The Glass of Time

by Michael Cox

  She turned her head away for a moment and laid it against one of the leaded window-panes. Then she raised her finger to the glass and began absently tracing some pattern, or perhaps a sequence of letters, as she spoke.

  After dinner, she asked me to read to her from another work by Phoebus Daunt, The Heir: A Romance of the Modern. *

  ‘Do you know it?’ she asked, handing the volume to me.

  I told her that I had not yet had the pleasure of reading it.

  ‘Then this will please both of us,’ she said. ‘Shall we begin?’

  I opened the book, and started to read.

  Mr Daunt’s poetical gifts appeared to have found their natural expression in the epic form. I imagined that Paradise Lost, which I had known and admired since first being introduced to it by Mr Thornhaugh as a child, had been ever before him as the great model for his own essays in what might be called the poetry of magnitude. In Milton’s case, the description would signify the higher character of the subject-matter, as well as the sublime capabilities of the poet; in Mr Daunt’s, a narrower definition of ‘magnitude’ is required; for he appears to have believed that the more lines he wrote, the more impressive the effect would be. Consequently, an hour or more passed and I had barely reached halfway through the second of twelve books.

  ‘Does it tire you, Alice?’ asked Lady Tansor, hearing me stumble over a particularly inept couplet (the bard had rejected the sterner clarity of blank verse in favour of rhyming couplets, at some frequent cost to sense).

  ‘No, my Lady. I am very happy to continue for as long as you wish.’

  ‘No, no,’ she insisted, ‘you are tired. I can see it. I have kept you long enough. There! What a considerate mistress I am! You must not think, however, that I treat all my maids with such partiality, for I never have before.’

  She was looking at me expectantly; but when I made no reply, she moved away from the window and stood staring into the fire.

  ‘No,’ she said, quietly, ‘I have not always been so partial. But you, Alice,’ looking now over her shoulder at me, ‘have qualities that set you apart. I saw them immediately.’

  She paused, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to her.

  ‘Do you know, it now strikes me that your situation is not a little like Mrs Battersby’s.’

  She saw the puzzled look on my face, and gave a little laugh.

  ‘I mean that, like you, she now occupies a station in life that is somewhat beneath the one in which she appears to have been brought up, although you, of course, seem to have enjoyed superior advantages to Mrs Battersby – a tutor, you now tell me! You speak French. You read novels and poetry. And I dare say that you can play and sing, draw and paint, and generally comport yourself like a lady. Indeed, I should say that you are a lady, by birth and education. Yet – a little like your clever Mr Thornhaugh, who sounds in every respect to be a gentleman – you have taken up a situation that is beneath both your abilities and your natural condition. Is that not a curious symmetry?’

  ‘You must remember, my Lady,’ I countered, nervous of her questioning expression, ‘that I had no choice in the matter. When Mrs Poynter died – the old friend of my mother’s, with whom I was then living in London – I had no means of supporting myself. I had only a small life-interest from my father, which was barely sufficient for my needs. As I did not wish to return to France, I went to an agency and was put forward for the position with Miss Gainsborough, which I was fortunate to secure.’

  ‘Fortunate indeed,’ she said. ‘For someone without previous experience of domestic service, one might have expected you to be put up for a petty place or two, perhaps with a clergyman, or some person in a small way of trade. But then I am not in the least surprised that you impressed Miss Gainsborough, who sounds a very sensible sort of person. I have no doubt that she was of the same mind as I myself. She must have seen, as I did, that you were exceptional, which is a rare quality in a servant.’

  She had hardly finished speaking when there was a knock at the door, and a footman came in carrying a letter on a small silver tray.

  ‘This has come for you, your Ladyship.’

  He bowed, and turned to leave.

  ‘Wait!’ Lady Tansor cried out. ‘This must have been delivered by hand. Where is the person who brought it?’

  ‘I cannot say, your Ladyship,’ replied the footman. ‘It was slipped under the front door. No one saw who brought it.’

  I was able to make out that the letter contained only half a dozen or so lines of writing; but their effect on my mistress was dramatic. As she read, the colour began to drain from her face. When she had finished, she crushed the letter into a ball, and placed it in the pocket of her gown.

