by Michael Cox
And as I have said before, sir, say I, still unsure whether he is speaking in jest or not, I have no other ambition than to serve my Lady, and shall do so as her companion, as I did as her maid, to the best of my ability. A fine gown changes nothing. I am still the person I was.
You are wrong, he returns, more quietly now, but emphatically. You are changed a great deal, or rather you have reverted to what you really are. Dont you agree, Randolph?
He gives his brother a look of indisputable challenge, as if he were taunting him to disagree; but before anything more can be said, we are joined by Mr Vyse and a perspiring, portly gentleman, whom I immediately presume to be Mr Roderick Shillito.
Now here is the predicament that I had expected. I must be introduced to the newcomer. Will my name raise a remembrance in him of my father?
Mr Vyse, leaning on his silver-topped stick and beaming in his customary lupine manner, bows a silent greeting to my Lady, and then holds out his hand towards me.
Shillito, may I have the honour of introducing Miss Esperanza Gorst, her Ladyships new companion. Miss Gorst has become a great adornment to Evenwood society, and is set to become an even greater one, I predict.
He then takes a step back, as if better to observe the effect of his words on his friend, whom I shall now present to my readers by transcribing the description of him that I wrote in my Book of Secrets:
MR RODERICK SHILLITO
Age and Appearance: fifty or so years old. Tall nearly as tall as Mr Vyse but corpulent, and lumbering in his movements. Pink skin stretched tight over large moon face. Small, mean mouth; moist, pale-lashed, porcine eyes set close together. Across the top of his head is a broad slab of bald, mottled flesh, flanked by swept-back waves of stiff, dirty-yellow hair, like parched grass. All in all, gives out the impression of an elderly, and viciously inclined, putto.
Character: presents a complete picture of the dedicated self-seeker. Fixed expression of sly degeneracy, unmitigated by any redeeming quality of spontaneous generosity, or fellow-feeling. An accomplished sponger, I should say and much worse, no doubt. A strange associate for Mr Vyse (to whom he habitually defers), having none of the latters flamboyant sophistication, and certainly his inferior in point of intellect.
Conclusion: a repellent buffoon in many ways, but also, I am sure, a bully and a coward.
After Mr Vyse has spoken my name, Mr Shillito scratches his fat head and purses his fat, wet lips.
Gorst, he says slowly. Theres a name I think I know, though Im damned if I can remember where. Were you ever in Dublin, Miss Gorst?
No, sir. Never.
Were you not? Hmm.
He gives himself up to further strained rumination; and then the light of dim recollection begins to seep into his pale eyes.
I have it! I met a man once, in Madeira, by the name of Gorst. Thats it! Say now, Miss Gorst, have I hit it? Were you ever in Madeira?
Never in my life, sir, I reply, conscious that my cheeks are growing warm, and that both my Lady and Mr Vyse are now taking a close interest in the turn the conversation has taken.
Its an odd thing, Mr Shillito retorts, with a deriding snort, and looking round at the others in the apparent expectation of their support for the line he has taken. Gorst is an uncommon name, aint it? Its certain Ive only ever known one other person who went by it. Now heres a second, and yet it seems theres no connexion with this fellow I met in Madeira. Rum.
Another sceptical snort, as if to prove his case.
I decide that my best course is to remain silent; but then my Lady intervenes.
When did you make this gentlemans acquaintance, Mr Shillito? she asks.
Let me see, he replies. It would have been in 55, or thereabouts no, 56. I remember now, 56. Im sure of it.
No more, then, than a year or so before you were born, Alice, observes my Lady. Is it possible, do you think, that the gentleman in question was a relation your father, even? Did you ever hear of him visiting Madeira?
Naturally, I deny having any such knowledge; then a most welcome and unexpected interjection from Mr Perseus, who has remained sternly regarding Mr Shillito throughout the previous exchanges, prevents any further enquiries. Fixing Mr Shillito with one of his most freezing stares, and with barely disguised contempt, he expresses the opinion that it is rather bad form for a gentleman (laying particular emphasis on the word) to subject a lady to unwelcome interrogation.
