tilted

slightly back and to one side, her face devoid of all expression. ‘I do not know the person

you describe. If he is indeed an associate of Mr Phoebus Daunt’s, well then that is Mr

Daunt’s affair, not ours. There may be perfectly good reasons why it is necessary for him,

perhaps temporarily, to associate himself with the person you describe. You must see that

we are not in a position to judge on this point. As for Mr Daunt himself, I can assure you,

on my dear mother’s life and before Heaven, that I can find no reason – no reason at all –

to rebuke myself for any dereliction of the duty a daughter owes to a father.’

Though she had said nothing very specific, her attitude, and the emphatic tone in

which she had delivered the words, appeared to have a composing effect on Mr Carteret,

who ceased continually removing his spectacles and replaced his handkerchief in his