The Meaning of Night: A Confession

‘Then I am content,’ she said, giving me a rather wan smile. ‘We are both loyal servants, are we not?’ And with that rather curious interrogative, she retired to ready herself for her journey. That was the last I saw of Miss Julia Eames.

The next morning, after waiting on my cousin as usual, I began searching through my Lady’s apartments for letters and other papers to remove to the Muniments Room, as I had been instructed. I collected a good many items from her green-lacquer desk that stood by the window in her sitting-room, and many more from various table-drawers and cabinets; but of the ebony writing-box that I had seen on several occasions, and which I particularly remembered from the time I had brought my Lady the copy of Felltham’s Resolves, there was no sign. I searched most diligently, going through the contents of every cupboard and drawer two or three times over, and even getting down on my hands and knees to look underneath the great curtained bed; but without success. Somewhat puzzled as to the box’s whereabouts, I placed my haul of documents in the portmanteau that I had brought with me, returned downstairs to my work-room, and ascended from thence to the Muniments Room.

It went against my nature simply to leave the papers in a disordered state; and so I thought that I would sort them roughly according to type, and then make a preliminary general inventory before storing them. This was quickly and easily done, and within an hour I had several separate bundles of receipts, bills, letters, sketch-books, notes and memoranda, correspondence, and drafts of letters from her Ladyship, and a number of miscellaneous items, principal amongst which were an autograph album, a commonplace-book with red silk wrappers inserted in a gilt steel cover, a note-book containing what appeared to be original poems and prose fragments, and an address book enclosed within an embossed calf wallet. I could not resist – who could? – looking over a number of the items as I placed them in their allotted pile, though I acknowledge that I did so a little guiltily, having received a specific instruction from my employer to leave the papers in an unclassified state.

The autograph album afforded an interesting record of friends and distinguished visitors, both to Evenwood and to his Lordship’s townhouse in Park-lane; and then I lingered for longer than I should have done over a book of delightful pen-and-ink drawings and pencil sketches made by my Lady over several years. A series of French scenes – a record, no doubt, of her Continental escapade – was particularly well done, for my Lady had been a skilled draughtswoman, with a keen eye for composition. Most were signed and dated ‘LRD, 1819’, and one or two carried descriptions. I particularly recall a most striking and romantic sketch, bearing the legend ‘Rue du Chapitre, Rennes, evening’, of an ancient and imposing half-timbered mansion with elaborately carved beams, and a canopied entrance half disclosing an interior courtyard. There were also a number of more finished views of the same location, all of them executed with remarkable feeling and care.

The striking of twelve noon from the Chapel clock roused me from my reveries, and I set about placing the separate bundles, which I had loosely tied together with string, in a small iron-bound chest that lay to hand, to which I affixed an identifying label. I was on the point of descending to my work-room when, on putting away my portmanteau, I noticed a single piece of paper that I had omitted to retrieve.

On examination, it appeared to be of little importance, simply a receipt, dated the 15th of September 1823, for the construction of a rosewood box by Mr James Beach, carpenter, Church-hill, Easton. I do not well know why I make mention of it here, other than from an earnest desire to present as full and as accurate a statement of events as I can, and because it seemed odd to me that her Ladyship should have commissioned such an apparently valueless object on her own account from a man in the town, when Lord Tansor employed an excellent estate carpenter who could have made it for her in a moment. But there it was; I had no justification for spending any more of his Lordship’s time on idle speculation, and had already dallied far too long on the task he had set me. And so I assigned the receipt to the proper bundle in the chest, shut the lid, and proceeded back down to my work-room.

I had no immediate reason of my own to consult Lady Tansor’s private papers further, and received no request from my employer to do so. All financial and legal documents of importance, of course, had already passed under his Lordship’s eye and hand during the course of his marriage, and were now in my custodial possession; consequently, over the course of the next few weeks, the contents of the little iron-bound chest began gradually to recede from my present view until, in time, they disappeared entirely.

I did not have cause to remember the existence of my Lady’s private papers for many years. During the intervening period, life, as it always does, brought us our share of fair weather and foul. Lord Tansor’s step-mother, Anne Duport, with whom we shared the Dower House, departed this life in 1826. The following spring, my cousin had married the Honourable Hester Trevalyn, and it was expected – his Lordship being then only thirty-six years of age, and his new wife ten years his junior – that, in time, their union would be blessed with offspring that would secure the succession to the next generation.

After his first wife’s death, his Lordship had given himself completely to the care and instruction of his son. I have no doubt that he mourned his first wife; but he did so, if I may so put it, in his own way. People called him unfeeling, particularly when, within a year or so of Lady Tansor’s death, he began to set his sights on Miss Trevalyn; but that verdict, I think, arose from the habit of impermeable reticence that characterized his whole demeanour, and from a failure on the part of those who criticized him to comprehend the responsibilities of his position.

Towards his son, he displayed a fine and natural capacity for spontaneous affection. He adored the child. There is no other word for it. The boy bore a striking resemblance to his mother, with his large dark eyes and flowing black hair, and, as he grew up, he began to reveal also something of her Ladyship’s character. He was heedless, argumentative, forever pulling at his father’s sleeve and asking to be allowed to do this or that, and then running off in a howling rage when he was denied; and yet I never saw his father angered by these tantrums, for within a moment the boy would be back, afire with some other scheme that was allowed by his father, and off he would go, skipping and whooping like a happy savage. He had such an air of abounding, irreprehensible vigour about him – an abundant and entirely natural charm that made him the favourite of everyone who met him.

And more than all these natural amiabilities, he was his father’s heir. It is impossible to overstate the importance, in the eyes of my cousin, of the boy’s status in this regard. No father wished more for his son; no father did more for his son. Imagine, then, the effect on my cousin when, one black day, Death came softly knocking and took away, not only his child, but also his sole heir.

It was a catastrophe of the greatest possible magnitude, a gargantuan affront, an indignity that my cousin could neither withstand nor comprehend; it was all these things, and more. He was a father, and felt like a father; but he was also Baron Tansor, the 25th of that name. Who now would be the 26th? It prostrated him utterly. He was lost to all comfort, all consolation; and for some weeks we feared – seriously feared – for his sanity.

It is hard for me to write of these things, for as Lord Tansor’s cousin I had, and have, a place in the collateral succession to the Barony. I state here, most solemnly, that this potentiality never overruled the duty I felt I owed to my cousin; his interest was always my first care. What also makes it difficult for me is that the loss of Henry Hereward came upon my cousin just fifteen months after our own dear girl, Jane, had been so cruelly taken from us. Indeed, the two sweet babes often played together, and had been doing so on the afternoon that our little angel fell from the bridge that carries the road from the South Gates across the river to the great house. Our lives were darkened irredeemably from that day.

But it is of my cousin that I write; and I have dwelled on his grief at the death of his only son for this reason: to demonstrate as clearly as I can the terrible nature of the crime I believe was wilfully visited upon him. In the light of what I have said concerning Lord Tansor’s monomaniacal desire to secure an heir for his line (I do not say he was actually mad on this point, but the phrase, I maintain, is metaphorically apt), what would be the greatest harm, barring physical assault or murder, that could be done to such a man as this?

I leave the question unanswered pro tempore, and will now proceed with my deposition. I fear I have rambled somewhat, through trying my best to anticipate the questions and objections of an imagined interlocutor. Having put pen to paper, it has surprised me to find how difficult it has been to confine myself to the salient points; so many things push themselves forward in my mind for attention.

Well, then, to be as brief as I can. The death of his only son and heir might have been borne by my cousin, as far as such a thing can be borne by a sentient human soul, if his second marriage had been productive of other heirs; but it had not been, nor perhaps would ever be. As the years have passed, his Lordship has therefore been obliged to consider his position afresh; and now, in his sixty-third year, he has devised another method to secure his desires in respect of a successor. I shall return to this critical point in due course.

IV

Sunday, 23rd October 1853

In the summer of 1830, our little circle received a most welcome augmentation when the Reverend Achilles Daunt, whom I am now proud to call my friend, was appointed to the living of Evenwood by my cousin. Dr Daunt, accompanied by his second wife and a son from his first marriage, came to us from a Northern parish with a high, and most deserved, reputation as a scholar. Evenwood offers many blessings, but I fear that men of real intellectual accomplishment are not many in number hereabouts, and the addition of Dr Daunt to our society was a great thing indeed for me, providing, as it did, a man of discernment and wide knowledge with whom to share and discuss my own historical and palaeographical interests. I had the honour of assisting my friend, in a modest way, in the preparation of his great catalogue of the Duport Library; and it was at his suggestion that I later took upon myself the task of collecting material towards a history of the Duport family, in which enterprise I am grateful to have been encouraged and supported by my cousin.

My friend’s only son soon became a great favourite with Lord Tansor, who was instrumental in sending the boy to Eton. It became of great concern to me to observe how my cousin began to look upon the Rector’s son almost as his own. I watched this conspicuous liking for the boy grow over time into something other than mere partiality. It became a kind of covetousness that fed on itself, blinding my cousin to all other considerations. The boy was strong, healthy, lively, good at his books, and properly grateful for the attentions that he received from his father’s noble patron; perhaps it was natural for Lord Tansor to see in him a reflection, pale though it was to a less partial observer, of the lost heir. What did not seem natural to me (I hesitate to express criticism of my noble relation, but feel under a solemn obligation to state my opinion) was his Lordship’s patent desire – expressed in countless material benefactions, personally audited by myself in my professional capacity – to possess the Rector’s son as his own (if I may so put it). He could not, of course, buy him outright, like a horse of good stock, or a new carriage; but he could, and did, appropriate him gradually, binding the boy ever more closely to himself by the strongest of chains: self-interest. What young man, just down from the Varsity, could fail to feel flattered to the highest degree, and be mightily emboldened in his self-regard, at being treated with such extraordinary attention by one of the most powerful peers in the realm? Not Mr Phoebus Daunt, certainly.

The notion of adopting Mr Phoebus Daunt as his heir had first occurred to my cousin after the young man came down from Cambridge. As time has passed, it has gradually become fixed in his mind, and, at the time of writing, nothing, it seems, can now persuade his Lordship against pursuing this course of action. It is not for me to question the wisdom or propriety of my cousin’s desire to leave the bulk of his property to this gentleman, on the single condition of his changing his name to that of his noble patron; I will only say that the choice of his heir perhaps does not demonstrate that acuity of judgment that his Lordship has usually displayed in his affairs; further, ever since the disclosure of his decision to the parties concerned, the effect on my friend’s son has been pernicious, serving to magnify a number of deficiencies in his character. This little ceremony took place some three months since, at a private dinner at Evenwood to which only Dr and Mrs Daunt, and their son, were invited; and I may say that, when the news became generally known, it was remarked by many in our local society that, while the young man and his step-mother instantly began to put on airs, and behave in an altogether insufferable manner (I regret the candour of my remarks, but do not withdraw them), the Rector maintained a dignified silence on the matter – in fact, he appeared positively disinclined to speak of it.

I might say a good deal more concerning Mr Phoebus Daunt; but I am conscious that I digress from my immediate purpose.

To return to my projected history of my cousin’s family (and, of course, of my own). I need not weary the reader of this statement by rehearsing in detail the progress of the work, the sources for which are extensive and requiring of careful and patient scrutiny. Year by year I continued to work, slowly but steadily, through the documents accumulated and stored by each successive generation, making notes thereon, and composing drafts.

In January of the present year, 1853, I was drafting an account of the perilous Civil War period, during which the family’s fortunes stood in dire jeopardy. I happened to look up, as I often did, at the unfinished portrait of my cousin’s first wife that now hung on the wall of my work-room. My secretary’s duties were over for the day, and for the next hour or so the history of the family during the time of Charles I should have claimed my attention; but I was much wearied by my recent exertions and, as I contemplated the image of the beautiful face in the picture above me, suddenly wished very much – I cannot say why – to look again at the remnants of the life of Laura Tansor, which I had gathered together after her death. It was most unmethodical and, I may say, uncharacteristic of me to deviate from a logical course of action, for I had been proceeding with assembling material for my projected Historia Duportiana on a strictly chronological basis. But I succumbed to this sudden keen desire and, going upstairs to the Muniments Room, opened the little iron-bound chest in which I had placed my Lady’s papers nearly thirty years earlier.

I looked again at her wonderful sketches and drawings, especially those executed during her time in France, and read for the first time poems and other effusions that immediately brought her back to mind, so passionate were they, so full of life and spirit. I then turned my attention to a large bundle of letters and, not wishing to put my time to waste, began to compose some brief notes thereon; but when I had finished, I was presented with a puzzle.

Her Ladyship’s correspondence was extensive, dating back to letters written to her by my cousin during their courtship, and including a large number of communications from members of her family and friends from the West Country. Faced with such a large number of items, I usually commence by arranging them by date and sender; but when I had finished ordering them in this way, it was clear that a quantity of letters were missing, particularly those from a certain Simona More, later Glyver, who appeared to have been an old childhood friend of her Ladyship’s. There was a sequence of communications – at least one a month, sometimes two or three – from this lady, beginning in August 1816, the year that her Ladyship first became acquainted with my cousin; but then, in July 1819, the letters ceased altogether, only resuming their previous frequency in October 1820. It was manifest, from her letters to Lady Tansor, that Miss More, or rather Mrs Glyver, as she soon became, had enjoyed an exceptionally intimate acquaintance with my cousin’s first wife, which made the gap in the correspondence – a period of some fifteen months – all the more singular.

Some of the other categories of document – bills, receipts, &c. – showed similar chronological disruptions. After considering the matter for some little time, and going back to the Dower House to consult my own daily journal on the matter of dates, I concluded that a deliberate attempt had been made to remove, and perhaps destroy, any document, no matter how trivial, that dated from July 1819, just before her Ladyship left for France, until after she returned to her husband, at the end of September the following year.

I went to make discreet enquiries of my cousin as to whether any of his first wife’s papers were still in his possession, but it seemed they were not. I even made another search of her former apartments, and other places where I thought perhaps they might be, but could find nothing. And so, baffled, I placed the letters back in the chest.

V

Sunday, 23rd October 1853 (continued)

I see from my journal that it was on the 25th of March 1853 that I received the following communication:DEAR MR CARTERET, —I regret to inform you that my sister, Miss Julia Eames, passed away on Thursday last, the 21st inst. Her family and many friends thank God that, though her sufferings have been great, her final hours were peaceful.Before the end came, my dear sister had strength enough to request, most insistently, that I write you this note, to be sent after God had taken her, to tell you that there is something here she was most desirous for you to have, something placed into her keeping that she said must now pass to you.I therefore hope that you will favour me with a reply at your earliest convenience, stating a day and a time that will suit you to visit us here, so that I may discharge this last duty to my dear departed sister.I am, sir, yours very sincerely,

C. MCBRYDE (MRS)

My cousin happened to be on the Isle of Wight just at that time, advising the Prince-Consort on some matter connected with Her Majesty’s new residence,^* and was not to return for some time; and so I immediately arranged with Mrs McBryde to call upon her on the following week.

I was received kindly by this lady, who bore a close resemblance to her late sister, at a well-appointed house in Hyde-Park-square, in that new residential district of London known as Tyburnia.^† After the usual introductions and exchanges, during which I commiserated most sincerely with Mrs McBryde for her loss, I was offered tea, which I declined. She then walked over to a large cabinet in the corner of the room, which she proceeded to unlock.

‘This is what my sister wished you to have.’

I had last seen it nearly thirty years ago, standing on a table in my Lady’s sitting-room at Evenwood. A large ebony writing-box, bearing the initials ‘LRD’ in mother-of-pearl on the lid.

‘There is this also.’ She handed me a letter, addressed to myself.

After a few words more, I took my leave. As I had some further business in town the next day, I had taken a room at the Hummums Hotel;^‡ and it was to this establishment that I now repaired.

I did not immediately investigate the contents of the box. Instead, I placed it on a table in my room and proceeded to open the letter.

It was, as I had surmised, from Miss Eames, written in an unsteady hand, and dated three days before her death. I transcribe it here.MY DEAR MR CARTERET, —I do not know how much longer I may have on this earth, only that my time is short. Not wishing to pass into the hands of Almighty God without discharging my last duty to my dear friend, the late Laura Tansor, I am therefore arranging for a certain object, entrusted to me on my friend’s death, to be placed in your hands by my sister after my own departure from this life of sin, according to my friend’s wishes. When you read this, therefore, I too will have passed beyond pain and suffering and, in the hope of being delivered of my offences by God’s grace, will walk again through all eternity with her whom I served faithfully in life.For the last years of my friend’s life, her conscience was sorely troubled by an action taken by her some time before, which could be neither admitted nor undone. I – with another – was a party to that action, and my conscience, too, has been burdened, until sometimes I have thought I could stand no more. For though I tried, on several occasions, I could not dissuade my friend from the course of action she was set on taking. I once asked you never to think ill of me. I beg you now to consider what I have done, by the sin of omission, in the light of friendship and trust, in which I know you place the highest value; for I made a solemn promise, on my mother’s Bible, to keep my Lady’s secret safe, never to betray her while she lived, and to hold fast to that promise until such time as it pleased the Almighty to take me to His own. That I have done, as God is my witness, faithfully and unswervingly, through all these years. If I have done wrong in keeping faith with the dearest of friends, then I pray to be forgiven – by the Lord of mercy and judgment, and by those remaining whom my silence may have injured.And so, dear Mr Carteret, I die in the hope that what now passes into your possession may perhaps be used by you to set right what was made wrong by my friend’s action. I do not condemn or blame her for what she did; for who is without sin? She was mortal, and her passion – born of fierce loyalty to a beloved parent – blinded her. She repented of what she had done, truly repented, and sought to make amends. But she was consumed by the constant thought of her sin – she saw it as such; it made her mad, and drove her at last into the arms of death. I go now to meet her, and my heart is glad.The Lord God bless you and keep you. Pray for me, that my unrighteousness be forgiven, and my sin covered.^*

J. EAMES

I laid down the letter and turned to open Lady Tansor’s writing-box.

Underneath the hinged slope were a great many papers, the majority of which appeared to be a sequence of letters from Mrs Simona Glyver, sent from the village of Sandchurch in Dorset to Evenwood, and dating from the beginning of July 1819, with one or two others written by this lady from Dinan in France to an address in Paris during the summer of the following year, and yet more sent to her Ladyship from Dorset throughout the late summer and early autumn of 1820, directed first to Paris, and then, from October onwards, to Evenwood. Though not all were dated, I quickly saw that the letters in the box partially filled the fifteen-month gap that I had noticed from my earlier examination of the communications from this lady that were already in my possession. I sat down and began to read through the letters methodically.

