by Michael Cox
Le Grice’s face darkened.
‘Forget Daunt? Forget Miss Carteret? You may as well say that you intend to forget your name.’
‘But I have forgotten my name,’ I replied. ‘I have no idea who I am.’
‘Damn you, G,’ he growled. ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. You know as well as I do that the danger from Daunt is real, Pluckrose or no Pluckrose. For the sake of our friendship, I urge you to go travelling. Give it all up. Go away – the longer the better. If I were Daunt, I’d want you dead for what you knew about me. Even though you can’t prove what you know, things might still be made jolly awkward for him if you had a mind to do so.’
‘But I don’t,’ I said quietly. ‘Really, I don’t. There’s nothing to fear; so now, drink up, and here’s to the next time you and I sit down together over grilled fowl and gin-punch.’ Of course he saw through my feeble pretence. But had he also seen what burned in my eyes, which nothing could disguise or assuage?
We parted on the pavement. A handshake, a brief ‘Good-night!’, and he was gone.
Now, on the morning of the 11th of December, I sat for a while at my table, wondering where Le Grice was now, and what he was doing. ‘May the gods keep you safe, you old bonehead,’ I whispered. Then, feeling like a boy again, I threw on my great-coat and muffler, and went out into the snow – my heart as light as a child’s – to look upon Great Leviathan in his winter clothes.
London was going about its usual business, despite the beautiful inconvenience of the weather. The ice-carts were out, loaded with glistening frozen fragments from ponds and streams, instead of produce from the green-market; and the omnibuses were being pulled through the rutted accumulations of dirtied snow in the roadways by extra horses. People walked along, heads down, through the biting cold, with mufflers – for those who had them – wound tight over their mouths. Hats and coats and capes were flecked and dabbed with white, and every public-house carried notices advertising the provision within of hot spiced ale or similar warming potations. It was not a day to be without coat or shoes, though there were many – hundreds, thousands – who must do so; and the misery that is ever present in the metropolis was made more wretched still by the stinging cold. And yet the wondrous sight – of roofs and towers, spires and monuments, streets and squares, painted over by snow that had been shaped and scooped by the bitter east wind – elated me as I walked down Long Acre, with the smell of baked apples and roasted chestnuts in my nose.
I was still hungry after my frugal breakfast, and the pleasant sight of a coffee-house tempted me in to take a second meal. Afterwards, I sauntered back through snow-laden streets and courts to the Strand. It was not long before I became aware that I was being followed.
In Maiden-lane, I paused by the stage-entrance to the Adelphi Theatre to light up a cigar. Out of the tail of my eye, I saw my pursuer stop a few paces behind, and quickly look into the window of a butcher’s shop. I threw down the cigar, and walked calmly towards the hooded figure.
‘Good morning, Mademoiselle Buisson.’
‘Mon Dieu, how extraordinary!’ she exclaimed. ‘To meet you here! My, my!’
I smiled and offered her my arm. ‘You seem to have been out in the snow for a considerable time,’ I said, looking down at the soaking hem of her skirt.
‘Perhaps I have,’ she smiled. ‘I have been looking for someone.’
‘And have you found them?’
‘Why yes, Mr—Glapthorn. I think perhaps I have.’
In the Norfolk Hotel, Strand, we called for coffee, and she threw back the hood of her cloak and removed her snow-dusted bonnet.
‘I do not think we need continue to pretend,’ I said. ‘I believe your friend will have informed you concerning recent events.’
‘She is no friend of mine any more,’ she replied, shaking out her blonde curls. ‘I consider her to be – well, I do not wish to say what I consider her to be. We were once the closest of companions, you know, but now I hate her for what she has done to you.’
She gave me a look of quiet significance.
‘It was just a pleasant game at first, and I was happy to help her play it, though of course much was kept from me. But as I began to understand how things were with you, and that you truly loved her, then I told her that she must put a stop to it; but she would not. And when Mr Daunt joined us in Paris—’
‘In Paris?’
‘Yes. I am sorry.’
‘It does not signify. Go on.’
