by Michael Cox
4
Nightmares and Memories
I
A Dream of Anthony Duport
THAT NIGHT, I awoke from sleep in terror, wrenched into trembling consciousness by a new nightmare.
I dreamed that I was being pursued through a white void, impenetrable on every side. It was neither mist, nor snow, nor the clinging miasmic fog of London, but something denser and stranger. I felt the most intense, stinging cold about my bare feet and face as I ran, not knowing to where, or why, I ran, nor who my pursuer might be, only that I must escape at all costs. My terror increased with every step as I began to hear the sound of someone breathing hard at my back, and gaining on me second by second.
At last I could run no more, and cried out for help. Yet even as my cries were absorbed into the surrounding void, all fell suddenly silent.
The breathing had stopped; the pursuing footfalls could no longer be heard. Had I escaped?
I stood a while, looking about me, straining to see or hear whether anyone was there, until, out of the thick white blankness, stepped a little boy, with hair to his shoulders, wearing blue silk breeches, and rosettes on his shoes.
He smiles at me such a beguiling, innocent smile.
I do not know my name, he says, with tears in his eyes. And then, so imploringly that it nearly breaks my heart, he asks: Please, can you tell me who I am?
I yearn to reach out and comfort him, and tell him that I did indeed know his name; that he was Anthony Charles Duport, born in 1682, a hundred years before Mr Pococks father, and that he would one day grow up to become the 19th Baron Tansor. But as I move towards him, to enfold him in my arms, his beautiful, entreating face begins to distort, and then dissolve slowly into corruption hair, and flesh, feature by feature until it degenerates at last into a hideous grinning skull, still set atop its former elegantly clad little body.
I HAD WOKEN from my dream with the sound of a bell ringing in my ears.
As the nightmare began to recede, I realized that it was the bell that hung in the corner of my room, just above the fire-place, with which my Lady had said that she would summon me if I was required during the night.
Putting on my robe, and all of a tremble still from the nightmare, I lit a candle, and ran down the stairs to my Ladys apartments.
She was sitting up in bed a monstrous black thing with heavy, blood-red velvet hangings, densely carved with grotesque figures of fauns and satyrs, and other mythological creatures her head thrown back against the piled-up pillows.
I had put the candle down on a table by the door, leaving the rest of the room illuminated only by the flickering remains of the fire that I had earlier lit. The glow, however, was enough to show me Lady Tansors shadowed face, pale as death, and her disordered hair, spread out across the pillows like a billowing cloak.
She was looking at me intently, yet her mind seemed to be in some other, more terrible, place, as if she were being held fast in a mesmeric trance. I rushed to her, fearing greatly that she had been taken ill.
My Lady! I cried out. What is the matter? Can you speak?
She turned her stricken face towards me, and I saw tiny beads of perspiration standing out on her forehead. I saw, too, the encroaching marks of irresistible time.
She stared at me mutely; then, gradually, colour began to return to her cheeks, and she opened her mouth to speak.
Alice, dear, she said, in a hoarse whisper. I heard a scream. Was it you?
A bad dream, my Lady, I replied. Nothing more.
A bad dream!
She gave the most dreadful, mirthless laugh.
How bad was your dream, Alice? As bad as mine? I do not think so.
May I fetch you something, my Lady? I enquired. Some water, perhaps? Or shall I send Barrington for the doctor? I fear you may have taken a chill from your walk on the terrace this evening.
What did you say?
She was now sitting upright, staring at me with a most fearful expression of alarm.
Did you stay in the bed-chamber, as I instructed?
Yes, my Lady, of course. I only thought that the night air might have
She raised her hand to signal that I should say no more, then sank back against the pillow.
I am quite well now, she sighed. I require only the sweet oblivion of a dreamless sleep. Is it possible, do you suppose, to sleep without the intrusion of dreams? I think that it must be, and that it is a most enviable condition. Do you often have nightmares, Alice?
I told her that I had been afflicted with periodic night-terrors since childhood, although they were now less frequent disturbers of my sleep than formerly.
Then we are fellow sufferers, she said. But you are more fortunate than I am; for I find that mine increase alarmingly with every year that passes. Oh, it is a fearful thing, Alice, to have your precious sleep constantly taken from you, night after night, and never given back!
She had reached forward to grip my hand as she spoke, and I saw the dread returning momentarily to her great dark eyes.
Perhaps you might read to me again, she said, quietly, just for a very little while.
She pointed to a small volume, with marbled boards and a gilded spine, lying on the table beside her bed.
Page one hundred and twenty, she said. The first poem.
I picked up the book and opened it, briefly glancing at the titlepage as I did so. Of course it was yet another work from the pen of Mr Phoebus Daunt: the miscellany of poems, lyrics, and translations entitled Rosa Mundi, * which she had been reading on the day of my interview.
