Michael Cox (16 page)

II
Madame de l’Orme to Miss Esperanza Gorst

LETTER 2

Maison de l’Orme
Avenue d’Uhrich, Paris

MY DEAREST CHILD,—
Yr letters are the greatest comfort to me. I keep them by me constantly, & re-read them as often as I can. For I, too, need to take courage; & with yr own example before me – so brave! so strong! – I am better able to ask of you what must be asked. Mr Thornhaugh also sends to say that he has nothing but the highest admiration for the way you are conducting yourself under the exacting circumstances in which you have been placed. I worry constantly about you, dear child, but Mr Thornhaugh has been a great support to me, having an unshakeable confidence in you, from which you too should take comfort and strength.
In yr last, you begged me again to reveal our ultimate ambition. It would be prudent to wait just a little longer before doing so, until yr relations with Lady T are firmly established. But I promise you, dear child, that I shall satisfy you on every particular, as fully and as clearly as I can, in my third letter, before the year is out.
I have said that yr mistress is yr enemy. You shall now know what more she truly is.
She is a deceiver, a liar, a betrayer of hearts; a faithless, false-hearted usurper; a complicit party to the most heinous crime imaginable.
You may reasonably ask, accepting that what I say is true, what bearing it has on the Great Task.
Be assured, dearest child, that injury & injustice have been done to you by this woman, who now calls herself yr mistress. I cannot say more – yet – for fear, as I have said, of jeopardizing yr position, before you have completely secured yr mistress’s regard. And so I must submit to patience, as you must.
Mark but this. Lady T’s present condition – the state of material and social grace that she has enjoyed for so long – is founded on duplicity, treachery – & worse. Proof – substantive & legally unanswerable – of her transgressions is what, for the moment, is lacking, but which I hope you will eventually help discover. By securing such documents, yr own interests will be served in ways that you cannot possibly imagine.
And now to a more immediate matter: Mr Armitage Vyse.
Yr news concerning this gentleman interests me greatly. As you guessed, he was undoubtedly the author of the highly prejudiced memorial to Mr Phoebus Daunt that I sent you. From enquiries that Mr Thornhaugh has managed to make, we know him to be a barrister, of Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn, although he gave up his practice several years ago, & now lives as an independent gentleman. We know also that he was introduced to Mr Phoebus Daunt by a mutual friend – this provided the connexion with yr mistress (Miss Carteret, as she then was). He began to pay regular visits to Evenwood after the death of his friend Daunt, and these appear to have increased following the demise of Colonel Zaluski. We know further that Lady T has been to his chambers in Old Square several times in recent months. Legal business does not seem to be the reason for their continuing intercourse, for Lady T now retains the firm of Orr & Son of Gray’s Inn, whose Principal, Mr Donald Orr, was formerly a partner in Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr, the family’s previous legal advisers. It might have been expected that Lady T, on succeeding to the Barony, would have continued the family’s long association with Tredgolds; but instead she appointed the new firm of Orr & Son, established after a dispute arose between Mr Donald Orr and Mr Christopher Tredgold.
We must naturally ask ourselves what business Mr Armitage Vyse is conducting with Lady T at present, when she has the services of Orr & Son ready to hand Mr Thornhaugh is of the opinion that a little more delving is required, through the agency of friends & former associates in London. For yr part, any further intelligence on Mr V’s present relationship with yr mistress shd be sent to me immediately, & of course noted down in yr Book.
And so I must finish. Write soon, my dearest, for we ache to hear yr news, & to know that yr resolve is as firm as ever. Take every possible care, and believe that I shall always be,
Ever yr devoted,
M.

10

Dark House Lane

I
The Locket

I
T WAS
half past five by the carriage-clock on my mantel-piece: time enough to go down to the steward’s room to take a little breakfast before dressing my Lady in preparation for our departure for London.
My head was still full of Madame’s second co-called Letter of Instruction, which I had found as exasperating as the first in frustrating my desire for specific and definite guidance on how I should proceed in the Great Task.
I had been asked to expose my Lady to the world for what she truly was. And what was she? According to Madame, a deceiver, a liar, a betrayer of hearts, a faithless usurper – and much worse. Yet I could not see how the proof that would substantiate these accusations could be obtained. What was it? Where might it be found? Even if such proof were uncovered, how would the destruction of my Lady’s character and reputation serve my own interests?
Once again, I had no choice but to accept Madame’s words, opposing doubt and confusion with unquestioning duty and blind trust. I was resolved. Two Letters of Instruction had been received; the third was still awaited. If it did not make everything finally and unequivocally clear, then I would abandon the whole business and return to the Avenue d’Uhrich to face the consequences. In the meantime, having come thus far, and – I blush a little to admit it – continuing to find the prospect of adventure and intrigue rather thrilling (for which I unhesitatingly blame Mr Wilkie Collins), I would do my utmost to fulfil the one explicit instruction in Madame’s second letter: to search for documents, if they existed, that would help prise out my Lady’s secrets.

