The Glass of Time

by Michael Cox

  I felt as if I knew him already, and for a brief, joyous moment the impossible notion seized me that it might be my father, whom I was now certain had once known my Lady. Then I noticed three initials, ‘P.R.D.’, with the date ‘August 1853’, written on the back of the photograph. The sitter was of course none other than the object of my Lady’s incorruptible passion – Phoebus Rainsford Daunt himself.

  Phoebus Daunt, as he had been in life, was an altogether more impressive and memorable figure than the unprepossessing image I had formed of him. Somehow I had imagined a papery, weightless sort of man, preening, ridiculously pompous. Instead, here was every indication of an unquestionable strength of character, body, and mind – palpable and present in both expression and bearing. What a superb and enviable couple they must have made – the beautiful Miss Emily Carteret and her handsome poet-lover!

  A minute passed, then another; still I was held, helplessly fascinated, by the brooding, dangerous face of Phoebus Daunt. A bad poet he may have been; but I thought that I now understood why the late Lord Tansor had wished to make him his heir, and how he had enslaved the former Miss Carteret’s heart, to the perpetual exclusion of any other man.

  I replaced the photograph and was about to close the cupboard door, but at the last moment I could not resist taking out one of the bundles of letters – all written in the same distinctive hand, which, from various inscriptions in the volumes of his poetry that I had read to my Lady, I immediately recognized as being Daunt’s. All had been written to my Lady.

  Satisfied now that I had made an important discovery, I replaced the bundle, locked the cupboard, and set pretty Anthony’s portrait back on its hook.

  It was clear that the letters themselves could not be removed from their hiding-place: the risk was too great of my Lady’s going to the secret cupboard, perhaps on one of those nights when the terrors were upon her, to gaze on the face of her dead lover. I would have to contrive to read and transcribe them singly, either in situ, when I was sure that I would not be disturbed, or by removing them one at a time to the safety of my own room.

  Back in the Chinese Salon, I was relieved to find that my Lady was still engaged in her game of whist with Mrs Bedmore and the others, and that it appeared my absence had gone unremarked.

  The remainder of the evening passed without incident, although I had constantly to avoid the scrutinizing eye of Mr Shillito. The bells of the great house were heralding midnight when I at last returned upstairs, to sleep for the last time in my little room under the eaves.

  THE MORNING OF Christmas Eve was spent packing up my things. My new accommodation consisted of a charming sitting-room, a bedroom, and an adjoining chamber, empty now, but formerly used as a lumber-room. The sitting-room, which had an exquisite plasterwork ceiling of heraldic design dating from the days of Elizabeth, occupied an angle of the tower that stood at the eastern end of the Library Terrace. Like those in Lady Tansor’s apartments on the floor below, its tall casement windows gave a view across the gravelled walks of the pleasure-garden to the distant woods of Molesey. There were fine thick rugs on the floor, an imposing stone fire-place, and a capacious sofa. Altogether, it proclaimed my new standing in the household most satisfactorily.

  Christmas Day dawned – a red-letter day, indeed, for it marked the additional celebration of Perseus’s majority.

  In the morning, we took our allotted places in St Michael and All Angels, where we were obliged to endure one of Mr Thripp’s wearisome homilies, but which, under the threatening gaze of Lady Tansor, he wisely restricted to a mere twenty minutes. A grand dinner in the evening, of surpassing magnificence, at which the heir was toasted and lauded to an almost embarrassing degree, concluded the day’s festivities.

  The succeeding days were filled with the usual seasonal activities. We consumed far greater quantities of plum pudding and champagne than we ought to have done; theatricals were organized, in which Mr Maurice FitzMaurice – attempting, in the most ludicrous manner, to impress Lady Tansor with his thespian genius – took a prominent role; and a grand entertainment was got up in the State Ballroom, for which a company of musicians and singers had been brought up from London. We danced and sang; billiards and cards were played; and gossip was given free rein.

