The Meaning of Night

by Michael Cox

  The second sheet of paper contained only these words, in a shaky and irregular hand:To My Dearest Son, —I have kept my promise to you, and have given you the key to unlock your true identity. If God in His wisdom and mercy should lead you to them, use them, or destroy them, as your heart dictates.I wept when I came to see you for the last time, playing at my feet, so strong and so handsome, as I knew you would be. But I shall never see you more, until that day when the earth gives up its dead, and we are reunited in eternity.The light is fading. This is all I can write. My heart is full.Your mother,L.R. DUPORT

  At the bottom of the page, in another hand, was written the following:She died yesterday. The shawl that she was wearing when I closed her poor eyes encloses these letters to her lost son (the last words she ever wrote), the two mementoes of his birth, and also the little book which comforted her so greatly and which she wished he might one day have. She placed all her trust in God to bring these things forth from the darkness of the grave into the light of day once more, if it is His will to do so. This is my last service to her. May God rest her soul.J.E. 1824.

  The hand, of course, was that of Julia Eames, who, before her own death, had written out the two words that had been inscribed on her friend’s burial place and had sent them to Mr Carteret as a hint or clue to the secret that she had kept so faithfully for so many years. How she had contrived to place the shawl and its contents in the loculus before it was sealed, I could not imagine; yet here they were. The Almighty, it seemed, with a little help from Miss Julia Eames, had made His will known.

  I re-read the letters from my mother, holding them close to the lantern and poring over every word, especially the beginning of the second letter: ‘I have kept my promise to you, and have given you the keys to unlock your true identity.’ I thought at first it was a riddle that I would never solve; then I considered again the remark that I had ‘played at her feet’, and in an instant all became wondrously, deliriously clear.

  A picture of Miss Lamb rushes into my mind: sad, thin Miss Lamb, running her long gloved fingers down my cheek as she watched me playing on the floor beside her, with the fleet of little wooden ships that Billick had made for me. Time passes, and another memory of her is called up: ‘A present from an old, old friend who loved you very much, but who will never see you again.’ And then a final, conclusive, recollection: a receipt for the construction of a small box made of rosewood by Mr James Beach, carpenter, Church-hill, Easton, found by Mr Carteret in my mother’s papers after her death. Two hundred golden sovereigns – in a rosewood box that still stands on my mantelpiece in Temple-street. But what else did it contain?

  In a state of intense excitement, exhilarated beyond words by my discovery, and jubilant that I had solved the riddle left behind by Miss Eames, I replace the slab as best I can, to close the opening of the loculus, then stand for a moment contemplating the inscription. It is a curious sensation, to feel that my mother lies only a few feet from me, within that cold narrow space, encased in lead and wood; and yet she has spoken to me directly, in her own voice, through the letters I now hold in my hand. The tears course down my face, and I fall to my knees. What do I feel? Elation, certainly, at my triumph; but also anger, at the gross folly and selfishness of my mother’s actions; and love for her to whose care I was consigned. I think of the portrait of her Ladyship that hung above Mr Carteret’s desk, and recall her haunting, imperious beauty; and then I think of her friend, Simona Glyver, always bent over her work-table, writing her books, keeping her secrets. When I first discovered the truth about my birth, I resented her faithfulness to her reckless friend; but I was wrong to do so. I called her my mother once. What shall I call her now? She did not carry me in her womb; but she cared for me, scolded me when I was bad, protected me, comforted me, and loved me. Who was she, then, but my mother?

  Yet I blessed Laura Tansor for submitting to her conscience; and I blessed Miss Eames for sending Mr Carteret the clue that had delivered me from the yoke of perpetual dissimulation. The keys to the kingdom were now in my possession, and I was free at last to face the world as Edward Duport, to marry my dearest girl, and to lay my enemy low at last.

  *[‘I shall rise again’. Ed.]

  *[The picture in question, of Anthony Charles Duport (1682–1709), by Sir Godfrey Kneller (1646–1723), is now in the National Portrait Gallery. Ed.]

