by Michael Cox
From a receipt dated the 3rd of August 1819, I surmise that the two friends, perhaps with Miss Eames in attendance, met together in Folkestone. They then departed for Boulogne, on or about the 5th of that month. A letter received by her Ladyship some weeks later, from an address in Torquay, confirms (what I did not know for certain before) that Miss Eames did not accompany them to the Continent. After the letter quoted above, parts of which I did not fully understand at first, there seem to have been no further communications from Mrs Glyver to her Ladyship until the 16th of June 1820, which, to my mind, strongly suggested that they remained together in France – as, indeed, proved to be the case. However, there are letters to her Ladyship from a Mr James Martin, an aide to Sir Charles Stuart, the Ambassador in Paris,* written in February and March of the following year – on seeing them in the writing-box, I remembered that this gentleman had been a guest at Evenwood on more than one occasion. The purpose of the exchange was to secure accommodation for her Ladyship in the French capital over the summer. I could not help but smile, despite the growing fear I felt within me, when I saw to where Mr Martin’s replies had been directed: Hôtel de Québriac, Rue du Chapitre, Rennes.
The letter from Mrs Glyver of the 16th of June 1820, alluded to above, was written from Dinan to her friend in Paris, to a house in the Rue du Faubourg St Honoré.† The friends seem to have left Rennes together around the second week of June, taking lodgings in Dinan before her Ladyship departed alone for Paris. In her letter, Mrs Glyver begins by speaking of her imminent return to England. And then comes this extraordinary passage:I took the little one to see the tombs in the Salle des Gisants‡ yesterday – he seemed much entertained by them, though the chamber was cold & damp & we did not stay long. But as we were leaving he put his little hand out – so sweetly and gently – to touch the face of one of the figures, a thin old lady. Of course, it was just an accident, not deliberate at all, but yet it seemed like a conscious act & I whispered to him that these were once all fine lords and ladies – like his mamma and papa. And he gave me such a look as if he understood every word. We encountered Madame Bertrand at the Porte du Guichet & she walked with us for a time along the Promenade. It was such a beautiful day – cloudless, a delicious soft breeze, with the river sparkling below us, & I so longed for you to be with us once more. Madame B said again how like you he is, & indeed it is so, tho’ he is still a mite. At least when I look into his dear face, with those great eyes gazing back, I feel you are close. I hate to think of you alone when we are here, longing for you to be with us, & I cried for us both last night. You were so brave when you left us. I could hardly bear it, for I knew how you suffered & how you wd suffer more when we were out of sight. Even now I wd bring him to you, if your resolve should falter. But I do not think it will – and I weep for you, dearest sister. I kiss yr beautiful son every night & assure him that his mamma will love him for ever. And I shall love him too. Write soon.
Further letters from Mrs Glyver made the matter clear beyond per-adventure: my Lady had given birth to a son in the city of Rennes. He had been born in the Hôtel de Québriac, Rue du Chapitre, in the month of March of the year 1820.
But there was a deeper matter even than this, of such consequence that I could scarce believe it; and yet the evidence was here in my hands, in these letters written to her Ladyship by her friend, Simona Glyver, and also in others she received in Paris from Miss Eames. Lady Tansor returned to England on the 25th of September 1820 – alone. Where, then, was the child? The thought occurred to me that he might have died; but letters from Mrs Glyver received by her Ladyship after arriving back at Evenwood contained regular reports of the child’s progress – the habits he was developing, the darkening of his hair, the little sounds he made and how they were interpreted, how he loved to be taken down to the shore to watch the waves crashing in, and the gulls soaring above them. It also appears – astonishing as it is to think of – that the child was brought surreptitiously to Evenwood, in the summer before Lady Tansor died, when her husband had been called away on political business, and much discussion ensued concerning the little boy’s fascination with the white doves that fluttered around the spires and towers of the great house, and with the goldfish – many of great size and age – that glided silently through the dark waters of the fish-pond.
I read several of the letters over again, and then a third time, to make sure that I had not deceived myself. But there was no other possible interpretation of the evidence before me. Lady Tansor had brought her husband’s rightful heir secretly into the world, only to give him away to another.
So I come at last to my beginning. This was the crime to which I bear witness: the denial – by a premeditated act of determined duplicity and cruelty (I shall not go so far as to call it malice, though some might) – of paternity to my cousin, who lives only that he might pass on what he has inherited from his forefathers to his lawfully begotten son. This was badly done by my Lady, and I say so as one who loved her dearly. I aver that it was cruel beyond words to so deny my cousin that which would have completed his life; that it was an act of terrible vindictiveness, no one can deny; and to my mind, insofar as it took from Lord Tansor what was rightfully his, though he remained ignorant of his loss, this act of denial was, in its effects, criminal.
