Painting The Darkness (24 page)

Chapter Seven

I

IT WAS A
bleak and windswept Sunday in Salisbury. Though candlelight could be glimpsed through the cathedral windows and choristers’ voices heard, in snatches, on the gusting air, the close beyond its towering walls was empty and silent, save for swirling leaves and the wind’s mewling in its ancient eaves.

Not so ten minutes since, when a clutch of gale-blown clerics in billowing cassocks had converged on its north door, one of them a stout, elderly, white-haired figure who had beaten a path across the green from an unassuming red-brick house in one of the remoter corners of the close.

Canon Sumner was an amiably ineffectual priest, who generally bore the most contented of smiles. Yet today his expression, his very appearance, was crumpled and forlorn. He was, self-evidently, a troubled man.

The cause of Canon Sumner’s distress, his daughter Constance, sat now to one side of a blazing fire in the cosy if cluttered drawing-room he had just vacated, engaged, though scarcely absorbed, in a game of solitaire. Indeed, though she held one of the marbles in her hand, it had been there for several minutes, whilst her attention had shifted to an oil painting above her on the chimney-breast, a portrait of her mother, ball-gowned and elegant, in the days of her betrothal to a humble chaplain named Sumner.

Constance started in her chair at the sound of the door opening and twisted round. It was her sister Emily, her elder by five years, a confirmed spinster, tireless performer of good works in diocesan circles and, since their mother’s death, mistress of the house. Constance had always envied Emily her clarity of thought and placidity of temperament. Emily had always envied Constance her radiant looks and enchanting daughter. The two sisters exchanged warm ungrudging smiles.

‘Did I make you jump?’ said Emily.

‘I’m sorry,’ Constance replied. ‘These days, I jump at shadows. I thought you were with Patience.’

‘I left her with Nanny, whose concepts of child-rearing do not encompass a doting aunt.’ Emily gave her sister’s hand a squeeze before taking the fireside chair opposite her. ‘Besides, I saw Father leaving and thought the time ripe to speak to you alone.’

‘I do not know what I can add to all that I said last night.’

‘Father would wish you to add a change of heart. Did you not see how he looked at matins?’

‘How could I not? You surely don’t suppose it gives me any satisfaction to cause him pain?’

‘Of course not. I am your staunchest ally in all things. You know that.’

‘Bless you, Emily. What would you have me do?’

‘I would have you be certain. Can you be?’

‘I am certain that James has returned to me. If I were not, I would not be so torn.’

‘You married William in good faith.’

‘I married William in the belief that James was dead. Only that belief sustained our marriage.’

‘Father would say that holy matrimony takes precedence over any emotion, however profound. I would say the same – if anyone other than you asked me.’

‘And when
I
ask, Emily? What do you say when
I
ask?’

‘I say that William has been a good husband to you. You do not claim otherwise.’

‘I only claim that, in my heart, I was a widow when I married William, a widow who now finds that her true husband lives.’

‘You know full well that neither the Church nor the Law will acknowledge such a claim.’

‘If I am forced to choose between them, I must needs choose solitude.’

‘That is a hard choice.’

‘All I ask is time to think, time to face myself, time to see the choice for what it is.’

‘That you may always have here. This is your home, whatever happens. But tell me: can you honestly maintain that James was justified, first in deserting you, then in reappearing when he knew what distress he would cause you?’

‘Oh, yes. That most of all. He has told me the whole truth, you see. I wish I could share it with you, but I cannot yet presume to speak for him. All I can say is that he acted out of love for me. Now I must act out of love for him. When all deny him, I must stand by him.’

‘You realize that, if the circumstances of your presence here become known in the close, Father will be severely embarrassed? The Dean may even consider it a disciplinary matter.’

‘I will leave before that happens.’

‘Then, we must ensure it doesn’t. Have you written to William? It would be as well if he did not follow you here.’

‘I have the letter here.’ She slid the envelope from its resting-place beneath the solitaire board.

‘Would you like me to post it for you? The servants might think it odd that you should write so soon after your arrival. They are diligent in everything, but discreet in nothing.’