I do not have time to record here the contents of each letter in detail. Some were inconsequential and ephemeral, merely containing the usual harmless chatter and gossip characteristic of such exchanges between ladies. But others had an altogether different tone and purpose, especially the earlier communications, written throughout July 1819, which seemed indicative of some great impending crisis. A few extracts from letters written to her Ladyship by Mrs Glyver during that month (in which, I deduce, Miss Eames is referred to as ‘Miss E’) will serve to illustrate the point.[Friday, 9th July 1819, Sandchurch]I beg you, dearest friend, to think again. It is not yet too late. Miss E has, I know, more than once urged reconsideration on you. I now add my voice to hers – as one who loves you like a sister – and who will always have your best interests at heart. I know how you have suffered, after the death of yr poor father – but is not the punishment you intend out of all proportion to the offence? Even as I write the question I can anticipate yr answer – & yet still I exhort you with all my strength to stand back & consider what you are doing. I am afraid – Miss E is afraid – & you should be, too, for there may be consequences – perhaps of the most terrible kind – that you can neither foresee nor control.[Thursday, 15th July 1819, Sandchurch]Your reply is as I expected – & I see you are determined to proceed. I have heard separately from Miss E, who says that you will not be persuaded, and therefore must be helped – to ensure that what is done is done well, and as privily as we may. For we cannot let you do this alone.[Saturday, 17th July 1819, Sandchurch]In haste. I have made my arrangements. Miss E will have told you the name of the hotel – and I have the address of yr man in London. It will be some comfort to me – though a selfish one – to have this safeguard, if such it be, for the future. God forgive us for what we are about to do – but never believe, my dearest L, that I shall fail you. That I shall never do – though I may be called to account – in this world or the next. Sister I have called you, & sister you are, & will always be. There is no one more precious to me. I am with you now unto the last.[Friday, 30th July 1819, Red Lion, Fareham]I arrived here safely this afternoon and send this on ahead to assure you that all is well. The Captain raised no objections to my leaving – he neither knows nor cares what I do, as long as I put nothing in the way of his pleasures. Indeed, he was charming enough to tell me I may go to the Devil as long as I leave him in peace. He was glad to hear that my accompanying you would not prove a drain on his purse! That was his main concern. I am to visit my aunt in Portsmouth tomorrow, as you know. She strongly suspects that the reason for my ‘condition’ may not be whispered, which of course is not quite what I intended, but I shall not disabuse her – in order that the waters shall remain conveniently muddied. As she cannot abide the Captain, she will say nothing to him, and does not condemn me in the least – in fact applauds what, if it were true, would have been an act of the most unmitigated scandal. And so I go there as a kind of heroine – my aunt being a great admirer of Miss Wollstonecraft’s disregard of social propriety and seeing me as in some sort – like Miss W – striking a blow for the rights of our sex through my transgression.^* What the Captain will say when I come back with a baby in my arms, I do not know. But the calendar will now be a witness-I made sure of that (though he may not remember).^† I shall be with you as planned on Tues. morning. And so the die is cast, and two husbands will go to bed tonight wifeless. I wish there was some other way – but the time for all that is past. No more words. Please to destroy this on receipt, as you have done, I hope, with the others – I have been as careful as I can &have left nothing behind.

From a receipt dated the 3rd of August 1819, I surmise that the two friends, perhaps with Miss Eames in attendance, met together in Folkestone. They then departed for Boulogne, on or about the 5th of that month. A letter received by her Ladyship some weeks later, from an address in Torquay, confirms (what I did not know for certain before) that Miss Eames did not accompany them to the Continent. After the letter quoted above, parts of which I did not fully understand at first, there seem to have been no further communications from Mrs Glyver to her Ladyship until the 16th of June 1820, which, to my mind, strongly suggested that they remained together in France – as, indeed, proved to be the case. However, there are letters to her Ladyship from a Mr James Martin, an aide to Sir Charles Stuart, the Ambassador in Paris,^* written in February and March of the following year – on seeing them in the writing-box, I remembered that this gentleman had been a guest at Evenwood on more than one occasion. The purpose of the exchange was to secure accommodation for her Ladyship in the French capital over the summer. I could not help but smile, despite the growing fear I felt within me, when I saw to where Mr Martin’s replies had been directed: Hôtel de Québriac, Rue du Chapitre, Rennes.

The letter from Mrs Glyver of the 16th of June 1820, alluded to above, was written from Dinan to her friend in Paris, to a house in the Rue du Faubourg St Honoré.^† The friends seem to have left Rennes together around the second week of June, taking lodgings in Dinan before her Ladyship departed alone for Paris. In her letter, Mrs Glyver begins by speaking of her imminent return to England. And then comes this extraordinary passage:I took the little one to see the tombs in the Salle des Gisants^‡ yesterday – he seemed much entertained by them, though the chamber was cold & damp & we did not stay long. But as we were leaving he put his little hand out – so sweetly and gently – to touch the face of one of the figures, a thin old lady. Of course, it was just an accident, not deliberate at all, but yet it seemed like a conscious act & I whispered to him that these were once all fine lords and ladies – like his mamma and papa. And he gave me such a look as if he understood every word. We encountered Madame Bertrand at the Porte du Guichet & she walked with us for a time along the Promenade. It was such a beautiful day – cloudless, a delicious soft breeze, with the river sparkling below us, & I so longed for you to be with us once more. Madame B said again how like you he is, & indeed it is so, tho’ he is still a mite. At least when I look into his dear face, with those great eyes gazing back, I feel you are close. I hate to think of you alone when we are here, longing for you to be with us, & I cried for us both last night. You were so brave when you left us. I could hardly bear it, for I knew how you suffered & how you wd suffer more when we were out of sight. Even now I wd bring him to you, if your resolve should falter. But I do not think it will – and I weep for you, dearest sister. I kiss yr beautiful son every night & assure him that his mamma will love him for ever. And I shall love him too. Write soon.

Further letters from Mrs Glyver made the matter clear beyond per-adventure: my Lady had given birth to a son in the city of Rennes. He had been born in the Hôtel de Québriac, Rue du Chapitre, in the month of March of the year 1820.

But there was a deeper matter even than this, of such consequence that I could scarce believe it; and yet the evidence was here in my hands, in these letters written to her Ladyship by her friend, Simona Glyver, and also in others she received in Paris from Miss Eames. Lady Tansor returned to England on the 25th of September 1820 – alone. Where, then, was the child? The thought occurred to me that he might have died; but letters from Mrs Glyver received by her Ladyship after arriving back at Evenwood contained regular reports of the child’s progress – the habits he was developing, the darkening of his hair, the little sounds he made and how they were interpreted, how he loved to be taken down to the shore to watch the waves crashing in, and the gulls soaring above them. It also appears – astonishing as it is to think of – that the child was brought surreptitiously to Evenwood, in the summer before Lady Tansor died, when her husband had been called away on political business, and much discussion ensued concerning the little boy’s fascination with the white doves that fluttered around the spires and towers of the great house, and with the goldfish – many of great size and age – that glided silently through the dark waters of the fish-pond.

I read several of the letters over again, and then a third time, to make sure that I had not deceived myself. But there was no other possible interpretation of the evidence before me. Lady Tansor had brought her husband’s rightful heir secretly into the world, only to give him away to another.

So I come at last to my beginning. This was the crime to which I bear witness: the denial – by a premeditated act of determined duplicity and cruelty (I shall not go so far as to call it malice, though some might) – of paternity to my cousin, who lives only that he might pass on what he has inherited from his forefathers to his lawfully begotten son. This was badly done by my Lady, and I say so as one who loved her dearly. I aver that it was cruel beyond words to so deny my cousin that which would have completed his life; that it was an act of terrible vindictiveness, no one can deny; and to my mind, insofar as it took from Lord Tansor what was rightfully his, though he remained ignorant of his loss, this act of denial was, in its effects, criminal.

And yet, having arraigned her, having presented the evidence against her, can I now condemn her? She paid a terrible price for what she did; she did not act alone – others, one in particular, were guilty by association, though they aided her out of love and loyalty; she – and they – are now for ever beyond the reach of earthly justice, and have been judged by Him who judges all. For, as Miss Eames observed, who of us are without sin? No life is without secrets; and it may often be that the lesser evil is to keep such secrets hidden. Let me, as the accuser of Laura, Lady Tansor, therefore plead for clemency. Let her rest.

But the consequences of the crime remain, and they are not so easily remitted. For what accounts are still to be presented for settlement? Does the boy live? Does he know who he is? How can this be made right?

Since making my discovery, I have wrestled day and night with my conscience: to keep my Lady’s secret, or place what I know before my cousin? I am tormented by the knowledge that I now possess, as I fear dear Miss Eames had been; but now, at last, I am impelled to take action – and not only to forestall any accusation that I am withholding what I know in order to protect my own interests.

My cousin’s determination to adopt Phoebus Daunt as his heir in law, the device to which he has pledged himself in order to make good the deficit that Nature has apparently inflicted upon him, renders it imperative that I make the truth known, so that steps may immediately be taken to find the true heir, if he lives. I can no longer keep silent on this matter; for if the true-born heir be yet living, then everything must be done to discover him, and so prevent the disastrous course of action upon which my cousin is set. And there is another matter of concern to me.

Late one afternoon in April of this present year, I had just entered the Library when I witnessed Mr Phoebus Daunt softly closing the door of my work-room, where he had no business to be, and then looking about him to make sure that he was unobserved. A man, I thought, is never more himself than when he thinks he is alone. I waited, out of sight, for him to quit the Library through one of the terrace doors. When I got to my room, it was immediately clear that some of the papers on my desk had been disturbed; luckily, the door to the Muniments Room was locked and the key about my person.

Over the course of succeeding weeks, I would frequently encounter Mr Daunt in the Library, apparently engaged upon reading some volume or other, or occasionally writing at one of the tables. I suspected, however, that his real purpose was to seek an opportunity to enter my work-room, and perhaps gain access to the Muniments Room. But he never could, for I now took to locking the door to my work-room whenever I left the Library.

This was not the first occasion on which I had found reason to suspect my dear friend’s son of frankly despicable behaviour. Did I say suspect? Let me be blunt. I know him to have been guilty of reading Lord Tansor’s private correspondence – including letters of a highly confidential nature – when he had not been given permission to do so. I should have spoken out, and it is a matter of the greatest regret that I did not do so. But the point that I wish to make most strongly is this: what action might a determined and unscrupulous person contemplate if he suspected that his expectations – his most considerable expectations – were threatened in any way? I answer that such a person would stop at nothing to preserve his position. Let me be even clearer. I do not know how Mr Phoebus Daunt can have come by his knowledge, but I am certain that he knows the nature of the documents left to me by Miss Julia Eames.

Midnight

He is there, though I cannot see him now – he seems to melt away into the darkness, to become a shadow. But he was there – is there. I thought at first that it was John Brine, but it cannot be him. He stands so still, in the shadow of the cypress-tree – watching, waiting; but then when I opened the window, he was gone, taken up by the darkness.

I have seen him before – on many occasions, but always just out of sight, often at dusk when I have been returning home across the Park, and more frequently of late.

And then I am certain that there was an attempt last week to break into my study, where I am now writing, though I could find nothing missing. A ladder had been taken from one of the out-buildings, and was found discarded in the shrubbery, and the woodwork of my window had been damaged.

I feel constantly under his eyes, even when I cannot see him. What does it mean? Nothing good, I fear.

For I think I know who sets this watcher on me, and who it is that desires to know what I now know. He smiles, and asks me how I am, and he shines like the sun in the estimation of the world; but there is evil in his heart.

My candle is burning low and I must finish.

To those who may read this deposition, I say again that what I have written is the entire truth, as far as it is known to me, and that I have claimed nothing that has not been based on evidence provided by the documents in my possession, personal knowledge, and direct observation.

This I swear on everything I hold most sacred.

By my hand, the 23rd of October, in the year 1853.

P. CARTERET

^*[Robert Stewart, Lord Castlereagh (1769–1822). He became Foreign Secretary in February 1812 and, suffering from a form of paranoia, committed suicide by cutting his throat with a penknife in August 1822. Ed.]

^*[Spenser, Faerie Queene, II.xii.65. Ed.]

^†[Named after Hamnet Duport, 19th Baron Tansor (1608–70), who made extensive alterations to Evenwood in the 1650s. Ed.]

^*[Jacques Androuet du Cerceau (c.1520–.1584), French architect and engraver. Ed.]

^*[Felltham, Resolves, xlvii (‘Of Death’). Ed.]

^*[Osborne House, built as a private retreat for Queen Victoria and Prince Albert on an estate overlooking the Solent of nearly three hundred and fifty acres, purchased from Lady Isabella Blachford. The work, begun in 1845 and supervised by the Prince Consort, was completed in 1851. Ed.]

^†[The name, no longer in use, of the area of London roughly bounded by the Edgware Road on the east, Bayswater on the west, Hyde Park on the south, and Maida Hill on the north. It was inhabited mainly by professional men and City merchants. ‘Ah, ladies!’ writes Thackeray in Chapter LI of Vanity Fair (1848), ‘ask the Reverend Mr Thurifer if Belgravia is not a sounding brass, and Tyburnia a tinkling cymbal. These are vanities. Even these will pass away.’ Ed.]

^‡[In Covent Garden. A relatively inexpensive establishment; its typical clientele were single gentlemen up from the country. Ed.]

^*[A paraphrase of Psalm 32: 1. Ed.]

^*[The feminist intellectual Mary Wollstonecraft (1759–97) had an illegitimate daughter, Fanny, by the American speculator and author Gilbert Imlay (her second daughter, Mary, future wife of the poet Shelley and author of Frankenstein, was the product of her marriage to the novelist and social theorist William Godwin). Her Vindication of the Rights of Woman was published in 1792. One infers that Mrs Glyver’s aunt believed that her niece was pregnant by a lover, rather than by her husband. Ed.]

^†[By this rather obliquely delicate reference she appears to mean that she had recently contrived to have marital relations with Captain Glyver, the potential outcome of which would coincide with the birth of her friend’s child. Ed.]

^*[Sir Charles Stuart (1779–1845), created Baron Stuart de Rothesay in 1828, was British Ambassador to France from 1815 to 1824. I have not identified James Martin. Ed.]

^†[The street in which the British Embassy was, and is, situated. Ed.]

^‡[Part of the so-called Château of Dinan, which is actually built into the town’s ramparts. The Salle des Gisants holds seven carved medieval tombs; that of Roland de Dinan is said to be the oldest armed tomb in Western Europe. The carved figure referred to by Mrs Glyver is probably that of Renée Madeuc de Quémadeuc, second wife of Geoffroi Le Voyer, chamberlain to Duke Jean III of Brittany. Ed.]

34

Quaere verum^*

Overwhelmed by the experience of reading Mr Carteret’s Deposition, I sank back, exhausted and bewildered, in my chair. The dead had spoken after all, and what a world of new prospects the words had revealed!

Pinned to the last page of the document was a short note:To MR GLAPTHORNSIR, —I have made arrangements for the preceding account to be given to you by Mr Chalmers, the manager of the George Hotel, when you leave there. Failing that, he has been instructed to send this directly to Mr Tredgold. I have thought it wise to make these arrangements in case any harm should come to me before I can place my Lady’s letters in your hands. You will at least then know what I wished to tell you.I am not a superstitious man, but I encountered a magpie this afternoon, strutting across the front lawn, and failed to raise my hat to him, as my mother always encouraged me to do. This has been on my mind all this evening, but I shall hope that the morning sun will make me rational once more.The letters from my Lady’s writing-box have been removed to a place of safety, but I shall have recovered them before our meeting. There is more I could say, but I am much fatigued and must sleep.Only one more thing.There was a slip of paper enclosed with the letter I received from Miss Eames. The following phrase – and nothing else – was written on it, in capital letter: SURSUM CORDA.^* I puzzled my head at the time what it could mean, but gave up. I have only lately realized – to my shame – what the words may signify, and shall wish to present a possible course of action to you tomorrow relating to them.

P.C.

I gave little thought to this postscript, having been deeply affected by the account of Lady Tansor’s last years, and of her terrible death; and then to learn, in those carefully composed pages, of my birth in the Rue du Chapitre, and how I had been taken to the town of Dinan, and of the making of the box in which, I was sure, ‘Miss Lamb’ had placed her gift of two hundred sovereigns. It filled me with amazement to read these things; for, since the death of her whom I had once called Mother, I had believed these privities were mine – and mine alone – to know. But here they were, written down in another’s hand, like cold universal fact. The sensation was alarming – like turning a corner and meeting oneself.

And to know that I had also been taken to Evenwood as a child! My heart danced with a kind of anguished elation at the thought. That bewitching palace-castle, with its soaring towers, which I had beheld in my dreams when young, had been real after all – no figment of fancy, but the perpetuated memory of my father’s house, which would one day be mine.

Yet there were still so many unanswered questions, still so much to know. I read Mr Carteret’s words over a second time, and then a third. Late into the night I sat, re-reading, thinking, wondering.

I appeared to myself like a man in a dream who rushes headlong, heart fit to burst, towards some eternally receding end; the faster I ran towards my goal, the more it remained tantalizingly out of reach, always just within sight, but never attainable. Yet again, I had been shown a fragment of the whole; but the greater truth, of which the Deposition was a part, was still hidden from me.

The truth? It is always the truth we seek, is it not? A conformity with known fact, or with some agreed standard, or with what experience tells us is the inescapable nature of existence. But there is something beyond the merely ‘true’. What we commonly call ‘true’ – that ‘A’ equals ‘B’, or that Death waits quietly for us all – is often but a shadow or replica of something greater. Only when this shadow-truth conjoins with meaning, and above all with meaning experienced, do we see the substance itself, the Truth of truth. I had no doubt that Mr Carteret’s words had been those of a truthful man; yet still they were but portions of an elusive entireness.

I was sensible, of course, that I now possessed something that considerably advanced my claim to be Lord Tansor’s heir; but I had seen enough clever barristers at work to know that Mr Carteret’s Deposition was susceptible to serious legal objection, and so could not allow myself to believe that it provided in itself the final, incontestable validation that I had been seeking for so long. In the first place, the original documents from which Mr Carteret had quoted could not now be produced; they had been in his bag when he had been attacked. How, then, could it be proved that these letters had actually existed, and that the words cited by Mr Carteret were accurate and truthful, and had not been his own invention? His character and known probity might argue against such an assertion; but a lawyer who knew his business could still make much of the inherent doubt. Or it might be argued that Mr Carteret had produced his Deposition at my behest. I had made a little progress through this document coming into my hands; and, as far as my own position was concerned, the Deposition offered valuable circumstantial corroboration of what had been written in my foster-mother’s journals. But it was not sufficient.

Though I knew at last what Mr Carteret had wished to tell me, and what he had been carrying in the gamekeeper’s bag, another terrible certainty had also risen up out of the mists of doubt and speculation and taken solid form. The reason for his anxious look as he had sat in the tap-room of the George Hotel awaiting my arrival was now clear: he had feared for his safety, and perhaps even for his life, at the hands of the person who, he believed, had set a watcher upon him.

What a clod I had been! It had only been necessary to ask one question to prise out the truth: Cui bono?^*

Suppose someone comes by chance into possession of information which, if publicly known, would disbar another person from realizing an expected inheritance of immense worth. Suppose, further, that this second person is a man of overweening ambition, and also conscienceless in the pursuit of his interests. Would not such a man feel it imperative to secure this information, so that it might be put beyond human knowledge once and for all, and so secure his inheritance? Only one person stood to gain from acquiring the documents that Mr Carteret had been carrying in his bag. Only one. Who had Mr Carteret himself named as having pried into Lord Tansor’s private affairs, and as being guilty of worse, though unspecified, transgressions? Who had also shown an eager interest in the papers of the first Lady Tansor? Who desired to know what Mr Carteret knew? And at whose implied instigation had a watch been set on him?

Phoebus Daunt was that person; and by possessing himself of Lady Tansor’s incriminating correspondence, he had no doubt thought to deny the lost heir, if he was still alive, of ever claiming his birthright. But premeditated murder? Was even Daunt capable of that?

I closed my eyes and saw again poor Mr Carteret’s face, beaten and bloody. And in that moment I knew, with instinctive certainty, who had done it. Those terrible injuries constituted the violent signature of Josiah Pluckrose, seen first on the face of Mary Baker’s sister, Agnes, and more recently, if I was not very much mistaken, on that of Lewis Pettingale. Pluckrose, for certain, acting on the orders of Phoebus Daunt, had first kept watch on Mr Carteret, and had then attacked him as he entered Evenwood Park through the Western Gates. I saw it all clearly and distinctly in my mind. Whether the intention had been to murder Mr Carteret, or merely to steal his bag, might still be an open question. Of the identity of the perpetrators, however, I now had no doubt.

