by Michael Cox
‘On Tuesday afternoon,’ came a voice, not John Brine’s. Turning, I saw his sister, Lizzie, standing at the foot of the stairs.
‘John took her up in the landau,’ she continued. ‘They were back within an hour.’
‘And do you know the purpose of the visit?’ I asked.
‘I believe it concerned Lord Tansor’s decision to let the Dower House to Sir Hyde Teasedale. Miss has been offered accommodation in the great house, in the apartments previously occupied by the first Lady Tansor. I am to go with her. John will remain here, with the others, to serve Sir Hyde’s daughter and her husband.’
Just then, as I was digesting this news, Mrs Rowthorn reappeared to ask whether I was ready to be shown upstairs, whereupon I proceeded to the vestibule in the housekeeper’s generous wake.
Miss Carteret was seated by the fire in the room where we had conducted our first conversation. She made no movement as we entered, as if she had not heard Mrs Rowthorn’s knock, and sat, her chin resting on her hand, staring meditatively into the flames.
‘Please, Miss, Mr Glapthorn is here.’
Lit by the glow of the fire on one side, and on the other by the rays from a nearby colza lamp,* her face had assumed an unearthly marmoreal pallor. It seemed for a brief moment like the carved representation of some ancient goddess, terrible and untouchable, rather than the face of a living woman. But then she smiled, rose from her chair to greet me, and apologized for her dreaminess.
‘I have been thinking of Papa and Mamma,’ she said, ‘and of all the happy years we spent here.’
‘But you are not leaving Evenwood, I think, only the Dower House.’
For a moment her face took on a guarded look; but then she inclined her head slightly and looked at me teasingly. ‘How well informed you are, Mr Glapthorn, on all our little doings! I wonder how you do it?’
As I did not wish to give away the identity of my informant, I said that there was no mystery to it; a passing remark from Dr Daunt, nothing more, adding that I was glad that Lord Tansor had recognized his duty towards her.
‘Well then, I have my explanation,’ she said. ‘But perhaps I should begin to inform myself a little about you, if we are to be friends. Come and sit by me, and tell me all about Edward Glapthorn.’
She made room for me on the little sofa on which she was sitting, and folded her hands in her lap, waiting for me to begin. I remained for a second or two entranced by her beautiful face, and by the closeness of her person.
‘Have you nothing to say?’
‘Nothing, I’m sure, that would interest you.’
‘Come, come, Mr Glapthorn, no false modesty. I sense that you have a great deal to say, if you would only allow yourself to do so. Your parents, now. What of them?’
The truth was on my lips; but something held me back. Once I had declared my love for her, and should it be returned, I had resolved in my heart to tell her everything; to trust her as I had trusted no one else, not even Bella. But for now, until all was certain, I felt obliged to speak the truth only as far as I was able, and to apply a little dab of falsehood to the rest.
‘My father was a Captain in the Hussars and died before I was born. My mother supported us by writing novels.’
‘A novelist! How fascinating! But I cannot recall an authoress by the name of Glapthorn.’
‘She wrote anonymously.’
‘I see. And where were you brought up?’
‘On the Somerset coast. My mother’s family were West Country people.’
‘Somerset, do you say? I do not know it well myself, but I have heard Lord Tansor speak of it as a beautiful county – his first wife’s people came from there, you know. And do you have brothers or sisters?’
‘My older sister died when she was very young. I never knew her. I was educated at home by my mother, and then at the village school. Later, after my mother died, I studied at Heidelberg and then travelled a good deal on the Continent. I came to London in 1848 and found my present employment at Tredgolds. I collect books, study photography, and generally lead a rather dull life. There you have it. Edward Glapthorn, en tout et pour tout.’
