Painting The Darkness (58 page)

Sir Gervase thumped the desk and eyed Hugo with revulsion. ‘You mean you haven’t the backbone for it.
Dammit
, boy, you sicken me. I’ve given you the finest education money can buy, but you understand the value of nothing, not even the good name of this family.’

‘I could hardly have—’

‘Last year you were in hock to that Jew. Now this. Where will it end? When will I ever stop wishing you, rather than James, had had the damned decency to drown himself?’

Never. Hugo knew that well enough. There would never come a time when his father would cease reminding him of all the ways in which he was his dead brother’s inferior. ‘I think James would have done the same as me,’ he muttered resentfully.

‘He would never have cheated at cards, you mean. But if anyone had ever accused him of such a squalid stupid thing he would have known what to do.’ Stooping over his desk, Sir Gervase pulled open one of the lower drawers and lifted out a large flat wooden box. He laid it on the desk-top and glared at Hugo with undisguised contempt. ‘He would have demanded satisfaction. As I would have done. As I have done, in the past.’ He drew a small key from his waistcoat pocket and, leaning forward, unlocked the box. Then he raised the lid and looked back at Hugo. ‘James would have asked me to let him use these. And I would have been proud to let him. Proud of him – as I can never be proud of you.’ At that, he turned the box round to face his son.

Hugo opened the box and gazed in at a pair of Purdey percussion duelling pistols. The octagonal barrels were finely patterned, the locks and mounts elegantly engraved, the butts saw-handled and deftly carved. About the sleek opposing lines of the two weapons nestling in their green-baize compartments there hovered still, more than forty years after their last fateful outing, a strange, seductive aura that was a grudging love for the means and methods of vengeful death.

Hugo lifted one of the pistols out and weighed it in his hand, feeling the crafted balance of it, sensing the
treacherous
perfection of its purpose. Then he held it at arm’s length, pulled back the cock with his thumb, imagined James Norton standing in front of him, squeezed the trigger, heard the lock strike – and found his target.

VIII

Emily Sumner had concluded an exhausting awestruck tour of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence in great need of sunlight and fresh air. Emerging by the south door of the cathedral into the open dazzling expanse of the Piazza del Duomo, she paused for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. As she stood there, she was surprised to see, a short distance away, the retreating figure of Sir James Davenall, whom she had believed to be enjoying a late breakfast with Constance at their hotel, the pair having long since professed an inability to keep pace with Emily’s arduous schedule of sight-seeing.

Before she could call out, James had reached the doorway at the foot of the campanile, near the western end of the cathedral. Stepping in, he tossed a coin to the attendant and disappeared up the stairs. Emily had not intended to ascend the tower until later in the day, but, seeing her friend, she changed her mind and decided to follow him.

The stairs were steep and ill-lit, the treads shallow and worn in places. Accordingly, Emily made slow progress. At every bend, she looked ahead for a sight of James, but to no avail. Eventually, on the third flight, she observed that some relief was in prospect: the stairs led up to what appeared to be an open floor about a quarter of the way up the tower. She pressed on towards it.

It was as she neared the doorway at the top of the stairs that she heard James’s voice, raised and lacking its usual gentle tone. ‘I intend to marry her. Is that clear enough?’

Emily pulled up. What could it mean? James had
entered
the campanile alone, yet now he was talking to somebody, apparently about Constance. From the step where she had halted, she could see the flagged floor beyond the stairs, glaringly bright in the daylight that reached it through tall windows set between the pillars and buttresses of the tower. Nobody was visible, but James must be close by, so well had his voice carried. Emily was about to venture further when she heard James speak again.

‘You are entitled to reproach me. Of course you are. But I have come to love her and she to love me. I cannot betray her.’

Emily had to thrust her hands against the stone wall either side of the stairs to steady herself. Breathless now from more than the climb, she craned her head and listened.

‘I admit that. But I must weigh her needs against yours.’