‘When Mr Daunt came to join us, my heart began to break for you, knowing that you would be thinking of her constantly, and believing that she was thinking of you. That cruel note that she made me write to you was the last straw. I tried to warn you, did I not? But I think by then that you were past all warning.’
‘I am grateful to you for your kind feelings towards me, Mademoiselle. But I do not think Miss Carteret could help herself. I do not and cannot defend her – not in the least – nor can I ever absolve her for deceiving me; but I understand what drove her to treat me as she did.’
‘Do you?’
‘Why, yes. It was that most potent, and most plausible, of motives: love. Oh yes, I understand her very well.’
‘Then I consider you to be most generous. Do you not wish to punish her?’
‘Not at all. How can I blame her for being a slave to love? Love makes slaves of us all.’
‘So you blame no one for what has happened to you, Mr Glapthorn?’
‘Perhaps you should call me by the name I was given at birth.’ She gave a little nod of understanding.
‘Very well, Mr Glyver. Is no one to blame for the loss of what was rightfully yours?’
‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘Someone is to blame. But not her.’
‘You still love her, of course,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I had hoped—’.
‘Hoped?’
‘It really does not matter. Of what interest can my hopes possibly have for you? Eh bien, this is what I wished to say to you, my dear Mr Dark Horse. You may think this matter is over; that, having stolen your life, your adversary is content. But he is not content. I have overheard something that gives me great concern, and which should give you concern also. He has taken grave exception – very grave exception – to what has happened to his associates, and for which he blames you. I do not know, of course, whether he is right to do so; it is enough for me to know that he does; and this being so, I urge you – as a friend – to take note. He is not a man to make idle threats, as you must know. In a word, he thinks you pose a danger to him, and this he will not tolerate.’
‘You have heard him threaten me, then?’
‘I have heard enough to make me walk through the snow for this past hour to speak to you. And now I have done my duty, Mr Edward Glyver, who was once dear Mr Glapthorn, and now I must go.’
She rose to leave, but I held out my hand to stop her. ‘Does she ever speak of me?’ I asked. ‘To you?’
‘We do not enjoy the familiarity we once did,’ she replied, and I saw and heard the regret that she felt. ‘But I believe that you have left a mark on her heart, though it pleases her to deny it. I hope that is of some comfort to you. And so good-bye, Mr Edward Glyver. You may kiss my hand, if you please.’
‘With the greatest of pleasure, Mademoiselle.’
I was back in Temple-street by half past nine to make my final preparations, happy in the now confirmed knowledge that my enemy wished me dead. It would make what I was soon to do so much easier.
On with my wig – courtesy of Messrs Careless & Sons, theatrical costumiers of Finch-lane, Cornhill – and a pair of wire-framed spectacles. A decent but shabby suit, with a capacious inside pocket, completed the ensemble. Into the pocket went the knife, wrapped in a piece of cloth, that I had purloined from the Wellington. I was ready.
I proceeded first to the Adelphi Theatre, where I purchased a ticket for the evening’s performance: this I then gave to my spy, William Blunt, who was to take my seat at the performa
nce in order to provide me with an alibi. Near Stanhope Gate in Hyde-park, a little across from Lord Tansor’s house in Park-lane, I next located the place I had identified a few days earlier as being suitable for concealing a bag containing my best clothes. At last, as instructed by Mrs Venables, I presented myself to Mr Cranshaw at ten sharp with my recommendation from that lady.
I was soon directed to a small bare-boarded room where I was to don my livery and powder my hair – or, rather, my wig. ‘Powder,’ boomed Mr Cranshaw loftily, ‘is insisted upon by his Lordship.’ After I had wet the wig with water, I rubbed soap into it, and then combed through the wet mass before applying the powder with the puff provided. Then on with the livery: a stiff, white shirt; white stockings and silver-buckled pumps; blue plush knee breeches; a claret-coloured swallow-tailed coat, with silver buttons and matching waistcoat. Once powdered and liveried, I went along to the servants’ hall to be instructed, with the other temporary footmen, by Mr Cranshaw. Then I went quietly about the place, as if engaged on some errand or other, getting clear in my head the disposition of the below-stairs passages and rooms. The rest of the day was spent in undertaking various tedious duties – carrying chairs and flower arrangements into the dining-room, memorizing the order of dishes in case we were called upon to assist in bringing them up, rouging* silver, familiarizing ourselves with the guest-list and seating-order (there were to be some forty persons at table); and so on until darkness began to fall, the curtains were drawn, and the candles and lamps were lit.
