Painting The Darkness - Retail

by Robert Goddard

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

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

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

  ‘What?’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Give me one example of your efforts.’

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

  ‘About what?’

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

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

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

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

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

  III

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘I had to. I must see her.’

  ‘It is impossible.’

  ‘I have respected her wishes by not coming to the house. But I must speak to her. A few minutes, that’s all. Anywhere she cares to name, at any time.’

  ‘It cannot be.’ She walked hurriedly towards him, intending to pass him and strike out across the square. But he placed his hand on her arm and, though the lightness of his grasp did not oblige her to, she stopped.

  ‘We’ve not met in eleven years, Emily. Is that all you have to say to me?’

  ‘Mr Norton—’

  ‘Call me James.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve caused Constance enough pain already?’

  Norton glanced down at the pavement, then looked at her frankly, letting her see the sincerity in his unflinching gaze. ‘We love each other. You know that. You once told me we were made for each other. You’re not going to deny it now, are you?’

  Emily’s heart was pounding. A strict upbringing and the expectations of cathedral society contended with the sudden flood of joy she felt. What to do, she wondered, when no course was the right one? ‘Whatever Constance does, I will stand by her. But she is a wife and a mother. Those bonds cannot be set aside.’

  ‘Only a word. Only the briefest of words. That’s all I ask.’

  There was, in the set of her jaw, a sign that she would not refuse him. ‘I will tell her that I have seen you.’

  Norton smiled. ‘The water meadows, tomorrow at ten. We walked there often – as you know. The bench where we used to sit and watch the sun set on the cathedral. It’ll be safe and quiet there. Tell her: I’ll wait for her.’ He touched his hat again. ‘Your servant, Emily.’ Then he turned and walked smartly away towards the North Gate.

  IV

  An under-gardener told Richard that he had seen Lady Davenall in the gazebo at the summit of the terraced garden and that, indeed, is where he found her, leaning against the wooden balustrade that fronted the small thatched structure and gazing out with a fixed resolved contentment across the rolling parkland of her home.

  Breathless from the climb, Richard paused at the foot of the steps that led up to the gazebo and looked, for a moment, in the direction of Catherine’s gaze. Spindly columns of smoke rose from the chimneys of the house beneath them. On all sides, he could hear the gentle patter of bronzed and falling leaves. Here they had come before, at a different season of their lives, and, recalling it now, he silently cursed her for choosing such ground for their meeting.

  ‘Good day, Richard,’ she said, without looking down.

  He began to climb the steps and risked his first direct glance at her face. They had not met since Sir Gervase’s funeral, and he noticed, with a brief sensation of shock, that her appearance – which he had attributed then to mourning – had not changed in the interim. Pale, aloof and beautiful: such was the woman he had once thought he loved.

  Her tweed dress was high-collared and fur-trimmed against the chill of the day. Her hair, pinned and plaited beneath the veiled and ribboned hat, was as grey as he had known it would be. None of this gave him pause. What did was the movement of her hands, where they rested on the balustrade. Between her tightly gloved fingers she held the long stem of a single white rose and was turning and twisting it as she looked out across the garden. It was the only sign that she did not feel as calm as her face and expression implied. Richard stared at the rose with growing fascination. The sappy stem had split but not parted. Its thorns were hatching the fine leather of Catherine’s gloves. Its dislodged petals, still beaded with dew, were falling to the ground below her. Yet she paid it no heed. Her gaze – and seemingly her attention – remained fixed on a distant horizon.

  ‘Why have you come?’ she said suddenly, still withou
t looking in his direction.

  ‘When you would rather I hadn’t?’ he echoed dismally.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Because I felt obliged to.’

  ‘Such obligations as you had to me lapsed many years ago. I do not wish them to be renewed.’ Now she did look at him: a withering sweep of her eyes that shamed him more than any words. ‘You are here because of the fortune-hunter.’

  He had halted at the top of the steps, six feet from her; it seemed impossible to close the gap. ‘Because of Norton, yes, in part. Because of his claim to be your son.’

  ‘You know what I think of his claim.’

  ‘Yes. You believe it can be ignored.’