  *[A lantern with a thick protuberant lens of blown glass on one side for concentrating the light. Ed.]

  *[The bookseller Henry Seile (fl. 1619–61). Ed.]

  †[Proverbs, 13: 19. Ed.]

  *[The quotation is from Felltham’s Resolves, xi (‘Of the Trial of Faith and Friendship’). Ed.]

  42

  Apparatus belli*

  As soon as I enter my sitting-room in Temple-street, I walk straight over to the mantel-piece, snatch up the rosewood box, and take it to my work-table.

  It seems empty, but I am now certain that it is not. I shake it, and start to pick at it with my pocket-knife. A minute goes by, then two; but, as my hands now wander over every inch of its surface, pressing, pulling and probing, I know that it will eventually yield up its secret place.

  And it does. I have wriggled the tiny key in the escutcheon this way and that a dozen times; but this time, when I disengage it slightly and start to turn it a little way from the vertical position, it seems to engage with something; and then a miracle happens. With a soft click, a little drawer slides out from below an inlaid band of paler wood an inch or so from the bottom of the box. The trick is so cunningly wrought that I wonder at the country skills of Mr James Beach.

  The drawer is large enough to contain two folded documents, which I now remove and, trembling, lay out on my table.

  The first is an affidavit, written in my mother’s hand, sworn and signed in the presence of a Rennes notary, and dated the 5th of June 1820. It states briefly, but categorically, that the child born in the house of Madame H. de Québriac, Hôtel de Québriac, Rue du Chapitre, in the city of Rennes, on the 9th day of March in the year 1820, was the lawfully begotten son of Julius Verney Duport, 25th Baron Tansor, of Evenwood, in the County of Northamptonshire, and his wife, Laura Rose; and that the said child, Edward Charles Duport, had been placed in the permanent care of Mrs Simona Glyver, wife of Captain Edward Glyver, late of the 11th Regiment of Light Dragoons, of Sandchurch in the County of Dorset, at the express wish of his mother, the said Laura Rose Duport, to be brought up as her own. Beside my mother’s signature – witnessed by Madame de Québriac and another person whose name I cannot make out – is a small wax seal bearing an impression of the Duport arms, taken perhaps from a signet ring. With the affidavit is a short statement signed by two witnesses to my baptism in the Church of St-Sauveur, on the 19th of March 1820.

  Together with Mr Carteret’s Deposition and the letters removed from Lady Tansor’s tomb, and supported by the corroboration provided in my foster-mother’s journals, my hand is now full, and unbeatable. I spend the rest of the day, and most of the evening, copying out extracts of particular relevance to my case from the journals, which I paste into a note-book, along with copies of the other critical documents. Then, having written up my own journal for the day, I sit in my arm-chair and fall fast asleep.

  When I awoke, cold and hungry, my first thought was that I must have dreamed the discovery that I had made in Lady Tansor’s tomb, and of forcing the rosewood box to give up its secret. But there, on my work-table, lay the two letters, and the signed affidavit, palpable and present to both sight and touch. They were golden arrows, tipped with truth, waiting to be shot into the villainous heart of Phoebus Daunt. After so long, I had been given the means to destroy my enemy, and take up my true station in life. A day would soon come when I would leave behind this present sorry life of confusion and duplicity for ever, and come into the golden place prepared for me by the Iron Master, with my dearest girl by my side.

  My first task of the day was to write to Mr Tredgold, telling him how my conviction had been so triump
hantly vindicated, and sending him for safekeeping the copies that I had made of the new documents. That done, I went forth to take a hearty breakfast.

  On the following Monday morning I returned to Evenwood.

  Once again, making sure I was unobserved, I climbed the flight of winding stairs up to my dearest girl’s apartments. In the corridor, as I emerged through the stair-case door, I encountered Lizzie Brine. Stepping back, I signalled for her to follow me.

  ‘Is there anything to tell, Lizzie?’ I asked.