  ‘I think I shall take a short walk on the terrace before retiring,’ she said, trying to act as if nothing had happened. ‘There are some slops to be emptied in the bedroom, and please to light the fire. It has grown a little chilly. Then lay out my night-things, and remain in the bed-chamber until I return. Do not leave the bed-chamber. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course, my Lady,’ I replied, happy to comply with her orders, although puzzled by them nonetheless.

  Still pale and ill at ease, despite her efforts to appear unconcerned, she crossed to the door, but then stopped.

  ‘Remember what I said, Alice,’ she said, without turning to face me. ‘Do not leave the bed-chamber until I return.’

  She opened the door and swept out into the Picture Gallery, leaving me alone in the suddenly darkened room.

  II

  The Coming of Mr Thornhaugh

  AFTER MY LADY had returned from her walk on the terrace, and I had performed the various duties she required, I was allowed to retire.

  My mistress had dismissed me rather brusquely, seeming both cross and anxious, and as disinclined to talk as she had earlier been eager to engage in conversation.

  As I was leaving, I had asked whether she was feeling well.

  ‘Of course I am well,’ she snapped back. ‘Do not fuss so, Alice. I cannot abide fussing.’

  ‘I don’t mean to fuss, my Lady,’ I replied, contritely. ‘But you look so very pale. May I fetch you something before you retire?’

  Her face relaxed a little, and she slumped down in a chair beside the bed.

  ‘No, nothing,’ she said. Then, with an attempt at a smile: ‘But thank you, Alice. Few of my other maids have been so concerned for me.’

  ‘Then they did not deserve to occupy the position of maid to you, my Lady,’ said I, in a moment of inspiration. ‘I consider it to be a most important part of my duty to give constant thought to your Ladyship’s well-being.’

  ‘That,’ she said, ‘is a most original sentiment for a maid to hold; but then of course you are no ordinary maid. Good-night, Alice. The usual time in the morning, please.’

  As I turned to go, I saw that there were tears in her eyes.

  STILL PUZZLED BY Lady Tansor’s strange behaviour, I devoted half an hour to writing up the evening’s events in my Book of Secrets. Then I lay down on my bed, and let my thoughts wander where they would.

  It was not long before I began to think once more of Madame, and then of my old tutor, in whom my Lady had taken such an interest.

  Dear Mr Thornhaugh! How I missed him! Like Madame, he had been a constantly reassuring presence in my life, almost for as long as I could remember. The first clear memory I have of him is of watching his tall, stooped figure walking up and down in the garden of the Maison de l’Orme one hot summer’s afternoon, for twenty minutes or more, in close conversation with Madame. With the exception of Jean, Madame’s serving-man, I had become accustomed to living solely amongst females. The sight of this strange man, with his long, lined, dark-hued face and prematurely greying hair hanging down about his shoulders, alarmed me at first, until Madame brought him to me later, to introduce him as my tutor. As soon as I saw his wonderful eyes, my fears instantly evaporated, and I knew that I had a new friend in my life.

  ‘How do you do, miss?’ he said.

  ‘Réponds en anglais, ma chčre,’ said M
adame, smiling.

  As English was already as familiar to me as French, Madame being herself a fluent English speaker, I told Mr Thornhaugh, in his native tongue, that I was honoured and charmed to make his acquaintance, holding out my hand with prodigious earnestness as I did so, and then, for good measure, giving him a most lady-like curtsey.

  He laughed at that, and called me ‘Little Queen’, after which he asked me a number of questions to judge how well I knew my lessons. Although they all required some concentrated thought, I acquitted myself well, to my great pride and delight.

  ‘You have done well, Madame,’ I heard him say to my guardian. ‘I can see that she will go to her lessons like a true-born scholar.’

  I hope I do not present myself as an unbearable prodigy. My cleverness, if that is what it was, consisted merely in the possession of a naturally capacious memory, and a desire to fill it with factual knowledge. Beyond this mechanical capability to take in and then regurgitate what I had learned, however, I believe I was rather slow and stupid – I never could master long division or fractions, had a perfect horror of multiplication, and found geometry and algebra incomprehensible, whilst all the various branches of Science were for ever to remain closed books to me, even when Mr Thornhaugh tried later to open them.

