The Meaning of Night (46 page)

pocket.

‘And am I truly wrong, then, my dear?’ The question was asked quietly, almost

plaintively.

‘Wrong, father?’

‘Wrong to think you cherish a secret regard for Mr Phoebus Daunt.’

‘Have I not said so? Dearest father . . .’ Here she reached forward and took his

hand in hers. ‘How can you think I could deceive you? I cherish no particular regard for

Mr Daunt, other than what is due to a neighbour and a childhood friend. If you believe

otherwise, than you are mistaken. And if you force me to be frank, then I will confess that

I do not like Mr Daunt, though I will always be civil to him, for his father’s sake. If you

have mistaken civility for affection, then I am sorry, but I really cannot be blamed.’

She was smiling now, and what father could have resisted such a smile? And so

Mr Carteret kissed his daughter and said he was a foolish old man to think she could ever

go against him. Then a thought seemed to strike him.

‘But, my dear,’ he asked anxiously, ‘you will want to get married, I suppose,

some not very distant day?’

‘Perhaps I shall,’ she said gently. ‘But not yet papa, not yet.’

‘And not to him, my dear.’

‘No, papa. Not to him.’

He nodded, kissed her again, and wished her good-night. As he turned the corner

of the passage that led to his bedchamber, Mrs Rowthorn, with Lizzie Brine in tow,

quietly returned to the kitchen.

This, then, is a true and accurate record, or as true and accurate as I am able to

make it, of what passed that night between Mr Paul Carteret and his daughter.

But was anything left unsaid? And were there secrets in each heart that neither

could tell to the other?

27:

Ad idem?

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Entering the house by the kitchen door, I came upon Susan Rowthorn deep in

conversation with the cook, Mrs Barnes.

‘Will you take some food in your room, sir?’ asked the housekeeper.

‘I’ll take some food, certainly,’ I replied, ‘but I’ll take it here with you, if I may.’

My gallantry having produced its desired affect, I left the two women to their

preparations while I returned to my room to replenish the supply of cigars I usually keep

about my person.

At the foot of the staircase, I stopped.

Just inside the front door stood a black leather imperial,? together with three or

four smaller bags. Someone leaving? Or someone visiting? I noted the initials on the lid

of the trunk: ‘M-MB’. A visitor, I concluded. Another question for Mrs Rowthorn.

Having resupplied myself with cigars from my bag, I returned to the kitchen,

noticing en route that the drawing-room door, which had been shut when I was

examining the trunk, was now open. Naturally I peeped inside, but the room was empty,

although my nose, which is sensitive to such things, caught a faint and intriguing scent of

lavender lingering on the air.

The meal prepared by Mrs Barnes was a hearty one and, after my excursion to the

Temple and the ride back in the landau with Miss Carteret, most welcome. I sat by the

fire, allowing Mrs Rowthorn full rein, for an hour or more. What she told me, as I tucked

in to a chop with two broiled kidneys, lubricated with a generous go of gin-punch and

followed up by a slice of most excellent apple pie, I have incorporated into the preceding

account. One question only remained.

‘I suppose Miss Carteret is engaged with her visitors?’

‘Oh, only one visitor, sir,’ offered Mrs Rowthorn. ‘Miss Buisson.’

‘Ah, yes. A relative, perhaps?’

‘No, sir, a friend. From her Paris days. John Brine has just gone to take her things

up to her room. What a shock for her, poor lamb, to get here at last and find us all in such

a state.’

I asked whether Miss Buisson had known Mr Carteret, to which Mrs Rowthorn

replied that Miss Buisson had paid many visits to England, and that she had been a

particular favourite of her late master’s.

‘I suppose Miss Carteret must have many friends of her own sex in the

neighbourhood,’ I ventured.

‘Friends?’ came the answer. ‘Well, yes, you could say so. Miss Langham, and Sir

Hyde Teasedale’s girl; but, strange to say, no one like Miss Buisson.’

