The Glass of Time

by Michael Cox

  Seeing the captain brings a degree of composure to my over-wrought brain. I then notice two more figures making their way down the Rise to the bridge.

  I stand watching them as they draw closer and eventually enter the Court. One is an ascetic-looking, dark-complexioned young man; the other is Mr Randolph.

  ‘Miss Gorst! What an early bird you are!’ he cries.

  He then introduces me, in his usual genial way, to his companion, Mr Rhys Paget, describing me as his mother’s companion; but nothing in his look or manner conveys the slightest intimation that I mean more to him than this; neither does anything in Mr Paget’s demeanour suggest that he is aware of his friend’s amorous feelings for me. I had naturally thought that Mr Randolph would have confided in his closest friend; but it seems that he has not yet done so. I deduce from this that he is waiting to confess his true feelings to me first.

  ‘We came back late last night,’ Mr Randolph announces, ‘and put up at the Duport Arms. But Paget was all for getting up early and walking over to take our breakfast here.’

  ‘And do you stay long at Evenwood, Mr Paget?’ I ask.

  Instead of answering, he shoots an enquiring glance at his companion.

  ‘Paget and I leave for Town in the morning,’ the latter interposes. ‘A little excursion. We’ve had our fill, for the time being, of wild Nature. It’s bricks and mortar and smoke for us – for a while, at least. Paget has some business to conduct, and I’m to be his guide to the capital.’

  ‘You see how it is, Miss Gorst,’ says Mr Paget, in a charming lilting accent. ‘I’m but a poor country mouse. Never been to London in my life – strange, I know; but there it is.’

  ‘And when do you return to Evenwood?’ I ask.

  ‘We’ve no definite plans,’ Mr Randolph replies. ‘A few days perhaps – a week if the fancy takes us.’

  ‘Then you are not aware of Lady Tansor’s intention to go to Madeira?’

  The news surprises him but, curiously, he seems rather relieved than otherwise.

  We stand for several more minutes, conversing on the subject of Madeira. Mr Randolph appears increasingly ill at ease, and awkward, whilst his friend, towards whom he glances from time to time in a suggestive way, stands mutely regarding the gravel at his feet in an almost shamefaced manner that only adds to my puzzlement.

  ‘Well, come along, Paget,’ Mr Randolph says at last. ‘That walk has done the trick. I could eat a horse. Will you join us for breakfast, Miss Gorst?’

  I demur, saying that I have a letter to finish writing.

  We enter the house together.

  ‘Through there,’ says Mr Randolph to his friend, pointing towards the door that leads to the Breakfast-Room. ‘I just want a word with Miss Gorst.’ Then, as Mr Paget departs, he turns to me.

  ‘Well, Esperanza,’ he says, ‘it seems that circumstances have overtaken us. I’d hoped to speak to you on, well, you know – on the matter we spoke of on our walk; but I suppose it will now have to wait until your return from Madeira. Today is out of the question, I’m sorry to say. Paget and I have a great deal to do, and we’re to stay the night at the George in Stamford – early train, I’m afraid. But perhaps it’s for the best. I’m sure Mother will be keeping you busy also. I expect she’s already making lists! Madeira, eh? Mr Shillito says it’s a capital place.’

  His words trail off, as if he is at a loss to know what to say next. Then he suddenly brightens.

  ‘Now then,’ he says, ‘it’s a plate of chops for me, if Paget hasn’t eaten them all!’

  With a strained smile, he wishes me good-morning, and marches quickly off to the Breakfast-Room, leaving me baffled by his nervous and embarrassed manner, but relieved that the private conversation he wishes to have with me has been postponed until after our return from Madeira.

  THE LATTER PART of the morning was spent with Emily in her apartments. Just before luncheon, there was a knock at the door, and in strode Mr Perseus.

  ‘Miss Gorst,’ he said. ‘Would you excuse us? I wish to speak to my mother on a private matter.’

  I was not called again until tea-time. Emily was by the fire in her sitting-room, an atlas open on her lap.

  ‘Come and sit down, Alice dear,’ she said eagerly. ‘Our plans have changed. We shall not be going to Madeira after all. Perseus has persuaded me that Italy is the place.’

  ‘Italy?’