‘Thank you, Emily. Perhaps that would be wise.’ She handed her the letter.

‘I’ll go now. You’d best not come with me. I’ll be back in a trice – and Father none the wiser.’ Casting a brief glance
through
the window at the familiar shape of the cathedral, as if to be certain that Canon Sumner’s devotions were still in progress, Emily bustled out, happier as ever to be doing than debating.

Left once more by the fireside where she had played as a child, Constance looked again at her mother’s portrait and wondered what she would have said of her daughter’s actions. Perhaps it was as well that she was not there to witness them.

Constance sighed. Solitude was, as Emily had said, a hard choice. Was she strong enough to make it? William had betrayed her trust: that much was clear. But James? What did he deserve of her? Could she resist his claim? If he came to her, what would she say?

She thought again, as she often did, of their last meeting at the aqueduct in June 1871, of all it had meant beyond what she had known at the time. She remembered sitting in the music room at Cleave Court that morning, remembered Quinn bringing in James’s letter for her on a silver tray, remembered reading it and rushing from the room, eager beyond the reach of urgency to see James again and persuade herself that all was well. She could still feel the force of that longing, could still discern the depth of that day’s pledged and proven love.

II

Richard Davenall had not visited Cleave Court since Sir Gervase’s funeral. That, like all his other visits save one, had been brief and dutiful. It was strange, he reflected, as the carriage moved serenely up the avenue of elms, that he had always presented himself there as a deferential, vaguely apologetic adviser, a man of business, a professional necessity in the life of its family, never as the family member that he truly was.

He smiled to himself. The reason for his enduring humility was not far to seek. There, about him in the
park
, where the grass was patched with the red and golden spillages of autumn leaves, where all was seasonal preordained decay beneath a grey abiding sky, was every tinge and vestige of his fate, the fate of one who had risked too little and lost too much.

The carriage drew to a halt. Richard climbed out and looked about him. This, he knew, if anywhere could be, was home for the Davenalls, the place they had made, the land they had stamped with their name. Why, then, did he always feel an intruder here – an interloper, one who was not and never would be quite accepted? He shook his head and entered the house.

There had been no answer to his telegram save the carriage waiting for him at the station, nor now was there a clutch of welcoming relatives in the hall; merely Gibbs, the butler, erasing from his expression, as best he could, all hint of embarrassment.

‘Trust I’m expected, Gibbs?’ Richard said.

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘Where’s Lady Davenall?’

‘Presently strolling in the grounds, I believe, sir.’

Richard might have known. He had specified a time, and this was the use Catherine had made of it. ‘Then, I’ll wait for her to return.’

‘Sir Hugo would be grateful if you joined him meanwhile, sir.’

Richard drew up sharply. ‘Hugo? He’s here?’

‘Yes, sir. Since yesterday. Presently in the smoking-room.’

Richard made his way straight there. Already, he felt foreboding closing in on him. He had come to discuss Hugo with Catherine, but Hugo had forestalled him.

The smoking-room was not as he recalled it. Formerly a retreat for Gervase and his more tenacious drinking companions, it was now sparsely and comfortlessly furnished. In the centre of the room, a large wooden chest had been set down with its lid propped open. Seated before it on a low stool was Sir Hugo Davenall.

‘Hello, Richard,’ said Hugo, without looking up.

‘I didn’t know you were visiting your mother.’

‘I’m not. You might say I’m here on business.’

‘May I ask what business?’

‘I’m doing what you should already have done, dear cousin.’ Now he did look up, grinning sarcastically. ‘This chest holds what remains of my late lamented brother. Oddments of clothing, school-books, tie-pins, cuff-links: you know the sort of thing.’

‘I didn’t realize so much had been kept.’

‘It doesn’t amount to a lot. A cricket cap’ – he held it up – ‘his college gown’ – he plucked out a bundle of black cloth.

‘Then, why—?’

‘Because we can use this to challenge Norton. Ask him to identify his old possessions. See if, literally, the cap fits.’

‘It could be useful, Hugo. I’m glad you’ve—’

‘I’ve also been speaking to the tenants.’ He rose, brushed the dust off his hands and smiled once more. ‘Ensuring they understand the importance of being positive in their evidence that Norton is an impostor.’