Mr Shillito shrugs indifferently, but says nothing. Mr Vyse then breaks the rather awkward silence.
Well said, sir. This is a festive occasion, so let us be festive! Ah, Pocock has opened the doors. Shall we go in?
Offering his arm to my Lady, he leads her out, bowing and smiling to the company as if he were the undisputed master of the house. Two by two, the other guests begin to follow them into the mirrored Dining-Room, to take their places at the great table.
The effect on my Ladys eldest son of seeing Mr Vyse escort his mother into dinner is most apparent. I distinctly hear him whisper, Damn the fellow! under his breath, before walking angrily out of the room.
I am taken into the Dining-Room by Mr Randolph Duport, leaving Mr Shillito to accompany the Rectors daughter, freckled, bony-handed Miss Jemima Thripp, with patent bad grace.
Dashed bad of Shillito to quiz you in that impudent manner, says Mr Randolph as we enter the great crimson-and-gold room. Im surprised, too, that Mother encouraged him.
And what do you think of his friend, Mr Vyse?
Clever fellow, Vyse, he replies, rather guardedly. Since Father died, Mother has become quite dependent on him I mean for advice on business matters, and so on. Of course Perseus doesnt approve of him. Thinks he has some sort of power over her.
This remark makes me prick up my ears.
Power? What can you mean?
Well, some hold or influence over her. Perseus is convinced of it. Of course Vyse was a great pal of Mr Phoebus Daunt thick as thieves, by all accounts and Shillito was at school with Daunt, which gives them both a special claim on Mothers favour.
But surely my Lady cannot like Mr Shillito? I said.
He shook his head.
Assuredly not, but she endures him as a kind of duty to Mr Daunt. Now, where have they put you?
We had reached the sumptuously laid-out table, and I was suddenly anxious that I might have been seated near, or even next to, Mr Shillito; but Mr Randolph, having gone to speak with Mr Pocock, soon came back to tell me that my Lady had instructed that I should sit next to her. Mr Shillito, I was relieved to see, had been placed halfway down the table, from where he could not easily trouble me.
Thus I found myself, taking my dinner with all the Christmas guests, in the Crimson-and-Gold Dining-Room at Evenwood, sitting at the head of the table with Lady Tansor and her two sons, under the great barrel roof, dazzled by the array of gold plate and glittering crystal, and surrounded by the endless, shifting reflections in the tall mirrors that lined the walls.
I was looking up at the gallery, from where not so very long ago I had looked down on just such a fine company as this, when the dusty curtains parted and the face of Mrs Battersby appeared. For several seconds, her eyes remained fixed on me, but then Mr Randolph made some remark, and when I looked up again, the housekeeper had gone.
HOW RADIANT MY Lady looked that night! Such poise and grace! So assured and serene! The eyes of every gentleman in the room were drawn irresistibly to her whenever she rose, which she did from time to time, like the accomplished hostess that she was, to pass amongst her guests at the far end of the great table bestowing an enquiring word here, a whispered exchange there, smiling and laughing gaily; and then, having dispensed her regal favour, gliding gracefully back down the length of the room to resume her place.
To me, she continued to show the most flattering attention, as a conseq
uence of which I, too, became the object of keen observation and scrutiny especially from the ladies. But with every smile she gave me, every soft touch of her hand on mine, every affectionate look, the harder it became for me to believe that she was my enemy, whom I had been sent to destroy. Already I could feel myself falling prey to her subtle charms, which I knew I must resist, or all would be lost.
III
In Which an Expedition is Proposed
AS THE THIRD course was being cleared away, Mr Perseus, who had spoken little since we had taken our places at the table, leaned towards his mother and said something quietly in her ear. Then, making his apologies to his immediate neighbours, he left the room. I watched him go, hoping to catch his eye, and perhaps receive a smile; but he showed no sign of noticing me, and as he disappeared through the double doors, I felt suddenly alone and abandoned.
