Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

Left alone once more (or so they thought), father and daughter stood awkwardly for a moment or two, saying nothing. It was Miss Carteret who spoke first.

‘Father, as you love me, I must ask you to be plain with me. What company is Mr Phoebus Daunt keeping that appears to be so abhorrent to you? Surely you do not refer to Mr Pettingale?’

‘No, not Mr Pettingale. Though I do not know that gentleman, I have no reason to believe anything ill of him.’

‘Then whom do you mean?’

‘I mean the other … person. A more loathsome, villainous creature I have never seen. And he calls himself an associate of Mr Phoebus Daunt’s! You see! This swaggering brute, this … this Moloch in human form, comes here, to Evenwood, in the company of Mr Daunt. There now: what do you say to that?’

‘What can I say?’ she asked. She was calm now, standing framed by the curtained window in that characteristic pose of hers, hands crossed in front of her, her head tilted slightly back and to one side, her face devoid of all expression. ‘I do not know the person you describe. If he is, indeed, an associate of Mr Phoebus Daunt’s, well then, that is Mr Daunt’s affair, not ours. There may be perfectly good reasons why it is necessary for him, perhaps temporarily, to have dealings with the person you describe. You must see that we are not in a position to judge on this point. As for Mr Daunt himself, I can assure you, on my dear mother’s life, and before Heaven, that I can find no reason – no reason at all – to rebuke myself for any dereliction of the duty that a daughter owes to a father.’

Though she had said nothing very specific, her attitude, and the emphatic tone in which she had delivered the words, appeared to have a composing effect on Mr Carteret, who ceased continually removing his spectacles, and now replaced his handkerchief in his pocket.

‘And am I truly wrong, then, my dear?’ The question was asked quietly, almost plaintively.

‘Wrong, father?’

‘Wrong to think you cherish a secret regard for Mr Phoebus Daunt.’

‘Dearest father …’ Here she reached forward, and took his hand in hers. ‘I feel for him as I have always done. He is our neighbour, and my childhood friend. That is all. And if you force me to be direct, then I will say that I do not like Mr Daunt, though I will always be civil to him, for his father’s sake. If you have mistaken civility for affection, then I am sorry, but I really cannot be blamed.’

She was smiling now, and what father could have resisted such a smile? And so Mr Carteret kissed his daughter, and said that he was a foolish old man to think that she could ever go against him.

Then a thought seemed to strike him.

‘But, my dear,’ he asked anxiously, ‘you will want to get married, I suppose, some not very distant day?’

‘Perhaps I shall,’ she said gently. ‘But not yet, Papa, not yet.’

‘And not to him, my dear.’

‘No, Papa. Not to him.’

He nodded, kissed her again, and wished her good-night. As he turned the corner of the passage that led to his bedchamber, Mrs Rowthorn, with Lizzie Brine in tow, quietly returned to the kitchen.

This, then, is a true and accurate record, or as true and accurate as I am able to make it, of what passed that night between Mr Paul Carteret and his daughter.

But was anything left unsaid? And were there secrets in each heart that neither could tell to the other?

*[‘We win by degrees’. Ed. ]

*[The poet Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1793–1835), author of Tales and Historic Scenes in Verse (1819), The Forest Sanctuary, and Other Poems (1825), Records of Women, with Other Poems (1828), Songs of the Affections, with Other Poems (1830), and many other works. She also published translations of the sixteenth-century Portuguese poet Luís Vaz de Camões. Ed. ]

†[Harriet Martineau (1802–76), social reformer and woman of letters. Her works included Letters on Mesmerism (1845), Eastern Life, Present and Past (1848), Household Education and her radical History of the Thirty Years’ Peace (both 1849), and her novel Deerbrook (1839). Ed. ]

27

Sub rosa *

After walking back to the stable-yard, I entered the Dower House by the kitchen door. There I came upon Susan Rowthorn deep in conversation with the cook, Mrs Barnes. In my professional work I always like to cultivate servants; and here was just the opportunity that I had been seeking.

‘Will you take some food in your room, sir?’ asked the housekeeper.

‘I’ll take some food, certainly,’ I replied, ‘but I’ll take it here with you, if I may.’

My gallantry having produced its desired effect, I left the two women to their preparations, while I returned to my room to replenish the supply of cigars that I usually keep about my person.

At the foot of the stair-case, I stopped.

Just inside the front door stood a black leather imperial, †together with three or four smaller bags. Was someone leaving? Or someone visiting? I noted the initials on the lid of the trunk: ‘M-MB’. A visitor, I concluded. Another question for Mrs Rowthorn.

Having re-supplied myself with cigars from my bag, I returned to the kitchen, noticing en route that the drawing-room door, which had been shut when I was examining the trunk, was now open. Naturally I peeped inside, but the room was empty, although my nose, which is sensitive to such things, caught a faint and intriguing scent of lavender lingering on the air.

The meal prepared by Mrs Barnes was a hearty one and, after my excursion to the Temple and the ride back in the landau with Miss Carteret, most welcome. I sat by the fire, allowing Mrs Rowthorn full rein, for an hour or more. What she told me, as I tucked into a chop with two broiled kidneys, lubricated with a generous go of gin-punch, and followed up by a slice of most excellent apple-pie, I have incorporated into the preceding account. One question only remained.

‘I suppose Miss Carteret is engaged with her visitors?’

‘Oh, only one visitor, sir,’ offered Mrs Rowthorn. ‘Miss Buisson.’

‘Ah, yes. A relative, perhaps?’

‘No, sir, a friend. From her Paris days. John Brine has just gone to take her things up to her room. What a shock for her, poor lamb, to get here at last and find us all in such a state.’

I asked whether Miss Buisson had known Mr Carteret well, to which Mrs Rowthorn replied that the young lady had paid many visits to England, and that she had been a particular favourite of her late master’s.

‘I suppose Miss Carteret must have many friends of her own sex in the neighbourhood,’ I ventured.

‘Friends?’ came the answer. ‘Well, yes, you could say so. Miss Langham, and Sir Granville Lorimer’s girl; but, strange to say, no one like Miss Buisson.’

‘How so?’

‘Inseparable, sir. That is the word I should use. Like sisters, they are when together, though of course so unlike in looks and character.’ She shook her head. ‘No. Miss has no other friend like Miss Buisson.’

As I was about to leave, John Brine came down the hall stairs. He coloured slightly on seeing me, but I quickly diverted the womens’ attention by knocking over my third (or was it fourth?) glass of gin-punch. Apologizing for my clumsiness, I made good my escape.

Back in my room, I lit another cigar, kicked off my boots, and lay down on my bed.

I felt sick and uneasy. A surfeit of gin-punch, and too many cigars, no doubt. Though I was exhausted, my mind was unquiet, harassed with commotion, and sleep seemed impossible. Tomorrow I would return to London, no wiser concerning the nature of Mr Carteret’s discovery than when I came to Northamptonshire, but certain that it had brought about his death. And if the Tansor succession was at the heart of the business, then this could mean that I, too, was caught up in the plot that had led to his murder.