White Stone Day (27 page)

battlefield upon which I fight my tormenters. Such tortured
admissions are inevitably followed by a mathematical problem and its
solution, as though he were seeking escape. A triangular
billiard–table has 3 pockets, one in each corner, one of which
will hold only one ball, while each of the others will hold two.
There are 230 ST AMBROSE COLLEGE, OXFORD 3 balls on the table, each
containing a single coin. The table is tilted up, so that the balls
run into one corner, it is not known which. The expectation as to the
contents of the pocket is is. 6d. What are the coins? In other
entries, again and again the writer sounds a note of petulant
complaint: Miss Pouch has dictated that I may not kiss the girls more
than once each half–hour. The impudence. Leading to the same
melancholy conclusion: I'd give all wealth that toil hath piled The
bitter fruit of life's decay To be once more a little child For one
short sunny day. All men are egotists in Whitty's opinion, yet the
condition takes specific forms. Some dream of an impossible
greatness; some dream of an impossible holiness; Boltbyn's egotism
takes the form of an impossible innocence – a childhood no
child ever knew. 231

46

Bissett
Grange, Oxfordshire Emma can see that her governess has been in a
vexed frame of mind since she absented herself from Father's funeral.
Therefore it would only aggravate the situation were she to mention
her chat with the falcon – for it is really not the thing, to
speak about one's private life to a stranger. And yet, when an adult
lends his full attention to what one has to say, the occurrence is
sufficiently rare that it is a close–mouthed child who refrains
from telling all. Now Miss Pouch has decided that the two of them
must take the air, with a stroll around the magnificent flower–beds
that decorate the carriage–sweep, before retiring to prayers.
(Lydia has gone to bed with a fever – the entire episode has
been too much for her.) To Emma it seems that, whether in a garden or
a funeral, flowers are an important part of life and death. Tomorrow,
she will suggest to Mr Boltbyn that they stage a contest in flower
arrangement, for the imaginary services of people they know. She is
about to mention it to Miss Pouch, when the governess fixes her nose
towards an emerging puff of dust – a hackney coach, rattling up
the elm–avenue. 'Who would come to call at this hour –
and at such a speed?' asks Miss Pouch. 'I hope it is Mr Boltbyn,'
says Emma. 'He might brighten things up.' If nothing else, she would
ask him about her father's funeral. She has always found it tiresome,
making solemn conversation on solemn occasions, and this is the most
solemn occasion she has experienced. Looking ahead to the months of
compulsory mourning, she wonders how she will endure it: mornings at
catechism, afternoons with the Book of Common Prayer, and the
in–between moments contemplating the exemplary life of the
father she never really knew. The coach pulls up the carriage–sweep
and stops abruptly amid a cloud of dust, a groaning of axles, and a
chorus of whinnying from the horses as the reins are pulled taut.
Immediately the door opens and a gentleman climbs down hurriedly –
it is Mr Boltbyn; yet Emma s delight quickly gives way to concern,
for his expression is not one that she has seen before, and when his
eyes fall upon her they contain none of the usual warmth. 232 BISSETT
GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE 'Mr Boltbyn! I am ever so glad to see you, sir,
and expect that Miss Lydia would agree, though she is in bed . . .'
'That is very well, Miss Emma, but this concerns another matter,
please excuse me.' And before she can reply, he is halfway up the
steps. 'Sir, I have always thought we were friends, and ask that you
explain this curtness,' Emma calls after him. The vicar stops with
one foot on the top step: 'I shall explain it, Miss Emma, when I
understand it myself.' With that, he proceeds to knock upon the door
forcefully with his stick. While a footman unlatches the door, he
turns to her, and his taut expression has become downright grim. 'Mr
Boltbyn, your face is like that of a ghost,' she says. 'Have you seen
a ghost?' comes the rejoinder. 'Somehow I think that you have.'
