Michael Cox (31 page)

J.M. PROUDFOOT & SONS QUALIFIED DRUGGISTS & CHEMISTS MARKET-SQUARE, EASTON

I knew that the brown-paper package contained an order that I had recently placed with Messrs Proudfoot for a bottle of Battley’s Drops
*
– a narcotic preparation my tutor had often taken to combat insomnia, and for which I had a particular use of my own in mind; and so I placed it unopened in the drawer of my writing-table. Then, when Sukie had gone, I turned my attention to the first package.
There was a brief note from Mrs Ridpath and, pinned to the first page of a sheaf of papers covered in shorthand, a letter from Mr Thornhaugh:
LITTLE QUEEN,—
In haste, I send herewith the promised extracts – in shorthand – from yr mother’s journal, which you should transcribe, read, & then destroy, along with these shorthand pages. I shall make no further remark on what you are about to read, except to say how much it gladdens Madame’s heart that she is able – at last – to lay yr mother’s very words before you.
Yr last to Madame cheered her greatly. That you have succeeded – so completely, & in such a short time – in securing Lady T’s affection & regard encourages her to believe that the business can now be concluded with complete success, & perhaps sooner than she had anticipated.
But do not, Little Queen, I implore you, take any unnecessary risks. Lady T remains a most dangerous and resourceful enemy, & her association with Mr V continues to trouble both of us. I have managed to make enquiries concerning this gentleman, through the agency of old London acquaintances, & the results do not encourage me to think that he is anything other than someone you should avoid at all costs; & as it is clear that he is in some sort of association with Lady T, you should regard him as another active foe to yr interests.
With respect to yr postscript, I can assure you that Madame’s final Letter of Instruction has been written & will be in yr hands on or by the last day of the year, as she promised. You will then know all.
Take the greatest care of yrself.
Yr affectionate old tutor,
B. THORNHAUGH
Locking my door, I began the task of transcribing the shorthand pages. When I had finished, long after completing my evening’s attendance on my Lady, I fell on my bed, exhausted, but in a state of the most intense exhilaration.
Here, then, are the first two extracts from my mother’s journal. Judge for yourself what I felt, as Mr Thornhaugh’s shorthand was transformed, word by word, into the living voice of Marguerite Alice Blantyre, later Mrs Edwin Gorst, whose body lay next to my father’s in the Cemetery of St-Vincent.

II
The Journal of Miss Marguerite Blantyre

EXTRACT 1: MEETING MR GORST
Quinta dos Alecrins
*
Funchal
17th September 1856
This evening we were given a most delightful welcome to Madeira by Mr George Murchison, an official in the English Consulate, at his charming villa situated a little way out of the city.
Papa, being distracted and grumpy, had not wished to go, which greatly displeased Mamma, and was the cause of some hot words between them; but of course he could not absolutely refuse, as the occasion was being given in our honour. It pains me so much to see how Papa has changed, and how he now stands constantly in Uncle James’s shadow. He could not have foreseen the failure of our estates in the West Indies; but Uncle James will not forgive him, and I fear he makes Papa daily conscious of his misfortune.
Nonetheless, last evening was a pleasant one. Our host, Mr Murchison, is a great addition to any such gathering, being ceaselessly convivial and desirous of pleasing his guests.
He introduced us to a number of distinguished residents of the island, amongst them Mr John Lazarus, a leading man in the shipping business here, and his companion, Mr Edwin Gorst, a striking individual of about thirty-five or thirty-six, I would say, although he has the look of a man of great experience who has lived twice as many years. He is staying for a time with Mr Lazarus, in the villa the latter purchased some years ago.
Mr Lazarus himself is an unaffected, four-square man, brown as a nutmeg, with kind, pale-blue eyes; a person, in short, whom it is impossible to dislike – at least
I
cannot imagine disliking him. My sister, of course, considered him excessively dull; but then Susanna is still dangerously young, and it is an article of her juvenile faith that a man possessing a steady, sensible, and dependable character is a species of blight upon the earth.
Mr Shillito was there. He has become a kind of demi-god in Fergus’s eyes, being furiously dedicated to his own whims and desires, as Fergus, in his own weaker way, is to his. To think that, for Papa’s sake, I must become the wife of my shallow, selfish cousin is sometimes more than I can bear; but it is the price – together with the assignation of my former expectations under grandmamma’s will – that Uncle James has exacted for sustaining us in the comfortable style to which we have been used, as well as for maintaining Papa’s position in the firm; and so for his sake, and for Mamma’s, I must put my own feelings for ever out of mind. Both Fergus and I are poor helpless captives who cannot live our own lives as we please, but must be bound to the will of our elders.
On the way home after the reception, we passed Mr Gorst walking up the hill near Mr Murchison’s villa. He stopped as our palanquin went by and, on an impulse, I leaned out and wished him good-night. For this I was mercilessly teased by Susanna, who kept enquiring – in that provoking way of hers – what Fergus would say; to which I could only reply that I did not much care what Cousin Fergus said or thought about an act of common courtesy. Susanna gave one of her dismissive snorts, which used to enrage Papa so much, but to which he no longer pays any heed, being perpetually weighed down by his broodings.
Yet perhaps Susanna had perceived something in my action that was not immediately apparent to me; for there is indeed a quality about Mr Gorst that intrigues and fascinates me, and which ought (I could admit this in only the privacy of my journal) to make a fiancé jealous, were that fiancé any other but Fergus Blantyre.
Mr Gorst was certainly most attentive towards me this evening, but in a quiet, natural way that put me immediately at my ease. He is tall, much taller than Fergus; and there is a look in his great dark eyes that speaks of suffering long borne, though with no trace of self-pity or resentment. They are beautiful, captivating eyes, and I find that I cannot stop thinking of them. Is this wrong of me? Perhaps it is; and perhaps my simple ‘Good-night’ signified something more than common courtesy after all.
Yet I doubt I shall see much more of Mr Edwin Gorst. His host, Mr Lazarus, is leaving for England soon, and will not be returning to Madeira for a month or two. While he is away, Mr Gorst will remain in his host’s villa; but, as he knows few people on the island, and as he is – as Mr Lazarus told me – reclusive by both nature and habit, it is most likely that he will remain at the Quinta da Pinheiro and shun society. I hope it may not be so.
And on that sinful thought, I shall lay down my pen for the night.