Lord Tansor appeared at six o’clock to assure himself that all was in order. Our little army of menials lined up in the vestibule and bowed as he passed. But of course he paid no heed to me. I was but a liveried servant.
At seven o’clock, I presented myself for carriage duty, taking up my station by the front door with two other footmen.
So far, so good. I had done what was required of me by Mr Cranshaw, and had aroused no one’s suspicion. But now I must wait upon events, for I had no plan other than to insinuate myself into the establishment and, if I could, put myself close to Daunt. Beyond that, I had no immediate thought. If this last act of our lives was destined to play out in my favour, then I would be most content. If not, so be it. I would have lost nothing – for I had nothing.
And so I waited, standing mutely just inside the front door, wondering when he would come – and when she would come.
The carriages began to arrive. First, I handed out the famous Madame Taglioni* (for whom, though the lady was by no means in the first flush of youth, Lord Tansor cherished an uncharacteristically sentimental regard), and then the fat daughter of Lord Cotterstock (a costive old roué, with a face like weathered rock, who was already half dead from an unmentionable ailment), followed by her equally porcine mamma and brother. The carriages continued to roll in through the snow to pull up under the lantern of the porte-cochère. Ambassadors, Honourable Members, bankers, generals, dukes and earls, and their ladies: I opened their carriage doors and helped them to disembark, and no one gave me a second glance. At last the Prime Minister himself arrived, to be greeted by Lord and Lady Tansor, followed, in the very next moment, by a sleek carriage bearing the Duport arms.
As I opened the carriage door, I was met first by her perfume; then, as I bent to fold down the step, I saw her feet, encased in delicate grey-kid pumps, decorated with jet beading. She gave me her gloved hand, but I was invisible to her. As she emerged from the carriage, her warm breath misted the air; and for a passing moment, with her hand resting in mine, it was as though she belonged to me once more. The thought made me forget what I was supposed to be, and I began to close my grip gently round her fingers. She shot an angry, insulted look at me, instantly removed her hand, and swept up the steps. There she paused for a moment and looked back.
‘You there! Hold the door!’
I obeyed his command, and he stepped down from the carriage – immaculate, dressed in the highest taste and quality. I made an obeisance as he passed and, as I closed the carriage door behind him, glanced up to see him take Miss Carteret’s arm at the top of the steps and lead her inside.
After the last guests had arrived, I was sent to the dining-room to take up my station by the double doors that led into the vestibule. There I remained, still unregarded by all who passed back and forth, even by my fellow servants. I stood motionless but my eyes were busy, looking for my opportunity.
My faithless girl was seated at the head of the table, an ethereal figure in pale-blue silk, surmounted by a barège overskirt sewn with gold and silver stars, her black hair set off to perfection by a tulle and lace cap ornamented with pale-pink satin ribbon. On her left sat a dessicated young gentleman whom I identified from the guest list as the Honourable John Tanker, MP; on her right was Phoebus Daunt, in all his smiling pride.
After all the guests had settled themselves at the sumptuously decorated table, which gleamed and glittered as candlelight flashed off an abundance of gold and silver and crystal, the soup was brought in. Lord Tansor had become an enthusiast for service à la française, no doubt following its introduction at Evenwood when his protégé had come of age; and so the soup was succeeded by fish, which in turn was followed by the entrées – a dozen in all – and the roasts, and so on, in due order, to the sweets and desserts. It was some relief to me that I had not been required to join the band of brother footmen who were handing round the dishes, for as they bent down to each guest, they had to say aloud the name of the dish that they were offering. I watched with fascinated interest as one of them brought his lips close to Miss Carteret’s ear to ask whether she would take some of the Boeuf à la flammande.* She made the most delicate gesture of assent, and then held up her hand to prevent him placing too much of the dish on her plate. Next to her, Daunt received a much larger portion and then, just as the footman was about to turn to the next guest, called him back to request some more.