  Whilst the gentlemen went out with their guns, we ladies spent the long, snow-threatening afternoons by the fire reading our novels, staring vacantly through frost-laced windows at the frozen Evenbrook, or yawning away the hours until it was time to dress for dinner once more.

  On the morning following Boxing Day, to my great relief, Mr Shillito, whom I had contrived to avoid as far as I could, received a letter summoning him to London on some urgent family matter. I watched him as he waddled across the Entrance Court to his carriage, accompanied by Mr Vyse, with whom he exchanged a few whispered words, interspersed with what I can only describe as significant looks and nodding glances back at the house. Then he was gone, sparing me any further unwelcome questioning concerning my surname and its association with the person he had met on Madeira twenty years earlier.

  Mr Perseus kept to his room for much of the day. When at last he came down to join the company, he seemed distant and preoccupied, and spoke little. A brief remark on the weather, an occasional guarded smile, a sideways glance as I left the room, were all I received from him; yet I did not feel ignored or rejected. On the contrary, I had the most curious certainty that he was thinking of me, even when he appeared at his most distracted and self-absorbed.

  As I was obliged to stay close to my Lady, and being often in the company of her guests, there had been little occasion for private conversation with Mr Randolph. Nevertheless, his looks continued to convince me that I was not misleading myself about his feelings towards me, and I was sure that he was only waiting for a suitable opportunity for us to take our walk together to the Temple of the Winds and declare himself. What I would do then, I did not quite know, and so put it from my mind for the time being.

  My Lady continued considerate, amusing, warmly confiding (on small matters), agreeable in every way. She kept me constantly by her side in public, whilst in the privacy of her apartments she displayed a most winning and natural charm. We discovered many topics of mutual interest; sometimes we giggled like school-girls, gossiped disgracefully about the Christmas guests, and pored over fashion plates. I even found that I was beginning to look forward, with guilty delight, to our times together, away from public observation, when we would laugh and talk on the sofa in her private sitting-room, or on the window-seat, and act in every respect like the true friends that she wished us to be. When I came across her alone, however, sitting deathly still by the fire, or wandering forlornly on the terrace, it was clear that she was still burdened by some terrible and deep-rooted distress of mind, against which our times of pleasant companionship provided only a temporary solace.

  I went on dressing her, and generally assisting with her toilet, as I had promised that I would do until the new maid was engaged; the more menial tasks that I had previously undertaken, however, were now deputed – at my recommendation – to Sukie.

  Following the suggestion conveyed by Mrs Ridpath, it had been arranged that all communications from the Avenue d’Uhrich, and from Mrs Ridpath herself, were now to be sent care of Miss S. Prout at Willow Cottage, whilst my letters to Madame would be taken by Sukie to Easton for posting. The dear little thing had been so touchingly eager to oblige me, for befriending her and her mother, that she did not for a moment question why such precautions were necessary.

  The first test of the arrangement had been a letter to Madame, telling her how well our plans were proceeding, and that I was now set fair, through my new friendship with Lady Tansor, to commence the next stage of our enterprise.

  One evening, while my Lady was occupied in her study, I was reading by the fire in my room, awaiting her return, when Sukie came in with a small package.

  ‘This has come for you, Miss Alice,’ she whispered. ‘From the lady in London.’

  She handed
me the package, and I saw from the direction that it was indeed from Mrs Ridpath.

  ‘Thank you, Sukie dear. How is your mother?’

  ‘She is well, thank you, miss, and sends her very best regards. And Barrington gave me this to give to you,’ she added, handing me another, smaller, package.

  I glanced down at the printed label:

  J.M. PROUDFOOT & SONS QUALIFIED DRUGGISTS & CHEMISTS MARKET-SQUARE, EASTON

  I knew that the brown-paper package contained an order that I had recently placed with Messrs Proudfoot for a bottle of Battley’s Drops * – a narcotic preparation my tutor had often taken to combat insomnia, and for which I had a particular use of my own in mind; and so I placed it unopened in the drawer of my writing-table. Then, when Sukie had gone, I turned my attention to the first package.