  ‘I disregard it. I employ others to disprove it.’ There was no irony in her tone. She was no longer, if she ever had been, the Catherine that Richard had loved. The barriers of autocracy and arrogance behind which she had retreated were impenetrable – to him more than to anyone.

  ‘Norton knows too much to be disregarded – or disproved. Have you once considered that—?’

  ‘He is not my son.’

  ‘Will you say that in court?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, you should know the testimony that Norton will give. I cannot predict how forthcoming he will be, but if he says all that he told us at his examination certain painful revelations will be—’

  ‘Save your breath.’ She half-turned towards him, letting the shredded rose fall from her grasp as she did so. ‘Hugo has already told me … the whole sordid account.’

  Once more, Richard felt the sharp stab of betrayal: if they could not stand together, what hope was there? ‘He had no business—’

  ‘Keeping it from me? I’m so glad you agree. It is best that it should be known to all. Be assured, Richard, I will not faint should this man claim in court – or elsewhere – that Gervase died of syphilis. Is that all you had to tell me?’

  He struggled to recover himself. ‘No. That is—’

  ‘Perhaps I should acquaint you with what else Hugo has told me. He has concluded, for one thing, that Gervase was not his father.’

  Something akin to a moan must have escaped Richard’s lips. He found himself leaning heavily against the balustrade, clutching the hand-rail for support.

  ‘It appears that certain things Gervase said shortly before his collapse can now be interpreted to mean that he did not look upon Hugo as his son.’

  ‘Hence his reluctance to have him pronounced his heir,’ Richard murmured.

  ‘Presumably.’

  ‘What have you told Hugo?’

  ‘That he is right.’

  He looked at her – so icily controlled, so calmly spoken – and realized that he had no idea, not the least glimmering, of what she truly felt. ‘Did you’ – his voice faltered – ‘name the father?’

  ‘I did not need to. Hugo believes he knows already.’

  ‘He said nothing to me.’

  ‘Why should he?’

  ‘Because … he’s mine, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, Richard. Hugo is your child, the child of your sundered obligations.’

  ‘Why did you never tell me?’

  ‘Why did you never guess?’

  ‘I suppose I often guessed, or feared, or hoped as much. But there was no way of knowing …’

  ‘Till now. Till now only I have known. I chose to keep it from you because I did not think you worthy of the knowledge.’

  He shook his head, bowed slightly beneath the onslaught of her words. ‘You are a hard woman, Catherine.’

  ‘You made me so.’

  ‘I?’

  ‘Yes, Richard, you. Because you were so weak and because I trusted you. You allowed Sir Lemuel to give you your marching orders. You crept quietly away from here twenty-seven years ago and left me to face Gervase alone, left me to face him carrying your child.’

  ‘I didn’t know—’

  ‘You didn’t care. I would have gone with you, would have fled with you to any hiding-place. But you fled alone.’

  ‘Catherine, I—’

  ‘Be silent!’ Her face was a mask of unyielding severity; his obedience, his shame, complete. ‘I will tell you now, Richard, for the first and last time, what you left me to endure. When Gervase came home that summer, I already suspected that I was pregnant by you and I also knew you would do nothing to help me. The love you professed was not worth the having. Accordingly, I resolved to hold what little I had: I resolved to preserve my marriage. It was essential that Gervase be given no cause to suspect I had been unfaithful to him. Therefore, on his first night home, I attempted to seduce him.’

  Richard’s eyes moved to meet her gaze, stared for a moment at the accusation it conveyed, then moved away hastily, furtively, like those of a man unable to face himself.

  ‘I failed. I humiliated and debased myself for nothing. I pleaded with him, begged him, threw myself at him. I would have done anything. But he refused me. My husband was a habitual adulterer. More than one laundrymaid has testified to his lechery. But he rejected me that night and every night thereafter. Why? I thought he must have guessed my motives. I feared that James might have said something to him. We never spoke of it, when my condition became obvious or, later, when Hugo was born: I took his silence for contempt. That, of course, is why he was so reluctant to have James pronounced dead: because we both knew that James was his only son.

