by Michael Cox
All I had been told by Madame was that, a year after the loss of his wife, my father had quit the Avenue dUhrich, leaving me in her temporary care. Long nurturing an interest in the ancient civilizations of the Near East, his plan had been to travel in those regions with the purpose of gathering material for a popular work on the Babylonian Empire, in which the small publishing concern for which he had been producing translations had expressed an interest. He had intended the trip to last not more than six months; but after only two, his letters to Madame had ceased, and no more was heard from him for several years. At last, in April 1862, a letter came from an official in the British Embassy in Constantinople informing Madame that he had died in that city of scarlet fever a week or so previously.
The necessary arrangements were made, and in due course his body was brought back to Paris, to be buried next to that of his wifes.
Strangely, although I can recall being told by Madame that Papa would not be coming home ever again, I have no memory of his interment, only of being taken, some days later, to see for the first time the two stone slabs beneath which lay the mortal remains of Edwin and Marguerite Gorst.
I felt no grief of that I am certain at the deaths of my parents, for it was of course impossible for me to remember even the smallest detail concerning either of them. They were little more than names, chiselled into those two inexpressive granite slabs. Madame had become my only parent; and soon she would be joined by dear, kind Mr Thornhaugh. I would have mourned Madame most grievously had they put her in the cold earth, and laid stone over her; but I did not then mourn Edwin and Marguerite Gorst, for they were strangers to me then, their actuality blotted out by the all-sufficient care of Madame. Not until I was older did the keen agony of loss begin to empty its subtle poison into me; and not until now, in the great house of Evenwood, did I weep for them.
SLEEP OVERTOOK ME swiftly that night, and I did not wake until past my usual hour. But it was Sunday, the last of the present year, and church was not until ten oclock.
Mr Randolph was sitting alone in the Breakfast-Room, sipping his coffee, when I entered. He looked up expectantly.
Miss Gorst! he cried, giving me one of his warmest smiles. There you are. Ive been waiting for you. If youre minded, perhaps youd care to make our expedition to the Temple today, after church if its not at all inconvenient?
It is perfectly convenient; and later that morning, having endured Mr Thripps valedictory sermon to the departing year, we make our way to the Lake, on the far side of which, dominating a terraced mound, stands the Temple of the Winds.
Although the morning is generally overcast, the piled grey clouds are broken here and there by enlarging chinks of pallid sunlight. Our talk has run on the various activities and incidents that took place during the recent Christmas celebrations. We laugh again at Mr Maurice FitzMaurices unintentionally comic theatrical performance; agree that Sir Edgar Fawkes has grown even redder of face and fatter of girth; and wonder whether Miss Marchpains sister ever found her missing gloves (Mr Randolph surmises that they were purloined, as love trophies, by gallant Captain Villiers).
We inspect the Temple, once an elegant addition to the Parks amenities, but now falling rapidly into ruin, and slowly begin to retrace our steps back up the path towards the carriage-road. We have been conversing for some time of nothing in particular when Mr Randolph suddenly falls silent. With evident nervousness, he then asks if I would allow him to address me by my Christian name.
Of course you may, I tell him, seeing no harm in it. Your mother has always called me Alice; but I have another name, as I think you know, if youd prefer that.
Do you know, he smiled, I believe I would. Its so distinctive and mysterious, and suits you so much better than Alice. Yes. Esperanza it shall be. It means Hope, I think.
It does.
Well, then, it exactly expresses how I feel I mean the hope that Ive been holding, these long weeks past, that I might be to you what I wish so much for you to be to me.
Then, almost before I know it, he is asking whether he can come to me privately, at a time and place that would be convenient to me, in order to speak on a matter of the greatest importance to him.
I have something very particular I wish to put before you, he continues, his eyes seeming to shine with a great purpose. I have wanted to speak to you that is, to ask you ever since we walked back together that day from the Duport Arms. In fact I seemed to know from the first moment we met how it might be between us. Dont you find that strange? I do most strange that I should be so sure so quickly. But its true nevertheless. I knew straight away, you see, that youd be oh, dash it! Im such a pudding-head at this sort of thing. My brother would know how to put it so that youd understand, but I dont. So will you let me come to you, when youre ready to hear me, so that I can ask you well, what I want so much to ask you?
Was this hesitant declaration a prelude to making a proposal of marriage? Although I can scarcely believe it, that is what I now conclude from his awkwardly fervent words, and from the impassioned look in his eyes. Since my arrival at Evenwood, I have grown exceedingly fond of Mr Randolph. It touches me greatly that he had appeared to like me from the first, and that he had demonstrated so clearly a wish to befriend me. It seems, however, that I am right to suspect that there is now some deeper prompting at work, and that his recent talk of friendship has been meant to convey another, more significant meaning.
To have captured the heart of Mr Randolph Duport was a most wonderful thing, and it makes me feel almost cross with myself, and not a little ashamed, that I must reject the proposal I am certain that he is intending to make. I will do so with every expression of gratitude for the honour he has paid me, and with no small degree of regret; but I can envisage no bond existing between us other than sincere and steadfast friendship. Precious though that might be, it is not enough. When I marry, I must marry for love, true love nothing less.
