Michael Cox (24 page)

Authors: The Glass of Time (mobi)

I HAD BEEN back in my room for no more than ten minutes when the bell over the fire-place started to ring.
As I re-entered my Lady’s bed-chamber, she was standing with her arms outstretched towards me, dressed in a black silk robe, with a dark-red scarf of the same material wrapped round her head, like a turban, from which her hair, still loose, flowed down over her shoulders. She was smiling – but such a fixed, unintelligible smile that it put me immediately on my guard.
‘Dearest Alice!’
Her voice was low and soft; the smile now broader – inviting, conciliatory, but dangerous, like that of some wily sorceress.
‘Come!’
Now she was beckoning to me with her still-outstretched hands, the long fingers slowly indicating her wish for me to take them in mine.
For some moments I stood spellbound, rooted to the spot by the sight she presented; then, feeling my will returning once more, I closed the door behind me and began to walk slowly towards her. This was not Circe or Medusa standing there, but a mortal woman, beset with no common cares, vain and capricious, assaulted constantly by unknown terrors, and desperate to hold back the encroachment of Time. She had wished to display strength, by appearing thus before me; but I saw only impotence and frailty.
Our fingers meet, and lock gently together.
‘Dear Alice,’ she whispers. ‘What must you think of me? Shall we sit?’
She draws me over to the window-seat, still smiling.
‘Can you forgive me?’
‘Forgive you, my Lady?’
‘For my atrocious behaviour. It was not your fault that the mirror was broken. It was inexcusable of me to blame you for it. So will you now accept my apologies?’
Of course I tell her that an apology is neither required nor expected; at which she leans forward and – to my astonishment – kisses me tenderly on the cheek.
‘What a marvel you are!’ she says. ‘So forbearing and tenderhearted! What must you have thought of me? I did not mean those horrid words; but there was a reason, my dear, which you must now hear.’
‘If you wish, my Lady.’
She reaches forward and lightly touches my other cheek. The sensation of her long nails on my skin sends a little shiver down my spine, and I cannot help drawing away.
‘Oh, Alice!’ she cries, removing her hand. ‘Are you afraid of me?’
‘No, my Lady, I assure you.’
‘But you’re still upset, I see – and who could blame you? Stupid, indeed! How could I have been so cruel? But, my dear, when you mentioned the name of Mrs Kennedy, it was like a knife to my heart!’
She pauses, as if she expects me to say something. When I remain silent, she rises from the window-seat and walks towards the fire-place.
‘I have recently received the most terrible news,’ she says softly, head bowed, her back still towards me. ‘Poor dear Mrs Kennedy…is dead!’
‘Dead, my Lady?’
She nods mutely.
‘The news, as you may imagine, was the greatest possible shock, and I fear that, when you happened to mention her name, it caused me to act in that most unkind and hurtful manner, for which I hope I am now pardoned.’
I naturally express my own shock at the death of ‘dear Mrs Kennedy’, for which my Lady thanks me most effusively.
‘Did you read of the attack in the newspaper, my Lady?’ I ask.
She stiffens slightly, and turns her head away once more.
‘No, no. It was Mr Vyse who informed me.’
‘There will be a funeral, I suppose, my Lady, which you will wish to attend?’
‘Alas,’ she sighs, ‘the news has taken some time to reach me. My poor old nurse was buried many weeks since.
‘And so, Alice dear,’ she says, after a period of silent reflection, ‘now that we are friends again, there’s something I must say to you.’
‘Yes, my Lady?’
The indulgent, wistful smile has gone. In its place is a look that throws me into confusion and alarm.
‘I no longer wish you to be my maid.’