And yet, having arraigned her, having presented the evidence against her, can I now condemn her? She paid a terrible price for what she did; she did not act alone – others, one in particular, were guilty by association, though they aided her out of love and loyalty; she – and they – are now for ever beyond the reach of earthly justice, and have been judged by Him who judges all. For, as Miss Eames observed, who of us are without sin? No life is without secrets; and it may often be that the lesser evil is to keep such secrets hidden. Let me, as the accuser of Laura, Lady Tansor, therefore plead for clemency. Let her rest.
But the consequences of the crime remain, and they are not so easily remitted. For what accounts are still to be presented for settlement? Does the boy live? Does he know who he is? How can this be made right?
Since making my discovery, I have wrestled day and night with my conscience: to keep my Lady’s secret, or place what I know before my cousin? I am tormented by the knowledge that I now possess, as I fear dear Miss Eames had been; but now, at last, I am impelled to take action – and not only to forestall any accusation that I am withholding what I know in order to protect my own interests.
My cousin’s determination to adopt Phoebus Daunt as his heir in law, the device to which he has pledged himself in order to make good the deficit that Nature has apparently inflicted upon him, renders it imperative that I make the truth known, so that steps may immediately be taken to find the true heir, if he lives. I can no longer keep silent on this matter; for if the true-born heir be yet living, then everything must be done to discover him, and so prevent the disastrous course of action upon which my cousin is set. And there is another matter of concern to me.
Late one afternoon in April of this present year, I had just entered the Library when I witnessed Mr Phoebus Daunt softly closing the door of my work-room, where he had no business to be, and then looking about him to make sure that he was unobserved. A man, I thought, is never more himself than when he thinks he is alone. I waited, out of sight, for him to quit the Library through one of the terrace doors. When I got to my room, it was immediately clear that some of the papers on my desk had been disturbed; luckily, the door to the Muniments Room was locked and the key about my person.
Over the course of succeeding weeks, I would frequently encounter Mr Daunt in the Library, apparently engaged upon reading some volume or other, or occasionally writing at one of the tables. I suspected, however, that his real purpose was to seek an opportunity to enter my work-room, and perhaps gain access to the Muniments Room. But he never could, for I now took to locking the door to my work-room whenever I left the Library.
This was not the first occasion on which I had found reason to suspect my dear frien
d’s son of frankly despicable behaviour. Did I say suspect? Let me be blunt. I know him to have been guilty of reading Lord Tansor’s private correspondence – including letters of a highly confidential nature – when he had not been given permission to do so. I should have spoken out, and it is a matter of the greatest regret that I did not do so. But the point that I wish to make most strongly is this: what action might a determined and unscrupulous person contemplate if he suspected that his expectations – his most considerable expectations – were threatened in any way? I answer that such a person would stop at nothing to preserve his position. Let me be even clearer. I do not know how Mr Phoebus Daunt can have come by his knowledge, but I am certain that he knows the nature of the documents left to me by Miss Julia Eames.
Midnight
He is there, though I cannot see him now – he seems to melt away into the darkness, to become a shadow. But he was there – is there. I thought at first that it was John Brine, but it cannot be him. He stands so still, in the shadow of the cypress-tree – watching, waiting; but then when I opened the window, he was gone, taken up by the darkness.
I have seen him before – on many occasions, but always just out of sight, often at dusk when I have been returning home across the Park, and more frequently of late.
And then I am certain that there was an attempt last week to break into my study, where I am now writing, though I could find nothing missing. A ladder had been taken from one of the out-buildings, and was found discarded in the shrubbery, and the woodwork of my window had been damaged.
I feel constantly under his eyes, even when I cannot see him. What does it mean? Nothing good, I fear.
For I think I know who sets this watcher on me, and who it is that desires to know what I now know. He smiles, and asks me how I am, and he shines like the sun in the estimation of the world; but there is evil in his heart.
My candle is burning low and I must finish.
To those who may read this deposition, I say again that what I have written is the entire truth, as far as it is known to me, and that I have claimed nothing that has not been based on evidence provided by the documents in my possession, personal knowledge, and direct observation.
This I swear on everything I hold most sacred.
By my hand, the 23rd of October, in the year 1853.
P. CARTERET
*[Robert Stewart, Lord Castlereagh (1769–1822). He became Foreign Secretary in February 1812 and, suffering from a form of paranoia, committed suicide by cutting his throat with a penknife in August 1822. Ed.]
*[Spenser, Faerie Queene, II.xii.65. Ed.]
†[Named after Hamnet Duport, 19th Baron Tansor (1608–70), who made extensive alterations to Evenwood in the 1650s. Ed.]