‘How so?’

‘Inseparable, sir. That is the word I should use. Like sisters, they are when

together, though of course so unlike in looks.’ She shook her head. ‘No. Miss has no

other friend like Miss Buisson.’

As I was about to leave, John Brine came down the hall stairs. He coloured

slightly on seeing me, but I quickly diverted the ladies’ attention by knocking over my

third (or was it fourth?) glass of gin-punch. Apologizing for my clumsiness, I made good

my escape.

Back in my room, I lit another cigar, kicked off my boots, and lay down on my

bed.

I felt sick and uneasy. A surfeit of gin-punch and too many cigars, no doubt.

Though I was exhausted, my mind was unquiet, harassed with commotion, and sleep

seemed impossible.

I began to think of Bella, and what she would be doing. Tonight, I knew, there

was to have been a dinner at Blithe Lodge for one of the most distinguished members of

The Academy, the Earl of B—. The best silver would be out, and Mrs D. would be

resplendent in garnet and ormolu, and sporting the remarkable peacock-feathered

headdress that she always wore on such occasions, as signifying her elevated position in

the body politic of The Academy. I imagined Bella wearing her blue silk dress, her

favourite Castellani necklace? encircling her wonderful neck, a wreath of white artificial

rose-buds nestling in her abundant black hair. The company would ask her to play and

sing, and of course she would charm every man there – some would even half believe

they were in love with her.

Tomorrow I would return to London, no wiser concerning the nature of Mr

Carteret’s discovery than when I came to Northamptonshire, but certain that it had

brought about his death. And if the Tansor succession was at the heart of the business,

then this could mean that I, too, was caught up in the web that had so fatally ensnared

him.

I closed my eyes, but still the sleep I craved for eluded me. I remained in this state

for perhaps an hour, half awake, half dozing, until the striking of the gate-house clock

roused me. Now fully alert, and as far from sleep as ever, I was considering what to do

with myself when my ears caught a strange sound. I thought perhaps it might be the wind,

but on looking out of the window again I could see that the branches of the trees in the

Plantation were barely moving. Silence descended once more, but in a few moments it

came again – an urgent whimpering, such as I have heard dogs make in their sleep.

I rose and put my boots on. Candle in hand, I opened the door.

The passage outside my room was dark, the house deathly silent. To my right was

the main staircase leading down to the vestibule; ahead, the passage ran almost the length

of the house. On my left I made out two doors, leading I presumed to rooms that, like

mine, overlooked the front lawn; another room opposite – which I later learned was Mr

Carteret’s study – clearly gave onto the gardens at the rear. As I proceeded slowly down

the passage I saw that, at the far end, it made a turn to the right, towards the back of the

house. The walls, between the candle sconces, were lined with family portraits and a

handsome armorial map of the county, by Valk and Schenk after Janssonius.?

For a few moments I stood listening intently, but there was no sound to be heard,

and so I began to retrace my steps a little more rapidly. To prevent the flickering flame

from being extinguished, I cupped my hand around the candle, which immediately

produced huge shadow-fingers that slid silently across the walls and doors on either side

as I passed. Then, as I reached the second of the doors on the front side of the house, I

heard it again: like a soft, involuntary moan. Placing the candle-holder on the floor I knelt

down, my boots creaking slightly. The key-hole had a little brass cover but it was fixed

fast; and so I put my ear to the door.

Silence. I waited, hardly daring to draw breath. What was that? A rustling noise,

like a silken garment falling to the floor; a moment later, I began to catch what sounded

like fragments of a whispered conversation. I strained to hear what was being said,

pressing my ear closer to the door, and squinting my eyes in concentration; but I could

make nothing out until —

‘Mais il est mort. Mort! Il brise mon coeur!’

No longer a whisper, but an anguished cry – her cry! Then, tenderly urgent, came

the reply from another voice:

‘Soyez calme, mon ange! Personne sait.’