And then, as I further traced the logical course of my inferences and deductions, I began to conceive the possibility that I, too, might be in danger, if Daunt were to discover that Edward Glapthorn, the representative of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr, was none other than Edward Glyver, the lost heir. For something told me that the game was afoot; that my enemy was even now trying to seek out his old schoolfellow, and for only one purpose that I could divine. Edward Glyver alive was a perpetual threat. Edward Glyver dead made all secure.

Yet though he should seek through all the world for Edward Glyver, where could he be found? There was no one now at Sandchurch who could tell him. No letters were directed to him from there any more. He might look in the Post-office Directory for him, but in vain. He would not be there. No door-plate, and no headstone either, bore his name. He has vanished from the earth. And yet he lives and breathes in me! I am Edward Glapthorn, who was Edward Glyver, who will be Edward Duport. Oh Phoebus, light of the age! How will you catch this phantom, this wraith, who is now one man, now another? He is here; he is there; he is nowhere. He is behind you.

But I have another advantage. Though he does not yet know me, I know him. I have become his father’s friend, and may walk through the front door of his house at any time I please – as I did only recently. I am invisible to my enemy, as he walks to his Club, or strolls through the Park at Evenwood of an evening. Only think, mighty Phoebus, what this means! The man who sits opposite you when you take the train back from the country: does he have a familiar look? There is something about him, perhaps, that stirs your memory; but only for a moment. You return to reading your news-paper, and do not see that his eye is fixed upon you. He is nothing to you, another traveller merely; but you should be more careful. There is a fog tonight, the streets are deserted; no one will hear you cry out. For where is your shield, where your armour, against a man whom you cannot see, whom you cannot name, whom you do not know? I find myself laughing out loud, laughing so much that the tears roll down my face.

And when the laughter stops, I see clearly where all this will end. But who will be the hunter, and who the hunted?

^*[‘Seek the truth’. Ed.]

^*[‘Lift up your hearts’. From the Latin Eucharist. Ed.]

^*[A maxim of the tribune Lucius Cassius Longinus, quoted by Cicero, meaning ‘For whose benefit?’, often used to point a finger at someone who stands to gain most from a crime. Ed.]

PART THE FIFTH

The Meaning of Night

1853–1855

Our knowledge doth but show us our ignorance.

Owen Felltham, Resolves (1623), xxvii,

‘Of Curiosity in Knowledge’

35

Credula res amor est^*

Mr Carteret’s Deposition had opened a window on many things that had previously been hidden from my view, providing important corroboration of what was recorded in my foster-mother’s journals, as well as valuable circumstantial detail concerning the actions taken by Lady Tansor, and their far-reaching consequences. But I knew in my heart that the letters taken from Mr Carteret’s bag would never now be recovered; and that, without them, my case was still not unanswerable. I considered that it might be possible that other documents had survived of a similar character; but even granting this possibility, how could they now be found? I came to the forlorn conclusion that I was as far from my goal as ever, whilst Daunt’s position grew ever stronger.

I subsided into one of my glooms. But then, three days later, a note came from Lizzie Brine, delivered to me by messenger, informing me that Miss Carteret and her friend, Mademoiselle Buisson, would be visiting the National Gallery on the following Monday afternoon, the 14th of November. My spirits instantly revived and, on the day in question, at just after two o’clock, I walked over to Trafalgar-square and stationed myself at the foot of the Gallery’s steps.

At a little before half-past two, I saw her emerge into the autumn sunlight, with her friend at her side. They began to descend the steps as I, with an air of complete nonchalance, started to ascend them.

‘Miss Carteret! What an extraordinary coincidence!’

She made me no reply, and for several moments not a scintilla of recognition was discernible in her expression. Instead, she stood regarding me through her round spectacles as though I were a complete stranger, until at last her companion spoke up.

‘Emilie, ma chère, est-ce que tu vas me présenter à ce monsieur?’^*

Only with these words did her features relax. Turning to Mademoiselle Buisson she introduced me as, ‘Mr Edward Glapthorn, the gentleman I told you about’. Then, more deliberately, ‘Mr Glapthorn has spent some time in Paris, and is a fluent French speaker.’

‘Ah,’ said Mademoiselle Buisson, raising her eyebrows in a singularly charming way, ‘then we shall be unable to talk about him without his knowing what we say.’

Her English was perfectly expressed and enunciated, with barely a trace of a Gallic accent. With fetching, girlish volubility, she expressed herself delighted to make my acquaintance, and began at once, as if we already knew each other, to describe some of the exhibits they had seen, with a breathless enthusiasm that was most engaging. Mrs Rowthorn had told me that she was of an age with Miss Carteret, but she had a simple unaffected prettiness about her which made her seem younger. They made odd companions, certainly; Mademoiselle Buisson was animated, expressive, and forthcoming, dressed gaily à la mode, and displaying a natural exuberance of spirit. Miss Carteret, sombre and stately in her mourning black, stood silently watchful, like a tolerant older sister, as her companion flittered and giggled. Yet it was impossible not to sense the closeness of their connexion – the way that Mademoiselle Buisson would turn to her friend as she made a particular point and place her hand on Miss Carteret’s arm, with that same unthinking familiarity that I had seen her display at Evenwood after the funeral; the little complicit glances, eye meeting eye, speaking of confidences shared, and secrets kept safe.

‘May I ask how long you will be staying in London, Miss Carteret?’

‘With such prescience as you possess, Mr Glapthorn,’ she replied, ‘I imagine you can answer that question for yourself.’

‘Prescience? What can you mean?’

‘You wish me to suppose, then, that meeting you here is coincidental?’

‘You may suppose what you wish,’ I said, as genially as I could, ‘or, if you cannot accept the fact of coincidence, perhaps you would be more comfortable with the notion of Fate.’

At this, she managed a contrite little smile, and asked to be excused for her ill humour.

‘Your kind note of acceptance to my father’s interment was received,’ she went on, ‘but we were disappointed not to have observed you amongst the company.’

‘I am afraid I was a little late in arriving. I paid my respects to your father – as my firm’s representative, as well as in a personal capacity – after the carriages had departed; and then, having an urgent engagement here in town, and not wishing to intrude on you or your family, I returned immediately.’

‘We were hoping to receive you at the Dower House again,’ she said, taking off her glasses and placing them in her reticule. ‘You were expected, you know. But you had your own reasons for not coming, I dare say.’

‘I did not wish to intrude, as I said.’

‘As you said. But you put yourself to a great deal of trouble on our account in travelling all the way to Northamptonshire only to return immediately. I hope you met your engagement?’

‘It was no trouble, I assure you.’

‘You are kind to say so, Mr Glapthorn. And now, if you will excuse us. Perhaps coincidence – or Fate – will arrange for our paths to cross again.’

Mademoiselle Buisson gave me a curtsey and a smile; but Miss Carteret merely inclined her head a little, in the way that I had seen her do to Daunt, and passed on down the steps.

Of course, I could not allow them to go and so, feigning a sudden disinclination to spend such an uncommonly fine November day looking at dull pictures, requested the honour of accompanying them a little way, if they were proceeding on foot. Mademoiselle announced brightly that they had thought of walking down to Green-park, which I agreed was a capital prospect on such an afternoon.

‘Then come with us, by all means, Mr Glapthorn!’ cried Mademoiselle. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Emily?’

‘I do not mind, if you do not, and if Mr Glapthorn has nothing better to do,’ came the reply.

‘Then it is settled,’ said her friend, clapping her hands. ‘How delightful!’

And so off we set together across the Square, Miss Carteret on my right hand, Mademoiselle Buisson on my left.

Once in the open spaces of the Park, Miss Carteret’s earlier irritation seemed to lessen. Little by little, we began to speak of things other than the late tragic events at Evenwood, and by the end of the afternoon, with the sun beginning to decline, we were talking openly and easily, as if we had all been old friends.

Towards four o’clock we walked into Piccadilly, and the ladies waited by the kerb while I secured a hansom.

‘May I tell the driver where you wish to be taken?’ I asked innocently.

She gave the address of her aunt’s house in Wilton-crescent, and I handed her into the cab, followed by Mademoiselle Buisson, who smiled at me in a dreamy way as she settled herself into her seat.

‘Miss Carteret, it is presumptuous, I know, but will you allow me to call on you – and Mademoiselle Buisson?’

To my surprise, she did not hesitate in her reply.

‘I am at home – I should say at my aunt’s home – every morning from eleven.’

‘May I come on Friday, then, at eleven?’ I confess that I asked the question, thinking she might invent some excuse for not being able to receive me; but instead, to my surprise, she leaned her head on one side and simply said:

‘Of course you may.’

As the hansom pulled away, she pushed down the window, looked back at me, and smiled.

A simple smile. But it sealed my fate.

On Friday, as arranged, I called upon Miss Carteret at her aunt’s house in Wilton-crescent. I was shown into a large and elegant drawing-room, where I found Miss Carteret and her friend seated together on a little sofa by the window, each apparently engrossed in reading.

‘Mr Glapthorn! How nice!’

It was Mademoiselle who spoke first, jumping up to pull a small arm-chair closer to their sofa, and begging me to sit down.

‘We have been so dreadfully dull here this morning, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, resuming her place next to Miss Carteret, and tossing her book onto a nearby table. ‘Like two old spinsters. I declare I might have gone quite mad if you hadn’t come to see us. Emily, of course, can sit for hours on her own and never minds it; but I must have company. Don’t you love company, Mr Glapthorn?’

‘Only my own,’ I replied.

‘Oh, but that is terrible. You are as bad as Emily. And yet you were such a lively companion the other day, in the Park, was he not, Emily?’

All through this exchange Miss Carteret had sat, book in hand, impassively regarding her friend. Then, ignoring the question, she turned towards me and took off her spectacles.

‘How is your employer, Mr Glapthorn?’

‘My employer?’

‘Yes. Mr Christopher Tredgold. I understand from Lord Tansor that he has suffered a seizure.’

‘He was very poorly when I last saw him. I’m afraid I cannot say whether his condition has since improved.’

Mademoiselle Buisson gave a little sigh and crossed her arms, as if she were piqued by the suddenly serious turn of the conversation.

I had hoped for a warmer, less restrained, reception than this from Miss Carteret, and was unsure of what to say next.

‘Is your aunt at home?’ I said at last, feeling it would be polite of me to ask.

‘She is visiting a friend,’ Miss Carteret replied, ‘and will not return until this evening.’

‘Mrs Manners is a person who likes company very much,’ Mademoiselle Buisson observed, with a defiant toss of her head.

‘I think Mr Tredgold mentioned to me that Mrs Manners was your mother’s youngest sister?’ My employer had once spoken of Mr Carteret’s family, and of this lady, with whom Miss Carteret enjoyed a particularly close relationship.

‘That is correct.’

‘With whom you resided when you were in Paris?’

‘You are very curious about my family, Mr Glapthorn.’ The rebuke – if the remark was intended as such – was spoken in a soft, almost teasing tone, which strongly conveyed to me the notion that she was, after all, disposed to maintain the friendly relations that we had established during the course of our afternoon in Green-park. This encouraged me to take a little risk with my response.

‘I am curious about your family, Miss Carteret, because I am curious about you.’

‘That is a rather bold statement, and curious in itself. What possible interest can my dull life hold for someone such as you? For I conceive, Mr Glapthorn, that you are a person of wide experience and interests, with a certain largeness of view that I have observed before in men of strong intellect who have lived a good deal in the world on their own terms. You live by your wits – I am sure I am right to say this – and this gives you, if I may say so, a kind of feral character. Yes, you are an adventurer, Mr Glapthorn. I do not say that you can never be tamed, but I am sure you are not destined for domesticity. Don’t you agree, Marie-Madeleine?’

Mademoiselle had been regarding Miss Carteret and me with an expression of intense interest, her eyes darting from one to the other as each of us spoke.

‘I think,’ she said slowly, pursing her lips in concentration, ‘that Mr Glapthorn is what I have heard called in English a dark horse. Yes, that is what I think. Vous êtes un homme de mystère.’

‘Well,’ I smiled, ‘I am not sure whether to be flattered or not.’

‘Oh,’ said Mademoiselle, ‘flattered, of course. A hint of mystery in a person is always an advantageous characteristic.’

‘So you think I am mysterious?’

‘Assuredly.’

‘And what do you think, Miss Carteret?’

‘I think we are all mysterious,’ she replied, opening her eyes to their fullest extent. ‘It is a question of degree. Everyone has things they would prefer to hide from the view of others, even from those to whom they are close – little secret sins, frailties, fears, even hopes that dare not be spoken; yet, on the whole, these are venial mysteries and do not prevent those who love us best from knowing us as we essentially are, both for good and bad. But there are those who are not at all what they seem. Such people, I think, are wholly mysterious. Their true selves are deliberately and entirely masked, leaving only a false aspect for others to know.’

Her unwavering gaze was uncomfortable, and the ensuing silence even more so. She was speaking generally, of course; yet there was an unmistakable pointedness to her words that struck me very forcefully. Mademoiselle gave a sigh, indicative of impatience with her serious friend, whilst I smiled weakly and, in an attempt to steer the conversation in another direction, asked Miss Carteret how long she would be staying in London.

‘Marie-Madeleine leaves for Paris tomorrow. I shall remain here a little longer, having nothing to draw me back to Evenwood.’

‘Not even Mr Phoebus Daunt?’ I asked.

At this, Mademoiselle Buisson gave out a little scream of laughter, and rocked back and forth on the sofa.

‘Mr Phoebus Daunt! You think she would go back for him? But you are teasing, I think, Mr Glapthorn.’

‘Why would Miss Carteret not wish to see her old friend?’ I asked, with an exaggeratedly uncomprehending expression.

‘Ah, yes,’ replied Mademoiselle, smiling, ‘her old friend and playfellow.’

‘Mr Glapthorn does not share the world’s admiration of Mr Phoebus Daunt,’ said Miss Carteret. ‘Indeed, he holds quite a severe opinion of him. Isn’t that right, Mr Glapthorn?’

‘But Mr Phoebus Daunt is so utterly charming!’ cried Mademoiselle Buisson. ‘And so clever, and so handsome! Are you jealous of him, Mr Glapthorn?’

‘By no means, I assure you.’

‘Do you know him, then?’ asked Mademoiselle, smiling.

‘Mr Glapthorn knows him only by reputation,’ said Miss Carteret, also smiling, ‘which he believes to be sufficient grounds for disliking him.’

They looked at each other as if they were playing some sort of game, the rules of which were known only by the two of them.

‘Do I infer, then, Miss Carteret,’ I asked, ‘that we share a similar view of Mr Daunt’s character and talents after all? When we last spoke on this subject you appeared inclined to defend him.’

‘As I implied then, I owe Mr Daunt the courtesy due to a long acquaintance, and to a close neighbour. But I do not seek to defend him. He is well able to defend himself, against your opinion, and against mine.’

‘Well,’ said Mademoiselle, ‘if you wish to have my considered opinion of Mr Phoebus Daunt, here it is. He is insufferable. That is my opinion – the long and the short of it, as you say in English. So you see, Mr Glapthorn, we are all of one mind on the subject.’

I said that I was glad of it.

‘But you know, Emily,’ she continued, turning to her friend, ‘I can think of an excellent reason for you to go back to Evenwood.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Miss Carteret.

‘Why, Mr Phoebus Daunt is not there!’

Mademoiselle seemed excessively pleased by the cleverness of her riposte. She clapped her hands together, kissed Miss Carteret on the cheek, and leaped to her feet. Then she began to dance around the room, skipping and twirling, and singing, ‘Où est le soleil? Où est le soleil?’ until she sat down once more next to Miss Carteret, flushed and bright-eyed.

‘And where has the sun gone?’ I asked.

‘To America,’ said Miss Carteret. As she spoke, she regarded her friend with a quizzical uplift of her eyebrows, and again I felt an unmistakable undercurrent of complicity. ‘He has embarked upon a lecture tour.’

‘And what is he to lecture on?’ I asked.

‘His subject, I believe, is to be “The Art of the Epic”.’

I could not stop myself from letting out a contemptuous guffaw. The Art of the Epic! Of all things! Then I checked myself, thinking that I might perhaps be reprimanded by Miss Carteret for my discourtesy towards her old playfellow; but I was gratified to see that both she and Mademoiselle were also laughing, Miss Carteret quietly and discreetly, her friend more openly.

‘You see, Emily,’ said Mademoiselle at length, ‘Mr Glapthorn is a kindred spirit. He feels things as we do. We can tell him all our secrets, and never fear that he will betray us.’

Miss Carteret rose, walked to the window, and looked out into the street.

‘It’s so stuffy in here,’ she said. ‘Shall we walk out for half an hour?’

It did not take long for the two ladies to procure shawls and bonnets, and soon we were walking through carpets of fallen leaves in Hyde-park. We rested for a while on a bench overlooking the Serpentine; but Mademoiselle Buisson was restless and, after a minute or two, she wandered off a little way, leaving Miss Carteret and me alone for the first time.

‘Miss Carteret,’ I ventured, after we had sat for a few moments looking out over the water, ‘may I enquire whether the police are any closer to apprehending your father’s attackers?’

Her eyes remained fixed on some distant point as she made her reply.

‘A man from Easton – a known ruffian – was questioned, but has since been released without charge. I have no hope at all that the police will ever identify those responsible.’

She said this in a rather pat way, as if my question had been anticipated, and the answer prepared. Her beautiful face looked strained, and I noticed that she was playing with the fringes of her shawl in a distracted manner.

‘Forgive me,’ I said softly. ‘The question was insensitive.’

‘No!’ She had now turned to look at me, and I saw that her eyes were full of tears. ‘No. You speak out of kindness, I know that, and I am grateful for your concern, truly I am. But my heart is so full – with grief for my father, and with uncertainty as to what I shall do now. My father’s death has thrown everything into doubt. I have no way of earning my living, and do not even know whether I shall be permitted to continue to remain in my present home.’

‘Surely Lord Tansor will be sensitive to your position, and to the duty he owes to you as his relative?’

‘Lord Tansor will only do what serves his own interests,’ she replied, somewhat tartly. ‘I do not complain that he has never shown me consideration in the past, but he is certainly under no obligation to do so in the future. He gave my father employment at the behest of his aunt, my grandmother; but he did so with some reluctance, though the appointment proved of inestimable benefit to him. My father was his cousin, yet he was sometimes treated no better than a servant. I cannot deny that our material circumstances provided compensation; but we owned nothing. Everything we had was in the gift of Lord Tansor; we lived by the grace and favour of his Lordship, not as members of the family in our own right and dignity. I could never make my father see the inequity of our situation, but I felt the shame and injustice of it greatly. How, then, can I consider my relationship to his Lordship to offer any guarantee of security and independence?’

‘But perhaps his Lordship will treat you generously, after all.’

‘He may. I have Duport blood in me, and that is always of the greatest consideration to Lord Tansor. But I cannot count on things turning out to my advantage, and do not wish to be perpetually beholden to Lord Tansor.’

I then made the observation that a lady always had another means at her disposal to settle herself in a comfortable way of life.

‘You mean marriage, I suppose. But who would want to marry me? I have no money of my own, and my father left little enough. I am almost thirty years old – no, do not say that my age is of no account. I know very well that it is. No, Mr Glapthorn, I am a lost cause. I shall live and die a spinster.’

‘There is one person, surely, who would marry you.’