  ‘He has suggested that we go to Florence. Perseus is to come with us – he has conceived a wonderful new poem, on the subject of Dante and Beatrice. Won’t that be splendid?’

  28

  To the South

  I

  An Unexpected Visitor

  THUS IT was decided. Florence it was to be.

  Mr Perseus immediately took over all the arrangements, and we left Evenwood at the end of January 1877, to spend a night in Grosvenor Square, before catching the early boat-train the next morning. It was a great relief to me that the Madeiran plan had been abandoned; and having Mr Perseus accompanying us would, I hoped, present daily opportunities to try what I could to entice him into marriage, as I had been instructed to do.

  Mr Randolph and his friend had preceded us to Grosvenor Square. On the morning of our departure, they both came down to the front steps to see us off. Mr Randolph seemed unusually reserved and nervy – Mr Paget also – as he kissed his mother, and coldly shook hands with Mr Perseus. We exchanged a few awkwardly hurried words of farewell, after which the two friends went back into the house.

  As we pulled away, I caught a brief glimpse of the pair, huddled just inside the front door, heads together. Mr Randolph had not even favoured me with a departing wave.

  We proceeded to the terminus in silence – a most dismal trio. Mr Perseus was in one of his most frostily silent moods; I was musing on the marked change in Mr Randolph; whilst Emily, as I guessed, had another matter on her mind.

  Three days earlier, at about ten o’clock in the morning, just as I was descending the stairs from the Picture Gallery, I had heard the crunch of carriage wheels on the gravel of the Entrance Court. Within a few minutes, I learned from Barrington that we had an unexpected visitor.

  ‘Mr Armitage Vyse, miss. He wishes – most insistently – to see her Ladyship on a pressing matter of business.’

  I immediately ran back upstairs to fetch the key to the closet from where I had previously spied upon the two conspirators. Once at my point of vantage, I drew out my note-book and pencil, in order to set down in shorthand what passed between them.

  Through one of the little yellow roundels, I could see Emily on the window-seat, her eyes open to their fullest extent, black and impenetrable. Mr Vyse was loping backwards and forwards in front of her, shoulders hunched, a furious look on his wolfish face. His tall, gangling figure, dressed in a bottle-green velvet coat and tight mulberry-coloured trousers strapped over his shining boots, presented a strangely mesmerizing sight. All I could think of as I watched him was the horrible picture of the great, long, red-legged scissor-man in Hoffmann’s picture-book, * which Mr Thornhaugh used to read to me as a child.

  ‘Not going!’ he snarls exasperatedly. ‘Not going! When I told you – I mean, of course, advised you – that you must go? How else can we begin to prove who your new friend really is? Depend upon it, she knows that the man Shillito met, who called himself Gorst, was her father, although she denies it. There would undoubtedly have been people still resident on the island who also remembered him – and now you say you won’t go! How many times have I told you that your precious companion is not who she claims to be, and that she’s here to work against us? Yet you continue to trust her! Now we’ve lost a golden chance to begin uncovering the truth about Miss Esperanza Gorst. This is badly done, my Lady, very badly done.’

  To emphasize his displeasure, he slams the tip of his stick hard down on the floor-boards, in a most intimidating manner.

  ‘Perseus did not wish me to go to Madeira,’ says Emily, calmly defiant. ‘And there’s an end to it.’

  ‘Perseus! You prefer to take the advice of your coxcomb son? What does he know of our b
usiness, or how it should best be conducted? You might as well have asked his fool of a brother.’

  The look of insulted contempt that Emily gives him would have withered the nerve of a lesser man; but Mr Vyse continues to glare menacingly at her.

  ‘I did not seek my son’s opinion on the matter,’ she says, facing him down with admirable composure. ‘Perseus suspected that going to Madeira, although originally urged by Dr Manley, had been, in large part, dictated by you – and you know his opinion of you, Armitage. That suspicion was enough for him; and so he came to me and urged me – in the strongest terms – to go elsewhere. On reflection, I saw that he was right. I never wished to go to Madeira. A disagreeable sea-journey, and then to be cooped up on an island with such a small society – no, it would not have suited. I need space and liberty, as well as warmth. My son’s recommendation that we should go to Italy instead, and that he should accompany us, perfectly coincided with my own inclinations. And so it’s all settled, and everything is in hand. We are going to Florence.’