ON COMING INTO the servants’ hall, the first person I saw was Sukie, sitting alone and sipping a mug of tea. Two other servants, neither of whom I knew by name, were talking together in the far corner, but took no notice of me as I entered. Glancing towards the steward’s room, expecting Mr Pocock or Mr Applegate to be there, I saw that it was empty.
It had been a week since I had told Charlie Skinner that I wished to speak with his cousin, but I had heard nothing from her, nor had I seen her about the house. As I came into the hall, she looked up.
‘Oh Miss Alice!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m so glad to see you!’ At which she burst into tears.
‘Sukie, dear, whatever’s the matter?’
I hurried to sit down beside her, and put my arm around her shoulders.
‘Mother’s been very poorly,’ she sobbed, ‘but was taken especially bad yesterday morning. Dr Pordage came in the afternoon, but says she may not see out the week. I’ve been that worried, Miss Alice, I can’t tell you. And then Charlie said you wanted to speak with me, but Mrs Battersby sent me to help Kate Warboys clear out the attic in the East Wing, which has taken us all week, what with everything else, and it isn’t done yet, and then—’
‘Hush, dear,’ I said, tucking one of her disobedient curls back under her cap, and reaching into my pocket for my handkerchief to dry her tears. ‘It’s of no consequence. What I wished to ask you can wait.’
At last she began to recover a little of her usual sunny temper. Then, the great clock that hung over the fire-place striking a quarter to seven, she suddenly jumped up, saying that she must start her work before Mrs Battersby began her morning round of inspection and instruction, which she did on the stroke of seven.
‘We are leaving for London today, Sukie,’ I said, ‘as I’m sure you know; but I shall come and find you when we return – and I hope, with all my heart, that Dr Pordage is wrong, and that your mother will be well and truly recovered by then.’
After Sukie had gone, I barely had time to butter myself a slice of bread, and pour out half a cup of strong tea from the pot that Sukie had brewed for herself, before I too had to run upstairs as fast as I could, in order to be at my Lady’s door for seven o’clock.
When I had finished dressing her, and had performed all the other necessary morning duties, she asked me to bring her the box containing the tear-shaped locket from the dressing-table.
‘I promised that I would satisfy your curiosity concerning this locket, Alice,’ she said, ‘and am minded to do so now.’
‘Yes, my Lady. As you wish.’
She sat down, placed the box in her lap, and took out the locket on its black velvet band. When she pressed a little catch, the locket’s silver face opened, to reveal a strand of thick, dark hair curled tightly inside.
‘This,’ she whispered, with awful solemnity, ‘was taken from the head of Mr Phoebus Daunt, after he had been murdered. Does that shock you?’
‘Why should it shock me, my Lady?’ I replied. ‘I believe you were once engaged to the gentleman. To keep such a memento by you seems a most natural and commendable thing to do.’
‘I am glad you think so,’ she said, closing the locket; ‘but you do not fully understand, Alice. I cut it from his head myself, even as his life-blood still stained the snow on which he lay. I saw what had been done to him, with my own eyes; and the sight has never left me. It continues to rob me of healthful sleep, and yet I have put this locket on every day since, even when I was married to my late husband, Colonel Zaluski, in commemoration of that terrible event. Do you not find that strange, Alice? To yearn to be free of the perpetual recollection of that night, and yet to enforce constant remembrance of it on myself?’
She sat, staring down at the locket, her hands shaking. Then she looked up.
‘And so I continue to wear it; and it is such a strict rule of mine that no one else –
no one
– shall ever touch it, or what it contains. You will respect that rule, I know, Alice.’
‘Of course, my Lady. But it’s a beautiful piece of work, and looks so well on you.’
With a gratified expression, she told me that the locket had been commissioned specially for her by the late Lord Tansor.
‘His Lordship became almost like a father to me, after the tragedy. His exceptional consideration towards me – my own father having been so cruelly taken from me – is something I shall never forget; and so I wear the locket also in remembrance of him, to whom I owe so much. And now, Alice, we must rouse ourselves. The carriage will soon be here.’
She rose from her chair with a sudden rush of energy, and went over to her dressing-mirror. Placing the locket round her neck, she then turned to face me.
‘There,’ she smiled. ‘My daily duty is done, and I am ready to face the world.’