*[Jacques Androuet du Cerceau (c.1520–.1584), French architect and engraver. Ed.]
*[Felltham, Resolves, xlvii (‘Of Death’). Ed.]
*[Osborne House, built as a private retreat for Queen Victoria and Prince Albert on an estate overlooking the Solent of nearly three hundred and fifty acres, purchased from Lady Isabella Blachford. The work, begun in 1845 and supervised by the Prince Consort, was completed in 1851. Ed.]
†[The name, no longer in use, of the area of London roughly bounded by the Edgware Road on the east, Bayswater on the west, Hyde Park on the south, and Maida Hill on the north. It was inhabited mainly by professional men and City merchants. ‘Ah, ladies!’ writes Thackeray in Chapter LI of Vanity Fair (1848), ‘ask the Reverend Mr Thurifer if Belgravia is not a sounding brass, and Tyburnia a tinkling cymbal. These are vanities. Even these will pass away.’ Ed.]
‡[In Covent Garden. A relatively inexpensive establishment; its typical clientele were single gentlemen up from the country. Ed.]
*[A paraphrase of Psalm 32: 1. Ed.]
*[The feminist intellectual Mary Wollstonecraft (1759–97) had an illegitimate daughter, Fanny, by the American speculator and author Gilbert Imlay (her second daughter, Mary, future wife of the poet Shelley and author of Frankenstein, was the product of her marriage to the novelist and social theorist William Godwin). Her Vindication of the Rights of Woman was published in 1792. One infers that Mrs Glyver’s aunt believed that her niece was pregnant by a lover, rather than by her husband. Ed.]
†[By this rather obliquely delicate reference she appears to mean that she had recently contrived to have marital relations with Captain Glyver, the potential outcome of which would coincide with the birth of her friend’s child. Ed.]
*[Sir Charles Stuart (1779–1845), created Baron Stuart de Rothesay in 1828, was British Ambassador to France from 1815 to 1824. I have not identified James Martin. Ed.]
†[The street in which the British Embassy was, and is, situated. Ed.]
‡[Part of the so-called Château of Dinan, which is actually built into the town’s ramparts. The Salle des Gisants holds seven carved medieval tombs; that of Roland de Dinan is said to be the oldest armed tomb in Western Europe. The carved figure referred to by Mrs Glyver is probably that of Renée Madeuc de Quémadeuc, second wife of Geoffroi Le Voyer, chamberlain to Duke Jean III of Brittany. Ed.]
34
Quaere verum*
Overwhelmed by the experience of reading Mr Carteret’s Deposition, I sank back, exhausted and bewildered, in my chair. The dead had spoken after all, and what a world of new prospects the words had revealed!
Pinned to the last page of the document was a short note:To MR GLAPTHORNSIR, —I have made arrangements for the preceding account to be given to you by Mr Chalmers, the manager of the George Hotel, when you leave there. Failing that, he has been instructed to send this directly to Mr Tredgold. I have thought it wise to make these arrangements in case any harm should come to me before I can place my Lady’s letters in your hands. You will at least then know what I wished to tell you.I am not a superstitious man, but I encountered a magpie this afternoon, strutting across the front lawn, and failed to raise my hat to him, as my mother always encouraged me to do. This has been on my mind all this evening, but I shall hope that the morning sun will make me rational once more.The letters from my Lady’s writing-box have been removed to a place of safety, but I shall have recovered them before our meeting. There is more I could say, but I am much fatigued and must sleep.Only one more thing.There was a slip of paper enclosed with the letter I received from Miss Eames. The following phrase – and nothing else – was written on it, in capital letter: SURSUM CORDA.* I puzzled my head at the time what it could mean, but gave up. I have only lately realized – to my shame – what the words may signify, and shall wish to present a possible course of action to you tomorrow relating to them.
P.C.
I gave little thought to this postscript, having been deeply affected by the account of Lady Tansor’s last years, and of her terrible death; and then to learn, in those carefully composed pages, of my birth in the Rue du Chapitre, and how I had been taken to the town of Dinan, and of the making of the box in which, I was sure, ‘Miss Lamb’ had placed her gift of two hundred sovereigns. It filled me with amazement to read these things; for, since the death of her whom I had once called Mother, I had believed these privities were mine – and mine alone – to know. But here they were, written down in another’s hand, like cold universal fact. The sensation was alarming – like turning a corner and meeting oneself.
And to know that I had also been taken to Evenwood as a child! My heart danced with a kind of anguished elation at the thought. That bewitching palace-castle, with its soaring towers, which I had beheld in my dreams when young, had been real after all – no figment of fancy, but the perpetuated memory of my father’s house, which would one day be mine.