I turned to the poem she had requested me to find. Placing the open book on my lap, and lighting the bedside candle, I began to read.
The poem was only six stanzas long. When I had finished, Lady Tansor asked me to read it again. All the while she remained motionless, her head laid back against the pillows, staring out beyond the thick red hangings of the bed towards the window, which framed a pale, lunated moon hanging above the distant woods.
Again, Alice, she said, without stirring.
And so I read the poem for a third time, and then a fourth, by when I had it perfectly by heart.
Enough, she sighed. You may leave me. I shall sleep now, I think. I shall ring for you, should I need you. If not, then you must be here early tomorrow. I have a great deal to do. Seven oclock, if you please.
She closed her eyes, and I put out the candle. Softly shutting the door behind me, I returned, exhausted, to my room.
II
Penance and Punishment
AT A LITTLE before four oclock, I settled down in my bed again and drew the coverlet over my head. Within minutes I was sound asleep, and remained so, untroubled by dreams, until I was roused by someone knocking at my door.
When I opened it, there stood Mrs Battersby.
Miss Gorst, she said, with apparent relief. Here you are. Youll excuse me, I hope, but youre wanted by Lady Tansor. I believe youre late in attending her this morning. I happened to have been called up to her Ladyship on some small household matter, and so offered to come and find you.
I turned to look at the clock. It was almost half an hour past my time.
I shall go immediately, I said. Thank you, Mrs Battersby.
Its no trouble, Miss Gorst, she replied. Youll know, Im sure, that her Ladyship puts great store on punctuality.
The remark seemed intended as a friendly reminder, but I could not help feeling, once again, that I was being gently put in my place, even though the housekeeper had no authority over me.
Oh, Miss Gorst, she said, as she was turning to go. I thought perhaps you might care to take tea with me, if your duties permit of course. Come down to the servants hall and ask anyone to show you to the housekeepers room. Shall we say four oclock?
WHEN I ENTERED my Ladys sitting-room, I found her, dressed in her red
-and-green silk robe, seated at her escritoire writing a letter.
You will make and light the dressing-room fire, Alice, she said without looking up, lay out and air my linen, and then draw my bath.
Yes, my Lady. Im sorry
Say nothing, she broke in, continuing to write.
These duties concluded, I returned to the sitting-room.
I shall bathe now, she said, sealing the envelope of the letter she had been writing and laying it down. Without even once looking at me, she rustled past in her trailing gown and went into the dressing-room, where I had prepared her bath.
No words were spoken during my Ladys ablutions. It was not until she had finished bathing, and I was lacing up her stays, that she finally looked me in the eye.
You have disappointed me, Alice, she said, holding me fast with her unyielding gaze. Did I not distinctly say that I would need you at seven oclock?
Yes, my Lady.
And what is your excuse?
I told her straight out that I had none.
Good. To have prevaricated would have done you no service. You took the honest course, as I hoped you would. But it must not happen again, Alice, no matter what the circumstances are, or there will be consequences. When I name a time, I expect it to be kept. I hope that is clear?
Perfectly clear, my Lady.
I am displeased with you, of course, she continued, walking over to the dressing-glass, for I expected better from you, and I distinctly told you that certain standards must be observed. I shall not punish you this time, however, but you must do a little penance.
Moving away from the glass, she seated herself at her dressing-table and began fingering through a box of jewellery.
Penance, my Lady? I asked.
Oh, it is nothing, came the consciously careless reply. A walk, on this fine September morning, thats all. To Easton, to take a letter. That will not be too arduous, I suppose?
Not at all, my Lady.
You may go after my toilet is completed I think I shall wear the blue taffeta today.
I dressed her hair in the way she liked, and helped her into the day-gown she had indicated, which, following Mrs Beetons instructions, I brushed and gently smoothed with a silk handkerchief as my mistress stood observing herself in the glass. When she was satisfied, she went back to her dressing-table and opened the box containing the tear-shaped locket on its black velvet band, which she then placed round her neck.
You are curious, are you not, Alice, she asked, about this locket of mine, and why it is so precious to me?
A little, my Lady, I confessed.
Well, I shall tell you about it, but not at present, for you have your penance to perform, and I have more letters to write. The one I wish you to take is on the escritoire. You are to go to the Duport Arms, in the Market Square, and leave it at the desk for collection for collection, mind. Do not, under any circumstance, give it to the recipient yourself. Then you must come back directly. Of course there is no need to mention this little penance of yours to anyone for your own sake.
Then, to my surprise, she announced, almost as an afterthought, that she must take the express-train to London, on an urgent matter of business.
It is so tedious, she sighed, and I do so hate London these days. But it cannnot be helped. I shall return this evening. While I am gone, after you have delivered the letter, there are a few small tasks I wish you to carry out.