  Her doggedness enrages Mr Vyse even more. He hovers over her, seeming now like some great predatory insect.

  ‘You fool!’ he hisses, casting aside all pretence of deference. ‘Why will you not listen to me? She – is – here – to – harm – you. Why can you not see it? I have yet to discover why she’s here, or who has sent her; but it’s absurd to believe that she’s not this man Gorst’s daughter – the coincidence is too great. Every instinct tells me that, if we can once find out who he was, then we may begin to understand her secret purpose.’

  ‘I ask again,’ says Emily, immovably, ‘as I’ve asked you before: what makes you so certain that Alice is deceiving us? What has she done to make you suspect her?’

  With a sigh, Mr Vyse settles himself beside her on the window-seat.

  ‘Tell me, my Lady,’ he says, in a wheedling tone, taking her hand in his, ‘are you acquainted with a Mr John Lazarus?’

  She says that she has never heard of such a person in her life.

  ‘Mr Lazarus is a former shipping-agent,’ Mr Vyse tells her, ‘of Billiter Street, City. Now then: what reason, do you suppose, would your treasured companion have to visit this gentleman?’

  When Emily says nothing, Mr Vyse releases her hand and begins to examine his perfectly manicured finger-nails in a most significant manner.

  ‘Perhaps I should have mentioned,’ he says, in a horrid knowing way, ‘that Mr John Lazarus passed most of his professional life in the Atlantic wine trade, and that he had a residence on the island of Madeira.’

  Emily’s face now registers a faint flush of disquiet, although it is nothing to the shock I experience on hearing Mr Vyse’s words. What a fool I had been! Of course he knew of my visit to Billiter Street – his man Digges had followed me there.

  ‘Think for a moment,’ urges Mr Vyse. ‘How do you suppose that Miss Gorst came to know of this gentleman, or where to find him? Shillito didn’t tell her, that’s for sure. Someone else put her on to him.’

  ‘Someone else? But who?’

  ‘If we knew that,’ he replies, quietly now, ‘then we might know all.’

  Emily now quits the window-seat and begins to pace up and down, her hands pressed to her temples.

  ‘This is too much!’ she exclaims. ‘My head is fit to burst with all your insinuations. I must follow my heart, and my heart tells me that Alice has nothing to hide, and that there’s a perfectly innocent explanation for these things. You must give me proof, Armitage – solid proof – if I’m to believe otherwise. Do you have it? No – I see you don’t. This is all Mr Shillito’s fault. What does he have to say on the matter? Does he still believe that he’d formerly known the man he met on Madeira under another name?’

  ‘Alas!’ sighs Mr Vyse. ‘There now seems little likelihood that Shillito will ever be able to confirm the truth of his belief.’

  ‘I knew it!’ cries Emily, triumphantly.

  ‘What do you know, my Lady?’

  He rises slowly to his feet. They stand face to face.

  ‘Do you know, for instance,’ he resumes, ‘that, last evening, in Finsbury Square, Shillito was attacked by two ruffians and left for dead?’

  On receiving this cruel coup de grâce, Emily gasps.

  ‘Mr Shillito attacked! What are you telling me?’

  ‘I am telling you, my Lady, that my old friend Shillito, having sustained dreadful injuries about the head and face, and being presently deprived of the power of speech and movement, is not expected to live out the week. Any other man would already have succumbed to his injuries, but Shillito’s skull was always notoriously thick.’

  ‘But this can have nothing to do with Alice,’ Emily insists. ‘I am appalled, naturally; but surely this was a case of common assault. Was he robbed?’

  Mr Vyse is obliged to admit that his friend’s pocket-book and gold watch were indeed taken by his assailants.

  ‘But of course it was cleverly done,’ he quickly adds, ‘to make it appear like an indiscriminate attack. There was a witness, you see, a man with a coffee-stall, who saw the two blackguards speaking beforehand, in what he describes as a familiar manner, to a tall, well-built, well-muffled gentleman – a gentleman, note. I deduce from this that chance played no part in the business, and that robbery was not the principal motive, only payment for the commission.’

  This gives Emily some pause; but then, collecting herself somewhat, she asks again what the attack on Mr Shillito could possibly have to do with me.