  ‘I do not know, sir,’ she replied.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Only this, sir. The day we met on the stair-case, when I was with Hannah Brown …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, sir, I couldn’t tell you to your face, but then I thought you must know anyway.’

  ‘Lizzie, this is unlike you,’ I said. ‘You’re sounding like your brother. For God’s sake, spit it out.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Here it is, as best as I can manage. I’d seen you arrive in the Front Court from the window there, just opposite my mistress’s door. But a few moments before, just as I was coming up these very stairs, I’d seen a gentleman go into her room. I was on my way to the laundry, but I knew that you’d be coming up to my mistress’s sitting-room at any minute. And so I naturally supposed, when I saw you later, that you must have met the gentleman. That’s as clear as I can make it, sir.’

  ‘And yet I still do not understand,’ I said. ‘There was no gentleman present when I was admitted to Miss Carteret’s sitting-room. Are you sure of what you saw?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir.’

  ‘And did you see who it was? Did you recognize him?’

  ‘I only saw his coat-tails.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps it was Lord Tansor,’ I suggested.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Lizzie, somewhat hesitantly.

  ‘No, it must have been his Lordship.’ I was now breezily confident that I had hit on the identity of the mysterious gentleman. ‘He had some brief business with Miss Carteret, no doubt – a few words only – and then left the apartment before I arrived. That must be it.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m sure you’re right.’

  I sent her on her way, with a little bonus to keep her up to the mark, and knocked on my darling’s door.

  She was sitting by one of the arched windows, busily engaged on a piece of embroidery work, when I entered the room. Only on hearing my greeting did she look up and remove her spectacles. ‘Have you brought them?’

  I was a little taken aback by the peremptory tone of her question, for which she quickly apologized, saying that she had been racked with worry about my safety.

  ‘Did anyone see you come?’ she asked apprehensively, getting up to open the window, and look down to the the terrace below. ‘Are you sure no one saw you? Oh Edward, I have been so afraid!’

  ‘There, there, dearest. I am here now, safe and sound. And here are the papers.’ I opened my bag and took out her father’s Deposition, followed by half a dozen of my mother’s little black volumes, and laid them on the table. She put on her spectacles again, then sat down at the table to examine, with the most intense interest, the words of her poor late papa – the last that he ever wrote. I sat a little way off, watching her turn each page of the Deposition until she reached the end.

  ‘You are right,’ she said quietly. ‘He died because of what he knew.’ ‘And only one person stood to gain from depriving him of the source of his knowledge.’

  She nodded, in mute acknowledgement that she understood to whom I had alluded, gathered the pages together with trembling hands, and then opened one of the little black volumes.

  ‘I cannot read this,’ she said, peering at the tiny writing, ‘but you are sure, are you, that Mrs Glyver’s words corroborate what my father discovered in Lady Tansor’s papers?’ ‘There is no doubt whatsoever,’ I answered.

  After opening one or two of the other volumes and cursorily examining their contents, she gathered them together and placed them, with the Deposition, in the concealed cupboard behind the portrait of Anthony Duport in his blue silk breeches.

  ‘There,’ she said with a smile, ‘all safe now.’

  ‘Not quite all,’ I said, reaching into the bag, and taking out the letters that I had removed from Lady Tansor’s tomb, together with the affidavit and the statement of the witnesses to my baptism.

  ‘What are these?’

  ‘These,’ I said, ‘are the means by which our futures will be assured: I as Lord Tansor’s son and heir, and you as my wife – mistress of Evenwood!’

  She gave a little gasp.

  ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘I have found it at last!’ I cried. ‘The final proof that I have been seeking, the proof that makes my case unanswerable.’

  We sat down together at the table, and she read the letters, and then the affidavit.

  ‘But this is extraordinary!’ she exclaimed. ‘How did you come by these documents?’

  Briefly I recounted how the clue sent by Miss Eames to her father had led me to believe that Lady Tansor’s tomb might contain something of critical importance to my case.

