Michael Cox (4 page)

WHEN I WAS quite young, Madame would often take me to the little Cemetery of St-Vincent, to show me where my mother and father were buried, side by side, under two flat granite slabs, in the deep shadow of the boundary wall. My hand held tightly in hers, I would stare down at the slabs, fascinated by the stark brevity of their inscriptions:

MARGUERITE ALICE GORST
1836–1858

EDWIN GORST
DIED 1862

My mother’s inscription would always make me sad: such a beautiful name, and – as I one day realized, when I had learned my numbers – so young to have been taken into Death’s arms.
For my father’s, I felt a strange and fanciful curiosity; for the presence of a single date made it appear to my child’s mind that he had somehow never been born, yet had contrived to die. This, of course, I simply could not comprehend, until Madame told me it meant that the year of his birth was unknown or uncertain.
Often, standing with Madame silently regarding the graves, and having no portraits or photographs of them to feed on, I would try to picture what my parents might have looked like – whether they had been short or tall, dark or fair – and wonder, as far as my limited experience of life and the world was able to inform my juvenile speculations, what circumstances had brought them to this, their final resting-place; but I never could.
Throughout my childhood, Madame had often told me that my mother had been beautiful (as all mothers must of course be in the imaginations of orphaned children who never knew them), and that my father had been handsome and clever (as all fathers of such children must also be), for she had known my father before his marriage, and, later, when he and my mother had lived with her for a time in the Maison de l’Orme.
This much, together with the bare circumstances of their first coming to Paris, their taking up residence with her in the Avenue d’Uhrich, my birth there, and their subsequent deaths – my mother’s soon after I had been born, my father’s a few years afterwards – was all Madame would tell me about my departed parents; and for the duration of my childhood this was all I needed to know. As I grew older, however, I became greatly curious to learn more about them; but Madame would always – in her gentle but immovable way – evade my questions. ‘One day, dear child, one day,’ she would say, kissing away all further importuning.
Thus I had grown up in Madame’s tender care, knowing little more about myself than that my name was Esperanza Alice Gorst, born on 1st September in the year 1857, the only child of Edwin and Marguerite Gorst, both of whom lay in the Cemetery of St-Vincent.

II
The Heir

A KNOCK AT the door roused me from my reverie. Running back to my bed, I quickly pulled on my robe and went to answer it. It was the head footman, Barrington, tray in hand.
‘Breakfast, miss,’ he said, gloomily.
After placing the tray on the table, he gave a little cough, as if he wished to say something more.
‘Yes, Barrington?’
‘Mrs Battersby sends to know, miss, if you’ll be taking your meals in the steward’s room from now on.’
‘Is that the custom here for my Lady’s maid?’
‘It is, miss.’
‘And Mrs Battersby is my Lady’s housekeeper?’
‘She is, miss.’
‘Very well, then. Please send Mrs Battersby my very best compliments, and tell her that I shall be pleased to take my meals in the steward’s room.’
He executed a meagre bow, and departed.
JONAH BARRINGTON
Footman. Tall and wiry, straight-backed, military bearing, hollow-cheeked, doleful of aspect, full head of stiff grey hair. Large ears with peeping tufts of white, like caterpillars. Fifty years of age? Small pursed mouth giving the impression that he exists in a state of surprised disapproval of the world in which he unaccountably finds himself, although I have a sense that he is a kindly soul at heart. An unobtrusive but watchful air about him.
This was the description of Barrington that I made in my Book of Secrets, after its subject had left, and I had drunk up my tea and eaten my bread-and-butter. Then I washed, dressed myself in the plain black gown, starched white pinafore, and cap that Madame had provided, and went out, for the first time on my own, into the great house of Evenwood.