II
In Grosvenor Square

THE CONFIDENCES THAT Lady Tansor had shared with me concerning the locket encouraged me greatly, for they demonstrated that I was already succeeding in securing my mistress’s trust, despite her capriciousness and abrupt changes of mood.
The carriage that was to take us to catch the express-train from Peterborough was brought round to the front door at eight o’clock. Mr Perseus Duport was already walking up and down the Entrance Court, pocket-watch in hand, and showing every sign of impatience, when my Lady and I came down the steps.
‘Ah, there you are at last, Mother,’ he cried, striding over to the carriage. ‘Well, let’s be off.’
We took our places and soon left Evenwood Park – still submerged beneath a sea of mist – behind us.
During the whole journey from Peterborough, Mr Perseus remained immersed in reading and correcting the manuscript of his poem, which he had taken out of his bag as soon as we had boarded the train. My Lady, by contrast, although she had provided herself with a book, seemed eagerly disposed to engage in conversation, and was soon asking me once again about my upbringing in Paris, where she too had lived for several years.
Madame had coached me most thoroughly in anticipation of such enquiries, and my Lady listened attentively as I recounted the little fiction that I had committed to memory, concerning ‘Madame Bertaud’, the supposed English-born widow of a Lyons silk merchant, whom Madame imagined had been the childhood companion of my dead mother.
‘And have you no recollection of either of your parents?’ my Lady asked.
‘None, my Lady. They had come to Paris, I believe, just a short time before I was born, although they knew no one there but Madame Bertaud. My mother died when I was too young to remember her; and then, after her death, my father went away – I’ve never been told why, or where. I only know that he died in 1862, and that he is buried next to my mother, in the Cemetery of St-Vincent.’
It had been Mr Thornhaugh’s suggestion to leaven our invention with a little judicious truth, against the chance that enquiries might be made by some agent of Lady Tansor’s. In this event, the graves of my mother and father would be found just where I had said they were.
‘And did your father follow a profession of any kind?’
Again, I was prepared.
‘He was a gentleman of independent means. That is all I know of him.’
‘And what of your mother? You say that she and your guardian were old friends.’
‘Yes, my Lady. They grew up together. I believe she introduced my mother and father to each other.’
Still the questions came, and still I met every one with a confident and plausible answer. At last, apparently satisfied that she had informed herself sufficiently on my history, my Lady took up her book once more, and began to read; but after only a short time, she looked across at me to ask whether Mr Thornhaugh still resided in my guardian’s house.
‘Yes, my Lady. My guardian insisted that he should retain his rooms there, so that he might continue his researches.’
‘But I suppose he has not been your tutor, as such, for some time?’
I replied that he had become more like an older friend, with whom I could converse freely, and on whose knowledge and advice I could always depend.
‘And will he come to visit you at Evenwood, do you think? I should so like to meet him.’
I said I thought that such a prospect was an unlikely one, as Mr Thornhaugh was reclusive by nature.
‘But could he not be persuaded, by some inducement, to forgo his eremitical existence, for just a very little while? The Library, now: that would tempt a man of books, would it not? But how thoughtless of me! Perhaps he is an elderly gentleman?’
‘No, not elderly, my Lady.’
‘Of what age, then?’
‘I am not quite certain, my Lady. Perhaps five and fifty.’
‘Not elderly at all, then, as you say. About my own age, indeed. So let us see whether the fascinating Mr Thornhaugh can be drawn out of his lair by the idea of exploring our celebrated Library at his leisure. Will you write to him, on my behalf? Your guardian, Madame Bertraud, would be most welcome to join him.’
I shamelessly thanked her for her kind invitation, and said that I would convey it to ‘Madame Bertaud’ and Mr Thornhaugh. Of course I had no intention of doing so, and could not understand why my Lady appeared so desirous of making the acquaintance of my tutor and my imaginary guardian.
All this time, although I was sensible of occasional guarded glances in my direction, which I affected not to notice, Mr Perseus had been perusing his manuscript in concentrated silence. Only when we reached the outskirts of the metropolis did he at last put his papers away, remove the stub of pencil with which he had been making corrections from his mouth, and look about him.
‘Well,’ he said, turning to his mother, ‘I believe it will do.’
‘Do!’ exclaimed my Lady, with all the indignance of a doting mother. ‘Of course it will do. You are too modest, Perseus dear. It’s a work of the highest merit, and you know it. Mr Freeth will know it, too, as soon as he reads it.’
Then, to me:
‘Mr Freeth is the principal director of a new publishing firm, Freeth & Hoare, with great ambitions. He has been recommended to us as a man of the highest acumen and taste, who wishes to establish his firm as a publisher of the very best up-and-coming poets. Perseus, we are confident, will be one of the first such to have his work published by the firm.’
At the London terminus we were met by carriage and taken on to Grosvenor Square. After unpacking and hanging up her gowns, I was given leave by my Lady to inspect the accommodation that I had been allotted – a small but airy room on the third floor, looking southwards over the square. There I unpacked my own little case with a gay heart, feeling glad to be in the heart of a great city once more, although it was not the city I knew and loved.
An hour or so later, I was sent for by my Lady.
‘My son and I shall be leaving shortly, Alice, to meet Mr Freeth at his premises in Leadenhall Street. I then have a little business of my own to conduct. I shall not need you to accompany us; and so, if you wish, you may go out – but be back by five o’clock. And, Alice, make sure you are not late again. We dine at seven.’
Liberty! My heart leaped at the prospect. I had seen a little of London, during my stay with Mrs Ridpath; but to have the freedom to explore the greatest city on earth on my own was intoxicating.
Where should I go? What sights should I see first? To the shops in Regent Street? To St Paul’s, perhaps, or to Whitehall, to see where poor King Charles was murdered; or to view the pictures at the National Gallery? Then I thought I might go instead to the British Museum, for there I could fill many pages in my note-book with glorious facts.
As I considered the many tempting possibilities, however, the sterner voice of Duty began to whisper in my ear, telling me to use the time usefully, and not fritter it away on my own pleasure.
Thus I resolved to put my own inclinations aside. No shops, no sights. Instead, trusting to fortune, I would pay a visit to Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn.