The Meaning of Night

by Michael Cox

  Pausing once again, he looked up at the radiant blue of the sky through the branches of the tree under which we were seated, and shielded his eyes with his hand against the sun.

  ‘An alternative course?’

  ‘Indeed. A somewhat unusual one. The adoption of an heir of his own choosing.’

  I cannot describe what I felt on hearing these words. An heir of his own choosing? But I was Lord Tansor’s heir! Struggling hard to maintain some appearance of composure, I began to experience the most peculiar sensation, as if I were falling through great darkness into infinite space.

  ‘Are you well, Edward? You look a little pale.’

  ‘Perfectly well, thank you,’ I replied. ‘Please go on.’

  But I was far from being perfectly well. I thought my heart would burst from my chest, so assailed was I by panic at this entirely unexpected turn of events. Then I began to see that this was not the end of all my hopes; whatever such a course might mean in practice, I would still be able to claim my rightful place in the succession, if I could discover corroborative proof of my identity. All was not lost. Not just yet.

  ‘The firm,’ Mr Tredgold was saying, ‘has been charged with the task of modifying the provisions of Lord Tansor’s will, by the addition of a codicil. The baronial title, of course, is a separate matter; it must go whither the law dictates, to the next heir in line of succession, whether direct or collateral; which of course means that Mr Paul Carteret, through his Duport mother, may, as things presently stand, become the 26th Baron Tansor. I hope I am not being too abstruse?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Good. I wish you to be aware of the situation, as it pertains to his Lordship’s present intentions. You do understand, don’t you, Edward?’

  It was such a curious question that I did not well know how to answer, but simply nodded mutely.

  ‘Good again. The title, then, is not in Lord Tansor’s gift. But what his Lordship possesses materially – including Evenwood, the greatest and noblest of all his possessions – is his to bestow, subject to certain legal procedures, on whomsoever he wishes – as is, in a specific sense, the Duport name. He has therefore taken a decision of great consequence. He has separated the baronial dignity, conferred by the writ that summoned Lord Maldwin Duport to Parliament in 1264, from the material interests that the family has subsequently garnered to itself, resolving that the future title-holder will inherit little but the dignity. His Lordship desires that all the entailed property that he himself inherited, as well as those possessions specifically bequeathed to him by his father, should be left to his nominated heir.’

  ‘And has Lord Tansor made his nomination?’

  ‘He has.’

  Mr Tredgold paused. His china-blue eyes met mine.

  ‘It is to be Mr Phoebus Rainsford Daunt, the poet. You may have seen the reviews of his new volume.* It has, I believe, been very well received.’

  A terrible helplessness began to grip me, such as those must feel who see their doom approaching, but are powerless to resist it. This moment I shall always count as one of the most significant of my life; for now I became absolutely convinced that I had been driven forwards, and was still being driven, by a fatality from which I could never escape. In his recollections of how we had first met, in School Yard at Eton, Daunt had likened me to some messenger of Fate, as if he knew, as I now did, that our destinies were inextricably entwined. Had the consequences of his youthful treachery been merely the precursor of this greater loss, of which he had been made the agent? This terrible possibility was like a knife of ice to my heart. But, once again, I was saved from despair by the thought that neither of us could know the end towards which we were being impelled. Who was fated to receive the final prize? The true heir, or the false? Until that question could be answered beyond all doubt, I must continue to hope and believe that I would come at last into the life that I had been born to live. Yet I remained mesmerized by the bitter humour of it all, and could not suppress a mirthless smile.

  ‘Is something amusing you, Edward?’ asked Mr Tredgold.

  ‘By no means,’ I replied, quickly assuming an expression of concern, which, indeed, I did not need to manufacture.

  ‘As I was saying, Lord Tansor intends, by breaking the entail, that Mr Daunt will succeed to the possession of Evenwood, and of all the other property that his Lordship inherited from his father, on condition of Mr Daunt’s assuming the Duport name and arms on his Lordship’s death.’

  ‘And is it in Lord Tansor’s power to do all this?’

  ‘Assuredly. The property he inherited from his father is his to dispose of as he wishes. It will be be necessary for his Lordship to sign a deed of recovery for the entailed property, and to enrol it in Chancery, before he can bequeath this portion of his inheritance to Mr Daunt; but this is a relatively straightforward procedure, and is, indeed, already in hand.’*

  The air had taken on a slight chill as the mid-afternoon sun began to wane.

  We had been nearly an hour in the Gardens – an hour that had changed my life for ever.

  ‘Mr Phoebus Daunt’s prospects are rosy indeed,’ I said, as carelessly as I could, though I was burning inside. ‘A most fortunate young man. Already a distinguished poet, and with expectations before too long of succeeding to Lord Tansor’s wealth and possessions, and to Evenwood itself.’

  ‘Expectations, yes,’ said Mr Tredgold, ‘though one might perhaps wish to qualify them. Pro tempore, and until the codicil is executed, Mr Daunt remains the prospective heir of his Lordship’s property. But Lord Tansor is fit and robust, his present union may yet be productive of a child; and of course the birth of an heir of the blood, unlikely though that is, would change everything, and would then bring about a revocation of the proposed provisions. Besides, who knows what the future may hold? Nothing is certain.’

  For a moment or two we sat looking at each other in awkward silence. Then he stood up and smiled.

  ‘But you are right, of course. As things presently stand, you may say that Mr Phoebus Daunt is certainly a most fortunate young man. He has already received ample demonstrations of Lord Tansor’s regard for him, and soon he is to be formally anointed, if I may so put it, as his Lordship’s legal heir. When the day comes, Mr Phoebus Daunt, or should I say Mr Phoebus Duport, though he will not be the 26th Baron Tansor, will be a very powerful man indeed.’

  We left the Gardens, and began to make our way back to Paternoster-row.

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Tredgold,’ I said, after we had walked some way in silence, ‘I am unclear as to what part in the proceedings that you have outlined you expect me to play. This is a legal matter, but I am no lawyer. The case is far removed from the Abode of Beauty.’

  Mr Tredgold smiled at the reference to my first success for the firm.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ he said, taking my arm. ‘Well, Edward, here it is. There is what I may call an additional element, of which Lord Tansor is as yet unaware, and which must remain strictly confidential for the time being. I have received a communication – a private communication – from his Lordship’s secretary, Mr Paul Carteret. The circumstances whereby he has come to be employed by his relative are interesting, but need not concern us now. It appears that Mr Carteret – whom I have known and liked for many years – has been troubled for some time by a little discovery that he has made. He has not seen fit to vouchsafe its full nature to me, but his letter appears to suggest that it has a direct and fundamental bearing on the matters that we have just been discussing. In short, Mr Carteret seems to raise the possibility, if my inference is correct, that, unknown to his Lordship, a legitimate and direct heir of the blood exists. This, then, is the little problem that I would like your assistance in resolving. And now, I think I should like some tea. Will you join me?’

  The clock on Le Grice’s mantel-piece struck three o’clock.

  He had said nothing after I had finished telling him of my conversation with Mr Tredgold in the Temple Gardens. Behind him, in the shadows, tow
ered a portrait of his father, Brigadier-General Sir Hastings Le Grice, of the 22nd Foot, who famously distinguished himself with Napier at the Battle of Meeanee.* Stretched out below, his long legs resting on the brass fender, the general’s son sat gazing at the ceiling, ruminatively twirling the end of his moustache.

  ‘This is a tangled tale, G,’ he said at last, grasping a poker and leaning forward to stir the dying embers of the fire, ‘so let me see if I’ve got things straight. Old Tansor has taken it into his head to leave everything to Daunt, except his title, which isn’t his to give. You believe you’re Tansor’s heir, but can’t prove it. Now this chap Carteret has come along with a little secret to impart, which may, or may not, have a bearing on the case. So far, so good. But, look here: it’s all very well, you know, to make Daunt pay for what he did to you at school. It’s a long time to bear a grudge, but that’s your business, and I can’t say I mightn’t have felt the same myself. But, hang it, G, you can’t blame Daunt if old Tansor has taken a fancy to him. It’s rum that it should be Daunt, I’ll grant; dashed bad luck actually, but …’

  ‘Luck?’ I cried. ‘Not luck, not chance, not coincidence! Can’t you see? There’s a fatality at work here, between him and me. It had to be Daunt! It could have been no one else. And there’s worse to come. Much worse.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Le Grice, calmly, ‘you’d better push on, as quickly as you can, and tell me the rest. The regiment leaves in three weeks, and if I’m to perish valiantly for Queen and Country, then I must know that all’s well with you before I go. So, speed on, Great King, and let’s hear all about Carteret and his mysterious discovery.’

  He refilled his glass and leaned back in his chair once more, whilst I, taking my cue, lit another cigar, and began to tell him of Mr Carteret’s letter, in which, though I did not yet know it, the seeds of an even greater betrayal had been sown.

  *[Baronies by Writ are, in fact, a legal fiction. As a result of decisions made in the House of Lords and elsewhere, between the early seventeenth century and the early nineteenth, a doctrine – now considered indefensible – grew up that, where a man had been directly summoned to attend one of a specific list of medieval parliaments, and there was evidence that he had done so, and that he was not the eldest son of a peer or another person also summoned to such a parliament, then he could be taken as thereby honoured with a Barony, in the modern sense of a peerage. It was further construed (as Mr Tredgold rightly says) that such titles were heritable by heirs general of the first baron, though no medieval writ deals with the matter of succession, for the simple reason that they were not then conceived as creating an hereditary title of honour. However, by the mid-nineteenth century the legal doctrine of heritable Baronies by Writ held full sway. Ed.]

  *[The younger son of Sophia Mary Carteret, née Duport (1765–1836), Lord Tansor’s aunt. Ed.]

  * [Penelope: A Tragedy, in Verse (Bell & Daldy, 1853). Ed.]

  *[This process would have ‘barred’, or rendered ineffective, the entailed property – i.e. the oldest part of the Tansor inheritance, which included Evenwood and the other principal estates that had been settled ‘in tail general’ on all heirs inheriting the title of Baron Tansor. As entailed property, it could not in the normal way be disposed of by any one possessor as absolute owner; but by breaking the entail, Lord Tansor would be free to bequeath this property to his nominated heir. Ed.]

  *[The Battle of Meeanee (or Miani), a few miles north of Hyderabad in present-day Pakistan, was fought on 17 February 1843, during the Sind War of that year. A British force of under three thousand men, commanded by Sir Charles Napier (1782–1853), defeated the emirs of Sind, whose army numbered over twenty thousand. Sind was subsequently annexed by Britain. Ed.]

  PART THE THIRD

  Into the Shadow

  October 1853

  I will take heed both of a speedy friend, and a slow enemy.

  Owen Felltham, Resolves (1623), iii,

  ‘A Friend and Enemy, When Most Dangerous’

  19

  Fide, sed cui vide*

  Back in my rooms, after the discussion with Mr Tredgold in the Temple Gardens, I considered the new prospect that now lay before me.

  My position had appeared fatally threatened by the revelation that Lord Tansor had determined to make Daunt his heir; but now Mr Tredgold seemed to offer the startling possibility of a resolution in my favour, if his inference concerning Mr Carteret’s discovery was correct. Did Lord Tansor’s secretary indeed possess the proof that I needed?

  This is the letter that Mr Tredgold had received, and which he had given to me when we parted with the words, ‘Read this, Edward, and tell me what you think should be done.’

  The Dower House, Evenwood Park

  Evenwood, Northamptonshire

  Wednesday, 5th October 1853MY DEAR TREDGOLD, —I write to you in a strictly private & confidential capacity, in the full knowledge that your own rectitude & respect for my position here will ensure that no word or hint of this communication will be given to any third party, especially to my employer. We have had many occasions to correspond over the years in a professional capacity, and it has been my pleasure also to welcome you to Evenwood as a much esteemed guest – and friend. I therefore hope and believe that the sincerity of my regard for you will be more than sufficient to bind you to this undertaking.What I wish to say to you, most urgently, cannot be set down in writing but must be conveyed to you in person, for it goes to the heart of the present matter. I am aware – acutely aware – that my position is a delicate one, since my own interests are involved. But you will know that I speak God’s truth when I say that I have always had the sincerest desire to serve my employer to the best of my ability, regardless of my personal interests.I have been troubled for some little time by a matter that has presented itself to me, quite unexpectedly, in the course of my work here, relating to the question that is of most concern to my employer, and which he is now seeking to resolve by the means of which we are both aware. The consequences are momentous for his Lordship, and have their origins in the actions of a certain person, now deceased, for whom you and I once cherished an exceptional regard. But I cannot say more in writing.I am unable to come up to town for some weeks, and so you would oblige me greatly if you could suggest some arrangement for us to meet in the country in private. I would not wish to anticipate any plan you may have, beyond saying that I usually find myself in Stamford of a Tuesday morning, & that I also find the tap-room of the George Hotel a convenient place to take some refreshment at around midday.I cannot impress upon you enough the need for absolute discretion.Please direct reply via Post-office, Peterborough.I have the honour to be,Yours very sincerely,P. CARTERET

  The next morning, Mr Tredgold and I laid our plans. Feeling that he could not risk undertaking such a clandestine meeting himself, my employer suggested that I might go to meet Mr Carteret in his stead. To this I readily agreed, and so he replied immediately, requesting Mr Carteret’s permission to send a trusted agent. Two days later a letter came back. The secretary was unwilling to sanction such an arrangement, saying that he would speak only to Mr Tredgold in person. But a further exchange of letters produced a softening in his attitude, and it was agreed that I, as Mr Tredgold’s surrogate, should travel to Stamford to meet Mr Carteret the following Tuesday, the 25th of October, though I decided I would go a day earlier and settle myself in the George Hotel in readiness.

  The day prior to my departure happening to be a Sunday, Mr Tredgold invited me to spend the afternoon with him in his private residence.

  ‘I think perhaps we should forgo our usual bibliological entertainment,’ he said after we had taken our lunch and were sitting before the fire in his sitting-room, ‘and speak a little about the matter of Mr Carteret – if you do not mind?’

  ‘Of course. I am entirely at your disposal.’

  ‘As you always are, Edward,’ he beamed. ‘Well, then, no doubt you find Mr Carteret’s letter puzzling enough – as I do also – with respec
t to the matter he wishes to disclose. It may be that Mr Carteret exaggerates the importance of what he has discovered; but I suspect, knowing him to be a gentleman of careful judgment, that he would not have written to me in this way unless it was of the greatest possible moment. Whether Mr Carteret will choose to reveal the matter to you in person, I cannot say. Whatever happens, I hope you will be kind enough to keep me closely informed. I’m sure I do not need to impress on you the necessity for absolute discretion.’

  ‘I understand completely.’

  ‘That is one of your most valuable qualities, Edward,’ said Mr Tredgold. ‘You instinctively understand what is required in any given situation. Is there anything else I can tell you?’

  ‘Mr Carteret, you have said, is Lord Tansor’s cousin.’

  ‘That is correct. He is the younger son of his Lordship’s late aunt. His father, Mr Paul Carteret Senior, fell into pecuniary difficulties, leaving his two sons with no alternative but to earn a living. Mr Lawrence Carteret, now deceased, entered the diplomatic service; Mr Paul Carteret Junior was offered employment by his noble relative.’

  ‘A generous gesture,’ I observed.

  ‘Generous? Yes, you may say that, although the offer was perhaps made more out of duty towards Mrs Sophia Carteret, his Lordship’s aunt.’

  ‘You also mentioned, I think, during our talk in the Gardens, that Mr Carteret will inherit the Tansor title.’

  ‘He will – assuming of course that his Lordship’s position regarding an heir of his own remains as it is at present.’

  Mr Tredgold took out his red handkerchief and began to polish his eye-glass.

  ‘You should be aware,’ he continued, ‘that Lord Tansor’s resolve to bequeath the major portion of his property to Mr Phoebus Daunt has been strengthened by a history of ill-feeling between the two branches of the family. A financial disagreement between Lord Tansor’s father and Mr Paul Carteret Senior has, alas, coloured his Lordship’s relationship with his cousin. The Carteret line, in his opinion, is also tainted by mental impairment.’