You express yourself perfectly well, I tell him, and of course I shall be very willing to hear what you wish to say to me. My time, however, is not my own, for I am required to be in constant attendance on your mother.
Well, then, says Mr Randolph, breezily, we must endeavour to make time, if we can.
I am about to prevaricate further, but the words die on my lips.
We have arrived at a green-painted boat-house. On one side of the path, the shimmering surface of the Lake stretches away towards the Temple of the Winds atop its terraced mound; on the other, a broad area of newly planted saplings drops gently down to the glimmering Evenbrook.
Hey, you there! Mr Randolph suddenly shouts out. What the devil are you doing?
I follow his eyes.
There, crouching down behind an area of low bushes just beyond the boat-house, is a man. He is wearing a leather cap, and his black hair hangs down in long greasy strands. I know him instantly, for he has often invaded my dreams since our return from London.
It is Billy Yapp, known to the world as Mr Solomon Pilgrim had told me in Dark House Lane as Sweeney.
I think at first that I must be mistaken. Then, as the man breaks away from his hiding-place and begins bolting towards the river, I get a clear view of the raw-boned, villainous face that had terrified me so in the Antigallican public-house. There is no mistake.
In an instant, Mr Randolph sets off in pursuit; but, although he is fit and strong, he is no match for Yapp, who quickly gains the cover of the woods that border the northern bank of the Evenbrook and disappears from view.
I wait for Mr Randolphs return in the greatest consternation, having concluded that Yapp must have been sent to Evenwood on the instructions of Mr Armitage Vyse. But for what purpose? To spy on me or to do to me what I am certain he had done to Mrs Barbarina Kraus?
After five minutes or so, to my immense relief, Mr Randolph comes back up through the trees, hat in
hand, and breathing hard from his exertions.
Lost him, he puffs. Damned fellow can run.
What do you think he was doing? I ask.
Nothing conducive to the common good, Ill lay money on that. Not a local either, by the look of him. But dont alarm yourself. Well go back now and Ill send some of the men round the Park, though Ill wager he wont linger here.
As we gain the junction with the carriage-road, a tall figure on horseback is approaching from the direction of the Western Gates. As it draws nearer, I see that it is Mr Perseus.
He momentarily reins in his mount when he reaches us, throws me a look of the utmost disfavour, and then without a word to either of us spurs off towards the house.
AS I ENTER the vestibule, I find Mr Perseus, riding-whip in hand, pacing up and down in front of the portrait of the Turkish Corsair. He appears to have been waiting for me.
You have been out walking again, I see, Miss Gorst, he remarks, in a most disapproving tone, tapping his whip irritably on the side of his leg as he speaks.
Knowing that I have committed no impropriety, I merely confirm the fact and politely excuse myself.
Youll allow me to observe, he then says, as I am about to make my way up the stairs, that you appear to entertain a very marked partiality towards my brother. I am not sure that it is quite appropriate for my mothers companion to behave so, but perhaps her Ladyship considers the matter in a different light. She is, Im sure, aware of your
He pauses, as if searching for the right word.
Attachment, he resumes, with the air of a man throwing down a verbal gauntlet.
I beg your pardon, sir, I answer, piqued by his insinuation, but you are mistaken. There is no attachment, in the sense you appear to intend, between Mr Randolph Duport and myself, and therefore nothing for my Lady to consider.
Your walks with my brother have not gone unnoticed, you know.
I have no mind to engage in a debate on the matter, being still agitated after the encounter with Billy Yapp and wishing very much to return to my room. I therefore excuse myself again; but as I am turning away, he suddenly takes hold of my wrist to stop me. Seeing the shock on my face, he immediately releases his grip, but makes no apology for his action.
Your position here is changing, Miss Gorst, are his next words, spoken quietly but intently, and it will, I predict, undergo further change. I am glad of it, believe me. Her Ladyship is fond of you, and it is altogether a good thing, in my opinion, that you are now occupying a situation in the household that is far more suited to your natural condition. I feel it is my duty, however, to point out something that I am sure you must already know concerning my brother.
I try to assure him once again that he is mistaken in thinking that any regard I may have for Mr Randolph is anything more than our respective stations permitted, or that I cherish any improper designs on him, but he cuts me short.
Hear me out, Miss Gorst. I wish only to spare you from disappointment and distress. My brother has an inescapable duty to this great family, and to those who have made it so. Perhaps you are unaware that it has always been the Duport way to expect that even junior sons should marry well. My brother is no exception. It is therefore incumbent upon him to find a wife who will augment and extend the familys interests, and it is Lady Tansors fixed resolve that he should do so. You understand me?
He is now at his insufferable worst pompous, arrogant, the overbearing Duport heir in all his pride. The look I receive enrages me, for of course I understand him only too well. Although I enjoy an unusually favourable position in the household, that imperious stare is intended to remind me that I must be careful not to over-reach myself. I came to Evenwood as a mere servant. I am poor. I am an orphan, with little knowledge of my parents. What advantage could I bring to the mighty Duports? These things, and more, I read in his arctic eyes.