THE NARROW WOODEN stairs that led down from my room took me, first, to a white-washed corridor, then, becoming wider and grander, to the Picture Gallery, lit by a row of arched windows, in which stood the door to my Lady’s private apartments.
It was now nearly seven o’clock, giving me time enough before I must attend Lady Tansor to do a little exploring. So, after examining the pictures in the gallery, I continued my descent until I emerged at last into the great echoing vestibule, with its domed lantern high above, through which the morning sun was now streaming.
Beneath the lantern, in a semi-circular alcove, and surrounded by six candles set in tall wooden holders, hung a painting. It showed a short, stiff-necked, proud-looking gentleman and his wife, the latter cradling a baby lovingly in her arms.
The lady possessed a most exceptional beauty and grace, with an abundance of dark hair gathered up under a cap of black lace, a narrow band of velvet around her long white throat.
I cannot say why it was, but her image instantly exercised a peculiar and lasting power over me. My heart seemed to beat a little faster as I looked upon her. In after days, I would often come and stand intently looking at the picture, as if such an act of dedicated concentration might bring her back to life; for – unaccountable and fantastical though it seemed – I wished with all my heart and soul to know her, speak to her, to hear her voice, and to see her move amongst living creatures once again.
I discovered soon enough that she was Laura Duport, first wife of the late Lord Tansor, my Lady’s predecessor, and that the pretty babe had been his Lordship’s only son, Henry Hereward Duport, on whom all his dearest hopes for the continuation of his line had briefly rested. The little boy, however, had been cruelly taken from him at the age of seven, after a fatal fall from his pony. Lord Tansor’s heart had been broken – yes, and his poor wife’s, too; for Sukie Prout later told me that she went quite mad at the last. She was found wandering about the Park, in a cruel frost, dressed only in her shift, bleeding and hurt. They carried her back to the house, but she died soon afterwards, and was buried in the Mausoleum that stands on the edge of the Park.
I turned away from the portrait and looked about me.
To my left was a pair of tall gilded doors surmounted by a shield carved in stone, bearing (as I later discovered) the Tansor arms. One of the doors being partly open, I peeped in, and then went through into a richly appointed room of a predominantly yellow colour, with a great chandelier, suspended by a massive gold chain, that appeared to my mind like some strange crystal galleon floating in mid-air.
I passed through this apartment into another, in which the colour red predominated this time, and then into a third and a fourth, each one sumptuously decorated and furnished. Paintings in ornate frames, many of huge dimensions, rich tapestries, and towering looking-glasses crowded the walls; and wherever the eye rested were accumulations of precious objects of every size, shape, and kind.
The fourth of these rooms, which I came to know as the Green Drawing-Room, opened into the magnificent State Saloon. Its walls and lofty ceiling were entirely covered with brightly painted scenes of ancient Athens and Rome, in which columns and buildings had been so cunningly rendered by the artist that, on first seeing them, I almost believed that they must actually be real, and made of stone.
I sat down for a moment in a gilded chair with a high back, like a throne, the better to drink in the atmosphere of unbounded and unrestrained luxury that the room gave out.
As a child, I had thought that Madame’s house in the Avenue d’Uhrich was as large and grand as any house could be; but it was nothing – less than nothing – to Evenwood.
To wake up every morning, knowing that these great rooms, and the treasures they contained, were yours to occupy and savour! What a thing that would be! I amused myself for a moment by trying to fancy what it would be like to experience the daily and absolute possession of such a place. It seemed extraordinary to me that one family, distinguished only by their common blood, could lay perpetual claim to inhabit this faery splendour – more super-abundantly opulent, more ravishing to the senses, it seemed to me, than any sultan’s palace that I had read of in the stories told by Scheherazade.
In preparation for my coming to Evenwood, Madame had asked Mr Thornhaugh to tell me something of the ancient Duport family. He had shown me what was written of them in
Burke’s Heraldic Dictionary
, from which I learned that the 1st Baron Tansor had borne the name Maldwin, and had been summoned to Parliament by the King in the year 1264. I learned also that the barony was of a peculiar type, known as a Barony by Writ, which allowed inheritance through females as well as males.
The late Lord Tansor had died in 1863. Having no direct heirs, either male or female, his title and property had passed to my mistress, his nearest collateral relative, who had then taken his name. Everything I could see and touch was now hers, to do with as she pleased; one day all this would belong to her eldest son, Mr Perseus Duport. Then he would marry, and a child would be born who would also walk through these very rooms, knowing them as their own.
Thus the great river of successive privilege would continue to flow, carrying the Duports on its calm and glittering waters through this life to the next, from generation unto generation.

BEYOND THE STATE Saloon, a narrow corridor brought me to a huge wooden screen, black with age and festooned with lifelike carvings of birds and animals, with an arcaded gallery high above. Through the screen, a pair of double doors opened into the Crimson-and-Gold Dining-Room that I have earlier described.
Here I paused, eager to continue my journey of discovery, but feeling that I had gone far enough for the moment, and fearful of being even a second late to dress my Lady.
I quickly retraced my steps, room by room, meeting no one on the way, until I emerged once more into the great echoing vestibule.
My foot was upon the first step of the staircase when I heard a door open behind me.
A tall young gentleman – black-bearded, with long dark hair – stood looking at me intently. He said nothing for several seconds; then he greeted me, although without any hint of a smile.
‘Miss Gorst, I think. My mother informed me of your engagement. Good-morning to you.’
These were the first words that ever I heard from the lips of Mr Perseus Duport, my Lady’s eldest son and heir.
His voice was deep and strong for such a young man, and resonated through the lofty space of the marble-paved vestibule. I dropped a little curtsey and returned his greeting.
‘Where did you come from?’ he asked. ‘Are you going up to Mother?’
The voice was softer now, but the handsome face remained fixedly expressionless.
Hesitantly, I explained that I had risen early, in order to acquaint myself a little with the house before attending Lady Tansor at eight o’clock.
‘Eight o’clock, eh? She’ll expect you promptly, you know,’ he said, taking out his pocket-watch. ‘She places great store on punctuality. The last girl couldn’t oblige; but you can, I’m sure. Five minutes to the hour. You’d better hurry.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I curtseyed again and turned to go, but he called me back.
‘When you’re released, Miss Gorst, you must seek me out. I shall be your guide to the great labyrinth.’
He paused, tilting his head quizzically on one side.
‘Do you know what the first Labyrinth was?’
‘Yes, sir. It was the lair of the Minotaur, constructed by King Minos of Crete.’
‘Splendid! Quite right! Well, well, you’d better run along now. You’ll find me in the Library, which can be reached by the little flight of stairs outside Mother’s apartments. I often spend my mornings there, when I can. I’m a great reader. Are you a great reader, Miss Gorst?’
‘Yes, sir. I believe I am.’
‘Splendid again! Well, off you go, or you’ll start off badly with Mother, and that would never do, you know.’
He gave me a barely perceptible smile, but his magnetic eyes had a kindly intent about them, which made me feel greatly honoured, and not a little surprised, that the Duport heir had condescended to pay such attention to his mother’s new maid. I confess, too, that – to my further confusion – my heart was beating a little faster, as if I had just undertaken some physical exertion, and I could feel my colour beginning to rise under his steady gaze. I was sure – at least, I could in no way allow myself to hope otherwise – that he was only being agreeable to me out of well-bred courtesy, and for no other reason; but I could not account for the way this simple demonstration of good manners had affected me. I would have gladly continued the conversation; but time was pressing and so, bobbing once more, I ran off up the wide curving staircase, arriving at last before my Lady’s door on the first stroke of eight o’clock.
Sharp.