  My examination having been concluded to everyone’s satisfaction, Madame suggested that we should go back out into the garden, where we sat together, the three of us, beneath the shade of the chestnut-tree, drinking tea and eating lemon-cake.

  Mr Thornhaugh talked incessantly, although I cannot now bring to mind anything of what he said. Only the impression of an unstoppable flood of glorious words and original opinions has stayed clear in my memory. To one who was already burning to acquire knowledge, he seemed little less than some magician of legend who had been granted the power to know all that had ever been known by man, and all that would be known hereafter.

  Thus Mr Basil Thornhaugh took up his place in the house of Madame de l’Orme in the Avenue d’Uhrich. He was given four spacious rooms on the top floor, one of which, next to his book-filled study, was my school-room. Access to this floor was by way of a separate staircase, which led down into the rear garden, and allowed Mr Thornhaugh to come and go as he pleased. I rarely saw him in any other part of the house except his own, or in the garden; and he took his meals alone. If I woke during the night, I would often hear him pacing about his study, which was directly above my bedroom, and drew comfort from knowing that he was always there, just a few feet away, above my bed.

  I wondered what he would do now that his pupil had flown the nest. He had remained a resident of Madame’s establishment after my childhood, engaged with his own reading and researches, although continuing to instruct me informally in those subjects that I found most to my liking, and when it was agreeable to both of us that he should do so. Yet although I had by then come to think of him as a friend, far more than as my teacher, he could never be encouraged to speak about himself or his family, and would always – sometimes a little intemperately – brush away my questioning. Consequently, I knew nothing about him, or where he had come from. No doubt because of this settled disinclination, he appeared – more than anyone I have ever known, before or since – to wish to live entirely in the present moment, almost by an effort of will; and if I enquired – as young ladies are, of course, obliged by nature to do – about some aspect of his past, before he came to Madame’s house, he would always say that his former life was no longer of any concern to him, and should therefore be of no concern to anyone else.

  Only once did he give me an answer, when I asked him where he had been born. He told me that he had taken his first breath under French skies, which pleased me greatly, but he would tell me nothing further.

  III

  Mrs Ridpath

  IN DUE COURSE, all the arrangements for my departure to England had been put in hand, and I finally left Paris in the second week of August 1876.

  Madame and Mr Thornhaugh accompanied me to Boulogne, where we stayed in the Hôtel des Bains for the night. The next day, we drove to the station in the Faubourg de Capécure, from where I was to take the tidal-express to Folkestone. There, on the crowded and noisy platform, I said my tearful good-byes to Madame.

  ‘Be strong, my dearest child,’ she said, as she kissed me. ‘I know how hard this is for you, but all will be well, if you only trust in me, and patiently allow me to guide your actions. As you come to know more about why you are embarking upon this great enterprise, you must also learn to follow your own instincts, and act accordingly. For be assured, there is that within you that will lead you to the fulfilment of your destiny.’

  And so we parted. I waved from the window until she disappeared from view, and then sank back in my seat, overcome with every emotion that parting from a loved one – perhaps for ever – can engender in a human breast.

  My only comfort was that it had been agreed that Mr Thornhaugh would accompany me to London, to see me settled into my temporary lodging, where I was to stay before journeying to Evenwood. Without him beside me on the journey, I do not know how I could have borne the terrible sense of separation from everything I held most dear. Little by little, however, as the shores of England grew ever closer, I began to feel better, as my old tutor brought me back – with such gentle and considerate persuasion – to my former state of determination.

  Arrived in Folkestone, we put up at the West Cliff Hotel, taking the train to London the next morning. At last we arrived in Devonshire Street, where I was to remain, under the care of an old friend of Mr Thornhaugh’s, until the time came for me to attend my interview with Lady Tansor.

  My temporary guardian was a slight, sandy-haired lady, of some fifty years, with a kind face and bright, darting eyes, who immediately put me at my ease. She ushered us in with many solicitous enquiries about our journey, sat us down in the drawing-room, and rang for refreshments.