‘Well,’ she said when I had finished my résumé, ‘I still accuse you of false modesty, for I infer from your account that you undoubtedly possess some remarkable talents to which you are not prepared to admit. Photography, for example. That is something which calls for both scientific knowledge and an artistic eye, yet you mention it almost off-handedly, as if its secrets could be mastered by any Tom, Dick or Harry. I am greatly interested by photography. Lord Tansor has an album containing some excellent views of Evenwood. I’ve often looked through it with admiration. The same photographer, I believe, was responsible for the portrait of Lord Tansor that stands on his Lordship’s desk. Do you know, I believe that I should like to have my portrait taken. Yes, I think I should like that very much. Would you take my portrait, Mr Glapthorn?’
I searched her eyes, those great dark pools, infinitely deep, but they gave back no suggestion of any ulterior meaning to her question. I saw only frankness and honesty, and my heart leaped within me that she should look upon me in such a way, without the reserve that had once seemed so unyielding. I told her that I would be pleased and honoured to take her portrait, and then, recklessly perhaps, tumbled out an admission that, at Mr Tredgold’s instigation, I had been responsible for producing the photographic views of Evenwood that she had admired, and for the portrait of Lord Tansor.
‘But of course!’ she cried. ‘The portrait carries the initials EG – for Edward Glapthorn! What an extraordinary thing, that you should have come to Evenwood to take your photographs and I never knew! To think that we might have met then, or passed each other in the grounds as strangers, unaware that we were destined to meet one day.’
‘So you think our meeting was destined?’ I asked.
‘Don’t you?’
‘As you know, I am a fervent believer in Fate,’ I replied. ‘It is the pagan in me. I have tried to argue myself out of it, but find I cannot.’
‘Then it seems we are helpless,’ she said quietly, turning her head towards the fire.
Silence descended on the room, a silence that seemed deepened and made almost palpable by the faint ticking of a clock, and the sound of the logs crackling and flaring, and by the roaring wind, throwing leaves and small branches against the windows.
I felt my breath quicken with the desire to draw her close to me, to feel her hair against my face, and her breast against mine. Would she push me away? Or would she instantly yield to the moment? Then I saw her head drop, and knew that she was weeping.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, almost in a whisper.
I was on the point of assuring her that no apology was required for her display of feeling; but then I saw that she had not addressed her remark to me, but to some other person, absent in body but present in her mind.
‘You should not have died!’ She was speaking now in a kind of moan, and shaking her head rapidly from side to side; then I understood that the sudden thought of her father’s dreadful death must have come upon her unexpectedly, as fresh grief often will.
‘Miss Carteret—’
‘Oh, Mr Glapthorn, I am so sorry.’
‘No, no, no. You must not be sorry. Are you quite well? Shall I call for Mrs Rowthorn?’
My heart broke to see her in such open distress, though my pity for her contended with boiling rage for what Daunt had brought her to. He might not have been an active participant in Mr Carteret’s death, but the conviction remained that he had been implicated in it. And so the responsibility for one more injury was added to his account, which I swore must soon be called in for settlement.
In answer to my solicitations, Miss Carteret insisted that she required nothing and began to wipe away her tears. In a moment or two she had composed herself and was asking me, with every appearance of cheerful interest, when I was to return to London. I said that I would be staying in Easton that night and would leave in the mor
ning.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, as a violent gust of wind rattled one of the windows. ‘You cannot walk back to Easton in this weather. John Brine would take you, but one of the horses is lame. You must stay the night. I insist.’
Of course, I objected that I could not possibly trespass on her kindness, but she would have none of it. She immediately rang for Mrs Rowthorn, and asked her to prepare a room and lay another place for dinner.
‘You will not mind our dining à deux, I hope, Mr Glapthorn?’ she asked. ‘It is a little scandalous, I know, having no one to chaperone me; but I have little time for tiresome conventions. If a lady wishes to dine with a gentleman in her own home, then it is surely no concern of anyone else’s. Besides, company is rare at the Dower House these days.’
‘But I think you spoke of having friends in the neighbourhood?’
‘My friends keep a respectful distance at this sad time, and I have little taste for going out. I think perhaps we are alike, Mr Glapthorn. We prefer our own company best.’