Before she can reply, the door opens and the footman glowers down
upon them; the vicar pushes past him without a word. 'I find Mr
Boltbyn's behaviour most singular,' says Miss Pouch. 'Perhaps he has
seen a ghost,' replies Emma. She lies swaddled in a rosewood bed,
with an enormous eagle perched over her head, and crowns on all four
posts that would suit an oriental emperor. The ceiling has been
decorated with painted dolphins, and there are similar fish made of
plaster over the door–frames. In an alcove across the room, is
a bath shaped like an enormous coal– scuttle, supported by
marble cupids with trumpets in their mouths, set upon a Turkey
carpet. In the bath is her lover, asleep. Why, she wonders, are the
fish in the sky and the cupids on the bath? Shouldn't it be the other
way around? And how innocent he looks! Curled up like a child, under
a sheet, stretched across the bath to keep in the heat. She could
love him always, if he would only remain in that state. Watching him,
she recalls the French revolutionary Marat, who died in his bath, and
under a sheet. How vulnerable he too must have appeared, though in
his waking hours he murdered thousands. And for Charlotte Corday,
what a test it must have been, to slay the man and the child at the
same time. When a woman forms an association with a man, it is
understood that she sleeps when he does, wakes when he wakes –
a scarcely noticeable concession for most people; yet how different
it is, to accommodate oneself to the schedule of a nobleman. Danbury
wakes 233 WHITE STONE DAY when his eyes open, sleeps when he is
tired, and in–between he does precisely what he feels like
doing – and his entire establishment patterns itself
accordingly. Including his mistress. It is barely sunset, and the
duke is sound asleep, and Birdie must pretend, though she is no
closer to sleeping than she is to the moon. But if she were to stir,
and he awoke, it would be tantamount to treason. At first, he seemed
a miracle of supernatural proportions. His breeding, dignity,
manners, the luxury of his surroundings, his effortless power,
enveloped her like a laudanum dream, a delirious pleasure she never
dared imagine. In her dream, they stood in a chariot side by side,
while he drove the plunging horses into eternity. Now the giddy sense
of limitlessness has begun to affect her in other ways. The
photographs. At first she thought it was an artistic whim; a matter
of indulging a taste peculiar to his class, a harmless indulgence
like spanking. But as she stood there in her nakedness, with a rope
about her throat, while watching his ardent response, she began to
suspect something deeper. What did he see when he looked at her
through that lens – was it she? Was it anyone like her? Why
would a man wish to see his lover with a rope about her throat?
Beyond the photography and play–acting, he does not appear to
enjoy anything much. When she attempts to talk to him about one thing
or another, he becomes stony and dignified; and looks straight
through her as though she were made of water. Despite a tendency to
dreaminess, by nature and upbringing Birdie's mind turns to practical
matters. Now that Mr Lambert is dead, who will care for her daughters
and herself? 'Of course there is the probability that one day I shall
have to marry,' he once said, as though it were an afterthought to a
casual conversation. 'These days, some do not see the necessity,' she
replied, as though she ever knew anyone who did such a thing. 'But I
must. For the line, you see. For the house and the land.' 'Of
course.' In truth, she had no idea how these things connected. 'Don't
look cross. You and the girls shall be provided for.' 'But when they
are grown and I am old and withered, why should you provide for me
then?' 'Because – and I have said this to you before –
you are under my protection.' This answer satisfied her, for the
moment; yet what does it mean, to 234 BISSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE be
under someone's protection? What does he wish to protect her from?
And who will protect her from him? Mr Lambert was at least
predictable. She knew what he was capable of, and what he was not.
Absorbed in these uneasy thoughts, Birdie at first does not hear the
knocking upon the door, then assumes it to be a servant's mistake.
Eventually, the knocking becomes so insistent that the duke begins to
stir, causing an uneasy rippling beneath the sheet. 'Your Grace!
Harry! There has been an unforeseen development! You must come at
once!' It is the voice of Mr Lush; but not the unctuous purr he
normally affects – in fact, it is almost a command. The duke
opens his eyes. 'What sort of development?' he calls back. 'And why
the devil are you bothering me with it?' 'Boltbyn has arrived, in a
deuce of a snit.' 'Why should I give a damn?' 'He is claiming all
sorts of rubbish. He demands to see you at once.' 'Turn him out. Set
the Irish on him, they do little enough as it is.' T think you should
speak to him, Harry. I really think you should.' It is the first time
Birdie has heard Danbury's familiar name spoken aloud by Albin Lush,
and she wonders what gives him the right. Seated at his
drinking–table wearing his red silk dressing–gown,
Danbury takes a measure of medicinal powder to counter the impudence
of his estate manager, then turns his chair to face the windows
overlooking the lawn. Swinging his left leg over the arm, he trims a
cigar and puts it in his mouth; instantly Lush supplies a lucifer.
'An unfortunate detail seems to have come to light, your Grace. It
has to do with the name Eliza.' The estate manager scratches the
backs of his hands, noting that the rash, like the danger, appears to
be spreading. What a relief it will be when he is out of this for
good! 'The name means nothing to me, I am afraid. Why?' 'Is your
Grace certain of that?' 'Confound it, are we to play guessing games?'
Lush enunciates carefully, as though addressing a halfwit. 'Think
back, Harry, it was not so very long ago. The subject of the last lot
of photographs went by the name of Eliza.' 23 5 WHITE STONE DAY 'Ah
yes, nasty business, best forgotten. Why the deuce are you bothering
me with it now?' 'Somehow or other, Boltbyn has got wind of the name
Eliza, and he is in quite a state. I advise you to . . . cheer him
up.' 'He can go to the devil. Cheer him up yourself.' 'Your Grace's
cavalier bearing is, if I may say so, inappropriate to your position.
Whitty has taken a room in town. After the incident in London, he is
set on uncovering the business of his brother. In doing so he seems
to have taken an interest in the late precentor – and Mr
Boltbyn as well. This trend must be stopped at once, Harry, surely
you can see that.' 'Confound it, you were to have seen to the
newspaperman ages ago. I paid out a small fortune on that score.'