  ‘Esperanza, this is Mrs Elizabeth Ridpath,’ Mr Thornhaugh had said as we entered. ‘She’s an old and trusted friend of mine and will take the greatest care of you while you are here.’ Then, more seriously, he added: ‘She knows everything, Little Queen.’

  Mrs Ridpath leaned forward and took my hand.

  ‘I know that being here must be very strange and unsettling for you, my dear; and so you must tell me if there is anything I can do to make you comfortable and happy, for the little time you are with me. Mr Thornhaugh and Madame de l’Orme have taken me into their confidence, and I want you to know that I shall never betray the trust that they have placed in me. You may depend on me to the last, just as you depend on them.’

  She kissed me on the cheek, and said that, after tea, she would show me to my room, and then I might have a rest if I wished, or we could all walk out together for a little into the nearby Regent’s Park.

  ‘Oh, let us go out!’ I cried, feeling suddenly full of hope and confidence. ‘I’m not in the least bit tired!’

  And so, after we had drunk our tea, we all three set off, and soon found ourselves in the Park.

  Mr Thornhaugh wished me to see the Zoological Gardens, where we passed a pleasant hour or so. Then we strolled back through the Botanic Gardens, and past the grounds of the Toxophilite Society, before returning to Devonshire Street. Throughout the whole of this little excursion, Mr Thornhaugh had entertained us, in his usual effervescent manner, with his knowledge of the Park, and of London in general. I wanted him to remain in England longer than he had proposed – indeed, I importuned him as hard as I could to do so; but he had a return ticket for the tidal-express that left Charing Cross the next morning, and was adamant that he must not leave Madame alone in Paris any longer than they had arranged, for she would be anxious on my account, and eager to know how I was.

  Having been absent for many years from the city where he had once lived, Mr Thornhaugh had arranged to see several old friends at a hotel in the Strand, where he also intended to stay the night.

  ‘Good-bye, Little Queen,’ he said, as we stood on the steps of the house i
n Devonshire Street. ‘I do not need to tell you that you will be constantly in our thoughts, and that we have made every effort to shield you from any kind of peril.’

  He then asked me a most unexpected question.

  ‘Did Madame ever tell you why you were named “Esperanza”?’

  I had to admit that I had never considered the question before.

  ‘She once told me that it was because you were your late father’s dearest hope,’ said Mr Thornhaugh, ‘in whom he placed all his trust. Do not ask me to explain her words: you will comprehend them by and by. And now I must leave. I have no other parting speech to make. Madame has said all that is needful. I will say only this: be brave, Little Queen, for this is a great thing that you do, as you will one day understand.’

  So saying he shook my hand warmly; but then, instead of releasing it, took it in both of his and held it.

  Then he broke away, smiled, and was soon lost to view.

  THE TIME CAME at last for me to leave Devonshire Street, just a few days after celebrating my nineteenth birthday with kind Mrs Ridpath. The journey north to Northamptonshire was uneventful; and, as I have already described, I duly secured the position as Lady Tansor’s maid.

  Now my first day at Evenwood had come to an end. The succeeding days and months were to be very different; but this one most memorable day marked a boundary between the life I had known with Madame, and my new one serving Lady Tansor. It also constituted the first stage of the yet unrevealed Great Task that Madame had set me.

  I had at least achieved my first goal. The seeds of my future had been sown; but what harvest would eventually be reaped?

  For now, I had a day of vivid memories and tumbled impressions to store away: a great room of crimson and gold; sombre ancestral faces looking down at me as I passed; the smell of countless long-unopened books, asleep in their coffins of leather; Sukie Prout’s wayward curls and freckled face; a secret, silent court, with a fountain playing in its midst, and white doves fluttering down from a clear blue sky; my Lady’s dark tresses pulled through the bristles of a silver hair-brush, and her fingers tracing out letters on a window-pane; a beautiful long-haired Cavalier boy in blue silk breeches with rosettes on his shoes; still, dark water, with fish moving silently beneath; and, lingering in my mind’s eye as sleep began to creep gently over me, the faces – each so striking, each so strangely contrasting – of my Lady’s two sons.