‘And who is that?’

‘Why, Mr Phoebus Daunt, of course.’

‘Really, Mr Glapthorn, you are quite obsessed by Mr Phoebus Daunt. He seems to have become a fixed idea for you.’

‘But you admit that I am right?’

‘I admit no such thing. Any inclinations in that direction that Mr Daunt might have harboured have long since withered away. Even if my father had approved of him, which he did not, I could never have reciprocated his feelings. I do not love Mr Daunt; and, for me, having had the example of my parents constantly before me, love is the only reason for marriage. And now, shall we agree to speak no more of Mr Daunt? He bores me in company, and it bores me even more to hear him spoken of. I am determined to find some way of settling my future, on my own terms and to my own satisfaction, without having to cast myself on Mr Daunt and his expectations. Now tell me, have you read Mr Currer Bell’s Villette?’^*

With this question she began to quiz me on my tastes and opinions. Was I an admirer of Mr Dickens? What was my estimation of the work of Mr Wilkie Collins? Was not Mr Tennyson’s In Memoriam an incomparably fine achievement?^† Had I been to any concerts or recitals lately? Did I see any merit in the work of Mr Rossetti and his associates?^‡

She showed an informed and discerning interest in each topic that arose in the course of our discussion, and we soon found that our views on the merits or otherwise of various authors and artists coincided most fortuitously; little by little, we began to speak like two people who had silently acknowledged a mutual liking for each other. Then Mademoiselle Buisson returned to where we were sitting.

‘It is getting a little cold, ma chère,’ she said, taking her friend by the hand to encourage her to stand up, ‘and I am hungry. Shall we go back? My compliments to you, Mr Glapthorn. I can see by her face that Emily has benefited from her conversation with you. What were you talking about?’

‘Nothing that would interest you, dear,’ said Miss Carteret as she pulled her shawl round her. ‘We have been quite serious, haven’t we, Mr Glapthorn?’

‘And yet it has made you happy,’ observed Mademoiselle thoughtfully. ‘You must visit her again soon, Mr Glapthorn, and be serious once more, and then I shall not worry about her when I return home.’

We walked back to Wilton-crescent in high spirits, with Mademoiselle chattering and laughing, Miss Carteret smiling with quiet satisfaction, whilst I glowed inside with a new happiness.

When we reached the house, Mademoiselle skipped nimbly up the steps.

‘Good-bye, Mr Glapthorn,’ she called back from the front door. Then she stopped and thought for a moment. ‘It is a curious name, is it not? Glapthorn. Most curious, and most suitable for a dark horse.’ And with that, she disappeared into the house, laughing.

I turned to Miss Carteret.

‘May I call again?’

She offered her hand to me, which I took in mine, and held for a most precious moment.

‘Do you need to ask?’

^*[‘Love is a credulous thing’. Ed.]

^*[‘Emily, my dear, aren’t you going to introduce me to this gentleman?’ Ed.

^*[The pseudonym, of course, of Charlotte Brontë. Villette was published in January 1853. Ed.]

^†[In Memoriam A.H.H. (i.e. Arthur Henry Hallam, 1811–33) was published by Edward Moxon (Daunt’s publisher) in 1850, the year that Tennyson was appointed Poet Laureate following the death of Wordsworth. Ed.]

^‡[The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, founded in 1848 by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828–82), John Everett Millais (1829–96), William Holman Hunt (1827–1910), and others. Ed.]

36

Amor vincit omnia^*

I paid my second visit to Wilton-crescent the following Friday, my heart full of bright hope that Miss Carteret would receive me with the same warmth with which our last meeting had concluded. I was more in love with her than ever; and now I was beginning to allow myself to believe that, in time, she might love me too. On this occasion, I was introduced to Mrs Fletcher Manners – a bustling, pretty-looking woman, only half a dozen years or so older than her niece – and invited to take luncheon with the two ladies. Afterwards, when Mrs Manners left to pay her afternoon calls, Miss Carteret and I were left alone in the drawing-room.

‘This has been most delightful, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, as soon as her aunt had gone. ‘But I’m afraid I shall be returning to Evenwood tomorrow, and so will not have the pleasure of receiving you again for some time – unless …’

I immediately took the hint.

‘It is possible that I may have occasion to visit Evenwood in the near future. Dr Daunt and I are slaves to the bibliophilic passion – I mean that we love old books, and share a number of other antiquarian and scholarly interests. He has asked me to look over the proofs of a translation that he has prepared, and it will be best if I return these to him in person. When I do so, perhaps you would not mind if I called at the Dower House.’

‘You would be most welcome,’ she said. Then she sighed. ‘Though I do not know how much longer I shall be able to call the Dower House my home. Sir Hyde Teasedale has expressed a wish to acquire the tenancy for his daughter, who is soon to be married; and I fear Lord Tansor will look upon a paying tenant with rather more favour than a dependent relative.’

‘But he will not turn you out, surely?’

‘No, I am sure he will not. But I have little money of my own and will be unable to match the price that Sir Hyde is willing to pay for the let of the property.’

‘Then Lord Tansor must find you somewhere else. Has he spoken to you on this subject?’

‘Only briefly. But let us not be gloomy. Lord Tansor will not let me starve, I am sure.’

We conversed for a little longer, and I experienced again, as I had done by the Serpentine the previous week, that luxurious sense of having her all to myself. A little of her old reserve yet remained; but I left the house that afternoon emboldened by the cordiality of her manner towards me, and feeling hope rise within me that I did not love her in vain.

I immediately wrote to Dr Daunt, and it was arranged that I would go up to Northamptonshire with the proofs of his translation the Thursday following, being the first day of December.

The Rector and I passed a stimulating afternoon discussing Iamblichus, and Dr Daunt professed himself in my debt for the few trifling amendments to his translation and commentary that I had ventured to suggest.

‘This has been most kind of you, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said, ‘most kind. I have given you a deal of trouble, I dare say. And a trip to the country in such weather is doubly burdensome.’

It was blowing hard outside, as it had been for a day or more, and the accompanying rain had turned the surrounding roads and tracks into quagmires.

‘Pray do not mention it,’ I replied. ‘I am willing to endure any discomfort for the sake of learning, and for the prospect of such a conversation as we have enjoyed this afternoon.’

‘You are kind to say so. But will you stay and take some tea? I am afraid my wife is not at home, and my son is abroad, on a lecture tour; so it will be just us two. But I can dangle a little temptation before you – a particularly fine copy of Quarles’s Hieroglyphikes^* that I have lately acquired, on which I’d value your opinion, if you have no more pressing engagement.’

I could not refuse the good old gentleman, and so tea was called for and taken, and the work in question produced and discussed, followed by several others of a similar character. It was not until a little after four o’clock, as darkness fell, that I made my escape.

The wind was blowing in strong gusts from the east, lashing the rain against my face as I picked my way through the slippery ruts of the track that led from the Rectory to the Dower House. With the rain coming on suddenly harder, I abandoned my original intention of walking round to the front of the house, and ran as fast as I could across the stable-yard to knock on the kitchen door, which was soon opened by Mrs Rowthorn.

‘Mr Glapthorn, sir, come in, come in.’ She ushered me inside, where I found John Brine warming his toes by the kitchen fire.

‘Were you expected, sir?’ asked the housekeeper.

‘I’ve been at the Rectory and wished to pay my compliments to Miss Carteret, if she is at home, before I return to Easton.’

‘Oh yes, sir, she’s at home. Would you like to come up and wait?’

‘Perhaps I could dry myself by the fire for five minutes first,’ I said, taking off my coat and walking over to stand next to where John Brine was sitting. After a minute or two, Mrs Rowthorn scuttled upstairs on some errand, giving me the opportunity to ask Brine whether he had any news.

‘Nothing much to tell, sir. Miss Carteret has kept to the house these past few days, and has received only Mrs Daunt, who has been twice now since Miss came back from London. Mr Phoebus Daunt, as you know, will not return for some weeks.’

‘Miss Carteret has not been out, you say?’

‘No, sir – except, that is, to wait on Lord Tansor.’

‘Brine, you really are a most infuriating fellow. Could you not have told me this before? When did your mistress wait on Lord Tansor?’

‘On Tuesday afternoon,’ came a voice, not John Brine’s. Turning, I saw his sister, Lizzie, standing at the foot of the stairs.

‘John took her up in the landau,’ she continued. ‘They were back within an hour.’

‘And do you know the purpose of the visit?’ I asked.

‘I believe it concerned Lord Tansor’s decision to let the Dower House to Sir Hyde Teasedale. Miss has been offered accommodation in the great house, in the apartments previously occupied by the first Lady Tansor. I am to go with her. John will remain here, with the others, to serve Sir Hyde’s daughter and her husband.’

Just then, as I was digesting this news, Mrs Rowthorn reappeared to ask whether I was ready to be shown upstairs, whereupon I proceeded to the vestibule in the housekeeper’s generous wake.

Miss Carteret was seated by the fire in the room where we had conducted our first conversation. She made no movement as we entered, as if she had not heard Mrs Rowthorn’s knock, and sat, her chin resting on her hand, staring meditatively into the flames.

‘Please, Miss, Mr Glapthorn is here.’

Lit by the glow of the fire on one side, and on the other by the rays from a nearby colza lamp,^* her face had assumed an unearthly marmoreal pallor. It seemed for a brief moment like the carved representation of some ancient goddess, terrible and untouchable, rather than the face of a living woman. But then she smiled, rose from her chair to greet me, and apologized for her dreaminess.

‘I have been thinking of Papa and Mamma,’ she said, ‘and of all the happy years we spent here.’

‘But you are not leaving Evenwood, I think, only the Dower House.’

For a moment her face took on a guarded look; but then she inclined her head slightly and looked at me teasingly. ‘How well informed you are, Mr Glapthorn, on all our little doings! I wonder how you do it?’

As I did not wish to give away the identity of my informant, I said that there was no mystery to it; a passing remark from Dr Daunt, nothing more, adding that I was glad that Lord Tansor had recognized his duty towards her.

‘Well then, I have my explanation,’ she said. ‘But perhaps I should begin to inform myself a little about you, if we are to be friends. Come and sit by me, and tell me all about Edward Glapthorn.’

She made room for me on the little sofa on which she was sitting, and folded her hands in her lap, waiting for me to begin. I remained for a second or two entranced by her beautiful face, and by the closeness of her person.

‘Have you nothing to say?’

‘Nothing, I’m sure, that would interest you.’

‘Come, come, Mr Glapthorn, no false modesty. I sense that you have a great deal to say, if you would only allow yourself to do so. Your parents, now. What of them?’

The truth was on my lips; but something held me back. Once I had declared my love for her, and should it be returned, I had resolved in my heart to tell her everything; to trust her as I had trusted no one else, not even Bella. But for now, until all was certain, I felt obliged to speak the truth only as far as I was able, and to apply a little dab of falsehood to the rest.

‘My father was a Captain in the Hussars and died before I was born. My mother supported us by writing novels.’

‘A novelist! How fascinating! But I cannot recall an authoress by the name of Glapthorn.’

‘She wrote anonymously.’

‘I see. And where were you brought up?’

‘On the Somerset coast. My mother’s family were West Country people.’

‘Somerset, do you say? I do not know it well myself, but I have heard Lord Tansor speak of it as a beautiful county – his first wife’s people came from there, you know. And do you have brothers or sisters?’

‘My older sister died when she was very young. I never knew her. I was educated at home by my mother, and then at the village school. Later, after my mother died, I studied at Heidelberg and then travelled a good deal on the Continent. I came to London in 1848 and found my present employment at Tredgolds. I collect books, study photography, and generally lead a rather dull life. There you have it. Edward Glapthorn, en tout et pour tout.’

‘Well,’ she said when I had finished my résumé, ‘I still accuse you of false modesty, for I infer from your account that you undoubtedly possess some remarkable talents to which you are not prepared to admit. Photography, for example. That is something which calls for both scientific knowledge and an artistic eye, yet you mention it almost off-handedly, as if its secrets could be mastered by any Tom, Dick or Harry. I am greatly interested by photography. Lord Tansor has an album containing some excellent views of Evenwood. I’ve often looked through it with admiration. The same photographer, I believe, was responsible for the portrait of Lord Tansor that stands on his Lordship’s desk. Do you know, I believe that I should like to have my portrait taken. Yes, I think I should like that very much. Would you take my portrait, Mr Glapthorn?’

I searched her eyes, those great dark pools, infinitely deep, but they gave back no suggestion of any ulterior meaning to her question. I saw only frankness and honesty, and my heart leaped within me that she should look upon me in such a way, without the reserve that had once seemed so unyielding. I told her that I would be pleased and honoured to take her portrait, and then, recklessly perhaps, tumbled out an admission that, at Mr Tredgold’s instigation, I had been responsible for producing the photographic views of Evenwood that she had admired, and for the portrait of Lord Tansor.

‘But of course!’ she cried. ‘The portrait carries the initials EG – for Edward Glapthorn! What an extraordinary thing, that you should have come to Evenwood to take your photographs and I never knew! To think that we might have met then, or passed each other in the grounds as strangers, unaware that we were destined to meet one day.’

‘So you think our meeting was destined?’ I asked.

‘Don’t you?’

‘As you know, I am a fervent believer in Fate,’ I replied. ‘It is the pagan in me. I have tried to argue myself out of it, but find I cannot.’

‘Then it seems we are helpless,’ she said quietly, turning her head towards the fire.

Silence descended on the room, a silence that seemed deepened and made almost palpable by the faint ticking of a clock, and the sound of the logs crackling and flaring, and by the roaring wind, throwing leaves and small branches against the windows.

I felt my breath quicken with the desire to draw her close to me, to feel her hair against my face, and her breast against mine. Would she push me away? Or would she instantly yield to the moment? Then I saw her head drop, and knew that she was weeping.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, almost in a whisper.

I was on the point of assuring her that no apology was required for her display of feeling; but then I saw that she had not addressed her remark to me, but to some other person, absent in body but present in her mind.

‘You should not have died!’ She was speaking now in a kind of moan, and shaking her head rapidly from side to side; then I understood that the sudden thought of her father’s dreadful death must have come upon her unexpectedly, as fresh grief often will.

‘Miss Carteret—’

‘Oh, Mr Glapthorn, I am so sorry.’

‘No, no, no. You must not be sorry. Are you quite well? Shall I call for Mrs Rowthorn?’

My heart broke to see her in such open distress, though my pity for her contended with boiling rage for what Daunt had brought her to. He might not have been an active participant in Mr Carteret’s death, but the conviction remained that he had been implicated in it. And so the responsibility for one more injury was added to his account, which I swore must soon be called in for settlement.

In answer to my solicitations, Miss Carteret insisted that she required nothing and began to wipe away her tears. In a moment or two she had composed herself and was asking me, with every appearance of cheerful interest, when I was to return to London. I said that I would be staying in Easton that night and would leave in the morning.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, as a violent gust of wind rattled one of the windows. ‘You cannot walk back to Easton in this weather. John Brine would take you, but one of the horses is lame. You must stay the night. I insist.’

Of course, I objected that I could not possibly trespass on her kindness, but she would have none of it. She immediately rang for Mrs Rowthorn, and asked her to prepare a room and lay another place for dinner.

‘You will not mind our dining à deux, I hope, Mr Glapthorn?’ she asked. ‘It is a little scandalous, I know, having no one to chaperone me; but I have little time for tiresome conventions. If a lady wishes to dine with a gentleman in her own home, then it is surely no concern of anyone else’s. Besides, company is rare at the Dower House these days.’

‘But I think you spoke of having friends in the neighbourhood?’

‘My friends keep a respectful distance at this sad time, and I have little taste for going out. I think perhaps we are alike, Mr Glapthorn. We prefer our own company best.’

Dinner alone with Miss Emily Carteret! How extraordinary it was to find myself seated opposite her in the panelled dining-room overlooking the gardens at the back of the Dower House, and to hear myself talking to her with a degree of familiarity that I could not have imagined possible only a few hours earlier. We began to discuss the events of the day, including, of course, the late action at Sinope,^* and found ourselves in agreement that Russia needed to be taught a lesson – it rather surprised, as well as pleased, me that Miss Carteret’s bellicosity was even more pronounced than mine. The Heir of Redclyffe^†was then dissected – to its disadvantage – and Mr Ruskin’s views on the Gothic style of architecture considered and commended in every respect.^* We laughed; we disputed, now seriously, now facetiously; we discovered that we liked a great many things in common, and disliked a great many more. We found that we were both intolerant of stupidity and dullness, and equally enraged by wanton ignorance. An hour flew by; then two. Ten o’clock had just chimed when, having removed ourselves to the drawing-room, I asked my hostess whether she would be kind enough to play.

‘Some Chopin, perhaps,’ I suggested. ‘I remember so well, on my first visit to the Dower House, hearing you play something by him – a Nocturne, I think.’

‘No,’ she corrected, colouring slightly. ‘A Prelude. Number 15, in D flat, called “The Raindrop”.^† Unfortunately, I no longer have the music. Perhaps something else. Let me sing to you instead.’

She hurried over to the piano-forte, as if anxious not to dwell on the memory of that evening, and began to deliver a passionate rendition of Herr Schumann’s ‘An meinem Herzen, an meiner Brust’,^‡ to a delicate accompaniment. Her singing voice was deep and rich, but overlaid with an enchanting softness of tone. She played and sang with closed eyes, having both the music and the words by heart. When she had finished, she shut the lid and sat for a moment looking towards the window. The blind had been drawn down, but she continued to stare at the blank fabric, as if she could see straight through it, across the lawn, and through the Plantation, to some distant object of the most intense interest.

‘You sing from the heart, Miss Carteret,’ I said.

She did not answer me, but continued to stare at the blind.

‘Perhaps the piece holds a special meaning for you?’

She turned towards me.

‘Not at all. But you appear to be asking another question.’

‘Another question?’

‘Yes. You ask whether the piece holds a special meaning for me, but really you wish to know something else.’

‘I see you have the measure of me,’ I said, pulling up a chair. ‘You are right. I do wish to know something, but now I am ashamed by my presumptuousness. Please forgive me.’

She gave a little smile before replying. ‘Friends are allowed to be a little presumptuous, Mr Glapthorn – even such new ones as we are. Now put your scruples aside, and tell me what you wish to know.’

‘Very well. I have been curious – though it is no business of mine, no business whatsoever – as to the identity of the man I saw you talking to in the Plantation, on the evening of my first visit. I happened to be standing by the window, you see, and observed you. But you do not need to answer. I have no right—’

She coloured, and I apologized for my forwardness; but she quickly came back.

‘Do you really ask out of mere curiosity, Mr Glapthorn, or from some other motive?’

I felt trapped by her questioning stare and, as I invariably do on such occasions, resorted to bluster.

‘Oh no, I am incorrigibly inquisitive, that is all. It is a strength in many respects, but in others I am keenly aware that it is a rather vulgar failing of mine.’

‘I applaud your frankness,’ she said, ‘and you shall be rewarded for it. The gentleman you saw was Mr George Langham, the brother of one of my oldest friends, Miss Henrietta Langham. I’m afraid you witnessed the final dissolution of Mr Langham’s romantic hopes. He proposed to me – secretly – some months ago, but I refused him. He came again that night, not knowing that my father—’

She stopped, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

‘No, no,’ she broke in, seeing me about to speak. ‘Let me continue. I saw Mr Langham from the window, as I was playing, and went to see what he wanted. He forgot himself to such an extent, even when I told him what had happened to my father, that he begged me to reconsider my previous decision. We parted in anger, I am afraid, on both sides. I fear Henrietta is also cross with me for refusing him. But I do not love George in that way, and never will, and so could not possibly marry him. There, Mr Glapthorn, is your answer. Is your curiosity satisfied?’