SUDDENLY, IT SEEMS that the tables have been turned on me. I have been discovered.
‘Have you nothing to say?’
Her unflinching eye holds mine for several seconds. Then, as suddenly as it had gone, the smile returns. Taking a step towards me, she kisses me once again on the cheek, and takes my hand in hers.
‘Dear Alice! Did you think I meant that you were being dismissed? You silly goose! How could you think so?’
‘I don’t know, my Lady. You seemed so…’
‘No, no, I meant no such thing. Of course I have no intention of dismissing you; but I have come to a decision that affects your future here. I have been considering the matter for some time – almost from the day you first came here. And so, Alice, here it is. I no longer wish you to be my maid: I wish you to be my companion. There! What do you say to that?’
Her companion! I could have desired nothing more than an association of greater intimacy with her, one that would afford new opportunities to observe her, and which might admit me into parts of her life that, at present, were closed to me. It was therefore with unfeigned satisfaction that I conveyed my thanks and gratitude to her, for which I received another kiss, and many expressions of pleasure and regard.
‘Of course you will have a generous allowance – I cannot have my companion dressed in dreary black; and new accommodation must be found for you – there’s a charming set of rooms on the next floor, with a snug little sitting-room, that I have in mind. Naturally, you will occupy a very superior position in the household, although for the time being things must go on as they are, until a new maid can be found…’
On she talked, but I hardly heard her. I was already picturing to myself the surprise and delight that Madame would feel at my news, and anticipating the commencement, in earnest, of the Great Task, once I had received my guardian’s third letter.
When I was eventually released from my Lady, I ran upstairs to write a note to Madame, and then went down, with a light and triumphant heart, to take my supper – perhaps for the last time – in the servants’ hall.

II
On the Threshold

IT IS THE 23rd of December. My Lady is in one of her petulant moods and sends me away curtly after I have dressed her. Having taken a walk in the gardens, I am returning to the Entrance Court when a carriage draws up, from which emerges the lanky figure of Mr Armitage Vyse – the first of the Christmas guests to arrive, and, as far as I am concerned, the least welcome.
I spend the next hour in my room, expecting to be called down to my Lady; but when the bell does not ring, I go downstairs to ask Mr Pocock whether Lady Tansor is still occupied with her morning correspondence.
‘No, miss,’ he replies. ‘Her Ladyship has driven out in the barouche with Mr Vyse. I’m afraid I don’t know where they’ve gone, or when they’ll be back.’
Mystified by this secretive excursion, but glad to have more time to myself, I take a book to one of my favourite places of resort – a secluded window-seat high up in one of the towers that overlooked the Entrance Court and gave an enchanting view of the Park and winding river – to await my Lady’s return.

MID-DAY APPROACHED. WHERE had they gone? What was afoot? Then, happening to glance out of the window towards the Evenbrook, I noticed a man standing on the bridge, staring towards the house. The distance was too great for me to discern his features; but the set of his tall, broad-shouldered figure called up a distinct memory of the man I had seen standing in the fog and looking up at my room. Now, however, aided by the clear morning light, a new and most distinctive feature of the watcher could just be made out. The right-hand sleeve of his coat hung limply down by his side. I strained my eyes, to make sure I was not mistaken. No; I was now sure of it. He had only one arm.
Just then, cresting the summit of the Rise, a vehicle came into view, which I soon saw was my Lady’s barouche.
The man on the bridge immediately turned at the sound of the approaching horses; then stepped to one side to allow the vehicle to pass. As it did so, my Lady looked back at him. The man stood watching the barouche as it turned in through the great iron gates and came to a halt before the front door. He continued to maintain an attitude of the most intense interest, his hand shading his eyes, as Mr Vyse helped my Lady down, and escorted her up the steps. As she reached the door, she turned to look back towards the bridge; but the man had now begun to walk, with long purposeful strides, up the Rise towards the South Gates.
Thinking that my Lady would soon wish me to attend her, I went quickly back to my room to await her summons; but the bell remained silent. Another hour went by, and still no call came. Then there was a knock at the door. It was Barrington.
‘This has come for you, Miss,’ he said, handing me a brown-paper package.
My first thought was that it must be Madame’s third letter arrived at last, and of course my heart leaped with eager anticipation; then I saw that it bore a London postmark, and that it was directed to me in a hand I did not recognize.
When Barrington had gone, I sat at my table and hastily ripped off the paper wrapper.
Inside were a short note; a letter, in Mr Thornhaugh’s hand, addressed to ‘Miss E.A. Gorst, Private and Personal’ and a small-octavo book bound in dark-blue cloth.
The note was from Mrs Ridpath.