  ‘But he hadn’t guessed, had he? I know that now. Dr Fiveash had warned him off. I believed he actually preferred prostitutes and other men’s wives. Now I know that, somewhere in his hateful soul, there lurked a shred of damnable compunction, a fragment of decency, perhaps a vestige of guilt, that made him cling to the promise he gave Fiveash, if to no other he gave in his life. God curse him, and you, Richard, for what you made of me. Now go. And never speak of it again. For I shall not.’

  With an effort, Richard raised his head. He wanted only to do as she asked: creep away and hide from the truth he had done so much to uncover. But he could not. In one respect, at least, Catherine was wrong. His obligations had not ended. They had only just begun. ‘Did you tell Hugo all this?’ he said at last, in a voice he scarcely recognized as his own.

  ‘I told Hugo nothing. All he knows is what he’s guessed. As to the identity of his natural father, he has guessed wrongly. He suspects … Prince Napoleon.’

  For a crazy moment, Richard thought she might not be in earnest. But her unaltered expression confirmed that she was. ‘You let him think that?’

  ‘I neither admitted nor denied it. But any guess, however wild, is better than the truth. He must never know. Do you understand? Never.’

  ‘If that is your wish—’

  ‘It is my command. And I think you will obey.’

  ‘Very well. But there is more to be said. God knows, I wish there were not, but there are certain questions I must put to you.’

  ‘Concerning Miss Strang?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have already told Baverstock: Miss Strang is irrelevant. I have nothing to say about her.’

  ‘I cannot accept that.’

  ‘You must.’

  ‘Prince Napoleon knew her, didn’t he?’

  ‘He met her. There is a difference.’

  ‘When you returned from the Crimea, you implied you had left because of something Prince Napoleon had said or done. Was it connected with Miss Strang?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then, what was it?’

  ‘Your questions offend me, Richard. Please leave now.’

  ‘They must be answered.’

  ‘They must not.’

  ‘If you wish to succeed in resisting Norton’s claim—’

  ‘I will not look to you for advice. I cannot, of course, prevent Hugo using your services as a lawyer, but I would esteem it a favour if you ceased to handle his affairs.’

  ‘I cannot do that.’

  ‘You can. But, if you will not, I cannot force you. What I can do, however, is decline to see yo
u should you call again. Would you not rather spare yourself and the servants such an embarrassment?’

  ‘By God, Catherine—’

  ‘You invoke the Lord’s name? Very well, then. In God’s name, Richard, remove yourself from my life. You have wronged me sufficiently to owe me that, I think. When we do meet, as no doubt we must, be so good as to remember what we are to each other: strangers, nothing more. Now be gone.’

  He turned and, slowly descending the steps, uncertain whether to laugh or cry, he heard her words, all her words, then and twenty-seven years before, as one long siren song in a language he did not understand. The coward’s recourse disguised as the right thing to do. The love that was easier to lose than the hatred that followed. The wastrel’s life that was, in truth, his son’s. Such thoughts pursued him, like the angry chorus of rooks, down through the leaf-drifted borders.

  V

  Dusk came rapidly that Sunday in the Tuileries Gardens. Only at the last possible moment did the sun appear in the Parisian sky, gilding the gauze of cloud till the western prospect was one vast copper drum, viewed through a filigree of slowly stirring saplings.

  Prince Napoleon shifted uncomfortably on a bench beneath a monumental urn and dragged the lapel of his greatcoat across his chest, scattering the ash of a neglected cigar down his front as he did so. He swore and pitched the butt into the dust at his feet, where pigeons pecked for the seed he had brought and distributed earlier in one of the few acts of largesse he was still permitted. Quite why he was there, with no brandy on call and only pigeons for courtiers, he was not sure, except that it was a thousand times preferable to inflaming his knees in the bobbing incense-laden company of his pious wife, who would even now be communing with her god and a gabbling priest on the other side of the city.

  Ah, women! At once his delight and his despair. What was there, when all was said and done, to choose between the incorruptible Marie Clotilde and the all too corruptible Cora Pearl? Nothing, so his wealth of experience suggested, beyond the different routes they offered to the same desolation. One served on her knees, the other on her back. He smiled. Truth to tell, Cora was prepared to serve on either. Then he winced, as a strained rib muscle reminded him that age no longer forgave his indulgences.