Here are the few small tasks, additional to my penance, to which I had to look forward to on my return from Easton.
The gown she had worn the previous day had sustained a small tear in the hem that required mending; her chaussure had been left in the most disgraceful state by Miss Plumptre, and every pair of shoes required a thorough clean; her hats were in the same deplorable condition (I adore hats, she said, turning to me with a smile, and have a great many), and each one would need brushing, the decorations renovated where necessary (Although I cannot now remember where the flower-pliers are. Ask Mrs Battersby), and putting away afresh.
The bed-chamber, of course, she went on, will need a good sweeping, which I really should insist that you do now; but you may do it when you return from Easton. There! I think thats all. Now, run along and make the bed, whilst I put on a little scent and finish my letters. Be as quick as you can, so that you can get off to Easton. And remember for collection, and come straight back. No need to wait for a reply.
III
The Old Woman
MY WAY TO Easton took me over the Evenbrook, and through the South Gates into the village of Evenwood. As I approached the gate-house fashioned like a little Scottish castle, gaunt and black, with the rusty spikes of a pretend portcullis poking down into the dark archway a pretty little house could be glimpsed through a thick plantation of trees to my right. This, I thought, must be my Ladys former home, the Dower House, where Madame had told me my mistress had lived with her widowed father, Mr Paul Carteret, until his untimely death.
I stopped for a moment to take in the scene.
The house reminded me of nothing so much as the dolls-house that Mr Thornhaugh had caused to be made for my eighth birthday. It was a gift of such size and magnificence that it had astonished even Madame; but he said that every little girl should have a dolls-house, even clever ones who loved their books almost more than their dolls, and had smilingly shrugged off Madames protestations that it must have cost a great deal of money, which he might not have been able to afford.
It entranced me from the moment Mr Thornhaugh removed the canvas cover in which it had been wrapped, and told me that I could open my eyes which I had closed as tightly as I could at his request, to heighten the anticipation.
How I had longed to become small enough, by some temporary act of sorcery (for I had always been accounted tall for my age), to push open the tiny front door and go exploring through all the rooms! I particularly wished to be able to look out of its windows, with their curtains of sprigged muslin, at the Brobdingnagian world outside, and then scamper up the beautiful curving staircase, to skip and dance through the upper rooms, and curl up at last in one of the miniature beds.
The Dower House had the same delicious perfection of form as my dolls-house; and I found myself experiencing something of the same childhood desire to peep inside it. But, mindful of Lady Tansors strict instructions, I proceeded instead through the archway of the gloomy gate-house, and out into the road.
As I entered the village, the church clock began to strike half past nine. At the corner of the lane that led down to the church and its adjoining Rectory, I noticed a familiar figure come out of one of the cottages and begin scurrying, like a little mouse, down the lane.
Sukie! I cried out.
She stopped, turned, and began running back towards me.
Miss Alice! What are you doing here?
I explained that I was on my way to Easton, to take a letter from Lady Tansor to a person staying at the Duport Arms.
Who can that be, I wonder? she said. And why would they be staying in Easton, and not in the great house?
Is that where you live? I asked, looking towards the cottage from which she had just emerged.
Yes, she replied. The doctor has been to see Mother, and Mrs Battersby allowed me half an hour to come down while he was here.
I said I hoped her mothers condition was not serious.
No thank you not serious, as far as we know. Shell be seventy-two soon, which is a grand age, I think, though of course it brings its troubles.
At the mention of Mrs Battersby, I was about to ask Sukie whether she could tell me a little more concerning the housekeeper, in whom I had begun to take a decided interest; but I knew that I must get to Easton as soon as I could, before beginning the various tasks my mistress had set me. Sukie, too, was anxious to return to the great house, in
order not to risk Mrs Battersbys displeasure. So we parted, and I watched Sukies little figure run back down the lane, her curls flopping and bouncing as she went.
ONCE OUT OF the village, and having passed through the hamlets of Upper Thornbrook and Duck End, I took the road that climbed the gentle wooded escarpment on which the town of Easton stands, the trees on either side forming a most pleasant canopy of branches, through which the early-autumn sunlight was now streaming.
The Market Square was already crowded when I reached the town, for it was market day, and there was a great press of people outside the Duport Arms, and in the public rooms.
As there was no one at the desk, I rang the bell several times until a sour-faced old man, bent of back, and with a greasy black patch over one eye, appeared from behind a curtain.
I wish to leave this for collection.
He took the letter and examined the inscription by holding it up close to his remaining eye.
B.K., he muttered to himself, and then said the initials over again, more slowly this time, rolling his eye upwards to the ceiling, as if the information he was seeking might be written there. Then he began to nod his head.
Do you know the gentleman? I asked.