by Michael Cox
Wonderful certainly, she said, her disconcerting smile having the effect of mitigating what was clearly her real sentiment, for those who have nothing to do but live here and look at it; but a world of work, of course, for everyone else.
Then she turned to Mr Pocock.
The roof has leaked again in the old nursery, and plaster has come down all over the linoleum. I had to send Sukie Prout up there this morning. I informed Lady Tansor a month since that Badger must be sent up to make the repairs, but nothing has been done, and Badger wont go unless her Ladyship directs him to herself.
Mr Baverstock says that the place is becoming sadly neglected, said Mr Pocock, shaking his head. Theres money enough, but shes let things go, and Mr Baverstock says that she wont listen when shes told whats required. It wouldnt have happened in old Lord Tansors time, and the late colonel, God bless him, would have taken things in hand, no doubt about that. Id thought that Mr Perseus might see it, but hes too busy with his verses.
Ah, said Mr Maggs, but then she dont old sway like the old Lord. There was a man o power, if you like. Finger in every pie in the land. Theyd all come to Evenwood in them days even the Prime Minister just to see what his Lordship thought o things. The Queen erself came once, with German Albert. But the great folk from London dont come no more.
He too shook his head ruefully.
No, she dont old sway like the old Lord, nor never will.
Enough, Timothy Maggs.
Admonished and abashed, Mr Maggs sought refuge from Mrs Battersbys softly commanding eye by leaning back in his chair and puffing three times on his long clay pipe.
And where were you before, Miss Gorst?
It was Henry Creswick who now spoke.
I had a position as maid to Miss Helen Gainsborough.
Miss Gainsborough?
The question came from Mrs Battersby.
Of High Beeches?
No, I replied, confidently drawing on the story that Madame had devised concerning my imaginary former employer. Of Stanhope Terrace in London.
The housekeeper thought for a moment.
Do you know, Miss Gorst, she said, her smile now broadening, I dont believe I know anyone of that name in Stanhope Terrace. I was briefly in a position close by, and thought I knew everyone in that area. Isnt that curious?
Miss Gainsborough was a recent resident, I replied airily, taking a diversionary sip of barley-water, and also travels a great deal. I dont care for travelling, and so looked for a new place.
Ah, said Mrs Battersby. That would explain it.
I turned to Mr Pocock.
Excuse my asking, I said, but when I came in, you were speaking of Professor Slake, I think.
Well, replied the butler, with a kindly smile, youre a sharp one, for sure, miss. You know the news almost before we do.
As I explained how I had been told of the Professors death by Mr Randolph Duport, Mrs Battersbys face took on a most suspicious look.
Had I somehow spoken out of turn? It seemed that she considered it improper for the newly arrived maid to raise the subject of the Professors death.
You were told the news by Mr Randolph Duport? she enquired.
Her question was politely, and of course smilingly, put; yet it once again made me feel that I was being accused of some transgression. I had no fears that she had any deeper suspicions of me, despite her questions concerning Miss Gainsborough, being confident that I had played my part well, in my first public performance at Evenwood. So I smiled demurely back at her as I recounted my chance meeting with Mr Randolph outside the Library, on his way to tell his brother about the death of Professor Slake.
Ah, said Mr Maggs, wryly. Mr Chalk an Mr Cheese!
Henry Creswick let out an appreciative guffaw at this display of wit, for which he and Mr Maggs both received a stern look from Mr Pocock.
Now, now, Timothy Maggs, said the butler. Thats enough from you.
Well, its no more than the truth, Robert Pocock, countered Mr Maggs, as anyone with eyes in their ead can see. Chalk an cheese theyve allus bin since they were babbies, an chalk an cheese theyll allus be.
And what was your opinion of Mr Randolph Duport? asked Mrs Battersby, who had continued to fix me with an enquiring eye during the foregoing exchange. Did you find him agreeable?
Oh yes! A most agreeable gentleman, I replied, with unthinking eagerness.
And so he is, agreed Mr Pocock. Ask anyone, and theyll tell you which of the two brothers they prefer. Itll be Mr Randolph over Mr Perseus every time.
I suspect Miss Gorst is no different, observed Mrs Battersby, her enigmatic smile making it again impossible to tell whether or not her remark was intended to censure me, for presuming to express a liking for my employers younger son, although I could not help taking it as such.
Just then, further conversation was interrupted by the ringing of a bell.
Mr Pocock called out to someone in the adjacent hall, who shouted back: Yellow Drawing-Room. Mr Perseus, Id say. Tother ones gone off.
Is Barrington there?
No, came the reply. Only Peplow.
Then send Peplow, said Mr Pocock.
The butler was about to sit back in his chair and take a draught of barley-water when Mrs Battersby rose to her feet, at which he also stood up, the glass of untasted barley-water in hand, followed by Henry Creswick and Mr Maggs.
Well, Miss Gorst, said the housekeeper, her smile now full and direct, Im very glad to have made your acquaintance, and hope youll soon feel part of our little family. You will, of course, tell Pocock, or myself, if theres anything you require. Do you attend Lady Tansor?
She will not need me until dinner-time.
