Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘May I ask how long you will be staying in London, Miss Carteret?’

‘With such prescience as you possess, Mr Glapthorn,’ she replied, ‘I imagine you can answer that question for yourself.’

‘Prescience? What can you mean?’

‘You wish me to suppose, then, that meeting you here is coincidental?’

‘You may suppose what you wish,’ I said, as genially as I could, ‘or, if you cannot accept the fact of coincidence, perhaps you would be more comfortable with the notion of Fate.’

At this, she managed a contrite little smile, and asked to be excused for her ill humour.

‘Your kind note of acceptance to my father’s interment was received,’ she went on, ‘but we were disappointed not to have observed you amongst the company.’

‘I am afraid I was a little late in arriving. I paid my respects to your father – as my firm’s representative, as well as in a personal capacity – after the carriages had departed; and then, having an urgent engagement here in town, and not wishing to intrude on you or your family, I returned immediately.’

‘We were hoping to receive you at the Dower House again,’ she said, taking off her glasses and placing them in her reticule. ‘You were expected, you know. But you had your own reasons for not coming, I dare say.’

‘I did not wish to intrude, as I said.’

‘As you said. But you put yourself to a great deal of trouble on our account in travelling all the way to Northamptonshire only to return immediately. I hope you met your engagement?’

‘It was no trouble, I assure you.’

‘You are kind to say so, Mr Glapthorn. And now, if you will excuse us. Perhaps coincidence – or Fate – will arrange for our paths to cross again.’

Mademoiselle Buisson gave me a curtsey and a smile; but Miss Carteret merely inclined her head a little, in the way that I had seen her do to Daunt, and passed on down the steps.

Of course, I could not allow them to go and so, feigning a sudden disinclination to spend such an uncommonly fine November day looking at dull pictures, requested the honour of accompanying them a little way, if they were proceeding on foot. Mademoiselle announced brightly that they had thought of walking down to Green-park, which I agreed was a capital prospect on such an afternoon.

‘Then come with us, by all means, Mr Glapthorn!’ cried Mademoiselle. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Emily?’

‘I do not mind, if you do not, and if Mr Glapthorn has nothing better to do,’ came the reply.

‘Then it is settled,’ said her friend, clapping her hands. ‘How delightful!’

And so off we set together across the Square, Miss Carteret on my right hand, Mademoiselle Buisson on my left.

Once in the open spaces of the Park, Miss Carteret’s earlier irritation seemed to lessen. Little by little, we began to speak of things other than the late tragic events at Evenwood, and by the end of the afternoon, with the sun beginning to decline, we were talking openly and easily, as if we had all been old friends.

Towards four o’clock we walked into Piccadilly, and the ladies waited by the kerb while I secured a hansom.

‘May I tell the driver where you wish to be taken?’ I asked innocently.

She gave the address of her aunt’s house in Wilton-crescent, and I handed her into the cab, followed by Mademoiselle Buisson, who smiled at me in a dreamy way as she settled herself into her seat.

‘Miss Carteret, it is presumptuous, I know, but will you allow me to call on you – and Mademoiselle Buisson?’

To my surprise, she did not hesitate in her reply.

‘I am at home – I should say at my aunt’s home – every morning from eleven.’

‘May I come on Friday, then, at eleven?’ I confess that I asked the question, thinking she might invent some excuse for not being able to receive me; but instead, to my surprise, she leaned her head on one side and simply said:

‘Of course you may.’

As the hansom pulled away, she pushed down the window, looked back at me, and smiled.

A simple smile. But it sealed my fate.

On Friday, as arranged, I called upon Miss Carteret at her aunt’s house in Wilton-crescent. I was shown into a large and elegant drawing-room, where I found Miss Carteret and her friend seated together on a little sofa by the window, each apparently engrossed in reading.

‘Mr Glapthorn! How nice!’

It was Mademoiselle who spoke first, jumping up to pull a small arm-chair closer to their sofa, and begging me to sit down.

‘We have been so dreadfully dull here this morning, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, resuming her place next to Miss Carteret, and tossing her book onto a nearby table. ‘Like two old spinsters. I declare I might have gone quite mad if you hadn’t come to see us. Emily, of course, can sit for hours on her own and never minds it; but I must have company. Don’t you love company, Mr Glapthorn?’

‘Only my own,’ I replied.

‘Oh, but that is terrible. You are as bad as Emily. And yet you were such a lively companion the other day, in the Park, was he not, Emily?’

All through this exchange Miss Carteret had sat, book in hand, impassively regarding her friend. Then, ignoring the question, she turned towards me and took off her spectacles.

‘How is your employer, Mr Glapthorn?’

‘My employer?’

‘Yes. Mr Christopher Tredgold. I understand from Lord Tansor that he has suffered a seizure.’

‘He was very poorly when I last saw him. I’m afraid I cannot say whether his condition has since improved.’

Mademoiselle Buisson gave a little sigh and crossed her arms, as if she were piqued by the suddenly serious turn of the conversation.

I had hoped for a warmer, less restrained, reception than this from Miss Carteret, and was unsure of what to say next.

‘Is your aunt at home?’ I said at last, feeling it would be polite of me to ask.

‘She is visiting a friend,’ Miss Carteret replied, ‘and will not return until this evening.’

‘Mrs Manners is a person who likes company very much,’ Mademoiselle Buisson observed, with a defiant toss of her head.

‘I think Mr Tredgold mentioned to me that Mrs Manners was your mother’s youngest sister?’ My employer had once spoken of Mr Carteret’s family, and of this lady, with whom Miss Carteret enjoyed a particularly close relationship.

‘That is correct.’

‘With whom you resided when you were in Paris?’

‘You are very curious about my family, Mr Glapthorn.’ The rebuke – if the remark was intended as such – was spoken in a soft, almost teasing tone, which strongly conveyed to me the notion that she was, after all, disposed to maintain the friendly relations that we had established during the course of our afternoon in Green-park. This encouraged me to take a little risk with my response.

‘I am curious about your family, Miss Carteret, because I am curious about you.’

‘That is a rather bold statement, and curious in itself. What possible interest can my dull life hold for someone such as you? For I conceive, Mr Glapthorn, that you are a person of wide experience and interests, with a certain largeness of view that I have observed before in men of strong intellect who have lived a good deal in the world on their own terms. You live by your wits – I am sure I am right to say this – and this gives you, if I may say so, a kind of feral character. Yes, you are an adventurer, Mr Glapthorn. I do not say that you can never be tamed, but I am sure you are not destined for domesticity. Don’t you agree, Marie-Madeleine?’

Mademoiselle had been regarding Miss Carteret and me with an expression of intense interest, her eyes darting from one to the other as each of us spoke.

‘I think,’ she said slowly, pursing her lips in concentration, ‘that Mr Glapthorn is what I have heard called in English a dark horse. Yes, that is what I think. Vous êtes un homme de mystère.’