Emily realized that she could hear only James’s share of the conversation. She edged closer and, this time, caught the other’s words. ‘Have you forgotten all that I did for you?’ It was a woman’s voice, young and almost certainly English.

‘I have forgotten nothing. But, sometimes, what I remember seems like another life, not my own.’

‘You promised me a share of all you gained.’

‘You may have it. As much as you want. Regularly, via the bank in Zurich.’

‘It’s not money I want. I want to be what you said you would make me: the wife of Sir James Davenall.’

Emily clapped her hand to her mouth to prevent herself crying out. What was this? She had come to trust if not to love James as much as Constance. Who was he talking to? What was she to him? ‘I cannot help it,’ James replied as she listened. ‘You will survive without me. Constance would not.’

‘Have you any idea what I have done to help you?’

‘Don’t think I’m not grateful, but—’

‘I won’t let you marry her!’ The voice was suddenly harsh and insistent.

A brief silence fell, during which Emily could hear no sound but the pounding of her own heart, then James replied: ‘You can’t stop me. Not now. Follow me as long as you like. Dog my every footstep. It won’t make any difference. I’m sorry. So very, very sorry. Our love is dead, and nothing you can say or do will bring it back to life.’

‘I won’t let you marry her.’

‘For God’s sake, be reasonable.’

‘Why should I be? So that you can have all and more than your due? Be warned: I know more about you than you do yourself. If you go through with this, if you marry that woman—’

‘I will, believe me.’

‘Very well. You will. But, when you do, remember that you bring the consequences on your own head.’

‘What do you mean by that? What consequences?’

‘You’ll find out. I’ll make sure you do.’

‘This is foolishness. We—’

‘I won’t follow you any more. But I will wait for you. Not long, but long enough, should you see reason. If not …’

Silence was re-imposed. Emily felt trapped, physically as well as mentally, between flight and confrontation, between complicity and accusation. She could not turn and run, nor could she go on. She could not guess what looks or meanings were passing between James and his companion now they were not speaking, nor could she make sense of all that she had heard.

‘I love you,’ the woman said abruptly.

‘I love another,’ James replied.

‘Then, goodbye. And God help you.’

Suddenly, in a flurry of skirts and a scattering of powdered stone, a figure burst on to the staircase, blotting out the light behind her and plunging down the steps. She hardly seemed to notice Emily as she brushed past her in the darkness and rushed on towards the turning and the next flight beyond.

James did not follow. When Emily looked up at the doorway, there was no sign of him. Perhaps he had gone
on
up the tower. Perhaps he had stayed where he was. Unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, Emily took several deep breaths, composed herself as best she could and climbed the steps into the daylight.

James was standing on the far side of the tower, leaning against the parapet and smoking a cigarette as he gazed out across the city. He could hardly have looked, in his panama and cream linen suit, a more perfectly composed or untroubled figure. It was scarcely possible to believe that he had just been involved even in the mildest of disagreements.

Some movement caught his eye as Emily approached. He whirled round – and smiled broadly. ‘Emily! What a surprise!’ She could detect no tension or unease in his voice as he added: ‘How long have you been there?’

This was the moment, if there would ever be a moment. This was her chance, the only one she would ever have, to challenge him on her sister’s behalf, to call him to account for whatever he had kept from them. Yet, even as she began to frame the words, she began to see and fear the consequences. Constance was so happy at last, so perfectly contented, and James had said nothing disloyal to her: if what she had witnessed was what it seemed to be – a secret quietus with a woman from his past – why not leave it at that? What could anybody gain by dragging it into the open?

‘Is there something wrong?’

‘No,’ Emily replied hastily. ‘Somebody coming down as I was coming up nearly bowled me over, that’s all. And I didn’t expect to find you here.’

James smiled sheepishly. ‘Felt the need of a stroll before breakfast. Would you care to accompany me to the top?’

‘Yes. That would be delightful.’