  ‘Nothing directly and knowingly, perhaps,’ Mr Vyse grudgingly concedes. ‘But indirectly and unknowingly? Well, then I should say that Miss Gorst is certainly implicated. For here, as in the matter of Mr John Lazarus, I discern the guiding hand of the Shadow.’

  ‘The Shadow?’

  Emily gives a derisive laugh.

  ‘It’s my name for the intelligence that I believe is directing events,’ Mr Vyse explains. ‘The person, if you will have it in plain words, who stands behind Miss Esperanza Gorst, like a second shadow.’

  ‘Now you are being ridiculous,’ returns Emily, with another derisive laugh. ‘I’ve heard enough of these wild accusations and empty suppositions. First, we have a man Mr Shillito claims to have met twenty years ago who may, or may not, have been Alice’s father. Now we have this mysterious “Shadow”. They cannot, of course, be the same person, for we know from the enquiries you made in Paris that the Edwin Gorst who was certainly Alice’s father is dead and buried in the St-Vincent Cemetery; and if your “Shadow” is not that Edwin Gorst, then who is he, and why – even supposing that he exists – has he sent Alice here? No, it’s all nonsense, Armitage, and I’ll hear no more of it.’

  Mr Vyse, seeing at last that she will not be moved in her defence of my innocence, makes her a little bow of reluctant capitulation.

  ‘Very well, my Lady,’ he says, with a conciliatory smile, although patently stung by her wilfulness. ‘We’ll say no more on the matter of Miss Gorst, until I can place before you – as I’m confident I shall be able to do – the proof that you require. To demonstrate my generosity of spirit even further, you may go to Florence, if that is your wish. There’s a condition, however, on which I must absolutely insist.’

  He reaches out his arm and, in a most impertinent manner, takes and holds her chin in his hand.

  ‘I think you know what it is.’

  Still she stands, rigidly silent.

  ‘I must have my answer when you return.’

  A moment passes.

  ‘You shall have your answer, never fear,’ she says, pulling away. She then returns to the window-seat and places her cheek against the glass, as I have seen her do so many times before.

  ‘Then I shall wish you “bon voyage”, my Lady,’ says Mr Vyse, assuming an air of mock affability; and with that, taking up his hat and stick, he leaves the room, humming quietly to himself.

  AFTER MR VYSE had gone, Emily remained gazing meditatively out of the window.

  I tip-toed from my hiding-place, locked the door again, and ran up to my room.

  I was in a perilous situation: that was very clear. Emily
appeared immune at present to Mr Vyse’s suspicions of me; but doubts – however small – must have been planted in her mind, and he appeared determined to bring her the evidence of my duplicity that she had demanded. As for the attack on Mr Shillito, on this alone Mr Vyse must have been mistaken; for of course I was certain that it could have no connexion with me, or with the Great Task.

  One more incident that occurred that day I must mention, trifling though it appeared at the time.

  It was a chill afternoon and, feeling suddenly cold as I sat transcribing my shorthand account of what I had just heard into my Book of Secrets, I thought I would put a match to the fire, only to find that the grate was empty. I rang down for Mrs Battersby, to ask why the fire had not been laid; but it was Barrington who answered the summons.

  ‘Where’s Mrs Battersby?’ I asked.

  ‘If you please, miss,’ replied the footman, in his usual funereal way, ‘she’s been given leave by her Ladyship to visit a sick relation in London – an aunt, I believe. She left yesterday evening.’

  I felt a little piqued that Emily had not mentioned this to me; but as it seemed of such little account, I soon put it from my mind.

  After the fire had been made up and lit by one of the house-maids, I passed the rest of the time before dinner writing to Madame assuring her that I would write often during our absence from Evenwood. I also sent off a short note to North Lodge, arranging for any communications from Mr Wraxall to be sent poste restante to Florence, adding in a postscript a few words concerning the attack on Mr Shillito. A reply was speedily received.

  MY DEAR MISS GORST,—

  It shall be done as you request.

  The Shillito business is a strange and unexpected turn of events & I can make little sense of it, tho’ it interests me exceedingly & must, I feel, have some connexion with our affairs. But do not concern yrself about it, or about Mr Vyse. You will be safe in Florence, and when you return, you will have me and others to watch over you.