Then you must make the most of a fine day, came the smiling reply.
Without another word, she turned and went out of the doorway through which she had come.
I, too, made to leave, but then thought of something to ask Mr Maggs.
I could not help overhearing earlier, I said, that you were speaking of Lady Tansors father. Did he also die of a seizure?
Old Carteret! Seizure! exclaimed Mr Maggs. No, not im. Murdered, miss, in cold blood, for is money, just as e was ridin into the Park.
No, youre wrong there, Maggs, Mr Pocock broke in. Not for his money. As Ive told you before, Ive heard something about this, and believe it to be the case that he was carrying very little money on him, only a bag of documents.
But them what attacked im thought e ad money, objected sceptical Mr Maggs. Thats the thing, though the rooks didnt care, one way or tother. Its all the same to them ow such poor mortal men as Paul Carteret go to their graves. They jus know theyre a-goin, and thats all there is about it.
The conversation continued in this vein for some time, with Mr Maggs speaking in unshakeable support of the prophetic capacities of rooks, and Mr Pocock seeking to bring a more rational tone to the proceedings.
I was about to take my leave once more when Mr Pocock offered to show me a flight of back stairs, which he said would take me straight up to my room.
Of course her Ladyships maid is free to take the main staircase, he said. But the back stairs are quicker.
We left through the doorway taken by Mrs Battersby and passed into a narrow, white-washed corridor lined with prints and old maps of the county, coming out at last at the foot of a wooden staircase.
Here we are, miss, said Mr Pocock. You cant go wrong from here. Just count the floors. Youll come out near your room.
As I watched him return to the servants hall, another thought jumped into my head.
Oh, Mr Pocock!
He stopped and looked back.
Can you tell me something? Theres a pai
nting, in my Ladys sitting-room, of a little Cavalier boy. Who is he?
Ah, he said, walking back towards me. The 19th Baron Tansor as a child. Anthony Charles Duport, painted by Sir Godfrey Kneller. Born 1682 I remember that particularly because it was exactly a century before my father.
Thank you, Mr Pocock.
Dont mention it, miss. Always happy to oblige.
In that case, I returned, was there ever or is there still a Mr Battersby?
No, no, replied the butler, shaking his head. Battersby is her own name. Its always been the custom here to call housekeepers Mrs This or Mrs That, whether theyre married or not. Ah, I see youre thinking that the name dont suit her, with her good looks and all, and being so young. Well, miss, youre not the first to think so.
Thats true enough, I agreed. The name certainly doesnt suit her. But if there isnt a Mr Battersby, then its rather surprising that there isnt a Mr Somebody Else by now. I imagine that she wouldnt want for admirers.
That I couldnt say, miss, said Mr Pocock, a little stiffly. Keeps herself to herself does Mrs B.
Then he drew a little closer to me.
All we know, he said, in a more confiding tone, is that she came here from a good family in Suffolk, and before that from a position in London. But she dont have no ties, as far as anyone here knows.
No family, then?
None to speak of, miss. Father and mother dead, apparently. No brothers or sisters. Only a maiden aunt in London, occasionally visited.
Just then, the distant sound of a bell from the servants hall caused Mr Pocock to break off the conversation, leaving me intrigued by what he had just told me to clatter up the wooden stairs, emerging at last, three floors up, on the landing near my room.
I LAY ON my bed for half an hour, looking out at the pale-blue sky, and musing on the events of the morning.
After a while, I got up to write a short letter to Madame, assuring her that all was well, and promising to write at greater length in due course. Then I went downstairs again, to place the letter in the appointed place for collection, having addressed the envelope to a lady in London, of whom I shall speak hereafter, to avoid the possibility of awkward questions from my fellow servants.
At a little before three oclock, I went outside to continue my explorations before it was necessary to attend my Lady.
The September sun still bathed the forest of spires and towers, chimneys and turrets, that gives the great house of Evenwood its bristling distinctiveness in a soft aureate light, and threw muted shadows across the clipped lawns and gravel walks. On the south side of the house I discovered a large rectangular fish-pond, closed in by high walls, profusely colonized by bright-yellow stonecrop. Here I lingered, looking down into the still, dark waters at the fish, many of great size, that swam lazily about, until it was time for me to return to the house.
As the Chapel clock struck the hour of five, and having washed my face, brushed my hair, and smoothed down my dress, I knocked at the door of my Ladys apartments.
3
The First Day Ends
I
Questions and Answers
MY LADY was reclining in the window-seat, book in hand, exactly as I had left her.
Come and sit with me, Alice, she said, laying down the book with a weary sigh. I shall not go down to dinner tonight after all.
Very well, my Lady, I said, taking my place beside her.
Now, tell me what youve been doing. You must think it a strange kind of service to be allowed to do as you like all the day. But you must not become used to it. I shall work you hard from now on.
She was smiling a poor melancholy smile, to be sure; but I saw in her eyes that her words were kindly meant.
I recounted my morning exploration through the East Wing, although omitting my encounters with Mr Perseus and Mr Randolph Duport, and my new acquaintance with Sukie Prout.