I cannot, of course, reveal my conviction that his brother loves me, that I believe he intends to make me a proposal of marriage; but, goaded to a response at last, and with due deference, I put the hypothetical case that even were I fortunate enough to enjoy the affectionate regard of Mr Randolph Duport, and were I to return that regard, then some might consider it to be a purely private matter.
There you are mistaken, Miss Gorst, he returns. As I have just been at some pains to suggest, it most certainly is a matter on which other persons will, and should, form an opinion her Ladyship in particular and the consequences, you may be sure, will not be to your advantage. If I may say so, you appear rather quickly to have convinced yourself that your new position gives you the privilege of acting as you please. Step back, Miss Gorst, step back, for your own sake. You say nothing.
We stand for several moments in silence as I consider what I should say to him. At length, I tell him that I have some duty to perform for my Lady, and assure him for a third time that any feelings I might have for his brother are of a wholly unexceptional character.
I am glad to hear you say so, Miss Gorst. You will forgive me, I hope, for speaking so frankly. My only wish is to avoid any unpleasantness.
He gives me a stiff bow, and I turn to make my way up the staircase, feeling his eyes upon me with every step I take.
I have nothing to conceal from my Lady regarding my feelings for her younger son, and I continue to feel secure in her favour. Why, then, should I care what Mr Perseus Duport thinks of me?
Yet although I pretend otherwise, I do care what Mr Perseus Duport thinks of me, and that he might still believe I am in love with his brother. I can deny it no longer. I care very much indeed.
II
Madame de lOrme to Miss Esperanza Gorst
LETTER 3
I HAVE SCARCELY closed the door to my room, my mind in turmoil, when Sukie knocks and gives me a letter. I know immediately who it is from, and what it contains.
The day had finally come on which I would learn at last who I really was, and why I had been sent to Evenwood; for here, in my trembling hands, was Madames long-awaited third Letter of Instruction.
It was to be a day like no other I had ever known, and will I hope never know again. Madames words were like flaming arrows to my soul. The fires they ignited are burning still, and will continue to smoulder until I am laid in earth.
Here, then, is what I read, sitting at my desk in the Tower Room at Evenwood, on that ever-memorable day, as the year 1876 drew to its close.
Avenue dUhrich
Paris
DEAREST CHILD,
The time has come, at last, for me to place the Great Task before you in a clear & unequivocal light, & I shall do so as succinctly as I can.
What I first have to tell you by way of preparation for what follows will, I fear, cause you great, & perhaps abiding, pain, as it pains me so very much to write the words; and so you must be brave, my angel, & face the final truth about yr history with that same courage that you have displayed so admirably in the role you are playing at Evenwood.
You have looked upon your fathers name many times as a child, on his grave in the Cemetery of St-Vincent. As you well know, the stone bears the name of Edwin Gorst, departed this life in the year 1862.
This, however, was not yr fathers real name, but the one he adopted after suffering the most terrible calamity, the consequences of which made it imperative that he flee his native country for ever.
Know, then, that your father was born Edward Charles Duport, the legitimate son of Julius Verney Duport, 25th Baron Tansor, & his first wife, the former Laura Fairmile. No doubt you have seen the portrait of Ld & Lady Tansor, with their second son, Henry Hereward, in the vestibule at Evenwood. They were yr grandparents, & the little boy is yr poor dead uncle.
Yet although yr father had been born the true and undisputed heir to the Tansor Barony, both he & his own father, the late Ld Tansor, were denied knowledge of the fact by his mother. He thus grew up in complete ignora
nce of his true identity, & of his rightful inheritance. He, not yr mistress, should have succeeded the 25th Baron.
The story is a long and distressing one, & must wait to be told to you in full. But, in brief, yr grandmother without her husband even knowing of his sons existence gave yr father to be brought up by another, in order to punish Ld Tansor for bankrupting her own father, which, she absolutely believed, sent her adored parent to an early grave. By this act, she set in train the sequence of events that, over fifty years later, have brought you to Evenwood.
By depriving her husband of all knowledge of his son, Lady Tansor did him the greatest possible hurt although he remained unaware of his loss; & it is true that she repented of her great sin, & suffered grievously, at the last, from remorse for what she had done; but by then it was too late to mend, & the consequences were to prove more momentous & far-reaching than she could ever have conceived.
As you now know, with no heir from his second marriage to succeed him, Ld Tansor elected to leave all his extensive property to his Rectors son, Phoebus Daunt, on the single condition that he assume the name of Duport, which he was more than willing to do. Nor need I rehearse what you have read in Mr Vyses memorial to Daunt, concerning his murder by Edward Glyver, his erstwhile school-fellow and friend. And now I beg you to be strong, dear child, for what must be told.
The woman to whom Laura Tansor had given her first-born son, Edward Duport, to be brought up as her own child, was her oldest and dearest companion. Naturally, the boy grew up bearing his foster-mothers married name. That name was Glyver. Do you now understand?
Edward Glyver the man who killed Phoebus Daunt was yr father.
Oh my darling child! I can all too readily conceive the shock that these words will produce in you. How can the blow be softened, being the simple, terrible truth? Let me attempt to do so.