In the place of honour at the head of the board, the Prime Minister sat with Lord Tansor, engaged in close and detached conversation. Lord Aberdeen looked tired and drawn, no doubt from the increasing strain of prosecuting the campaign in the Crimea, and more than once I saw Lord Tansor place a reassuring hand on his arm. Around them conversation and laughter flowed, to a contrapuntal rhythm of tinkling glasses and the sound of the finest gold cutlery on Sèvres plates.
But now the soup and fish had come and gone, and so had the entrées and roasts. The sweets and ices had been cleared away to make room for six huge branched epergnes,* laden with dried fruits, nuts, cakes, and sweet biscuits. Lord Tansor rose to his feet, glass in hand, and his guests began to fall silent.
‘My Lords, Ladies, and Gentleman,’ he began, his deep baritone voice instantly commanding attention. ‘I give you a toast. To Mr Phoebus Daunt, whom I am proud to call my son, as well as my heir, and to his future wife, Miss Emily Carteret.’
Glasses were charged and raised, and the happy couple were toasted, to resounding clapping and cheers. Then, from a gallery at the far end of the room, a small military band struck up with ‘See, the Conquering Hero Comes’.† After the last notes had died away, the heir himself responded with fulsome deference, loquaciously thanking his Lordship for his graciousness and generosity, and then – of all things – quoting at length, without a scintilla of shame, from one of his own poems in praise of great men. He was succeeded by Lord Cotterstock, who struggled to his feet with the help of his son to thank Lord Tansor, on behalf of himself and the other distinguished guests, for his overwhelming hospitality, and to congratulate his Lordship on his plenipotentiary appointment, ‘a position,’ he noted, looking sternly around him, as if to defy anyone to contradict him, ‘that has not often been filled with such conspicuous distinction’.
All this time, Miss Carteret sat with a quiet little smile on her face, turning now towards her noble relative, now towards her lover: a smile, not of crowing triumph at her lot, but more of wistful content, as though she had emerged from some great trouble into a haven of set
tled security. I had watched her all evening, drinking in every movement, every gesture; marvelling at her gaiety and assurance, and at her aching beauty. Never so beautiful as tonight! So lost was I in observing her that, for a moment, I did not notice that Daunt had risen from his place, and was saying something to Lord Tansor. Then he moved away, nodding greetings to several of the guests, shaking hands as he passed, and stopping occasionally to receive the congratulations of some well-wisher. He approached the door where I was standing, and I inclined my head dutifully as he passed.
‘Are you quite well, sir?’ I heard Cranshaw asking him. ‘You look rather pale.’
‘One of my headaches, I fear. I’m off to take a little air before the ladies leave.’
‘Very good, sir.’
With a thrill of anticipation, I seized my chance. As soon as Cranshaw had re-entered the dining-room, I slipped away, just in time to see Daunt’s figure disappearing through a door at the back of the vestibule. Heart beating, I descended the stairs, and found my way as quickly as I could to the room in which my suit was hanging. Servants were coming and going, and there was a great babble and noise. No one paid any attention to me. In a flash, I retrieved the knife, and made my way to a glazed door at the end of the passage, through which I could see a flight of steps leading up the side of a lighted conservatory. Gently, I opened the door and stepped out into the cold night air. Would he come out? Was this the moment?
It had stopped snowing, though a few fluffy flakes continued to flutter down from an impenetrably dark sky. I heard a door open just above me, and smelled cigar smoke on the air. He was here. My enemy was here.
A dark figure descended the steps from the conservatory. At the bottom he stopped and looked up; then he slowly crossed the border of light thrown out by the lamps at the top of the steps, and passed into the snowy darkness beyond. I waited until he was six or seven feet from the steps before I left the shadowed recess from where I had been observing him.