Dinner alone with Miss Emily Carteret! How extraordinary it was to find myself seated opposite her in the panelled dining-room overlooking the gardens at the back of the Dower House, and to hear myself talking to her with a degree of familiarity that I could not have imagined possible only a few hours earlier. We began to discuss the events of the day, including, of course, the late action at Sinope,* and found ourselves in agreement that Russia needed to be taught a lesson – it rather surprised, as well as pleased, me that Miss Carteret’s bellicosity was even more pronounced than mine. The Heir of Redclyffe†was then dissected – to its disadvantage – and Mr Ruskin’s views on the Gothic style of architecture considered and commended in every respect.* We laughed; we disputed, now seriously, now facetiously; we discovered that we liked a great many things in common, and disliked a great many more. We found that we were both intolerant of stupidity and dullness, and equally enraged by wanton ignorance. An hour flew by; then two. Ten o’clock had just chimed when, having removed ourselves to the drawing-room, I asked my hostess whether she would be kind enough to play.
‘Some Chopin, perhaps,’ I suggested. ‘I remember so well, on my first visit to the Dower House, hearing you play something by him – a Nocturne, I think.’
‘No,’ she corrected, colouring slightly. ‘A Prelude. Number 15, in D flat, called “The Raindrop”.† Unfortunately, I no longer have the music. Perhaps something else. Let me sing to you instead.’
She hurried over to the piano-forte, as if anxious not to dwell on the memory of that evening, and began to deliver a passionate rendition of Herr Schumann’s ‘An meinem Herzen, an meiner Brust’,‡ to a delicate accompaniment. Her singing voice was deep and rich, but overlaid with an enchanting softness of tone. She played and sang with closed eyes, having both the music and the words by heart. When she had finished, she shut the lid and sat for a moment looking towards the window. The blind had been drawn down, but she continued to stare at the blank fabric, as if she could see straight through it, across the lawn, and through the Plantation, to some distant object of the most intense interest.
‘You sing from the heart, Miss Carteret,’ I said.
She did not answer me, but continued to stare at the blind.
‘Perhaps the piece holds a special meaning for you?’
She turned towards me.
‘Not at all. But you appear to be asking another question.’
‘Another question?’
‘Yes. You ask whether the piece holds a special meaning for me, but really you wish to know something else.’
‘I see you have the measure of me,’ I said, pulling up a chair. ‘You are right. I do wish to know something, but now I am ashamed by my presumptuousness. Please forgive me.’
She gave a little smile before replying. ‘Friends are allowed to be a little presumptuous, Mr Glapthorn – even such new ones as we are. Now put your scruples aside, and tell me what you wish to know.’
‘Very well. I have been curious – though it is no business of mine, no business whatsoever – as to the identity of the man I saw you talking to in the Plantation, on the evening of my first visit. I happened to be standing by the window, you see, and observed you. But you do not need to answer. I have no right—’
She coloured, and I apologized for my forwardness; but she quickly came back.
‘Do you really ask out of mere curiosity, Mr Glapthorn, or from some other motive?’
I felt trapped by her questioning stare and, as I invariably do on such occasions, resorted to bluster.
‘Oh no, I am incorrigibly inquisitive, that is all. It is a strength in many respects, but in others I am keenly aware that it is a rather vulgar failing of mine.’
‘I applaud your frankness,’ she said, ‘and you shall be rewarded for it. The gentleman you saw was Mr George Langham, the brother of one of my oldest friends, Miss Henrietta Langham. I’m afraid you witnessed the final dissolution of Mr Langham’s romantic hopes. He proposed to me – secretly – some months ago, but I refused him. He came again that night, not knowing that my father—’
She stopped, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
‘No, no,’ she broke in, seeing me about to speak. ‘Let me continue. I saw Mr Langham from the window, as I was playing, and went to see what he wanted. He forgot himself to such an extent, even when I told him what had happened to my father, that he begged me to reconsider my previous decision. We parted in anger, I am afraid, on both sides. I fear Henrietta is also cross with me for refusing him. But I do not love George in that way, and never will, and so could not possibly marry him. There, Mr Glapthorn, is your answer. Is your curiosity satisfied?’