III
The Journal of Miss Marguerite Blantyre
EXTRACT 2: THE MOUNT

Quinta dos Alecrins
Funchal
19th September 1856
We have just returned from our expedition to the Mount, and I hasten to write down my impressions while they are still fresh in my mind.
It began in bright, unencumbered sunshine; but by the time we reached our destination, we found ourselves walking through a dense descending mist. Soon the rain began to come down heavily, obliging us to shelter in the portico of the Church of Nossa Senhora, after scrambling as quickly as we could up the steep flight of basalt steps leading to the church (thankfully not on our knees, like the Catholic penitents).
*
We stood for some time, looking out into the grey curtain of rain that now obscured our view of the city far below. Papa sat alone inside the church, whilst Uncle James strode impatiently up and down the portico.
There were half a dozen or so other visitors, sheltering, like us, from the downpour, and gathered in a little group at the far end of the portico. At last, the rain easing a little, two or three of these persons moved forward slightly, to reveal a tall figure seated on a stone bench set against the outer wall of the church. I immediately recognized Mr Gorst, dressed in a cape, with a black straw hat on his head, a long walking-stick in his left hand. I confess that my heart leaped a little to see him, although I immediately checked myself, and turned away to remark to Mamma that we might soon be able to make our way back down to the city. However, I found it impossible not to turn again towards where Mr Gorst was sitting, to see whether he had noticed me. He appeared, however, utterly lost in thought, and seemingly unaware of my presence, or of anyone else’s.
In a few more minutes the rain had almost stopped, although the clouds overhead remained dark and threatening. Uncle James, briskly clapping his hands together, sent Susanna into the church to fetch Papa, insisting that we must take our chance while we could to return to Funchal before the rain came on again. As we stepped over the little ponds that now lay across the pavement in front of the portico, I looked back. Mr Gorst had risen from his seat and was preparing to follow us down the steps, although it still did not appear that he had recognized us.
I am almost ashamed now to admit my brazenness, but I deliberately held myself back from the others and, in a moment or two, I heard the tap of Mr Gorst’s walking-stick just behind me.
As he drew level, I continued to maintain the silly pretence of not seeing him; but just as he was about to move ahead of me, I put out a hesitant greeting, as if I had not quite recognized him. On hearing my words, he stopped and turned his face towards me.
He greeted me with every appearance of satisfaction, smiling as he spoke – such a warm, engaging smile – and gently tipped his hat. Hearing this exchange, Uncle James and the others had stopped a little way from the foot of the steps to look back. I said something stupidly inconsequential to Mr Gorst that I cannot now even remember, and prepared to go down to join my family. Susanna, I could see, was all of a giggle, whilst Mamma – looking first at me, and then at Susanna – was wearing a rather cross expression.
Uncle James, eyeing the rolling clouds suspiciously, called to me to hurry along, or we would all be soaked – our ox-sledges being stationed a little way down the road (Susanna had wished to make the precipitous return descent to Funchal by toboggan, but this had been sternly forbidden by Uncle James). I made a hurried good-bye to Mr Gorst; but, as I took my first step, he stopped me to ask if we planned any further excursions. I told him that we were to go to Camacha the following day.
He said that Camacha was a delightful spot, and that he often walked over to it. Then he wished me good-day and strode off down the steps at a brisk pace, bowing to Uncle James and the others as he passed, before disappearing into the mist.
I find, to my consternation, that this incident – commonplace and trivial though it was – has stayed in my head all day; and now, as I commit the memory of it to my journal, I see even less moment in it. A chance encounter. An exchange of conventional pleasantries. Nothing more. He cannot find me as interesting as I find him. Why, indeed, should I be interesting to Mr Edwin Gorst? Nothing in his face – in those eyes – betrays such a thing, I am sure, and of course I am glad of it; for I am promised to Cousin Fergus; and there is an end to the matter.

20

In Which Mr Vyse Bares His Teeth

I
Mr Vyse Speaks Frankly

O
N THE morning after receiving Mr Thornhaugh’s package, I sought out Charlie Skinner.
‘Will you do something for me, Charlie?’ I asked.
He jumped up from his chair, threw his shoulders back, and saluted.
‘Awaiting orders, miss.’
In five minutes he returned, swinging a bunch of keys, which he handed to me, saluted once again, and went on his way, whistling.
On one of my morning expeditions about the house, I had come upon a narrow stone staircase leading from the lower regions to a bare-boarded passage at the rear of my Lady’s apartments. Dark and vaulted, it led out through a narrow curtained arch to the Picture Gallery. Halfway along this passage was a low doorway, on the other side of which a closet, used for the storage of travelling trunks, hat boxes, and the like, gave access to my Lady’s sitting-room.
I knew from Sukie that the door from this closet into the passage had been locked for some years past. She could not tell me the whereabouts of the key, but thought that Charlie Skinner – the fount of all knowledge on such matters – might know, as indeed it proved.
After leaving Charlie, I made my way up to the passage and soon found a rusting key on the bunch he had given me that fitted the lock. With some difficulty, I eventually got the door to open on its creaking hinges, and I entered the closet, locking the door behind me.
On either side of the interior door were two small round windows filled with pale-yellow glass. These offered a good view of the room beyond and, by opening the door slightly, I judged that I would be able to hear anything that was said within.
I was about to leave when the door to the sitting-room opened and my Lady came in, followed by Mr Vyse.
At first, they remained out of earshot, both standing by the far window talking quietly, with their backs towards me; but then my Lady, her face exhibiting an extreme state of apprehension, went to her chair by the fire, only a few feet from the closet door, where she was soon joined by Mr Vyse.
So stand with me now, to see and hear what passed between Lady Tansor and Mr Armitage Vyse on that crisp winter morning.
Notice, first, the wild look in my Lady’s eyes. I have seen it before, many times, when the night-terrors have banished sleep.
‘But why is he still here?’ she asks plaintively, as Mr Vyse – unsmiling for once – falls wearily on to the sofa opposite her. ‘He knows. He must know.’
‘Pray don’t concern yourself,’ drawls Mr Vyse. ‘He doesn’t know. It’s nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ she exclaims. ‘How can it be nothing?’
‘It’s sheer chance that he’s here at this time. No more, no less.’
‘But how can you be so sure?’
‘I’m told that his father is seriously ill, and that he’s been given permission by his superiors to remain in Northamptonshire for a little longer. You should not make more of this than it is, and must trust my judgment in the matter. You do trust me, don’t you, my Lady?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she replies. ‘You’ve been a great comfort and support to me since the colonel’s death; and of course I shall always be obligated to you for your unfailing loyalty to the memory of my dearest Phoebus. I simply wish to be sure that we are in no danger of discovery. Gully has a certain reputation, I believe.’
‘Pshaw! Reputation! King Minnow!’ answers Mr Vyse, with ebullient disdain. ‘A mere boy.’
‘But he’s with Wraxall, another man of some reputation in these matters. You know how his uncle never believed – well, I need hardly say more. And now we learn that he has letters from Slake to my father. Perhaps they contain things from which it might be possible to deduce—’
Mr Vyse interrupts her impatiently.
‘The letters to your father may be something or nothing – the latter, if you want my opinion; for if this correspondence with your father contained anything of weight, why did Slake never bring it to public attention? Rest easy, my Lady. All is well. All
shall
be well.’
‘If only I could—’
‘Listen to me.’
He leans forward, resting both hands on his stick.
‘You must put all your worries aside. I am here to make everything right. Your interests are my paramount concern, and you may rely on me, as I hope I’ve demonstrated, with respect to our recent little problem, to take action –
any
action – should it become necessary.’
She does not answer him, but looks down at her hands, folded in her lap.
‘You live too much in the past, my Lady,’ Mr Vyse goes on, reprovingly. ‘Regarding Wraxall and his uncle, I’ve advised you before that you must not dwell on the circumstances of your father’s –
ahem
– sad demise. Remember: the truth of the matter is known only to our two selves. Slake was an incorrigible busybody; but he’s dead and gone, and, with him, all possibility of discovery. Think: he could never bring forward any proof to support his suspicions. For where is it? Where is the palpable evidence to connect you to the business? There is none. Words on paper can kill in these matters, my Lady, but you have assured me many times, have you not, that there are no words on paper concerning the matter – nothing committed to that deadly medium – that might condemn you.
‘As for the old woman, I can only assure you, once again, that you – we – are safe. Gully has nothing. He’ll soon forget her, if he hasn’t already done so. There will always be corpses enough in the Thames – excuse my frankness – to keep him occupied. Besides, the trail is as cold as the weather, the son is a simpleton, and Yapp knows better than to cross me.’
He pauses, and audibly draws breath.
‘The girl, however, is another matter.’
‘What do you mean?’ my Lady asks, patently astonished by his words. ‘Are you referring to Alice?’
At the mention of my name, my stomach begins to churn. Has Mr Vyse found me out?
‘I’m aware – how shall I put this? – of a new, and rather surprising, familiarity that has lately grown up between you and Miss Esperanza Gorst,’ says Mr Vyse, pronouncing each syllable of my Christian name with slow, malicious relish. ‘I agreed, somewhat against my better judgment, that the girl should become your companion; but I would not approve of any closer connexion. That would be distinctly dangerous. Who knows what might be let slip? You understand me?’
‘You’ll recall, Armitage,’ she replies, a little tartly, ‘that – on your advice – I obtained a satisfactory reference from Miss Gainsborough as to Alice’s character, and that we were ourselves able to confirm the truth of what she told us about her upbringing. I have every confidence that she is who she claims to be, and no reason whatsoever to doubt her.’
‘Really, my Lady, what an innocent you are!’ cries Mr Vyse, with a cynical chuckle. ‘You think these things cannot be arranged?’
‘But why? If she has lied about her identity, then who is she, and what purpose could she have in coming here?’
He does not reply, but sits back and taps the end of his stick rapidly against the leg of the sofa, as an irritated cat might twitch its tail.
‘That, I confess, is unknown to me,’ he says at last, adding ominously, ‘as yet.’
‘So you frighten me with nothing but unsubstantiated suspicions?’
Her consternation is now visibly transforming into anger.
‘No, not entirely unsubstantiated. Shillito is sure that she must be related to the man he met on Madeira. He believes, in fact, that she may be the man’s daughter.’
My Lady throws her head back, and laughs derisively.
‘Well, that’s an accusation, to be sure! Related to a man your friend met twenty years ago! Have you forgotten that she’s an orphan, who never knew her parents? Even if Mr Shillito is right, where’s the harm?’
‘That remains to be seen,’ he replies. ‘But that harm may come of it must be seriously considered, the risks assessed, and appropriate action taken. It is always best to expect the worst. I speak from experience.’
‘But I still fail to understand how—’
‘Then allow me to explain. Shillito is certain that he’d known this man Gorst
before
being introduced to him on Madeira. Unfortunately, he is still unable to bring to mind the circumstances of their previous acquaintance, but is sure – and this is the point, my Lady – that he did not then go by the name of Gorst.’
‘Really, Armitage, this is preposterous! Mr Shillito could be mistaken; and what does it matter to us if this man once went by another name, any more than that Alice might be his daughter?’
‘Well,’ says Mr Vyse, in a most chillingly significant manner, ‘that rather depends on who the man was.’
My Lady shakes her head vigorously.
‘No, no, this won’t do. I have a keen instinct for these things. It has never failed me yet. There’s no harm in Alice, none at all. She is a most innocent, sweet-natured young woman, who has proved herself both loyal and considerate. There’s no guile in her, no deceit.’
‘What of Wraxall’s invitation? Did she not keep that from you?’
My Lady is momentarily taken aback, but soon recovers herself.
‘A venial oversight. She meant nothing by it. You are wrong in this, Armitage, although it’s true that I have indeed grown very fond of her, to the extent that I now regard her, in every way, as a friend; yes – don’t smile in that maddening way – a friend, although of course there are certain matters that I shall never be free to discuss with her, which I regret, but cannot help. You will please oblige me in this, Armitage, and speak no more on the subject. I hope that’s clear?’
She fixes him with her queenly eye – the Lady Tansor of old.
‘Perfectly,’ says Mr Vyse, with another little tap of his stick. I cannot see his face, but I imagine the word has been accompanied by one of his most ingratiating smiles.
They sit for a moment, saying nothing; but then Mr Vyse leans forward once more, and places a long, well-scrubbed hand on hers.
‘May I ask, my Lady, whether you have given further consideration to the matter we discussed during our ride out in the barouche?’
‘Please don’t press me on that, Armitage. I cannot give you an answer yet – and certainly not the answer you want.’
She withdraws her hand from his, rises from her chair, and walks back over to the window, where she stands looking out across the frost-dusted park. Mr Vyse, his long legs stretched out towards the fire, remains on the sofa, swinging his stick to and fro.
‘You will permit me to observe,’ he says, most sinisterly, ‘that you gave me a degree of encouragement, without which I would not have raised the matter so soon. You will also acknowledge, I am sure, that I have shown exemplary patience.’
He is now standing immediately behind my Lady, blocking her from my view. Tall though she is, he is a head taller, and – drawn up now to his full height – he cuts a most menacing figure; but my Lady remains silent.
‘Let me put it another way.’
His icy tone makes me shudder. The wolf is baring his teeth.
‘There is a debt to be paid. A considerable debt.’
‘I promised nothing.’
She moves away a little, but still does not look at him.
‘True. However, the debt remains. You have drawn heavily on me, my Lady, and I must – I will – be reimbursed. Yet see how forbearing I can be! Your wish is granted. I shan’t press you further – for the moment. But let us understand each other. You have secured your continuing prosperity and position through me, at no little personal risk. It would pain me greatly if – certain matters, as you so delicately put it – became known, to deprive you of what you presently enjoy. You have so much to lose, my Lady, so much. But come, let us be friends again. No more unpleasantness. The air is cleared, and now I shall leave you to your thoughts.’
He begins to walk towards the door, humming quietly to himself, then turns, and makes her a little bow.
‘Until this evening.’
When he has gone, my Lady runs to her bed-chamber, slamming the door behind her.