‘You’ve obviously been busy.’

‘I’ve had to be, in view of your indifference as to whether this man succeeds in stealing my title.’

‘Hugo—’

Suddenly, the young man was close to Richard, staring intently into his face. ‘If needs be, I’ll stand alone against Norton. I’ll make him wish he hadn’t started this game.’

Richard felt angry and hurt to learn how little Hugo valued his efforts, but he knew it was useless to remonstrate. Instead, he tried to reason with him. ‘Regrettably, Hugo, if enough people support Norton, the testimony of tenants and tailors will count for very little.’

‘Bah!’ Hugo whirled round and stalked to the fireplace. ‘What do
you
know?’

‘I know what sways a court – a jury if it comes to that.
Knowledge
Norton could not be expected to possess if he were not James, the recognition of his former fiancée—’

‘What?’

‘Constance Trenchard told me yesterday that she believes in his story completely. She did not say she would testify for him, but I suspect that, if asked, she would.’

‘Curse these women! Nanny Pursglove. Trenchard’s wife. They’re besotted.’

‘She has left Trenchard. Clearly, she does not take this matter lightly.’

Suddenly, Hugo lashed out with his foot at the length of wood which had been used to prop open the lid of the chest. The wood snapped and skidded, in two pieces, across the floor; the lid slammed shut with a crash that set the empty vases rocking on the mantelpiece.

‘Believe it or not, Hugo, I am trying to help you.’

‘Give me one example of your efforts.’

‘It’s why I’m here. Your mother must be persuaded to speak.’

‘About what?’

‘About what happened here in September 1846. About her former governess, Miss Strang. It’s what Norton used to intimidate Prince Napoleon. It’s what holds the key to all this.’

‘Then, I wish you well of it. My mother volunteers nothing to me.’

‘Very well. I’ll see if I can find her.’

‘Do that.’ Hugo was leaning against the mantelpiece now, his rush of violence ended, his frustration stemmed. He looked at his cousin with an expression drained of anger but not of contempt. ‘Do that, Richard.’

Without another word, Richard left. As the door clicked shut behind him, Hugo forced two knuckles of his left hand into his mouth and ground his teeth against them until the pain forced back the sudden flood of tears. Richard, he was determined, would never know. Nobody would ever discover, if he could prevent it, the hideous truth that he had, this day, confirmed.

III

Emily Sumner bustled across Choristers’ Green with even more than her usual evident sense of purpose, bound for the pillar box that stood on the corner of North Walk. She was pleased to note the absence of passers-by to observe her errand, for, though she had expressed to Constance the fullest support, and had done so sincerely, she could not deny, now she was alone, that her sister seemed set on an ill-fated course. To fly in the face of so much that was right and respectable was surely madness. Nothing she had been told excused a wife’s desertion of her husband.

Yet Emily, for all her spinsterly ways, was at heart a hopeless romantic, a great weeper over sentimental novels, and Constance’s plight would have moved her even had they not been related. As it was, James Davenall had been a friend and contemporary of her dead brother Roland and a perfect match for her sister. Whatever good sense dictated, the fact remained that to stand by him, if truly he still lived, was magnificent.

She reached the pillar box. The road was empty as far as St Anne’s Gate. The cathedral green was deserted. Thus reassured, she opened her reticule, removed the letter and slipped it into the box. Her mission was accomplished. She turned to go, then pulled up abruptly.

Not more than ten yards away, at the corner of the square, James Norton stood calmly watching her. She knew at once who he was, not merely from her sister’s description, but from the evidence of her own memory. Before, she had perceived only Constance’s grand illusion, a hopeless if admirable passion for what could never be. Now she knew. She had only met James Davenall a handful of times, all of them many years ago, but there was, in this man’s face, that certainty of the immediately familiar that brooked no denial. Instinctively, she knew he was who he said. And Emily Sumner was not one to disobey her instincts.

‘I see you know me, Emily,’ Norton said, with a touch on his hat. ‘I’m glad.’

‘You should not have come here,’ she said, surprised by her own breathlessness.