III
Lady’s-Maid

LADY TANSOR WAS seated at her dressing-table, her back towards me, swathed in a fantastically embroidered Chinese robe of blood-red and emerald-green silk.
‘You will brush my hair first, Alice, before you arrange it,’ she said, reaching back towards me, a silver hair-brush in her hand.
I began to pass the brush slowly through the thick black tresses, gently pulling out the night’s tangles, until all was smooth and to her liking. Then I was instructed on how she wished her hair to be arranged, and in what manner it should be pinned up into the style of knot that she preferred, for she was averse to the use of false hair (her own being so finely textured and abundant), and refused to countenance a chignon.
When I had finished, she took me over to a massive oak wardrobe, where I was shown her many day-gowns; then she opened an adjacent press of similar size containing dozens of dazzling evening-gowns. A third cabinet, with sliding drawers, was packed with Japanese silk shawls from the Great Shawl Emporium, and with other expensive accoutrements.
Moving from these, she began to open other drawers and cupboards for my inspection. Scores of hats and bonnets; trays of pins, buttons, and brooches; shoes and belts of every description; buckles and bows, fans and reticules; dressing-cases containing crystal scent-bottles; and box after box full to bursting with exquisite jewellery – all were laid before my astonished gaze.
‘You may dress me now, Alice,’ she said at last, pointing to the wardrobe containing her day-gowns. ‘The dark-violet velvet, I think.’
At last, my Lady stood before her cheval-glass and pronounced herself satisfied.
‘Excellent, Alice,’ she said. ‘You have nimble fingers, and my hair looks very well, very well indeed. And this brooch matches far better than the other one, as you said it would. You have an eye for these things, I see. Yes, excellent.’
She repeated the compliment, gazing at her reflection in the looking-glass in a quiet, absent way, almost as if she were alone, fingering the brooch distractedly as she did so.
‘Oh!’ she suddenly exclaimed. ‘I have forgotten the locket! How could I have done!’
Her voice had taken on a tone of acute distress. She turned towards me, white-faced with sudden anxiety, and pointed frantically towards a small wooden box on the dressing-table, which I quickly understood she meant me to open.
Inside was the most beautiful tear-shaped silver locket, attached to a black velvet band, very like the one worn by the late Lord Tansor’s first wife in the portrait that had so entranced me.
‘Here – bring it here!’ she snapped. ‘But do not touch the locket!’
Snatching the box from my hand, she took out the locket, and went over to the window, where she stood for a moment, breathing hard. Then she began to thread the velvet band around her throat, yet could not secure the clasp.
‘Do you wish me to assist you, my Lady?’ I asked.
‘No! You must not help me. This is the one duty I must perform myself. Never help me, do you understand?’
She was now facing me once more, a fierce emotion in her blazing eyes. But in a moment she had turned away again, to make a second attempt at securing the clasp. At last she succeeded, whereupon she reached forward to open the window, letting a welcome draught of cool air into the stuffy chamber.
She remained by the window, a slight breeze ruffling her hair, her eyes directed towards the distant line of the western woods, now becoming clear to view as the curtain of early-morning mist gradually lifted.
At length, her spirits apparently calmed, she sat down in the window-seat and took up a small leather-bound book.
‘You may go now, Alice,’ she said quietly. ‘I shall not need you until dinner-time. But tomorrow I shall have some work for you to do, and you will bathe me. Please to be here at eight.’
So I left her, with little dabs of watery sunshine illuminating her face and hair, as she placed her spectacles on her nose, opened the book, and began to read.