12, Devonshire Street

22nd December 1876
MY DEAR ESPERANZA,—
At Mr Thornhaugh’s request, I have obtained, and am now sending, the enclosed volume, which he had difficulty finding in Paris, but which he & Madame wish you most particularly to peruse, after you have read the letter from him that is also enclosed.
The book comes, as I need hardly say, with his very best seasonal compliments, & those of Madame – & of course with mine also.
I am further requested by Madame to say that, to avoid suspicion, she proposes that all letters from Paris should in future be forwarded to you at Evenwood from here, & you should do the same in reverse. A suitable & safe accommodation address in the neighbourhood, to where I can direct letters, would be an additional advantage.
I trust that you go on well at Evenwood, which I have heard is a most lovely place. Lovely or not, you will always remember, I hope, that Devonshire Street is not so very far away, should you ever need a refuge.
I remain, yours very affectionately,
E. RIDPATH
My anticipation now mounting, I tore open the envelope containing Mr Thornhaugh’s letter, hoping that it might also contain some communication from Madame. I saw immediately that it did not. This is what I read.

Avenue d’Uhrich
Paris

20th December 1876
LITTLE QUEEN,—
I am bidden by Madame to inform you that, after much careful & anxious deliberation, she feels obliged to delay sending you her third Letter of Instruction, which she had fully intended to do this very week. Indeed, she has been occupied these past two days with its composition, to the exclusion of all else. The task, however, has proved more difficult than she anticipated.
What it is absolutely necessary for you to know and understand – particularly with regard to your own history – is so extensive that Madame does not now feel that it can be conveyed to you in a single communication. Nor, of course, will it be possible, at present, for her to speak to you in person, & so satisfy you concerning the many points on which you will undoubtedly require explanation and elaboration.
However, we have recently come across – by quite curious chance – an unexpected source of information, a copy of which Madame wished me to send to you via Mrs Ridpath. The circumstances of its discovery were these.
A few weeks ago, an old friend of Madame’s, living now in London, sent her an advertisement printed in the
Illustrated London News.
It had been placed by a Mr John Lazarus, requesting Mr Edwin Gorst, if still living, or any member of his family or acquaintance, if not, to communicate with him at their earliest convenience.
You may easily imagine the keen interest that this aroused in Madame and me. I immediately wrote to Mrs Ridpath, who called upon this gentleman to inform him that Edwin Gorst was dead, but that she, Mrs Ridpath, had been authorized by an old and trusted friend of Mr Gorst’s to answer the advertisement. It seems that Mr Lazarus not only wished to give your father a copy of his recollections, in which he figures prominently, but also to renew the brief friendship that they had enjoyed many years previously.
Madame feels that this gentleman’s recollections will apprise you of a great many things concerning both yr father & yr mother, particularly the former, that you would wish to know. I have taken the liberty of marking the two relevant chapters, which will prepare the ground for the letter from Madame that
will
come, as promised, before the year’s end.
By way of supplementing Mr Lazarus’s volume, you may also expect to receive, within a few days, transcriptions from a journal kept by yr mother during the period of her life when she met yr father, & which has been in Madame’s safe-keeping since his death.
Madame begs that you will forgive her for keeping the journal from you, but she was acting under an obligation to yr father to do so until you reached the age of twenty-one. She now feels that she must break that obligation, for the sake of the Great Task, and because it is wrong that you should be kept in ignorance of what the journal contains any longer.
Madame asked me to make the transcriptions in shorthand for safety’s sake. We must be ever aware of prying eyes.
I remain, ever yr devoted friend,
B. THORNHAUGH
My disappointment at not receiving Madame’s final Letter of Instruction was naturally great; but the curiosity aroused by Mr Thornhaugh’s letter was – for the moment – even greater, engendering the keenest sensation of expectation; for the most insistent and tormenting question of all seemed about to be answered at last.
Who was I?