'That is beside the point now, Harry. The point is, the danger, now
that he is in Oxford – especially after what happened to the
Reverend Lambert.' 'How so? The Reverend is dead. I attended the
funeral.' 'Rumours linger to the effect that the precentor died by
hanging, that it was a case of disguised suicide. Well and good, but
Whitty might well see it otherwise – given what he witnessed at
Buckingham Gate. He is unlikely to see it as a coincidence, don't you
see? He is bound to dig in.' 'Shoot him, then. Have you no
imagination? Bring him here and shoot him as an intruder. An instance
of mistaken identity.' 'Yes, your Grace – and shall we shoot Mr
Boltbyn as well? Try to remember, Harry, we are not in London. And
the situation is further complicated by your enthusiasm for the
mother. Now is not the time for a scandal.' 'Don't make yourself more
disagreeable than nature obliges you, Lush. For one in my position,
rumour and speculation are a fact of life.' 'Damn you, Harry, do you
think I care about your reputation? It is Whitty I am talking about.'
'Your impertinence is staggering, Lush. The proper thing for you is
to take my wishes as a matter of course – and my wish regarding
Whitty is clear. You may go.' Lush speaks to Danbury as though to a
child – one whose head he would like to place in the fire.
'Harry, I want you to imagine a magnificent house, with good riding
horses, good dinners and good brandy, supported and maintained with
the least possible effort. That is your situation, sir, we have
created it together. But the house is under threat. A rodent has
entered the 236 BISSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE premises, a rat with a
purpose, a persistent nature, and sharp little teeth 'Oh, stop it,
will you? Really, this is the most inane conversation in the world.'
'Harry, I demand that you speak to Mr Boltbyn, immediately. Otherwise
I shall have no more to do with the business, do you hear me? I shall
take myself elsewhere, and your Grace will be on your own.' Indeed,
thinks Lush, that is exactly what he intends to do. Danbury stands
and crosses to the window to survey the grounds. He takes so long to
reply that Lush wonders if he will speak at all. Feigning
indifference, Lush moves closer to the hearth and gazes up at the
Danbury ancestor over the mantel, while his fingers probe an itchy
spot in the nape of his neck. Everything has become damnably
complicated. He feels like a juggler, with one too many knives in the
air. The duke's cigar–end lands in front of him in a shower of
sparks. 'Very well, damn you. Show him in. But you will oblige me by
remaining close at hand, in case he becomes a bore.' Pouring himself
a second brandy with his free hand, Danbury examines one of Boltbyn's
photographs – Emma as the beggar–girl, in a dress that
has been torn to reveal her small white shoulder. A brilliantly
suggestive piece of work. In fact it was this picture that inspired
Danbury to envision a kind of repertory company in which he would act
as impresario, with a secure cast of subjects and photographers, a
steady stream of profit – and no bodies to dispose of
afterward. Of course, nobody would dream that William Boltbyn, the
poet of childhood, might harbour the sensibilities of a Ruskin, or
any of the stunted legions who favour girls of that age, in that way.
But Danbury understands Boltbyn – more, he expects, than
Boltbyn does. He understood Boltbyn the moment he looked at the
photograph. Cheer Boltbyn up? What the man requires is to be put in
his proper place. Placing the photograph back in its drawer, he turns
to contemplate the portrait over the fireplace: no Danbury in history
has deferred to the willof anyone short of a duke. The duke is not
about to defer to a vicar. Knocking softly upon the door, the estate
manager appears. 'Will your Grace see Mr Boltbyn now?' 'I say, Lush,
there is a pistol missing from the wall.' 237 WHITE STONE DAY 'O'Day
took it out for cleaning, sir.' 'Bring it back at once. It looks like
the devil with one missing.' Rather than continue on the subject,
Lush steps aside to admit a dishevelled and trembling Boltbyn, then
retires to the bookcase, to scratch his neck and watch the
proceedings. For a full minute, Danbury regards the vicar as though
he were an animal at auction, and not a particularly valuable one at
that. For his part, the vicar stands unsteadily in the middle of the
Turkey carpet looking for all the world like the famous French
lunatic, released after forty years in a windowless cell. Unable to
withstand the silence, the vicar attempts to speak. 'It is m–
m–m–m–m–m–m–m–m–m . .
.' Danbury undertakes no response; he merely lifts his eyebrows
slightly, as though to say, If you can't spit it out, why are you
bothering me? Giving up on that particular consonant, Boltbyn stares
wide–eyed at the floor, as though he were looking past the
multiple jaws of Cerebus, down to the River Styx. Danbury strokes his
side–whiskers with an expression of mild concern. T beg your
pardon, sir?' 'M–m–m . . .' The duke crosses and
uncrosses his legs, then takes his handkerchief from his waistcoat
and trifles with it elegantly, while the motor of consonants
attempts, and fails, to produce a clear sentence. To Lush it is clear
that when Boltbyn entered the room to stand before that serene,
confident presence, he fell into a place where life as he knows it