‘Perfectly. Except—’

‘Yes?’

‘The music, which I found torn to pieces—’

‘It was, as I think I told you, one of my father’s favourites. I played it for the last time that evening, and vowed that I would never play it again. It had nothing to do with Mr Langham, and neither did the song that I sang tonight.’

‘Then I am satisfied,’ I said, giving her a grave little bow, ‘though I feel I have pushed our friendship too far.’

‘We must all do what we feel we must, Mr Glapthorn. But perhaps you will agree to reciprocate, for friendship’s sake. I, too, am curious to know something.’

‘And what is that?’

‘A question that you refused to answer when we first met. What was your business with my father?’

I was unprepared both for the nature and the directness of the question, and only an ingrained habit of vigilance in matters of professional and private business prevented me from laying the whole thing before her. But, whether by accident or design, she had made it harder for me to prevaricate, as I had been able to do when she had previously asked me the same question, though still I made a clumsy attempt to do so.

‘As I said before,’ I began, ‘it is a question of professional confidence—’

‘And is a professional confidence more binding than a personal one?’ she asked.

I was cornered. She had answered my question concerning her meeting in the Plantation; I had no choice but to respond in kind, though I took refuge in brevity, hoping thereby to answer her as honestly as I could whilst revealing as little as possible.

‘Your father wrote to Mr Tredgold on a matter pertaining to the Tansor succession. My principal felt that it would not be appropriate for him to meet Mr Carteret in person, as he had requested; and so I was sent instead.’

‘A matter pertaining to the succession? Surely that is something that my father would have felt obliged to put before Lord Tansor, not Mr Tredgold.’

‘I can make no comment on that,’ I replied. ‘I can only say that it was your father’s express wish that his communication to Mr Tredgold should be kept strictly confidential.’

‘But what could possibly have made him act in such a way? He was a most loyal servant to Lord Tansor. It would have been against his deepest principles to go behind his Lordship’s back.’

‘Miss Carteret,’ I said, ‘I have already revealed more of the business than my employer would have wished me to do; and, indeed, I can add nothing more to what I have already said. Your father told me nothing when we met in Stamford, and his untimely death has sealed my ignorance concerning the reason for his letter to my principal. Whatever he wished to reveal to Mr Tredgold, through me, must now remain forever unknown.’

How I hated myself for the lie. She did not deserve to be treated so, as if she were an enemy to my interests, like Phoebus Daunt, whom she appeared to detest almost as much I did. I had no reason not to trust her, and every reason to draw her into my confidence. She had declared herself my friend, and had shown me courtesy and kindness, and a degree of partiality that I flattered myself betokened incipient affection. She had a right, surely, to claim my trust. Yes, she had a right to know what her father had written in his Deposition, and to understand what it signified for me, and for her. This, however, was not the time, not quite yet; but just a little longer, and then I would put all deceit aside for ever.

Had she sensed the falsehood? I could not tell, for nothing disturbed the enigmatic serenity of her face. She appeared to be turning over what I had said. Then, as if a thought had struck her, she asked:

‘Do you suppose it might concern Mr Daunt – I mean, the matter that my father wished to bring to Mr Tredgold’s attention?’

‘I really cannot say.’

‘But you would tell me, if you knew, wouldn’t you? As a friend.’

She had moved closer to me and was standing, with one hand resting on the piano-forte, looking directly into my eyes.

‘It would be impossible to deny a true friend,’ I said.

‘Well then, we have balanced the books, Mr Glapthorn.’ The smile broadened. ‘Confidences have been exchanged, and our debts to each other paid. I am so glad you came. When we next meet, I shall have left here for good. It will be strange, to pass by the Dower House and know that someone else is living here. But you will come and see me again, I hope, at the great house, or in London?’

‘Do you need to ask?’ I repeated the question that she herself had put to me after our walk in Green-park.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I do not think I do.’

^*[‘Love conquers all’ (Virgil, Eclogues). Ed.]

^*[Hieroglyphikes of the Life of Man (1638) by the English poet Francis Quarles (1592–1644). Ed.]

^*[Colza was a thick, viscous vegetable oil used in lamps before the invention of paraffin in 1878. Ed.]

^*[Turkey declared war on Russia in October 1853. The Turks defeated the Russians at Oltenitza on 4 November, but the Turkish naval squadron was destroyed by the Russian Black Sea Fleet at Sinope on the 30th of that month – an action that caused outrage in England. These were the preliminary engagements of what was to become the Crimean War. Britain and France declared war on Russia in March 1854. Ed.]

^†[By Charlotte M. Yonge (1823–1901), published in 1853. The novel, which dramatizes the spiritual struggles of its principal character, Guy Morville, reflected its author’s Tractarian beliefs and was one of the most successful novels of the century. Ed.]

^*[The first volume of The Stones of Venice by John Ruskin (1819–1900), in which he championed Gothic architecture, was published in March 1851; volume II followed in July 1853, and volume III in October 1853. Ed.]

^†[Opus 28. Composed 1836–9, published in 1839. Ed.]

^‡[‘At my heart, at my breast’, from Schumann’s song-cycle for female voice and piano, Frauenliebe und Leben (‘A Woman’s Life and Love’, 1840). Ed.]

37

Non sum qualis eram^*

I did not see Miss Carteret the next morning. When Mrs Rowthorn came up with my breakfast, she informed me that her mistress had gone out early, though it was a damp and gloomy day for a walk.

‘But it’s a good sign,’ she said, ‘that Miss is out in the air again. She’s been cooped up in her room for days on end since she came back from London, grieving still for her poor papa, it’s plain. But she seemed brighter this morning, and it fair did my heart good to see.’

I had several hours before my train was due to leave, and so I resolved on a little expedition through the Park, partly to look upon my inheritance once again, and partly in the hope that I might encounter Miss Carteret.

Downstairs, I asked the girl that I found scrubbing the front step to run and fetch John Brine.

‘Brine,’ I asked, ‘I have a mind to see the Mausoleum. Is there a key?’

‘I can get that for you, sir,’ he replied, ‘if you’ll wait till I ride up to the great house. It won’t take more than a quarter of an hour.’

He was as good as his word, and I was soon wandering contentedly along sequestered paths through dripping woods and stately avenues of bare-branched limes, stopping from time to time to look out at the great house through a veil of drizzle. From certain vantage points it lay indistinct and spectral, an undifferentiated mass; from others it gained in definition, its towers and spires rearing sharply up through the mist like the petrified fingers of some titanic creature. It began to seem suddenly, and curiously, imperative to drink in every separate prospect to the brim; each detail of arch or window, each angle and nuance, appeared infinitely and urgently precious to me, as if I were a man gazing on the face of the one he loves for the last time.

At length, I found myself standing – wet and cold, and splashed with mud – before the great double doors of the Mausoleum.

It stood within a dense semi-circle of ivy-clad trees, a substantial domed building in the Graeco-Egyptian style, constructed in the year 1722 by the 21st Baron, who for his design had plundered freely – some might say uncritically – from a number of mausolea illustrated in Roland Fréart’s Parallele de l’Architecture Antique et de la Moderne.^*

The building consisted of a large central chamber flanked by three smaller wings, and an entrance hall, the whole being shut off by two massive and forbidding lead-faced doors, carrying representations in relief of six inverted torches, three on each door. Two life-size stone angels on plinths – one bearing a wreath, the other an open book – guarded the entrance. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the key that Brine had given me and placed it in the inverted escutcheon.

In the central chamber were four or five imposing tombs, whilst set around the walls of the three wings were a succession of arcaded and gated loculi, some presently empty and awaiting their occupants, others closed off by slate panels, each bearing an inscription.

The first panel to catch my attention was that of Lord Tansor’s elder brother, Vortigern, whom Mr Tredgold had told me had died of an epileptic seizure; then I turned to the panel closing off the loculus that contained the remains of Henry Hereward Duport, my own brother. And then, next to it, was what I had come to see.

I stood in the cold, dank stillness for some minutes, contemplating the simple inscription on the slate panel; but not in a mood of reverence and regret, as I had expected, but with a pounding heart. This is what I read:

Laura Rose Duport

1796–1824

Sursum Corda

The inscription instantly brought to mind the note that Mr Carteret had appended to his Deposition. SORSUM CORDA: the words from the Latin Eucharist written on a slip of paper sent to him by my mother’s friend and companion, Miss Julia Eames. SURSUM CORDA. Try as I might, I could not wrench significance from the words; and yet Mr Carteret had come to a realization about them that he wished to communicate to me.

Musing on this new puzzle, I left the Mausoleum to silence and darkness, and took my way down a muddy path to a gravelled bridle-way that ran alongside the Park wall back to the South Gates. Disappointed that I had not encountered Miss Carteret on my ramblings, I arrived back at the Dower House, and went into the stable-yard to return the key of the Mausoleum to John Brine.

‘You’ll oblige me by getting a duplicate cut, Brine. Discreetly. You understand?’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘Very good. My compliments to your sister.’ He tipped his cap, and quickly pocketed the coins that I had placed in his hand.

‘Don’t expect we’ll be seeing you for a while, sir.’

I turned back. ‘What? Why do you say that?’

‘I only meant that, with Miss going away—’

‘Going away? What are you talking about?’

‘Beg pardon, sir, I thought you’d have known. She’s going to Paris, sir. To spend Christmas with her friend, Miss Buisson. Won’t be back for a month or more.’

Why? Why had she not told me? For a time, as I walked back to Easton to take the Peterborough coach, I felt sick with doubt and suspicion; but as the coach pulled out of the market-square, I grew more rational. She had merely forgotten, nothing more. If our paths had crossed this morning, as we had both made our separate perambulations of the Park, she would undoubtedly have told me of her imminent departure. I was sure of it.

Back in Temple-street that afternoon, I sat at my table and took out a sheet of paper. With a beating heart, I began to write.

1, Temple-street, Whitefriars, London

2nd December 1853

DEAR MISS CARTERET, —

I write this short note to thank you, most sincerely, for your recent hospitality, & in the hope that you will allow me to anticipate an early resumption of our friendship.

It is likely, perhaps, that you may be visiting your aunt in the near future; if so, I trust you will not consider it forward of me to entertain the further hope – however slight – that you might inform me, so that I may arrange to call on you, at the usual time. If you are expecting to remain in Northamptonshire, then perhaps I may – with your permission – find occasion to visit you in your new accommodation. I wish very much to have your opinion on the work of Monsieur de Lisle.^* The Poèmes antiques seem to me admirable in every way. Do you know them?

I remain, your friend,

E. GLAPTHORN

I waited anxiously for her reply. Would she write? What would she say? Two days passed, but no word came. I could do nothing but meditate moodily in my rooms, staring out of the window at the leaden sky, or sitting, with an unopened book on my lap, for hours on end in a state of desperate vacancy.

Then, on the third day, a letter came. Reverently, I laid it – unopened – on my work-table, transfixed by the sight of her handwriting. With my forefinger I slowly traced each letter of the direction,^* and then pressed the envelope to my face, to drink in the faint residue of her perfume. At last I reached for my paper-knife to release the enclosed sheet of paper from its covering.

A wave of relief and joy swept over me as I read her words.

The Dower House, Evenwood, Northamptonshire

5th December 1853

DEAR MR GLAPTHORN, —

Your kind letter reached me just in time. Tomorrow I am to leave for Paris, to visit my friend Miss Buisson. I regret very much that I failed to mention this to you when you were here – my excuse is that the pleasure of your company drove all other thoughts from my head, & I did not realize the omission until after you had gone.

You must think me a very odd friend – for friends, I believe, we have agreed to be – to have kept such a thing from you, though I did not do so wilfully. But I will hope for forgiveness, as every sinner must.

I shall not return to England until January or February, but shall think of you often, and hope you will sometimes think of me. And when I return, I promise to send word to you – that, you may be assured, will be something I shall not forget to do. You have shown me such kindness and consideration – & provided me with unlooked-for mental solace at this dark time – that I should be careless indeed of my own well-being if I were to deny myself the pleasure of seeing you again, as soon as circumstances permit.

I am familiar with some of the work of M. de Lisle, but not the volume you mention – I shall take especial care to seek it out while I am in France, so that I may have something sensible to say about it when next we meet. In the meantime, I remain,

Your affectionate friend,

E. CARTERET

I kissed the paper and fell back in my chair. All was well. All was wonderfully well. Even the prospect of separation from her did not appal me. For was she not my affectionate friend, and would she not be often thinking of me, as I would be thinking of her? And when she returned – well, then I trusted to see affectionate friendship blossom quickly into consuming love.

I pass over the succeeding weeks, for they were bleak and featureless. I sat at my work-table for hour after hour, writing notes and memoranda to myself on the various problems that still required resolution: the death of Mr Carteret, and how best to act on what he had revealed in his Deposition; the now urgent necessity to find unimpugnable evidence to prove my true identity in law; the reason why Miss Eames had sent Mr Carteret the words SURSUM CORDA; and last, but by no means least, the means by which I was to expose my enemy’s true character. If only I could have called on Mr Tredgold’s counsel! But his condition had been slow to improve, and, during the two or three visits that I made to Canterbury, I would sit despondently by his bedside, wondering whether the dear gentleman would ever recover from the life-in-death into which he had been so cruelly plunged. His brother, however, continued to hope – in both a professional and a personal capacity – for better things to come, and assured me that he had seen such cases end in complete recovery. And thus I would return to Temple-street faintly hopeful that, when I next saw my employer, he would evince some signs of restoration.

But as day succeeded day, my spirits sank lower and lower. London was cold and dismal – impenetrable, with choking fog for days on end, the streets slimy with mud and grease, the people as yellow and unwholesome-looking as the enveloping miasma. I found that I missed the beautiful face of Miss Emily Carteret most desperately, and began to convince myself that she would forget me, despite her assurances. To compound matters, I was bereft of companionship. Le Grice was away in Scotland, and Bella had been called to the bedside of a sick relative in Italy. I had seen her soon after my return from Evenwood, at a dinner given by Kitty Daley to celebrate her protégéé’s birthday. Of course both my head and my heart were full of Miss Carteret, and yet Bella was as captivating as ever. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to fall in love with her; a man would have been mad not to do so. But I was such a man – made mad beyond recourse by Miss Carteret.

At the end of the evening, after the other guests had departed, Bella and I stood looking out into the moonlit garden. As she laid her head on my shoulder, I kissed her perfumed hair.

‘You have been most gallant tonight, Eddie,’ she whispered. ‘Perhaps absence really does make the heart grow fonder.’

‘No absence, however long, could make my heart grow fonder of you than it already is,’ I replied.

‘I am glad of it,’ said Bella, holding me closer. ‘But I wish you would not go away so much. Kitty says I mope like a lovelorn schoolgirl when you are not here, and that sort of thing, you know, is very bad for business. I had to turn away Sir Toby Dancer last week, and he is considered a very fine man by all the other girls. So you see, you must not leave me as you do, or you will have Kitty to answer to.’

‘But, dearest, I cannot help it if my own business takes me from you. And besides, if your moping helps me keep you to myself, then perhaps I ought to stay away more often.’

She gave me a sharp pinch on my arm for my impudence and pulled away; but I could see that her chagrin was only pretended, and soon we had retired to her room, where I was allowed to admire, and then to occupy, those sweet perfections of flesh that had been denied to fine Sir Toby Dancer.

I left Blithe Lodge early the next morning, leaving Bella asleep. She stirred slightly as I kissed her, and I stood for a moment looking down at her dark hair spread out in tangled profusion over the pillow. ‘Darling Bella,’ I whispered. ‘If only I could love you.’ Then I turned away, and left her to her dreams.

Christmas came and went, and the new year of 1854 was a month old before anything of significance occurred.

On the 2nd of February, I was called before Mr Donald Orr. A rather frosty conversation ensued. Mr Orr professed himself to be aware of the fact that I was continuing to draw a salary without, as far as he could tell, doing much to earn it. But as I worked in a personal capacity for the Senior Partner, he could do nothing but look disapprovingly down his thin Scots nose at me, and say that he expected Mr Tredgold had had his reasons for employing me.

‘You are right,’ I replied with a satisfied smile. ‘He did.’

‘But this is not a situation that can continue indefinitely.’ He regarded me somewhat threateningly. ‘If Mr Tredgold – Heaven forbid – should fail to recover, then certain steps will have to be taken concerning the constitution of the firm. In that sad eventuality, Mr Glapthorn, it may prove necessary, regretfully, to dispense with your services, given your then redundant association with the Senior Partner. Perhaps I need say no more.’ On this friendly note, the interview was swiftly terminated.

That night I drank heavily, compounding my folly by succumbing to the temptation of my bottle of Dalby’s.^* In my dreams I saw Evenwood, but not as I had dreamed of it as a child, nor as I had seen it in the clear light of day; but at some future time, when a great catastrophe had laid waste its former plenteousness, and toppled its soaring towers. Only the Mausoleum remained intact amidst the disfiguration and desolation. I saw myself standing once more before the loculus containing the tomb of Laura Tansor, and beating my hands against the slate slab until they bled, desperate to gain access to where she lay; but the slab remains immovable and I turn away to see Lord Tansor, perfectly attired as ever, and smiling, standing in the gloom beside me.

He speaks:

What do you know? Nothing.

What have you achieved? Nothing.

Who are you? Nobody.

And then he throws his head back and laughs until I can stand no more. I reach into my pocket, take out a long knife secreted therein, and plunge it into his heart. When I awoke, I was drenched in sweat and my hands would not stop shaking.

Then, as dawn broke, I understood what Mr Carteret had wanted to tell me.

Sursum Corda. The words themselves meant nothing. But what they were graven upon was of the greatest significance. For not only did the slab of slate that carried these words shut out the living from the abode of the dead; it also shut in the truth.

^*[‘I am not what I was’. Ed.]

^*[Published in 1650. Ed.]

^*[Charles-Marie-René Leconte de Lisle (1818–94), leader of the Parnassian poets. His Poèmes antiques were published in 1852. Ed.]

^*[i.e. the address. Ed.]

^*[Dalby’s Carminative, one of many patent medicines containing laudanum. Ed.]

38

Confessio amantis^*

Long days followed, of uncertainty and near despair, interspersed with periods of fevered elation. Was I right? Did the final proof I had dreamed of finding lie within the tomb of the woman who had given me life, or had I become a deluded obsessionist? And how could I prove my conviction, except by an act of the grossest violation? Backwards and forwards, round and round, hither and thither, my mental turmoil increased. One moment I was triumphantly sure of my ground, the next prostrated by confusion. Abandoning both food and exercise, and resorting more and more to my drops, I lay on my bed trapped in the coils of hideous nightmares, oblivious to both the coming of night and the breaking of the day.

I continued thus until my bottle of Dalby’s stood empty by my bed. Incapable as I then was of going out to procure more, I subsided into a state of stuporous vacancy until I was roused by the gentle prodding of Mrs Grainger, who, finding me in this alarming condition and believing I was in the throes of death, had called upon the assistance of my neighbour, Fordyce Jukes, who now stood behind her, scratching his head.

‘This is rum,’ I heard him say, ‘very rum indeed.’

‘Is the gentleman dead, sir?’ asked Mrs Grainger plaintively.

‘Dead?’ Jukes sneered, with a contemptuous click of his fingers. ‘Dead? Why of course he’s not dead, woman. Can’t you see he’s breathing? Is there food here? No? Well, run and get some. And strong ale. Be quick now, or we’ll all have died before you get back.’

‘Should I bring a doctor, sir?’