  There was a brief note from Mrs Ridpath and, pinned to the first page of a sheaf of papers covered in shorthand, a letter from Mr Thornhaugh:

  LITTLE QUEEN,—

  In haste, I send herewith the promised extracts – in shorthand – from yr mother’s journal, which you should transcribe, read, & then destroy, along with these shorthand pages. I shall make no further remark on what you are about to read, except to say how much it gladdens Madame’s heart that she is able – at last – to lay yr mother’s very words before you.

  Yr last to Madame cheered her greatly. That you have succeeded – so completely, & in such a short time – in securing Lady T’s affection & regard encourages her to believe that the business can now be concluded with complete success, & perhaps sooner than she had anticipated.

  But do not, Little Queen, I implore you, take any unnecessary risks. Lady T remains a most dangerous and resourceful enemy, & her association with Mr V continues to trouble both of us. I have managed to make enquiries concerning this gentleman, through the agency of old London acquaintances, & the results do not encourage me to think that he is anything other than someone you should avoid at all costs; & as it is clear that he is in some sort of association with Lady T, you should regard him as another active foe to yr interests.

  With respect to yr postscript, I can assure you that Madame’s final Letter of Instruction has been written & will be in yr hands on or by the last day of the year, as she promised. You will then know all.

  Take the greatest care of yrself.

  Yr affectionate old tutor,

  B. THORNHAUGH

  Locking my door, I began the task of transcribing the shorthand pages. When I had finished, long after completing my evening’s attendance on my Lady, I fell on my bed, exhausted, but in a state of the most intense exhilaration.

  Here, then, are the first two extracts from my mother’s journal. Judge for yourself what I felt, as Mr Thornhaugh’s shorthand was transformed, word by word, into the living voice of Marguerite Alice Blantyre, later Mrs Edwin Gorst, whose body lay next to my father’s in the Cemetery of St-Vincent.

  II

  The Journal of Miss Marguerite Blantyre

  EXTRACT 1: MEETING MR GORST

  Quinta dos Alecrins *

  Funchal

  17th September 1856

  This evening we were given a most delightful welcome to Madeira by Mr George Murchison, an official in the English Consulate, at his charming villa situated a little way out of the city.

  Papa, being distracted and grumpy, had not wished to go, which greatly displeased Mamma, and was the cause of some hot words between them; but of course he could not absolutely refuse, as the occasion was being given in our honour. It pains me so much to see how Papa has changed, and how he now stands constantly in Uncle James’s shadow. He could not have foreseen the failure of our estates in the West Indies; but Uncle James will not forgive him, and I fear he makes Papa daily conscious of his misfortune.

  Nonetheless, last evening was a pleasant one. Our host, Mr Murchison, is a great addition to any such gathering, being ceaselessly convivial and desirous of pleasing his guests.

  He introduced us to a number of distinguished residents of the island, amongst them Mr John Lazarus, a leading man in the shipping business here, and his companion, Mr Edwin Gorst, a striking individual of about thirty-five or thirty-six, I would say, although he has the look of a man of great experience who has lived twice as many years. He is staying for a time with Mr Lazarus, in the villa the latter purchased some years ago.

  Mr Lazarus himself is an unaffected, four-square man, brown as a nutmeg, with kind, pale-blue eyes; a person, in short, whom it is impossible to dislike – at least I cannot imagine disliking him. My sister, of course, considered him excessively dull; but then Susanna is still dangerously young, and it is an article of her juvenile faith that a man possessing a steady, sensible, and dependable character is a species of blight upon the earth.

  Mr Shillito was there. He has become a kind of demi-god in Fergus’s eyes, being furiously dedicated to his own whims and desires, as Fergus, in his own weaker way, is to his. To think that, for Papa’s sake, I must become the wife of my shallow, selfish cousin is sometimes more than I can bear; but it is the price – together with the assignation of my former expectations under grandmamma’s will – that Uncle James has exacted for sustaining us in the comfortable style to which we have been used, as well as for maintaining Papa’s position in the firm; and so for his sake, and for Mamma’s, I must put my own feelings for ever out of mind. Both Fergus and I are poor helpless captives who cannot live our own lives as we please, but must be bound to the will of our elders.

