Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

He was smiling to himself as he stroked his long beard and gazed fondly at the open folio. I felt a great closeness to the dear old fellow in that moment, and caught myself wishing that I had had such a man as my father.

He returned the book to its place, and then took down another: Capgrave’s Nova Legenda Angliae , printed by Wynkyn de Worde in 1516. As he left me to pore over this, he strode over to another bay and brought back the first printing of Walter Hylton’s great mystical treatise, the Scala Perfectionis , the Ladder of Perfection, printed, again by de Worde, in 1494, and the first book to which he put his name. I had hardly begun to examine it when he hurried back with yet another treasure – Pynson’s reprint of the Ars Moriendi. Then off he went again, returning this time with St Jerome’s Vitas Patrum , Caxton’s translation, completed on the last day of his life, and exquisitely printed in folio by de Worde in 1496.

And so it went on, until darkness began to fall, and a servant appeared to bring us lights. At length, while the Rector was replacing a particularly fine copy of Barclay’s Sallust, I began to make my own perambulation of the room.

In a recess between two of the arched windows that gave onto the terrace, I stopped to look into a little glass-topped display case, containing a curious piece of vellum, dirty and browned, a few inches wide and two or three inches from top to bottom, placed on a piece of blue velvet. It had plainly been folded up for a long period of time but had now been opened out for display, held down at each corner by round brass weights, each of which had been stamped with the Duport coat of arms.

It was crammed with tiny writing, elegantly executed, and peppered with many little flourishes and curlicues, contractions, and abbreviations. A magnifying-glass lay on top of the cabinet, and with this I slowly began to make out the opening words: ‘HENRICUS Dei gratia Rex Angliae Dominus Hyberniae et Dux Aquitaniae dilecto et fideli suo Malduino Portuensi de Tansor militi salutem.’ *

As I mouthed the words to myself, I realized that it was the original writ, sent out by Simon de Montfort in the name of King Henry III, summoning Sir Maldwin Duport to attend Parliament in 1264 – a document of exceptional rarity, and probably unique of its kind. How it had survived seemed little short of miraculous.

I was momentarily transfixed, both by the rarity of the document, and by what it signified. Knowing now that I was descended from Sir Maldwin Duport, what qualities of character, I wondered, had I inherited from this man of iron and blood? Courage, I hoped, and a bold, enduring will; a spirit not easily cowed; resolve above the common; and the strength to contend until all opposition failed. For I, too, had been summoned, like my ancestor – not by the will of some earthly monarch, but called by Fate to reclaim my birthright. And who can deny what the Iron Master has ordained?

I laid down the magnifying-glass, and continued my inspection of the Library. At the far end was a half-open door, which, as my readers will already know, I am unable to resist. And so I put my head round it.

The chamber beyond was small, and appeared to be windowless, although on closer examination I made out, high up, a row of curious glazed apertures, triangular in shape, that admitted just enough light for me to be able to discern its general character and contents. Picking up one of the lighted candles left earlier by the servant, I entered.

From its shape, I realized that this must be the ground floor of the squat octagonal tower, of Gothic design, that I had noticed abutting the south end of the terrace. Standing against one of the angled walls was a bureau overflowing with papers; the rest of the room was fitted out with shelves and cupboards, the former stacked with labelled bundles of documents that reminded me irresistibly of those on my mother’s work-table at Sandchurch. Tucked away in the far corner was a little arched door, behind which, I surmised, must be a staircase leading to an upper floor.

But what had instantly caught my attention on entering the chamber was a portrait that hung above the bureau. I raised the candle to observe it more closely.

It showed a lady, full length, in a flowing black dress of Spanish style. Her dark hair, crowned with a cap of black lace rather like a mantilla, was drawn back from her face, and fell about her bare shoulders in two long ringlets. A band of black velvet encircled her lovely throat. She was looking away, as if something had caught her attention; the long fingers of her left hand rested on a large silver brooch attached to the bodice of her dress, whilst her right hand, in which she held a fan, dangled languorously by her side. The artist had depicted her leaning against a piece of ancient stonework, beyond which a bright moon could be seen peeping out from behind an angry mass of dark clouds.

It was altogether an arresting composition. But her face! She had the most strikingly large eyes, with intense black pupils, and pencil-thin black eyebrows; striking, too, was her long but slender retroussé nose, and her delicately moulded mouth. The effect of her physical loveliness, combined with the expression of wilfulness in repose, which the artist had so skilfully caught, was utterly enchanting.

I held the candle closer, and discerned an inscription: ‘R.S.B. fecit. 1819.’ I knew then, without a doubt, that this was Lord Tansor’s first wife – my beautiful, wayward mother. I tried to reconcile this surpassing beauty with the memories that I still had of sad, faded Miss Lamb, but could not. The artist had painted her in her prime, at the pinnacle of her beauty and pride – in the very moment before she took the fateful step that was to change her life, and mine, for ever.

There was a noise behind me. Dr Daunt was standing in the doorway, a book in his gloved hands.

‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘I thought you would like to see this.’

He handed me a copy of Sir Thomas Browne’s Pseudodoxia Epidemica , the first edition of 1646.

I smiled, thanked him, and began to examine the book, another constant companion of mine, but my mind was elsewhere.

‘So you have found your way into Mr Carteret’s sanctum. It seems strange to be here and not see him sitting in his customary place.’ He gestured towards the bureau. ‘But I see you have also found my Lady. Of course I did not know her – she died before we came to Evenwood; but people still remember and speak of her. She was, by all accounts, an extraordinary woman. The portrait is unfinished, as you will have noticed, which is why it hangs here. Goodness me, is that the time?’

The clock in the Library had struck the hour of six.

‘I’m afraid I must return to the Rectory. My wife will be expecting me. Well, then, Mr Glapthorn, I hope the afternoon has not been too unpleasant for you?’

We parted at the head of the path that led through a gate in the Park wall, past the Dower House, to the Rectory.

The Rector paused for a moment, looking towards the lights of the Dower House.

‘That poor girl,’ he said.

‘Miss Carteret?’

‘She is alone in the world now, the fate above all others that her poor father feared. But she has a strong spirit, and has been brought up well.’

‘Perhaps she may marry,’ I said.

‘Marry? Perhaps she may, though I wonder who would have her. My son had some hopes once in that direction, and my wife – I mean my wife and I, of course – would not have been against the match. But she would not have him; and I fear also that her father was not fond of him. Mr Carteret was not a rich man, you know, and his daughter will now be dependent on Lord Tansor’s generosity. And then she has such decided opinions on matters that really ought not to concern a young lady. I suppose that comes from her time abroad. I myself have never left these shores, and hope I never have to do so. My son, though, has expressed a wish to go to America, of all places. Well, we shall see. And now, Mr Glapthorn, I must bid you a very good evening, and hope we may have the pleasure of seeing each other again very soon.’