‘Doctor?’ Jukes appeared to consider the question at some length. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No need for a doctor. No need at all. Come along, come along!’

Though I could see and hear quite clearly, I found that I was unable to speak or to move either my head or my limbs, and I remained in this curious suspended state for some time. It seemed that Jukes had left my bedside, for I could hear the familiar creaking of the floorboards in the sitting-room. Then, some time later, though whether it was hours or minutes I cannot say, I began to find strength returning, and moved my head slightly to look about me.

On the table beside my bed stood an empty plate, with the remains of a chop and a half-eaten potato; beside it was a tankard of ale, partially consumed. Of either Mrs Grainger or Jukes there was no sign.

I concluded that food had been obtained for me, and partially consumed, and that I had then fallen asleep, though I had no memory of doing either. Slowly, I pulled myself out of bed and, on unsteady feet, dragged myself to the door that led to my sitting-room.

‘Mr Glapthorn, sir, so pleased to see you feeling better! Let me assist you.’

Jukes, who had been sitting in my chair reading a copy of The Times, sprang to his feet and ushered me over to where he had been sitting.

‘That’s it, take my arm, sir, take my arm. There we are. Goodness me, what a scrape you got yourself in, Mr Glapthorn! I’ll tell you what, sir: you appear to have stepped up to death’s very front door, sir. But all’s well now. Food and rest were what you needed, and what you must take great care to provide yourself with in the future – if I may be so bold. I’ve been sitting with you since yesterday. Oh no, sir—.’ He held up his hand and shook his head from side to side in grinning admonishment as I attempted to speak. ‘Pray don’t say a word. It would be like your good self to thank me for my trouble, but I beg to insist that you will do nothing of the sort. Trouble? Why, what possible trouble have I been put to? None whatsoever, I assure you. A fellow toiler in the Tredgold vineyard, and neighbour to boot, taken ill? Why, only one course of action possible. Pleasure, and the satisfaction of a duty done, are ample, though undeserved, reward for the little I have been able to do. And so, Mr Glapthorn, if you are feeling better, I shall leave you to your recuperation, but on the strict understanding – strict, mind! – that you will take better care of yourself hereafter, and that you will allow me to call again tomorrow morning to see how you are.’

And then, having set a cushion at my back, placed a rug over my legs, and thrown a log on the fire, he made a low bow and sidled away, leaving me aghast at the situation in which I had awoken to find myself.

I immediately threw off the rug, and stumbled over to my work-table. Everything seemed to be exactly as I remembered it; nothing had been moved, I was sure of that. The pen still lay across an unfinished letter – to Dr Shakeshaft on the merits of various English translations of Paracelsus^* – precisely where I had left it; the papers tied up in their labelled stacks appeared undisturbed; and the spines of my mother’s journals, each one a familiar old friend, were still ranged in the strictly undeviating line in which I always took care to leave them. I went to the cabinet next, containing all my notes and indexed abstracts; nothing was out of place, and each drawer shut tightly. I let out a small sigh of relief.

And yet the thought of Jukes having the liberty of my room continued to rankle, and I began to examine everything again with redoubled care, looking for any sign that he had been through my papers or other possessions. But then I checked myself. Odious as Jukes was, I knew that Mr Tredgold trusted him, so why should I not do the same? These sudden baseless suspicions to which I was prey only served to cloud my judgment, and divert me from my true goal. Thus did I argue myself out of unreason, though I determined that Fordyce Jukes should never again be given an opportunity to enter my rooms. To this end, when he knocked on my door the next morning, as promised, I did not open it to him, but simply told him through the key-hole that I was much improved (which I was), and that I did not require his assistance.

I ventured out the next day for the first time in more than a week, to take a restorative dinner at the Albion Tavern. The following morning I thought that I would look in at Tredgolds, and so, at a little after half past eight, I locked my door, and walked through the rain to Paternoster-row.

As I entered the clerks’ room, young Birtles, the office boy, came running across, and thrust a letter into my hand. ‘This came in the last post yesterday, sir.’ I did not recognize the handwriting; and so, having nothing better to do, I went upstairs to my room to read it.

To my complete surprise it was from Miss Rowena Tredgold, expressing the hope, in somewhat drawn-out terms, that circumstances would allow me to pay another visit to Canterbury at my earliest convenience. It concluded by saying that this invitation had been sent at the express request of her brother, Mr Christopher Tredgold. Deducing from this that my employer’s condition had improved significantly, I joyously sent off an immediate acceptance.

A few days later I was admitted once again to Marden House, and shown into the room where I had first met Dr Jonathan Tredgold.

Miss Rowena Tredgold sat, unsmiling, in an uncomfortable-looking, high-backed chair, set near an ugly black-marble fireplace, the cavernous opening of which yawned darkly cold. On a low table, drawn up close to her knees, was a tumbler of barley-water, beside which lay a sealed envelope. The heavy curtains in the window behind her were partially drawn, and what remained of the soft declining light of late afternoon struggled into the room through a slash of grimy glass.

I began, naturally, by asking how her brother fared.

‘I am grateful to you for your concern, Mr Glapthorn. It has been a terrible time, but I am glad to say that he is much better than he was, thank you. He knows us, and has been sitting up. And we are thankful that he can speak a few words now.’ She spoke in a lingering, staccato manner, carefully voicing every syllable, which produced the odd impression that she was mentally examining each word for impropriety before it was spoken.

‘There is hope, then, that there will be further improvements?’

‘There is hope, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, after a short expectant pause. ‘Would you say that my brother, Mr Christopher Tredgold, was a good man?’

Though taken back a little by the question, I replied immediately: ‘That would certainly be my opinion. I do not think there can be any other.’

‘You are right. He is a good man. And would you say that he was an honourable man?’

‘Unhesitatingly.’

‘You are right again. He is an honourable man. Goodness and honour are two words that perfectly describe my brother.’

She said this in a way that seemed to suggest that I had in fact taken precisely the opposite view.

‘But there are many people in this world who are neither good nor honourable, and who take advantage of those who regard these virtues as the unalterable foundation of their moral character.’

I said that I could only agree with her.

‘Well, then, I am glad that we are of one view. I wish you to remain steady in that view, Mr Glapthorn, and remember always what kind of man my brother is. If he has erred, it is because he has been placed in an intolerable position by those who do not aspire, and who never will aspire, to the high ideals of conduct and character that have distinguished all my brother’s dealings, both personal and professional.’

I confess that I had no idea what the woman was talking about, but I smiled in a conciliatory way, which I hoped would convey my complete comprehension of the matter.

‘Mr Glapthorn, I have here a letter’ – she gestured towards the sealed envelope – ‘written by my brother the night before he was taken ill. It is addressed to you. However, before I give it to you, my brother has asked me to preface his words with some of my own. Do I have your permission?’

‘By all means. May I ask first, Miss Tredgold, if you have read your brother’s letter?’

‘I have not.’

‘But I may presume, I suppose, that it contains matters of a confidential nature?’

‘I think you may presume so.’

‘And are you yourself a party to any of those confidences?’

‘I am merely my brother’s agent, Mr Glapthorn. If he were well, then you may take it that he would be communicating these matters to you himself. However, there is one subject on which I have been honoured with his confidence. It is on this subject that he has asked me to speak to you prior to your reading his letter. Before I do so, I hope I may depend on your absolute discretion, as you may depend on mine?’

I gave her my word that I would never divulge what was imparted to me, and begged her to proceed.

‘You may wish to know first,’ she began, ‘that the firm of which my brother is now the Senior Partner was established by my great-grandfather, Mr Jonas Tredgold, and a junior associate, Mr James Orr, in the year 1767. In due course, my late father, Mr Anson Tredgold, joined the firm, which then became known as Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr, a name which it has since retained, along with a reputation second to none amongst London solicitors.

‘It was my grandfather who first established an association between the firm and a certain noble family – of whom, I believe, you have some knowledge. I speak, of course, of the Duport family of Evenwood, holders of the Tansor Barony. Later, the management of the family’s legal affairs duly fell to my father; and then to my brother Christopher.

‘At the time that Christopher joined the firm, Father was in his seventy-first year, still sprightly in body and active in mind, though it must be confessed that his powers of concentration and application were perhaps not quite what they had once been. Nevertheless, as the Senior Partner, he continued to enjoy the complete confidence of the firm’s principal client, the present Lord Tansor, until his death.

‘And now my brother is the Senior Partner. Unfortunately, he has no son into whose hands he can place the governance of the firm, in the way that his father and grandfather had done before him. It is the tragedy of my brother’s life, for he would dearly have loved to marry, and so we must now contemplate the prospect of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr existing without the living presence of a Tredgold.’

‘Could you tell me, Miss Tredgold,’ I broke in, ‘what has prevented Mr Tredgold from following his inclination?’

‘That, Mr Glapthorn, is the particular matter on which my brother has asked me to speak, if you will be so kind as to allow me.’

Her reprimand was delivered with cold courteousness, and I felt obliged to apologize for my interruption.

‘It was passion, Mr Glapthorn, for an object that could never have been his – a passion that he knew to be wrong, but which he could not resist; a passion that rules him now as completely as it ever did, and which has kept him a slave to its original object for these thirty years and more. Indeed, I can give you the exact date when it commenced.

‘I came of age in July 1819, and on the twelfth of that month my father, Mr Anson Tredgold, was visited on a matter of business by Laura, Lady Tansor, the wife of his most distinguished client. Her reputation as a great beauty preceded her, and of course I was agog to see her – I was young and foolish then and knew no better. It was whispered, as you may perhaps know, that she had been the subject of those celebrated lines of Lord Byron’s, which begin “There be none of Beauty’s daughters”,^* written (so it was rumoured) by the poet to Miss Fairmile – as she then was, of course – before her marriage to Lord Tansor. Whether that be true or no, she was constantly spoken about as being one of the loveliest and best turned-out women in England; and so, being apprised of her visit, and wishing to snatch a glimpse of this marvel, I made some excuse to be at the office when she arrived, and lingered on the stairs as she was received by the chief clerk and conducted up to my father’s room on the first floor. As she passed, she paused and turned her head slowly towards me. I shall always remember the moment.’

Miss Tredgold looked distantly into the black mouth of the great fireplace.

‘Her face was beautiful, certainly, but had an extraordinary impression of fragility about it, like an exquisite painting made on glass; indeed, her beauty and poise seemed almost too perfect to withstand the shocks that attend all human life. In that moment, as she looked directly into my eyes before honouring me with a brief nod of salutation, I felt a kind of sadness for her – pity even – that I could not explain. All beauty must pass, even hers, I thought; and those who are blessed with unusual physical beauty must, I supposed, feel this constantly. I was plain; I knew it. Yet I did not envy her – no, indeed I did not – for she appeared to me to be suffering from some great affliction of spirit that was already beginning to cast its shadow over that perfect face.

‘Lady Tansor conducted her business with my father, and was escorted by him to the front door, where they encountered my brother Christopher coming in. I had remained in the downstairs office, amongst the clerks, and was well placed to observe the scene.

‘I remember very well that her Ladyship appeared impatient and ill at ease, fingering the ribbons of her bonnet, and tapping the floor with the tip of her parasol. My father asked whether she would allow him to conduct her to her carriage, but she declined and made to go. My brother, however, intervened rather forcefully, and insisted that her Ladyship could not be allowed to descend the steps and cross the pavement unassisted. I had never seen him act the gallant before, and observed his attentions towards her with some amusement. She did no more than thank him, but you would have thought from his face, when he returned to the office from helping her into her carriage, that he had been in the presence of some divinity. Of course I teased him, and he was rather short with me, telling me not to be a silly little girl, which, having just attained my majority, I much resented.

‘But I did wrong to tease him, Mr Glapthorn, for it soon became apparent to me – though fortunately to no one else – that Christopher was smitten by the lady to a degree that was wholly incompatible both with his personal situation and his professional position. This infatuation, for which, as a young man, he could hardly be blamed, was to be the cause of his decision never to marry. It quickly grew, you see, into something fiercer, something all-consuming, that could not be denied, and yet which must be denied. It was a love of which poets sing, but which is scarcely seen in the world. He never confessed it to her, never acted upon it, and behaved at all times with the utmost propriety. There were times when I feared for his sanity, though it was only to me that he revealed the extent of his anguish. Gradually, he learned to master his situation – or seemed to – and took refuge in pursuits of a bibliographical nature, which have remained his solace during his hours of leisure. But when she died, the effect on my brother was terrible – quite terrible. Imagine, then, what he had to endure when his attendance was requested by Lord Tansor at her burial in the Mausoleum at Evenwood. He returned immediately to London and took a solemn vow in the Temple Church: that he would love her unto death, and take no one else into his heart, putting all his hope in being joined with her in eternity, when all care and suffering will be put aside for ever. He has kept that vow, and will go to his grave a bachelor because of his love for Laura Tansor.

‘And so, Mr Glapthorn, I have said what my brother wished me to say, and now I give you this.’

She handed me the sealed envelope.

‘Perhaps you would be more comfortable if I retired to my room for half an hour.’

She rose from her chair and left, closing the door softly behind her.

To learn that my employer had not only known my real mother, but had also loved her, and that he continued to love her, to the exclusion of all others! This extraordinary revelation thrilled and alarmed me in almost equal measure. Of all the men in the world! But when secrets are finally unlocked, there are always consequences; and so it was with shaking hands that I opened the letter and began to read. I do not intend to transcribe it in full; but certain passages must be laid before you. Here is the first.How often, my dear Edward, have I wished to bring you into my confidence! But the difficulty of my position has been, and continues to be, acute. However, recent events – I refer particularly to the death of Mr Carteret – have forced me to take a course of action that I have long contemplated, but which hitherto I have been constrained from adopting by both duty and conscience.When you first came to me, you did so in the capacity of confidential secretary (I believe that was the phrase you used) to Mr Edward Glyver. You were enquiring after the existence of an agreement made between Mr Glyver’s mother and the late Laura, Lady Tansor. I must tell you now, and you must believe how much it pains me to confess it, that I was not completely honest with you concerning the circumstances under which that agreement had been drawn up.In the first place, it was not my father, Mr Anson Tredgold, who drafted it; it was I. His powers were then in decline and, subsequent to her Ladyship’s first brief consultation with him, he asked me to produce the draft. I then met privately with Lady Tansor – on several occasions, away from the office – to ascertain that it met with her approval. Her Ladyship later returned to Paternoster-row with Mrs Glyver to execute the document in the presence of my father.The intention of the agreement that I had drawn up – a copy of which is now in your possession – was to give Mrs Glyver some measure of immunity from any adverse consequences of certain impending actions, which she had undertaken solely at the urgent behest of Lady Tansor. In truth, I do not know whether the document would ever have held in law – my father was too ill to approve the wording and merely, as I say, officiated at the signing. But Mrs Glyver was satisfied by it, and so matters proceeded.I told you that I could find no record of the discussions that preceded the signing of the agreement. That was the strict truth; I destroyed everything, except for a copy of the agreement itself, which makes no mention of the circumstances that lay behind its composition. My motive? A simple but unshakeable desire to protect Lady Tansor, as far as I could, from the results of her action.I loved her, Edward, as I believe few men have loved a woman – I cannot speak of this at length here, except to say that my affection for her has been both the bedrock and the source of all my actions. It has informed and directed everything. Her interests, both when she was living and with respect to her posthumous reputation, have been my only care.My enslavement began in July 1819, when her Ladyship first came to see my father. She had embarked on a most dangerous enterprise. Unknown to her husband, Lady Tansor was with child; she intended to escape to France, in the company of her closest friend, Mrs Simona Glyver, until her time was due; the child would then be placed into the charge of Mrs Glyver, who would bring it up as her own. She did not tell my father the true character of this desperate scheme, speaking to him only in vague generalities, and she had sworn her friend to absolute secrecy. But she herself was weak in this regard and soon confided in me, sensing, I believe, my deep attachment to her – illicit, I acknowledge, but never revealed, or confessed, or acted upon. I was already mesmerized by her – hopelessly infatuated. So I vowed that I would help her, in whatever way I could, and that I would tell no one her secret. ‘My dear sweet St Christopher,’ she said to me at our last meeting. Those were her very words. And then she kissed my cheek – such a brief, chaste kiss! Though I swear that I did not confess my love for her, I told her then that I would die rather than reveal her condition.It was foolish of me – no; worse, much worse, than foolish – to have exposed myself to calumny and professional disgrace; it went against every principle that I had formerly held sacred. I confess that I was greatly concerned by what I had done, and conveyed to her Ladyship as strongly as I could that discovery of her plan was probable, perhaps likely, and urged that the whole thing should be abandoned forthwith; for by this terrible act, Lady Tansor was denying her husband the thing that he desired above all others. Of course my advice was disregarded – sweetly, but firmly.I continued to regret that I had become an accessory to her Ladyship’s conspiracy. But it was done; and I would not undo it for worlds. If it was iniquitous, then I would be steadfast in my iniquity, for the sake of her whom I had sworn to serve unto death.

I thought of Mr Tredgold, suave and beaming. Mr Tredgold, polishing his eye-glass. ‘You shall stay to luncheon – it is all ready.’ Mr Tredgold, eagerly hospitable. ‘Come again next Sunday.’

He went on to speak of the effects on his own life of his love for Lady Tansor; how it had made it impossible for him to seek the affections of any other woman, and how, in consequence, he had turned to ‘other means’ – by which I understood his secret interest in voluptuous literature – to assuage the natural passions and inclinations that all men must attempt to master.

And so to the next passage.After my father died, I became Lord Tansor’s legal adviser, and was often at Evenwood on his Lordship’s business. His wife’s remorse at what she had done was plain to see – it was remarked with sadness by poor Mr Carteret; but only I was aware of the source of her misery. We spoke sometimes, when we found ourselves alone together; and she would take my hand, and call me her true friend, for she knew that I would never betray her, despite the dereliction of my professional duty to her husband, which I felt, and continue to feel, keenly. But there are higher things than professional duty, and I found that my conscience easily submitted to the greater dictates of love, allowing me to serve Lord Tansor to the best of my ability whilst still honouring my sacred vow to his wife. I withheld the truth from him, but I never lied. It is a Jesuitical distinction, I own, and would have been a poor defence; but it served. Yet if he had asked me to my face, then, God forgive me, I would have lied, if that had been her wish.I therefore deceived you further when I said that I had no knowledge of the private arrangement referred to in the agreement between Lady Tansor and Mrs Glyver, and for that I humbly ask you to forgive me.But you have also deceived me, Edward. So let us now be honest with each other.

On reading these words, perspiration begins to bead on my forehead. I lay down the letter and walk over to the window to try to open it, but it is locked tight shut. I feel entombed in this tenebrous, dusty room, with its hideous brown-painted wainscot, its dark and elaborate furniture and heavy green-plush curtains; and so I close my eyes for a moment and dream of air and light – the open sky and sunlit woods, wind and water, sand and sea, places of peace and freedom.

A door bangs, and I open my eyes. Feet scurry down the passage, then silence. I return to the letter.