Perseus is feeling unwell, explained Lady Tansor, with a sigh. I fear he smokes too much. I am always urging him to give up his cigars, and to eat more regularly, but he will not listen.
Whats your opinion, Miss Gorst? Mr Randolph asked. Do you think my brother smokes too much?
I really couldnt say. I believe its a habit in which many young gentlemen indulge.
Young gentlemen must have their pleasures, observed Major Hunt-Graham. Smoking is not so very bad a thing, you know. Ive known worse habits in young gentlemen. And I believe, in the case of my young relative, that its a mighty aid to poetic composition.
The major was a most attractive character. Tall and well built, with smooth silver hair, and a complexion darkened by his many years in India, he possessed a calm and masterful eye, which, augmented by a patrician refinement of feature, gave his long face an imperial cast that put me much in mind of a bust of Julius Caesar that Mr Thornhaugh kept in his study in the Avenue dUhrich.
My own son is an inveterate smoker of cigars, he went on. My late wife could never persuade him to give them up; but then its as natural for mothers to fret about such things as it is for sons to abandon themselves to them.
Im fond of a cigar myself, put in Mr Vyse, who was seated next to the major. In my case, I find it aids digestion, rather than poetic composition, and that I sleep all the better for one smoked just before bedtime; but of course one must smoke only the best. My taste was formed by an old friend he always smoked Ramón Allones, and so, following his example, Ive never smoked anything else. The boxes are also delightful. Both colourful and useful.
He beamed benevolently.
Youve been in Wales, I think, said the major to Mr Randolph.
I have, sir visiting a friend. I am also exceedingly fond of mountains.
He gave a hollow, barking laugh and threw back another mouthful of wine, giving me the distinct, and surprising, impression that he was becoming a little intoxicated.
A friend? From your time at Dr Savages? asked the major, a little pointedly, I thought.
Indeed. Mr Rhys Paget, of Llanberis. A very fine fellow. The finest in the world, replied Mr Randolph, adding more meditatively, Wonderful times.
At that moment, my Lady suddenly rose from her chair, in a sign that it was time for the ladies to withdraw to the Chinese Salon. She swept forth, silent and stiff-backed, leaving me almost to run after her. As I passed hurriedly under the gallery and into the corridor, Mr Randolph caught up with me.
I must apologize, Miss Gorst.
Apologize? I exclaimed. Whatever for?
Im not quite myself this evening. I wouldnt like you to think that is, it would pain me if you thought badly of me in any way.
I dont understand, sir, I said. Why should I think badly of you?
He hesitated, as a chattering group of ladies passed by on their way to the salon.
Because I fear Ive had a little too much to drink this evening, and I flatter myself that you must know this, Miss Gorst because I esteem you so highly. I hope you think of me in the same way, and that you feel you have a true friend in me, as I hope I have in you.
Again I thought that I read another, deeper, meaning in his eyes. This is what he had been trying to tell me when we had walked back from church together. He does not wish simply to be my friend. He loves me I am sure of it and believes, mistakenly, that his love might be returned.
He stands dumbly running his hands through his hair, but no further words come. Then he seems to gain resolve.
Have you walked over to the Temple of the Winds, Miss Gorst? he asks at last. Its in a rather parlous condition these days, but you get a very fine view of the house from there.
I tell him that I have not yet explored that part of the Park, and would very much like to see the Temple.
Capital! he exclaims. Then perhaps we might take a turn together round the Lake, and then walk up to the Temple if youd like that?
So it is agreed that an expedition will be arranged when the Christmas festivities are over, and when my duties allow.
He seems about to return to the Dining-Room when his expression takes on a new intensity intimate, yet distant, as if he were looking not at me, but through me, at something only he can see.
A slight noise behind me causes me to turn my head.