And so they went on, neither giving the other the slightest hint that anything was amiss. From the summit of the tower, they admired the dome of the cathedral, identified Florentine landmarks and gazed about at the hazy rim of the surrounding hills. James was, as ever,
charming
and solicitous, the ideal guide, the perfect companion, the considerate friend. When Emily glanced at him, she still saw the man whom she regarded as her sister’s rightful husband, but she also heard, above his genial commonplace remarks, the voice in which he had denied the love of another. Then she realized, with the shock of a brutally shattered illusion, that she did not really know him at all. He had become what she had refused to believe he was: a stranger.

IX

Davenall & Partners,

4 Bellows Court,

High Holborn,

LONDON WC.

24th September 1883

Dear James,

I have today received your cable from Rome indicating that you will be returning to this country around the middle of next month. I trust your decision to come home earlier than planned does not mean there is something amiss.

I thought it best to write this letter now for you to read upon your arrival, since there is every likelihood that I will not be on hand to welcome you in person. I have arranged to visit Carntrassna early next month in order to satisfy myself that Kennedy’s management of the estate serves your best interests. I have, of course, no way of knowing how long I will need to spend there, nor, indeed, what I may learn in the process.

Until we meet again, I remain

Ever Yours,

Richard

Chapter Seventeen

I

THE STEAMER IN
which Constance had travelled with James and Emily from Naples docked in London on a still grey October morning. Constance suspected that she would have found her first sight of London’s drab relentless skyline depressing enough, after the warmth and colour of Italy, even without the added sadness of knowing that it meant she and James must soon be parted. It was small wonder, then, that her heart sank as the dockside approached.

Curiously, she could not escape the impression that her two companions were relieved to be home. The proximity imposed by shipboard life had reinforced a suspicion she had first felt in Florence: that James and Emily were, in some strange way, at odds with each other. They had done their best to keep it from her, but she had guessed it all the same. It explained why they had argued in favour of cutting short their holiday, which she had hoped to extend to Greece, and why, now, they did not seem to share her sorrow that the voyage was over.

Constance had not expected her father to bring Patience up from Salisbury to meet them. In her present mood, indeed, she preferred that reunion to be postponed. She had, however, assumed that Richard Davenall would be on hand to greet them. Instead, when they left the tender, only Richard’s clerk, Benson, was there to welcome them. Benson had a letter for James from Richard, which James
read
to her during the cab-ride away from the docks. Richard, it seemed, had gone to Ireland on estate business, news which James appeared to take amiss.

Such, at least, was Constance’s fleeting impression, though, in her distracted state, she paid it little heed. Her thoughts centred now on how best to tolerate the brief separation which she and James were obliged to endure before they could marry. Compared with that, even the coolness she had detected between James and Emily faded into insignificance. As for what Richard might be doing in Ireland, it was the last question likely to occupy her mind. So far as she was concerned, it had no bearing on her future, no bearing at all.

II

It had rained heavily during the night. Richard had been woken several times by gusts rattling against the windows of his room. But now, when he parted the curtains and looked out across the rank lawns of Carntrassna House, it was hard to believe, so blue and untroubled was the sky, so calm the distant waters of Lough Mask. He wrenched up the sash and breathed in the sweet mild air, wondering how long the serenity would last before some engulfing storm rushed down from the mountains behind the house. It would not be long, he felt sure. If he had learned little else in his three days at Carntrassna, it was that nothing there could be relied upon.

He turned back to the wash-stand, poured some water into the bowl and immersed his face in it to goad his sluggish brain into alertness. He was growing too old for such far-flung journeys as this, he told himself, too reliant on the orderly predictable ways of London. Carntrassna, with its vistas of dark peat and brooding mountains, its vivid, ever changing weather and inky-black impenetrable nights, had unnerved him.

Dabbing his face with a towel, Richard remembered his
arrival
at Westport station and the ride from there to the house in Kennedy’s dog-cart as if they had happened an age ago. He had got the measure of the man since and knew now that he had been anxious to impress Richard with both his diligence and his difficulties.