He had known me all this time, from the moment I had been shown into his drawing-room in Paternoster-row by Albert Harrigan on that Sunday morning in September 1848: despite my subterfuge, my identity had been written on my face as clearly as if I had sent up a card bearing the name ‘Edward Duport (formerly Glyver)’. He had known me! I had stood before him, the son of the woman he continued to adore, and he had seen her in me. Here was the reason for his immediate and obvious regard for me, his willingness to oblige me, his alacrity in offering me employment. He had known me! During all our walks in the Temple Gardens, and our Sundays together, poring over masterpieces of the erotic imagination, and through the working out of all his ‘little problems’. He had known me! As I had laboured – alone and unknown, as I had thought – to reclaim my birthright, he had known me! But he had vowed to keep my mother’s secret safe – even from me; and so, through all the years of my employment, he had watched me, the son of the woman he had loved above all others, knowing who I was, and what I had been born to, but powerless to assist me in the task that I had undertaken. He saw that I had come to him in the guise of Edward Glapthorn for no other purpose than to find some means of regaining my true self. But in this he was also helpless, for – as he had admitted – he had destroyed every trace of his dealings with Lady Tansor, and possessed nothing – no letter, no memorandum, no document of any kind – that could prove conclusively what he and I knew to be the truth about my birth. He could only watch and wait, bound as he was, both by the vow that he had made to my mother, and by the code of his profession.

But then events began to threaten the accommodation that Mr Tredgold had made with his conscience.

The first indication of an impending crisis had come when Lord Tansor had indicated to Mr Tredgold that he wished to make Phoebus Daunt the heir to his property, on the single condition that the beneficiary would then take the Duport name. Everything that should have been mine was to go to Daunt, being the step-son of Lord Tansor’s second cousin, Mrs Caroline Daunt, who, by this relationship, might one day complete her triumph and inherit the title herself, as a female collateral descendant of the 1st Baron Tansor.

What should Mr Tredgold do? He could not tell Lord Tansor that he had a living heir, for that would have been to betray my mother’s secret, even if he had possessed proof of the assertion; but the unworthiness of the prospective heir was, to him, so apparent (though not to Lord Tansor) that his professional conscience almost revolted, and more than once he had been close to laying the whole truth before his noble client in order to prevent this calamitous outcome. The following passage was of particular interest to me:Of course I knew of your former acquaintance with Daunt, as school-fellows, and guessed what estimation you might have of his subsequent endeavours. My own was very low indeed. I had received disturbing reports of his character from Mr Paul Carteret; and, indeed, I had reasons of my own to suspect him of having inclinations of the basest kind. From an early age he had been pushed forward by his step-mother as a kind of substitute for Lord Tansor’s son – his younger son, I should say. Mrs Daunt has always exhibited a tigerish concern for her step-son’s future prosperity (and certainly for her own as well). With great skill and determination, she constantly deployed her influence with Lord Tansor to advance the boy in his estimation. In this she succeeded, beyond all expectation.I did everything I could, on many occasions, to intimate to my client, as far as my professional position allowed, that he would be well advised to reconsider his decision to adopt Daunt as his heir. But I could not persuade his Lordship, and at my final attempt he told me, with some force, that the matter was closed.

But then had come Mr Carteret’s letter, and all was changed. Mr Tredgold had immediately sensed a startling probability: that his old friend had discovered what he himself had striven to keep secret for so many years. And so I had been despatched to Stamford, with consequences that I have already set out. On Mr Tredgold, these had had a severe effect. To hear, in the report that I had sent from Evenwood, of the fatal attack on Mr Carteret had induced a profound shock, and probably contributed greatly to the paralytic seizure that he subsequently suffered.

Just then the door opened, and I turned to see Miss Tredgold framed in the opening. The sun had dipped behind the houses on the other side of the street, leaving the room in an even deeper condition of brown-stained gloom than before. She held a light in her hand.

‘If you wish, I will take you to my brother.’

^*[‘The lover’s confession’. The title of the famous fourteenth-century poem by John Gower (1325?–1408?). Ed.]

^*[Swiss physician and alchemist (real name Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim, 1493–1541). Ed.]

^*[‘Stanzas for Music’, written 28 March 1816, and first published in the volume of Poems issued by John Murray in that year. How widely accepted the rumour was that Laura Fairmile was the subject of these famous stanzas is perhaps debatable, and I have seen it cited nowhere else in the literature. The poem is usually said to have been addressed to Claire Clairmont. Laura Fairmile married Julius Duport in December 1817. Byron himself had married Annabella Milbanke in January 1815. Ed.]

39

Quis separabit?^*

I followed Miss Tredgold into the hall and up the dark stairs, along a cold dark landing, and into a darkened room. Mr Tredgold sat hunched in the far corner, by a little desk on which were placed some sheets of paper and writing implements. He was wrapped in a woollen shawl; his head had dropped down over his chest, and his once immaculate feathery hair was disarranged and thin-looking.

‘Christopher.’

Miss Tredgold spoke softly, touching her brother gently on the shoulder, and raising the candle so that he might better see her face.

‘I have brought Mr Glapthorn.’

He looked up and nodded.

She motioned to me to take a seat opposite my employer and placed the candle on the desk.

‘Please ring when you are ready,’ she said, indicating a bell-rope just behind Mr Tredgold’s chair.

As she closed the door behind her, Mr Tredgold leaned forward with surprising vigour and grasped my hand.

‘Dear … Edward …’ The words were slurred and came haltingly, but clear enough for me to hear what he was saying.

‘Mr Tredgold, sir, I am so very glad to see you …’

He shook his head. ‘No … No … No time. You have … read the … letter?’

‘I have.’

‘My dear fellow … so very sorry …’

He fell back in his chair, exhausted by the effort of speaking.

I glanced at the paper and writing implements on the table by his chair.

‘Mr Tredgold, perhaps if you were to write down – if you are able – what you wish to say to me?’

He nodded, and turned to take up the pen. There was no sound in the room except for the scratching of the nib and the occasional crackle from the dying fire in the grate. The task was slow and laborious, but at length, as the last embers of the fire went out, he laid down the pen and handed me the sheet of paper. It was somewhat rambling, and written in a highly abbreviated, unpunctuated manner. The following is my own more finished version of what I now read.

‘My dear boy – for so I think of you, as if you were my own. It breaks my heart that I cannot speak to you as I would wish to do, or help you to regain what is rightfully yours. How you came to the knowledge of your birth is dark to me, but I thank God that you did and that He led you to me, for there is a purpose in all this. I have kept the truth hidden, for love of your mother; but the time has come to put matters right. Yet in my present condition I do not know what I can do, and the death of my poor friend has robbed us both of an invaluable ally. I am certain that Carteret must have come into the possession of documents that would have materially advanced your case – but now they are lost to us, perhaps for ever, and a good man has died because he learned the truth. I now fear for you, dear Edward. Your enemy will be seeking high and low for Laura Tansor’s son, and will stop at nothing to protect his expectations. If he should discover your true identity, then there can be only one consequence. I beg you, therefore, to take every precaution. Be constantly vigilant. Trust no one.’

He looked at me with a most pitifully anxious expression. When I had finished reading, I took his hand.

‘My dear sir, you must not be anxious for me. I am well able to meet whatever danger may present itself; and though the documents that Mr Carteret was carrying may be lost to the enemy, we have something nearly as good.’

I then told him of my foster-mother’s journals, and the corroboration of them provided by Mr Carteret’s Deposition, on hearing of which he gripped my hands and uttered a strange sort of sigh. A fierce light seemed to burn in his poor pale eyes as he reached again for his pen.

‘All is not lost then’ – he wrote – ‘as long as these statements remain safe from Daunt. They are insufficient, as you must know, but they must be safeguarded at all costs – as must the true identity of Edward Glapthorn. And then you and I must apply ourselves to overturning Lord Tansor’s folly, and so set things right at last.’

‘They are safe,’ I assured him, ‘and so am I. I have made a copy of the Deposition, which I have brought with me, to leave in your keeping.’ I placed the document on the desk. ‘Daunt can have no reason whatsoever to suspect that Edward Glapthorn is the person he seeks. And you are wrong, sir, to say that we do not have an ally. I believe we do.’

He leaned forward once more, hands shaking, and wrote the words, ‘An ally?’

Thus I opened my heart to Mr Tredgold concerning Miss Emily Carteret.

‘I love her to the utmost degree. To you, sir, I need say no more; for you know what it means to love in this way.’

‘But does she love you, in the same way?’ he wrote.

‘Every instinct tells me that she does,’ I replied, ‘though love is undeclared on both sides as yet, and must so remain until she returns from France. But already I would trust her with my life. She has long held Daunt in contempt; only think, sir, how she will regard him once he is revealed in his true colours. I have not the slightest doubt that she will support us in all our endeavours to unmask his villainy, and so expose his true character to Lord Tansor.’ And then I told him of Daunt’s association with Pluckrose; of his criminal career, as described to me by Lewis Pettingale; and finally of my conviction that Mr Carteret had been set upon by Pluckrose, acting on Daunt’s orders.

He made no attempt to write a response, though the pen was in his hand. Instead he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, apparently overcome with fatigue.

‘Sir,’ I said gently. ‘There is one more thing I must say to you.’ Mr Tredgold remained immobile. ‘I believe that I know where the final proof of my identity may be found.’

He opened his eyes slowly and looked at me.

As I had spoken the words, Miss Tredgold had entered the room, preventing me from speaking further. On seeing her brother’s face, she pronounced him unfit to continue with the conversation, and I had no choice but to withdraw, though it was agreed that I might come again the following Wednesday, if his condition continued to improve.

On the train back to London, I reflected that my trip had given me some hope that Mr Tredgold’s returning strength, and the relationship of frankness that now existed between us concerning the things that we had both kept secret from each other, might together effect some improvement in my situation. Whether such optimism was justified remained to be seen; it was a comfort, at any rate, to know that I was no longer quite alone, and that Mr Tredgold and I were united in common cause. More than this, I was now resolved that I must take my fate in my hands, and declare my love to Miss Carteret at the earliest opportunity. And then, I hoped, we would be three.

When I returned to Temple-street, I found a letter waiting for me, bearing a Paris postmark. I saw immediately that the envelope had not been inscribed by Miss Carteret; but I tore it open all the same. It was a short note from Mademoiselle Buisson.DEAR MR DARK HORSE, —I am bidden by our mutual friend to inform you that she will be returning to England on Monday next and will be most happy to receive you at the house of Mrs Manners on Wednesday. She has a slight indisposition at the present, which prevents her from writing to you herself. I may say, entre nous, that she has been a very dull companion indeed, the blame for which I lay entirely at your door. It has been ‘Mr Glapthorn this’ and ‘Mr Glapthorn that’ these weeks past, as if there was no other topic of conversation in the world but Mr Edward Glapthorn. And then with all Paris to play in, she has done nothing but keep to the house, except for little walks alone in the Bois on fine mornings, with her nose in a book. Today she is reading a tiresome volume of poetry by M. de Lisle, which I had to go out and buy for her with my own money! Et enfin, Mr Glapthorn, you are welcome to her. But do not fall in love with her. I am serious now.Adieu, cher Monsieur,

MARIE-MADELEINE BUISSON

I read the note through again, smiling as I called to mind the writer’s little-girlish look, and her mischievously mocking ways. Serious! Flitting, fluttering Miss Buisson could never be serious. Her admonition not to fall in love with her friend was nothing but a piece of ironic teasing; for she must know that it was already too late.

Wednesday came – the day when I should have gone back to Canterbury to see Mr Tredgold. But I did not go. Everything that had seemed so demanding of my time and mental energy had fallen away into nothingness; only one desire now commanded my waking hours, and was soon to put all other duties out of mind. Instead of keeping my appointment with Mr Tredgold, I knocked on the door of Mrs Manners’s house in Wilton-crescent, at precisely eleven o’clock, and asked whether Miss Emily Carteret was at home.

‘She is, sir,’ said the maid. ‘You are expected.’

‘There,’ she said as I entered the drawing-room, ‘I have kept my promise, you see. I am back, and you are the first person I have seen.’

How my heart leaped to be in her dear presence once again! We quickly fell into a friendly way of conversation as Miss Carteret spoke of how she had passed her time in Paris, and I told her of the improvement in Mr Tredgold’s condition. Lord Tansor, she said, was away, gone to his West Indian estates with Lady Tansor; the great house had been shut up, and so she would be staying with her aunt in London until his Lordship returned.

‘Mr Daunt has gone with him,’ she added, with a little sideways look.

‘Why do you tell me that?’ I asked.

‘Because you always seem interested in where Mr Daunt is, and what he is doing.’

‘I am sorry to have given that impression,’ I replied. ‘I can assure you that I do not find Mr Phoebus Daunt in the least bit interesting.’

‘My sentiments exactly,’ she said. ‘So now, Mr Glapthorn, if you will be good enough to examine me, viva voce, on my knowledge of Monsieur de Lisle, I do not think you will find me wanting.’

Two hours passed most delightfully; but then Mrs Manners appeared in the doorway, to remind her niece of some engagement that they were both obliged to fulfil. Miss Carteret accompanied me into the hall.

‘Will you come next Wednesday?’ she asked.

Thus my world began to contract to a single point of all-absorbing interest. I could think of nothing but Miss Carteret; everything else was driven from my mind. In between our weekly conversations in Wilton-crescent, I lived in a kind of featureless dream, from which I only awoke to full consciousness every Wednesday morning at eleven o’clock. I went occasionally to Blithe Lodge of an evening, but always left early on some excuse or other. One night, Bella asked me whether anything was the matter: I smiled, and told her that I had never felt better.

‘I have a great deal of work to occupy me at the moment,’ I said in answer to her enquiry. ‘I shall be more myself when it is all done.’

‘My poor Eddie! You must not work so hard, you know. It will make you ill. Come and lay your head on my lap.’ When I had settled myself at her feet, she began to run her long fingers gently through my hair as she sang an Italian lullaby, and for a few sweet minutes I was a child again, listening to the cry of sea birds, and the wind coming in from the Channel as my mother read me to sleep.

I should have resisted her tender ministrations, and told her the stark truth; but honesty continued to seem the greater evil when dissimulation spared her from pain. And as time went by, I began to perceive that my heart had not been entirely conquered by Miss Carteret; that there yet remained a place in it – small and sequestered – for Isabella Gallini, of blessed memory.

As the spring of 1854 came on, I began to suggest little outings to Miss Carteret. Would she and her aunt feel inclined to go the Opera, or to a concert at the Hanover-square Rooms? What would she think about mounting an expedition to view the Assyrian antiquities at the British Museum? All my proposals, however, were regretfully, but firmly, declined. Then one morning, just as I was despairing of ever getting her out of the confines of her aunt’s house, she suddenly expressed a wish to see the snakes in the Zoological Gardens. ‘I have never seen a snake in my life,’ she said, ‘and would very much like to do so. Can it be arranged?’

‘Most certainly,’ I said. ‘When shall we go?’

The visit was set for the following week, the 12th of April. Mrs Manners was otherwise engaged, and so, to my joy, we went alone. The rattle-snakes, in particular, delighted her, and she stood entranced for several minutes without saying a word. Later, we walked and talked in the sunshine as if we had not a care in the world. She laughed at the hippopotamus, which suddenly plunged into its bath, liberally soaking everyone close by with cold water, and clapped her hands in amusement at the pelicans being fed. As we were leaving the Gardens, descending a short flight of steps, she lost her footing, and reached out to me to prevent herself from falling down. I grasped her hand tightly until she had regained her balance; but I did not let go, and she did not pull away, not immediately. For some moments we stood a little awkwardly, hand in hand, and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she gently released herself and placed her arm through mine as we walked on.

‘Where shall we go now?’ she asked. ‘It is such a beautiful day, and I do not wish to go home quite yet.’

‘Might you like to see St Paul’s?’

When we arrived at the cathedral, after observing a notice setting out the charges, she expressed an immediate determination to ascend to the Golden Gallery. I tried to dissuade her, knowing the final part of the ascent to be dirty and awkward, and unsuitable, in my view, for a lady to attempt. But she would not be put off; and so, much against my judgment, we paid our sixpences, and began to mount the steps to the Whispering Gallery. Here we paused for breath.

‘What shall we whisper?’ she asked, placing her mouth against the cold stone.

‘You have to speak, not whisper,’ I said. ‘Run, then. See if you can hear.’

And so I ran over to the other side of the gallery, placed my ear to the wall, and waved to indicate my readiness. At first, I could hear nothing, and signalled to her to speak again; then, gradually, her words began to percolate eerily through the very walls, indistinct, but sporadically audible: ‘… blind fool … to mine eyes … they behold … not what they see.’^*

‘Did you hear it?’ she asked excitedly when I returned to her.

‘Did you mean me to hear it?’ I asked.

‘Of course. Come. I wish to go up higher.’

And so up we went, past the Clock Room, higher and higher, steeper and steeper, counting out the narrow steps as we went. At length, after much puffing and laughter at our situation, stooping through low-ceilinged stair-cases, and holding ourselves close to the walls of the landings to let other visitors pass by, we emerged into hazy sunlight on the Golden Gallery, just below the Lantern. Her black dress was dirtied with dust and cobwebs, and the exertion of climbing over five hundred steps had coloured her cheeks. As we stepped outside, we were immediately buffeted by a cool wind, and she gripped my arm tightly as we approached the low iron rail.

We stood in wondering silence. It seemed as if we were on the deck of a great ship, floating across an endless ocean of dirty cloud. Great thoroughfares lay far below, crowded with ant-like people and slow-moving streams of vehicles. The eye picked out familiar steeples and towers, palaces and parks, and distant factory chimneys, belching plumes of black smoke; the sun flashed off windows and gilded finials, and laid a shimmering cloak of gold over the grey river; but beyond London-bridge it was as if a dark curtain had been brought down across the port of the capital: not a single mast of the many ships moored there could be seen. Elsewhere, too, the drifting haze rendered every detail smudged, indefinite, and dreamlike. From this point of vantage, one did not so much see the great heaving metropolis below as feel its pulsing presence. I knew it well, that sense of the living power of Great Leviathan. But to her, its terrible sublimity came as a revelation, and she stood in a kind of wordless rapture, her great black eyes open to their widest extent, breathing quickly, and gripping me so hard that I could feel her finger-nails digging into me through her gloves.

She continued thus for several minutes, holding herself close to me as she looked down into the misty vastness. The illusion of her dependence on me was thrilling, though I knew it for what it was. But I look back on that frail and fleeting moment as one of the happiest of my life, standing with the woman I loved high above the dirty deceitful world of strife and sin, alone with her on a little platform poised between earth and heaven, with the restless smoky city sprawled below us, and the infinite sky above.

‘I wonder what it would be like?’ she said at length, in a strange quiet voice.

‘What do you mean?’

‘To throw yourself out from here and fall through all this great height to the hard earth. What would you think, what would you see and feel as you fell?’

‘You would have to be unhappy indeed to contemplate such an act,’ I said, pulling her back a little from the rail. ‘And you are not so very unhappy, are you?’

‘Oh no,’ she said, suddenly animated. ‘I was not thinking of me. I am not unhappy at all.’

Throughout that spring, and into the month of June, I continued to wait upon Miss Carteret – whom I had now been allowed to call by her first name – nearly every day. Sometimes we would sit and talk for an hour or two, or perhaps stroll round Belgrave-square six or seven times, lost in conversation; at others we would go off on little expeditions – I recall with especial pleasure taking her to see the wax-work figures at the late Madame Tussaud’s Bazaar^* in Baker-street (where, at Emily’s insistence, we paid an extra sixpence to view the grisly exhibits in the Chamber of Horrors). We went also to the Botanic Gardens at Kew, and on another occasion took a leisurely trip by steamboat from Chelsea to Blackwall, during which of course we passed the Temple Gardens, where I had walked so often with Mr Tredgold, and the Temple Pier, where my own skiff was moored. To observe her in such proximity to these familiar places gave me a kind of guilty pleasure, making me smile inwardly with delight, and with the hope that, one day soon, she would walk with me through those same streets and lanes, sit with me in the Temple Church, and climb the stairs to my room in the eaves, as mine and mine alone.