You might explore Evenwood for ever, she said, and still discover new things to admire. Someone once described it to me as a house without end, perpetually disclosing new aspects of itself. There are parts of it that even I have never visited; and others, Im sure, that will remain forever unknown to me. Perhaps, Alice, you may make some discoveries on my behalf, and come and tell me what youve found, for I perceive that you have an enquiring nature.
Then she asked whether I thought that I would be happy in her service.
Oh yes, my Lady. Even more than before, now that Ive become a little familiar with my new surroundings, and acquainted with some of the people here especially with you, my Lady.
She took the compliment with another sad little smile before asking me how I had found Mrs Battersby.
I replied that she seemed a very capable sort of person.
Capable! she exclaimed, giving an appreciative clap. That exactly describes her! Jane Battersby is certainly capable. A remarkable young woman in many ways, rather mysterious, with a certain worldly wisdom far beyond her station. And whom else have you met today?
Mr Pocock, of course; and Henry Creswick, and also Mr Maggs.
No one else?
Her eyes were now fixed on me in that discomfiting way she had. Deciding that a little truth was required, I told her how I had met Sukie Prout on the landing below my room.
Sukie Prout?
She thought for a moment.
Ah, one of the downstairs-maids.
The upper house-maid, my Lady.
Quite. And no one else?
I realized then that she knew of my accidental meetings with her sons. For a moment I was unsure how to answer, but she anticipated me.
My son Perseus tells me that he has already made your acquaintance. His brother, too, I believe.
I now had no choice but to admit the fact with as much indifference as I could, although I could not see where I had been at fault.
Was it such a little thing to forget? she asked.
I beg your pardon, my Lady?
To make the acquaintance of the heir to the Tansor Barony, and his younger brother?
I thought that she was about to reprimand me, but then I saw that a faint smile was playing round her lips.
Dont be alarmed, my dear, she said, leaning towards me and patting my hand. I dont blame you in any way for feeling that you could not tell me. You are alive to these little delicacies, I see. But tell me, which one of my sons did you like best? Perseus or Randolph?
I confess that I found the question rather shocking. What mother could ask such a thing concerning her two sons, both of whom appeared to me to be eminently worthy, each in his own way, of admiration?
Tell me, do! she prompted, with unseemly relish, seeing my hesitation. I long to know!
I really cannot say, my Lady. I have so little knowledge of either of your sons, and, really, we spoke only a few words.
But Perseus is the more handsome, is he not?
He is handsome, certainly, I readily conceded. But then Mr Randolph Duport is handsome also.
But very differently composed, would you not agree? There is less refinement in poor Randolphs features, alas, which in some moods can look a little coarse. He has more of his late father in him, and of his fathers family, I dare say, than Perseus. I am also sad to admit that Randolph lacks his brothers higher talents. It pains me to speak so, but it is only the truth.
Perseus, you know, has been blessed with great literary gifts, she went on. He has written a most impressive drama in verse, which we hope to see published very shortly. The subject is Merlin and Nimue, which I consider to be a most original one for a poetic drama.
Has not Mr Tennyson written of them in the Idylls? I enquired, knowing very well that he had. Although I believe Nimue is there called Vivien.
She threw me a sharply reproachful look for presuming t
o question her sons originality of conception.
Mr Tennysons treatment of the characters is wholly different from my sons, she said coldly, and is, in my view, inferior in every way. He does not make them live as people, as Perseus does by means of the dramatic form. It is his great gift.
I asked if Mr Perseus Duport intended to make poetry his profession.
A gentleman in the position of my eldest son has no need to follow a profession, as you put it, of any kind. But it is impossible to put shackles on natural genius. Like good breeding, it will out. I have no doubt that, when the work is published, it will be universally recognized as possessing uncommon merit. I shall show you the manuscript another time, so that you may judge for yourself. You told me, I think, that you were a great reader of poetry.
Yes, my Lady.
And how did a ladys-maid acquire such a taste?
My guardian read poetry to me from an early age, I replied, ignoring the implied insult. Even when I was unable to understand the meaning of the words, their sound would soothe me, and send me dreaming. And then I was constantly encouraged to read widely, in both English and French, by my tutor, Mr Basil Thornhaugh.
You had a tutor! Ive never had a maid before who enjoyed such an advantage. And what manner of man was Mr Basil Thornhaugh?
One of the cleverest there could be, I replied, possessing, in addition, great discernment and taste.
A most remarkable tutor, by your account. In my experience, such men are always dull failures; but your Mr Thornhaugh appears to have been singular in every way. Yet he was content, it seems, with tutoring a little girl. Why was that, do you suppose? Had he no other profession to follow, or any higher ambitions?
I could not give a satisfactory answer, knowing almost nothing of my old tutors former life. All I could say was that Mr Thornhaugh had private interests to pursue, in addition to his pedagogic duties, and that he had long been engaged on a great work of scholarship.
Ah! cried Lady Tansor. A private scholar! I know the type. Forever dreaming of writing the magnum opus that will make their name live on for generations. I understand now. Few of these men realize their ambition. It simply consumes them, for there is never an end to it.