Again the conversation subsided to a whisper on both sides, and only

occasionally, when one or the other of the speakers raised their voice a little, was I able to

catch more than a word or two.

— Il ne devrait pas s'être produit . . .

— Qu’a-t-il dit ? . . .

— Qu’est-ce que je pourrais faire? . . . Je ne pourrais pas lui dire la vérité . . .

— Mais que fera-t-il ? . . .

–– Il dit qu'il lui trouvera . . .

— Mon Dieu, qu’est-ce que c’est que ça??

In moving my position a little way, to ease the cramp in my leg, I had knocked the

candle-holder over, putting out the flame in the process. Instantly, I heard footsteps inside

the room hurrying towards the door. There was no time to return to my own room, and

so, picking up the candle-holder, I ran as quickly as I could back down the passage,

reaching the point at the far end where it turned sharply towards the rear part of the house

just as the door opened.

I could not see them, but I imagined two frightened faces peering out and

anxiously looking up and down the passage. At length, I heard the door being closed, and

a few moments later I ventured my head round the angle of the wall to confirm that the

coast was clear.

Back in my room, I immediately sat down and wrote out as much of the

conversation between Miss Carteret and her friend as I could remember. Like a scholar

working on fragments of some ancient text, I sought to fill in the lacunae to make sense

of what I had heard, but without success: my incomplete and disconnected transcriptions

– set out above – refused to yield up their secrets. I gave it up, convinced now that I was

seeing mystery and conspiracy where there was none, then walked to the window to look

out once again on the moonlit garden.

Miss Carteret, Miss Carteret! I was completely, preposterously, bewitched by my

beautiful cousin, though I hated myself for the absurdity of it all. Two days – only two

days. It is mere infatuation, I told myself yet again. Forget her. You have Bella, who is

everything you could want or need. Why expend precious time on this cold thing, time

that ought to be given to the accomplishment of your great enterprise? But whoever heeds

the voice of reason when love whispers, softly persuasive, in the other ear? I had heard

her laugh – I had made her laugh – and I had felt her sweet breath on my face. She was a

woman, like other women. There were frailties and desires, immured from view, behind

that cold stare. Surely they could be uncovered?

I was awoken early by Mrs Rowthorn knocking at my door with a tray of

breakfast, as I had requested.

On descending to the vestibule half an hour later, I looked into the dining-room,

and then into the two reception rooms at the front of the house; but there was no sign of

either Miss Carteret or her friend, Mademoiselle Buisson. A little French clock on the

mantelpiece was chiming half-past seven o’clock as I opened the front door and stepped

out into a cold, dull morning.

I was drawing deeply on my first cigar of the day, in the hope that strong tobacco

would have the required stimulative effect on my sluggish faculties, when Brine brought

my horse round from the stable-yard. He wished me a safe journey and I asked if he had

seen Miss Carteret that morning.

‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Not this morning. She gave orders to my sister that she would

be late coming down, and that she was not to be disturbed.’

‘Please give Miss Carteret my compliments.’

‘I will, sir.’

‘You have the address safe that I gave you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

I mounted up, and was riding off under the dark echoing arch of the Scottish

gate-house when I reined in my mount. Turning the horse, I galloped back into the Park.

Pushing on up the long incline, and through the avenue of oaks at its summit, I

pulled up and looked down across the misty river to where Evenwood lay.

It was a day of lead-grey louring cloud, with a cold east wind sighing through the

trees; yet even on such a day, my heart was captivated by the bewitching beauty of the

house – this place of desire and delights. When would the day come that I would enter it

as Master, and my feet stand secure within its gates at last?

As I passed the Rectory gates I saw Dr and Mrs Daunt, arm in arm, walking up

the lane from the church. On seeing me, the Rector stopped and raised his hat in salute,

which gesture I returned in kind. His wife, however, immediately disengaged her arm and

walked off alone towards the Rectory.