She appeared to take unfeigned pleasure in my company, always greeting me with a sunny smile as I entered the drawing-room of her aunt’s house, slipping her arm into mine as we walked, and allowing me to kiss her hand when I arrived to see her, and when I left.

She had become the most companionable of companions, the most considerate of friends; but now I began to discern unmistakable signs of something more – certain gestures and looks; a tone of voice; my hand retained a little longer, and held a little tighter, than previously; the eager, bright-eyed greetings; the intentional brush of her body against mine as we stood waiting to cross a road. These all spoke of something more – much more – than friendship; and I was overwhelmed with joy to know that love had finally come upon her, as it had come upon me.

And then, in the third week of June, Lord and Lady Tansor returned from the West Indies – Daunt was making his separate way home, having literary business in New York. Accordingly, Miss Carteret began to make preparations to leave her aunt’s house for Evenwood. On the morning before her departure, we walked out into Hyde-park. The day was overcast, and after an hour we found ourselves in a deserted corner of the Park, running towards a large oak-tree to shelter from a sudden downpour of rain.

We stood for several minutes, huddled closely together and laughing like children as the raindrops pitter-pattered through the branches. Then, away to the west, came a faint rumble of thunder, the sound of which caused her to look round anxiously.

‘We are not safe here,’ she said.

I told her that there was no danger, and that the storm was too far away to be of concern.

‘But I am frightened nonetheless.’

‘But, dearest, there is no reason.’

She paused before replying. ‘Perhaps it is not the storm that frightens me,’ she said softly, with her eyes to the ground, ‘but the greater tumult in my heart.’

In a moment I had pulled her close to me. Her breath was sweet and warm as I pressed my lips to hers, gently at first, then more urgently. The body I had once thought immune to desire now yielded willingly, eagerly, to my touch and thrust itself so hard against mine that I almost lost my balance. And still she would not break off the embrace. Like some mighty onrush of water, irreversible and immense, she broke against me, battered me, submerged me, until, as if I were a drowning man, my life seemed to pass before my eyes, and I offered myself up to sweet oblivion.

She clung to me, panting, her bonnet fallen back on her shoulders, her hair awry and disordered, her face spattered with rain.

‘I have loved you from the very first moment,’ I whispered.

‘And I you.’

We stood in silence, her head resting on my shoulder, her fingers gently tracing little circles on the nape of my neck, until the rain began to ease.

‘Will you love me always?’ she said.

‘Do you need to ask?’

^*[‘Who shall separate us?’ Ed.]

^*[Words from the first two lines of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 137: ‘Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, / That they behold, and see not what they see?’ Ed.]

^*[Marie Tussaud, née Grosholtz (1761–1850). During the French Revolution she had assisted the wax modeller Dr Philippe Curtius to make moulds of the heads of decapitated victims of the Terror. She established her Bazaar in Baker Street in 1835. The name ‘Chamber of Horrors’ was coined by a contributor to Punch in 1845 to describe the room containing the gruesome relics of the Revolution, along with newly created figures of murderers and other criminals. Ed.]

40

Nec scire fas est omnia^*

From that day onwards I felt renewed, vivified, happier, and more free of care than at any time since my student days in Heidelberg. What could I not achieve, now that I possessed my dear girl’s love! It had been arranged that I would go to Evenwood as soon as she was settled, a prospect that rendered everything else dreary and uninteresting. But then I received a letter from Mr Tredgold, which shamed me back to a contemplation of all the things I had neglected.MY DEAR EDWARD, —I was most concerned when you did not come back to Canterbury as arranged. Many weeks have passed without word from you, & now Mr Orr has written to say that you have not been to Paternoster-row this past month, which makes me fear some harm may have come to you. I am much improved, as you see by my handwriting, & as you could observe for yourself. But as I am still unable to leave Canterbury, I beg you to write to me as speedily as you may, to put my mind at rest that all is well with you.I shall make no mention here of the other matter that has been constantly on my mind since your last visit – I allude of course to the remark that you made as you were leaving, concerning what you have been seeking – other than to say that it is of such moment that it would be foolish, for both of us, to commit anything concerning it to paper. I hope you will write soon, to let me know when I might expect you here, so that we may discuss this matter face to face.May God bless you and protect you, my dear boy.C. TREDGOLD

My employer’s words roused me from my lotos-dream, and I immediately took train to Canterbury.

I found Mr Tredgold sitting in a wicker chair under a lilac-tree, in a sunny garden at the rear of Marden House. He had a rug over his knees, and was in the act of making some notes in a small leather-bound book. His face, shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat, was thin and worn, but he had regained a little of his old suavity of manner, as evidenced by the beaming smile with which he greeted me.

‘Edward, my dear, dear boy! You have come. Sit down! Sit down!’

His speech was a little slurred, and I noticed that his hand was shaking slightly as he polished his eye-glass; but in all other respects he appeared to have suffered no permanent disablement. He wasted no time on idle chatter, but began at once by telling me that a deed had now been enrolled in Chancery to break the entailed portion of Lord Tansor’s inheritance, and that, in anticipation of this succeeding, a new will had been drawn up that would make Phoebus Daunt his Lordship’s legal heir.

‘Lord Tansor has instructed all concerned that he wishes the matter to be expedited,’ said Mr Tredgold, ‘and though of course the law cannot be hurried, it is certain that it will feel obliged to pick up its skirts and do its best to walk a little faster. Sir John Mounteagle has been retained by Lord Tansor to see the deed through Chancery, which he will do with his customary vigour, I have no doubt. I think we may expect matters to be settled by the autumn. And so, Edward, if we are to prevent the will being signed, it will be necessary to lay our hands on some invincible instrument. Do you, as you implied, have possession of such an instrument?’

‘I have nothing in my possession,’ I admitted, ‘except my foster-mother’s journals and Mr Carteret’s Deposition, which, you advised, will be insufficient to prove my case. But I have a strong conviction of where the final proof may be hidden, and I believe that Mr Carteret shared my conviction.’

‘And where might this place be?’

‘In the Mausoleum at Evenwood. In the tomb of Lady Tansor.’

The eye-glass dropped from Mr Tredgold’s trembling fingers.

‘In Lady Tansor’s tomb! What possible grounds do you have for this extraordinary conviction?’

And then I told him of the words that Miss Eames had written on a slip of paper and sent to Mr Carteret – the same words that were graven on my mother’s tomb.

Mr Tredgold took off his hat, and placed his head in his hands. After a little time, in which nothing was said by either of us, he turned his sad blue eyes towards me.

‘What do you wish to do?’

‘With your permission, I wish to put my conviction to the test.’

‘And if I cannot give you my permission?’

‘Then of course I shall take no further action.’

‘Dear Edward,’ he said, the light returning to his eyes, ‘you always say the right thing. I have protected her memory for too long. Carteret was right. What she did was a crime – and I was party to it. She had no right to deny you what should have been yours, and to make you a stranger to your own family. I shall always love her, but the dead must take care of themselves. You are my care now – you, her living son. You have my permission, therefore, to do whatever is required, for the sake of the truth. Come back as soon as you can, and may God forgive us both. And now I feel a little cold. Will you help me inside?’

He leaned on me as we walked slowly down a winding gravel path towards the house, still deep in conversation as we went.

‘One thing has never been clear to me,’ I said, as we made our way through a tunnel of pale roses. ‘It is the thing on which all else hangs, and yet my foster-mother’s journals, and Mr Carteret’s Deposition, are silent on the matter.’

‘You refer, I suspect,’ replied Mr Tredgold, ‘to the reason for Lady Tansor’s embarking on her extraordinary action.’

‘Why, yes. That is it exactly. What could possibly have driven a woman of Lady Tansor’s station to abandon her child, born in legitimate wedlock, to the care of another?’

‘It was quite simple. She denied her husband the one thing he craved above all others because he had denied her something which, to her, was equally paramount. Quid pro quo. There you have it, in a nutshell.’

He saw my puzzled expression and proceeded to elaborate.

‘It all came from Lord Tansor’s treatment of her father. Miss Fairmile, as she was before her marriage, was exceedingly beautiful, and of an old and decent West Country family. But they were not the Duports, or anything like them, with respect to wealth and position. She met Lord Tansor in London, soon after his Lordship had succeeded to the Barony; it was not in his nature to play the gallant, but something about Laura Fairmile inspired him to pay court to her, despite his rather low opinion of her family. Many men more handsome than Lord Tansor had found themselves in a tangle over Miss Fairmile, though none could pretend to offer her what he could. It appears, strange as it may seem, that he harboured real affection for her; though it is also the case that, ever mindful of his public position, even at that age, he also wished to provide himself with an agreeable wife and companion to accompany him tamely through life, and provide him with the heir that he so desired.

‘He proposed; he was accepted. No one blamed her. The inequalities – their temperaments, their respective positions in Society – seemed of slight account compared to the advantages that both secured by the match. Her Ladyship quickly became the perfect adornment to her husband’s person. Oh Edward, if you could have seen her, riding by her husband’s side in Rotten-row, clad in her riding-habit of bright-green silk and violet velvet, topped by a jaunty hat with swaying plumes! She never failed to please him, she supported him in every way; and she was widely liked and admired in Society, which duly reflected back on him.

‘However, there was a worm in the bud. Their characters and temperaments soon proved to be fatally at odds. His Lordship was cold and detached, whereas his wife would light up a room with her bustle and laughter; he kept his counsel, she gossiped without compunction; he was respected, sometimes feared, but not widely liked, whilst she was admired by all; he lived for politics and business, and the increasing of his inheritance, whilst she loved quiet pleasures and the company of friends, and valued above all the deep affection that existed between herself and her family – especially her father. In the course of quite a short time, these differences became exaggerated and entrenched, so that when disagreements occurred, truces became impossible. The attachment that had sustained their union in the early months began to wither away, to be replaced by mere civility in company, and frozen silence in private.

‘Then matters came to a head. I have said that the Fairmiles were an old and respectable family, but they were almost bankrupt. In marrying Lord Tansor, Miss Fairmile had believed that an end would be made to her father’s desperate financial state, reasoning that, by her union with Lord Tansor, the Fairmiles would be welcomed into the wider dynastic embrace of the Duports. But she was soon disappointed. Instead of paying off Sir Robert’s debts, as she had expected, Lord Tansor simply bought out the mortgages on his father-in-law’s house and grounds at Church Langton, and set the premiums at a lower level than before; but when Sir Robert was unable to honour even these reduced payments, his Lordship took the only course of action a man of business can take, and duly foreclosed on the loan. Lady Tansor was outraged; she cajoled, she pleaded, she threatened to leave, she wheedled – all to no avail. His Lordship could make no exception to the inviolable principles that governed his business dealings. Sir Robert had defaulted. Lord Tansor’s firm principle in such cases was to foreclose. He pointed out that he had already been generous in allowing his father-in-law a year to put his affairs in order, something that he would not ordinarily have contemplated. But an end must be made. The loan must be called in.

‘The business finished Sir Robert, who was forced to sell the house in which he had been born, along with the last small holdings of land he had retained, and move to cramped accommodation in Taunton, leaving nothing to pass onto his only son. The old man died not long afterwards, a broken and bitter man.

‘Her Ladyship, as I have indicated, adored her father. She had behaved in all things just as her husband had wished; now she had asked him to make this one exception to his rules of business, and he had refused her. She felt powerless, and trapped by the inequality of her position. However, soon afterwards, she discovered that she was with child; and this, in the extremity of her grief and rage, gave her a weapon that she could not resist using against her husband. She therefore resolved, first, to keep Lord Tansor in ignorance of her condition, and then, to compound her revenge in the most terrible fashion: to conspire with her closest friend that the latter should bring the child up as her own.’

I objected that the punishment still appeared out of all proportion to the crime.

‘Well, you may think so,’ Mr Tredgold replied. ‘But when a passionate nature is thwarted in its desires, the consequences can be extreme. Lady Tansor had asked this one thing of her husband. It would have been a small concession to marital harmony, for a man of his wealth, to have written off the debt, for his wife’s sake. But he would not do this for her – he would not even consider it, and he managed only a conventional show of remorse when Sir Robert Fairmile died. That, perhaps, was the final straw.’

At the foot of a short flight of steps, we stopped for a moment to allow Mr Tredgold to catch his breath.

‘So it was simple revenge then?’ I asked.

‘Revenge? Yes, but not simple. On her marriage, Lady Tansor had suppressed what might be described as somewhat Jacobinical views, for the sake of her family. She told me this herself, adding that she wished her child to escape what she called the curse of inherited wealth and privilege, which had trampled so implacably on the claims of common human feeling and family connexion. It was a fanciful notion, no doubt, but it was real enough to her, who had seen her adored father hurried to his grave by the holder of one of the most ancient peerages in England, and for no other reason than the maintenance of his public position. She told me that she did not wish her child to become like his father – and who can deny that she succeeded? Yet a beneficial outcome in that respect is no justification for what she did, and what I helped her to do. She knew that she had done wrong, but it was not in her nature to undo it, though she tried to make amends to her husband in the only way she could – by subsequently giving him the heir that he so desired. But, alas, he, too, was to be taken from him, as you know.’

It seemed curious to me that the more I learned of Lady Tansor, the less I understood her. How unlike her quiet, dutiful friend, Simona Glyver, she had been! I reflected also that she had punished me, as well as her husband, by exiling me – through no fault of mine – from the life to which I had been born. Mr Tredgold had loved her, and was naturally minded to see her actions in a considerate light, judicially weighing them against the provocation that she had received. But though I yearned to be acknowledged as Lady Tansor’s son in name and position, I felt a kind of grim relief that I had been brought up by another, and that I would never now have to discover whether I loved my true mother as I had loved her friend.

As I was helping Mr Tredgold up the steps into the house, he asked me whether I was still in love with Miss Carteret.

‘Yes,’ I smiled, ‘and likely to be for all eternity.’ And then I told him of our walk in Hyde-park, and how we had each declared our love for one another.

‘And have you told her the truth about yourself? Ah, I see by your hesitation that you have not. How, then, can you be sure that she loves you, when she is ignorant even of your real name?’

‘She loves me for myself,’ I replied, ‘not for my real name, or for what I may become if I succeed in my task, because she is ignorant of both; and that is why I am now prepared to tell her everything.’

‘I do not know the lady well,’ said Mr Tredgold as we entered the house, ‘but that she is beautiful and clever is undeniable. And if she loves you as you love her, then she will be a prize indeed. Yet I would counsel you to take care before placing the truth in another’s hands. Forgive me. I am a lawyer, and cannot help myself from picturing the worst. Caution comes naturally to me.’

He was smiling broadly, but his eyes were serious.

‘I am sensible, sir, that you only have my best interests at heart. But recklessness, as you well know, is not in my nature; I only proceed on a matter when I am completely sure of the outcome.’

‘And you are sure of Miss Carteret’s love, and that you trust her absolutely?’

‘I am.’

‘Well, I have done my lawyer’s duty. You will not be turned from the course you are set upon, that is clear; and I have no arguments powerful enough to persuade a man in love to be prudent – God knows I have committed follies enough myself in love’s name. So there it is. You will write as soon as you can, I’m sure. Go, then, with my blessing, and may you bring back the truth, for it has been hidden for too long.’

I left him at the foot of the stair-case in the gloomy hall, grasping the banister with one hand as he weakly waved me good-bye with the other. I never saw him again.

My darling girl had promised to write from Evenwood, once she had settled herself in her new apartments; but a week went by, and then another, and still no word came. At last, I could stand it no longer and sent off a brief note, enquiring whether all was well, and suggesting that I might travel up to Northamptonshire the following week. I was sure that a reply would come by return, but was again disappointed. Finally, almost a week after sending my note, I received a communication.MY LOVE, —Bless you for your sweet note, which has been sent on to me here in Shrewsbury.How horrid you must have thought me! But, dearest, I wrote to you, two weeks since, to tell you that I have been travelling with Lord and Lady Tansor in Wales whilst work is being carried out at Evenwood – his Lordship has taken it into his head to have hot-water pipes installed, with consequences that you may easily imagine to one’s peace and comfort. The dust and noise are not to be spoken of. Where my letter has gone, telling you all this, I cannot imagine, but the ways are wild hereabouts, and so I suppose it was simply lost or dropped somewhere. We shall be away for some time – the work will not be completed for another month at least, and after we leave here we shall be going to some dreary place in Yorkshire, belonging to Lady Tansor’s brother. How I wish I could escape! But I am a captive, and must go where my master bids, seeing that I am now entirely dependent on him for the provision of a roof over my head; and then, you know, he really seems to take pleasure in my company (Lady T is so dreadfully tiresome – never says a word, or smiles), and so I really have no choice, and must do what I can to master my feelings. They are constantly fixed on a certain person, whose identity I’m sure I need not reveal! I yearn to be free of my duties and to feel myself again in the arms of the man I love above all others, and whom I will always love, world without end.I shall send word as soon I know when we are to return to Evenwood.Ever yours,E.

A month at least! But it could be borne. I kissed the words she had written: ‘I yearn to be free of my duties and to feel myself again in the arms of the man I love above all others, and whom I will always love, world without end.’

How I passed the interminable weeks, I need not recount in detail. I resumed some of my former studies – reacquainting myself with some of the more abstruse Greek philosophers, continuing my study of hermeticism, and pursuing my bibliographical passions. From Mr Nutt’s shop in the Strand,^* I had purchased a copy of Dr Daunt’s catalogue, the Bibliotheca Duportiana, and spent several hours a day lost in enraptured perusal of its contents. What a keen and unfailing pleasure it was to contemplate my eventual possession of each item, as I gorged on the Rector’s meticulous descriptions. Sometimes, at night, I would venture out to quell my always restless demons, but with diminishing returns of satisfaction, until soon I became quite a hermit, content with purely intellectual pleasures, save for an occasional dinner with Le Grice at the Ship and Turtle.

A letter from my dear girl arrived in the first week of August, and then another a few weeks later from Lincolnshire, whither the Tansors had decamped at the invitation of the Earl of Newark. She was all sweetness, full of anguished regret that circumstances had sundered her from the man she loved above all others; and my heart overflowed to know that she was mine. ‘If I had wings,’ she wrote in her second letter, ‘I would fly with the speed of angels to be with my dearest love, if only for the briefest moment.’

At last the great house at Evenwood was ready to receive its noble owner once more, and in the second week of September I received a note to say that Miss Carteret would be pleased to see me in Northamptonshire at any time that I might care to propose.

On my arrival, I was shown up to the first floor and entered a long, low apartment above the Library, the chief feature of which was a series of four ancient arched windows that looked down on the terrace below. I stood for a moment, gripped by the thought that my mother, Lady Tansor, had once occupied these very rooms. At the far end, a door stood ajar, allowing a partial view of an elaborately carved bed – that same bed in which my poor misguided parent had been laid, mad with grief and remorse, by John Brine’s father, and from which she never again rose. Through this door my dearest girl now swept, ran towards me, and threw her arms around me in a passionate embrace. Many tender words were exchanged, after which we sat together on a seat in one of the arched windows, from where we could see the Park stretching out beyond the formal gardens to the Temple of the Winds, the Lake, and the distant woods.

‘Three long months! How I have missed you!’ I cried, kissing her hand feverishly.

‘To be parted from the one you love is the greatest of torments,’ she said. ‘I never thought I would suffer so. But there is an end to all suffering. My love is here with me once more, and I am the happiest woman alive. Dearest, will you excuse me for a moment?’ Whereupon she returned to the adjoining bedchamber and closed the door. I waited, feeling a little foolish and embarrassed, for several minutes until she returned, her face a little flushed, with a book in her hand.