  On the way home after the reception, we passed Mr Gorst walking up the hill near Mr Murchison’s villa. He stopped as our palanquin went by and, on an impulse, I leaned out and wished him good-night. For this I was mercilessly teased by Susanna, who kept enquiring – in that provoking way of hers – what Fergus would say; to which I could only reply that I did not much care what Cousin Fergus said or thought about an act of common courtesy. Susanna gave one of her dismissive snorts, which used to enrage Papa so much, but to which he no longer pays any heed, being perpetually weighed down by his broodings.

  Yet perhaps Susanna had perceived something in my action that was not immediately apparent to me; for there is indeed a quality about Mr Gorst that intrigues and fascinates me, and which ought (I could admit this in only the privacy of my journal) to make a fiancé jealous, were that fiancé any other but Fergus Blantyre.

  Mr Gorst was certainly most attentive towards me this evening, but in a quiet, natural way that put me immediately at my ease. He is tall, much taller than Fergus; and there is a look in his great dark eyes that speaks of suffering long borne, though with no trace of self-pity or resentment. They are beautiful, captivating eyes, and I find that I cannot stop thinking of them. Is this wrong of me? Perhaps it is; and perhaps my simple ‘Good-night’ signified something more than common courtesy after all.

  Yet I doubt I shall see much more of Mr Edwin Gorst. His host, Mr Lazarus, is leaving for England soon, and will not be returning to Madeira for a month or two. While he is away, Mr Gorst will remain in his host’s villa; but, as he knows few people on the island, and as he is – as Mr Lazarus told me – reclusive by both nature and habit, it is most likely that he will remain at the Quinta da Pinheiro and shun society. I hope it may not be so.

  And on that sinful thought, I shall lay down my pen for the night.

  III

  The Journal of Miss Marguerite BlantyreEXTRACT 2: THE MOUNT

  Quinta dos Alecrins

  Funchal

  19th September 1856

  We have just returned from our expedition to the Mount, and I hasten to write down my impressions while they are still fresh in my mind.

  It began in bright, unencumbered sunshine; but by the time we reached our destination, we found ourselves walking through a dense descending mist. Soon the rain began to come down heavily, obliging us to shelter in the portico of the Church of Nossa Senhora, after scrambling as quickly as we could up the steep flight of basalt steps leading to the church (thankfully not on our knees, like the Catholic penitents). *


  We stood for some time, looking out into the grey curtain of rain that now obscured our view of the city far below. Papa sat alone inside the church, whilst Uncle James strode impatiently up and down the portico.

  There were half a dozen or so other visitors, sheltering, like us, from the downpour, and gathered in a little group at the far end of the portico. At last, the rain easing a little, two or three of these persons moved forward slightly, to reveal a tall figure seated on a stone bench set against the outer wall of the church. I immediately recognized Mr Gorst, dressed in a cape, with a black straw hat on his head, a long walking-stick in his left hand. I confess that my heart leaped a little to see him, although I immediately checked myself, and turned away to remark to Mamma that we might soon be able to make our way back down to the city. However, I found it impossible not to turn again towards where Mr Gorst was sitting, to see whether he had noticed me. He appeared, however, utterly lost in thought, and seemingly unaware of my presence, or of anyone else’s.

  In a few more minutes the rain had almost stopped, although the clouds overhead remained dark and threatening. Uncle James, briskly clapping his hands together, sent Susanna into the church to fetch Papa, insisting that we must take our chance while we could to return to Funchal before the rain came on again. As we stepped over the little ponds that now lay across the pavement in front of the portico, I looked back. Mr Gorst had risen from his seat and was preparing to follow us down the steps, although it still did not appear that he had recognized us.