‘Perfectly. Except—’
‘Yes?’
‘The music, which I found torn to pieces—’
‘It was, as I think I told you, one of my father’s favourites. I played it for the last time that evening, and vowed that I would never play it again. It had nothing to do with Mr Langham, and neither did the song that I sang tonight.’
‘Then I am satisfied,’ I said, giving her a grave little bow, ‘though I feel I have pushed our friendship too far.’
‘We must all do what we feel we must, Mr Glapthorn. But perhaps you will agree to reciprocate, for friendship’s sake. I, too, am curious to know something.’
‘And what is that?’
‘A question that you refused to answer when we first met. What was your business with my father?’
I was unprepared both for the nature and the directness of the question, and only an ingrained habit of vigilance in matters of professional and private business prevented me from laying the whole thing before her. But, whether by accident or design, she had made it harder for me to prevaricate, as I had been able to do when she had previously asked me the same question, though still I made a clumsy attempt to do so.
‘As I said before,’ I began, ‘it is a question of professional confidence—’
‘And is a professional confidence more binding than a personal one?’ she asked.
I was cornered. She had answered my question concerning her meeting in the Plantation; I had no choice but to respond in kind, though I took refuge in brevity, hoping thereby to answer her as honestly as I could whilst revealing as little as possible.
‘Your father wrote to Mr Tredgold on a matter pertaining to the Tansor succession. My principal felt that it would not be appropriate for him to meet Mr Carteret in person, as he had requested; and so I was sent instead.’
‘A matter pertaining to the succession? Surely that is something that my father would have felt obliged to put before Lord Tansor, not Mr Tredgold.’
‘I can make no comment on that,’ I replied. ‘I can only say that it was your father’s express wish that his communication to Mr Tredgold should be kept strictly confidential.’
‘But what could possibly have made him act in such a way? He was a most loyal servant to Lord Tansor. It would have been against his deepest principles
to go behind his Lordship’s back.’
‘Miss Carteret,’ I said, ‘I have already revealed more of the business than my employer would have wished me to do; and, indeed, I can add nothing more to what I have already said. Your father told me nothing when we met in Stamford, and his untimely death has sealed my ignorance concerning the reason for his letter to my principal. Whatever he wished to reveal to Mr Tredgold, through me, must now remain forever unknown.’
How I hated myself for the lie. She did not deserve to be treated so, as if she were an enemy to my interests, like Phoebus Daunt, whom she appeared to detest almost as much I did. I had no reason not to trust her, and every reason to draw her into my confidence. She had declared herself my friend, and had shown me courtesy and kindness, and a degree of partiality that I flattered myself betokened incipient affection. She had a right, surely, to claim my trust. Yes, she had a right to know what her father had written in his Deposition, and to understand what it signified for me, and for her. This, however, was not the time, not quite yet; but just a little longer, and then I would put all deceit aside for ever.
Had she sensed the falsehood? I could not tell, for nothing disturbed the enigmatic serenity of her face. She appeared to be turning over what I had said. Then, as if a thought had struck her, she asked:
‘Do you suppose it might concern Mr Daunt – I mean, the matter that my father wished to bring to Mr Tredgold’s attention?’
‘I really cannot say.’
‘But you would tell me, if you knew, wouldn’t you? As a friend.’
She had moved closer to me and was standing, with one hand resting on the piano-forte, looking directly into my eyes.
‘It would be impossible to deny a true friend,’ I said.
‘Well then, we have balanced the books, Mr Glapthorn.’ The smile broadened. ‘Confidences have been exchanged, and our debts to each other paid. I am so glad you came. When we next meet, I shall have left here for good. It will be strange, to pass by the Dower House and know that someone else is living here. But you will come and see me again, I hope, at the great house, or in London?’