  ‘Oh, Edward, how terrible! But what will you do?’ she asked, her eyes bright with excitement.

  ‘I have sent copies to Mr Tredgold, and shall consult him as soon as possible on the proper course of action. It may be that he will make an approach to Lord Tansor on my behalf, but I am happy to take whatever advice he gives me on how to proceed. Only think, my dearest Emily, nothing now can stop me claiming what is rightfully mine. We can be married by Christmas!’

  She gave me a look of surprise and took off her spectacles.

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘Dearest, don’t look so startled! Surely you must feel, as I do, that to delay any longer than necessary would be intolerable?’

  ‘Of course I do. You silly goose, Edward!’ she laughed, leaning forward to kiss my cheek. ‘I only meant that I had not dared to hope it would be so soon.’ Whereupon she picked up the papers from the table, and placed them with the others in the cupboard behind the portrait.

  An hour passed as, blissfully oblivious to time, we laid our plans and fashioned our lovers’ dreams. Where would we live? Perhaps here in the great house, she said. But surely, I countered, his Lordship would wish to provide us with a country property of our own, as well as a house in town. We might travel. We might do anything we wished, for I was Lord Tansor’s only son and heir, who was lost but now was found. How could he deny me anything?

  At four o’clock she said that I must go as she was dining with the Langhams.

  ‘And is Mr George Langham’s heart still broken?’ I asked mischievously.

  She hesitated for a moment, as if puzzled by my question. Then she gave a little shake of her head.

  ‘Oh, that! No, no. He has made a full and complete recovery from his affliction, to the extent that he is now engaged to Miss Maria Berkeley, Sir John Berkeley’s youngest. Now go, before my maid comes to dress me. I don’t wish her to see you here.’

  She was all smiles and playful kisses, and I stood for a moment entranced by her gaiety and beauty, until she began to usher me out of the room with many charming little expressions of mock displeasure at my refusal to go, interspersed with more snatched kisses.

  At the door I wheeled round to make a sweeping stage bow, hat in hand.

  ‘I bid you good evening, dear sweet coz, the future Lady Tansor!’

  ‘Go, you fool!’

  One last laughing kiss, and then she turned away, picked up her embroidery, and sat down, spectacles perched on the end of her beautiful nose, beneath the portrait of Anthony Duport in his blue silk breeches.

  Back at the Duport Arms, I had just retired to my room after taking some supper when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir.’

  It was the sullen waiter whose acquaintance I had made during my first stay at the inn. To sullenness he had now add
ed a perceptible degree of shiftiness.

  ‘Messenger, sir.’ Sniff.

  ‘A messenger? For me?’

  ‘Yessir. Downstairs in the parlour.’ Sniff. Sniff. I immediately made my way downstairs, where I found a thin young man dressed in the Duport livery.

  ‘From Miss Carteret, sir.’ He stretched out a grubby hand containing a folded piece of paper. The short note written thereon was in French, which I shall here translate:DEAREST – IN HASTE, —Lord T told me tonight that we are to leave for Ventnor* tomorrow early. Date of return unknown. Her Ladyship has been unwell this past week, & his Lordship is concerned that the damp weather is making her condition worse – despite the hot-water pipes. Oh my dear love, I am distraught! What shall I do without you?Please do not worry about the papers. I promise you that the place is known only to you and me. I shall write when I can, and shall think of you every minute of every day. I kiss you. And so au revoir.Ever yr loving,

  E.

  This was a bitter blow, and I damned his Lordship most heartily for taking my darling away. A day without her was bad enough; not to know when she would be returning to Evenwood was an intolerable prospect. Dismayed by this unexpected turn of events, I returned to London in a deeply depressed and nervous state of mind. There I languished for three weeks, seeing hardly a soul. On my first morning back in Temple-street I wrote to Mr Tredgold, to request a further meeting; but two days later I received a note from his brother to say that my employer had contracted a slight fever and was not able to enter into any correspondence at present, though Dr Tredgold promised to place my letter before him at the earliest opportunity.