Mrs Battersby is standing at the bottom of the stairs leading down from the gallery. The three of us stand, silently regarding each other in the suddenly empty corridor with an air of expectation on our faces, as if we have each of us just that moment taken up our positions to begin some strange and soundless dance.
Was there something you wanted, Mrs Battersby? I ask, bravely conscious of my new power of authority over her, and eager to demonstrate it.
No, Miss Gorst, she replies, and proceeds on her way, her footsteps echoing on the corridors black-and-white tiles.
Mr Randolph stands for a moment, watching the housekeeper as she disappears through a door at the end of the corridor; then, with a few more words, he excuses himself and returns to the Dining-Room, leaving me to hurry off to join my Lady in the Chinese Salon.
Where have you been, dear? she asks.
A call of Nature, I whisper.
The card tables have been brought out, and groups of players are now forming. Whist is proposed. I am not fond of whist, but of course I have no choice but to consent to partner my Lady. To my relief, however, just as we are about to sit down, Mrs Bedmore the former Miss Susan Lorimer, an old friend of my Ladys comes up to ask whether she will partner her, which enables me to give up my place with an appearance of the most sincere disappointment.
I sit by the fire for ten minutes or so, until I am sure that my Lady is absorbed in her game. Then, at a little before ten oclock, I slip away.
There is something I must do.
19
A Voice from the Past
I
The Secret Cupboard
THE IVORY jewellery box still lay on my Ladys dressing-table. Taking out the little key on its black silk ribbon, I surveyed the room.
Every piece of furniture was familiar to me I had looked into each drawer and cupboard, examined every box and chest. Now, key in hand, I set about investigating them all again, but without success. Having little time before I must return downstairs, I quickly hurried about the other rooms, but could find no locked receptacle of any kind.
It was possible, perhaps, that I held the key, small though it was, to my Ladys study on the ground floor, a room to which no one but she and her secretary was allowed access; yet I felt sure that I had overlooked some secret hiding-place here, in her private apartments, or why would she keep the key by her in her jewellery box? As I stood debating with myself whether to postpone further searching until some more convenient time, I chanced to look across at the portrait of the beautiful Cavalier boy, little Anthony Duport.
It was hanging slightly askew, as if it had been knocked from its usual position. Th
rough force of habit, having been so lately responsible for keeping the apartments clean and tidy, I walked over to set it right. As I approached the portrait, I chided myself for my stupidity, for I immediately saw what I had been searching for: the outline of a small cupboard set into the panelling, and normally hidden from view by the painting of Master Duport in his blue breeches. The cupboard was, of course, locked.
Taking down the portrait, I inserted the key into the brass escutcheon. It turned easily; the little square door swung open. With beating heart, I gazed inside.
Letters five or six thick bundles, each secured with the same black silk ribbon as that to which the key had been attached; and, propped up at the back of the cavity, a photographic portrait, in an elaborate gilded frame, surrounded by a funereal mount of black velvet.
The clock above the fire-place struck the quarter hour. I had been gone too long. I would be missed, and could think of no plausible excuse for my absence. The letters must wait, but I could not resist reaching in to take out the photograph.
It showed a gentleman, perhaps thirty or so years of age, of middling height but broad-shouldered, most elegantly and expensively dressed in a silk-lapelled top-coat, light-grey trousers, and brilliantly polished, square-toed boots. He was sitting, in three-quarter profile, in a high-backed chair, against a painted backdrop of a summer garden. Beside him, on a draped pedestal, was a marble bust the head of a beautiful young man, a god perhaps.
In its physical composition, the subjects handsome, black-bearded face reminded me a little of Mr Perseus; but the impression of character conveyed by the portrait was altogether different to the proud reserve of my Ladys eldest son. The sitters unwavering and unsettling gaze at once suggested exceptional intellect and physical fearlessness, but also the capacity of will to apply those qualities actively and ruthlessly. A man, in a word, whom it would be unwise to thwart.