The Dark Clue (46 page)

My notebook was too small to be serviceable; so I turned to Mr. Bligh and said:

‘Do you think I might have some paper?'

I think he, too, was glad to be doing something; for he at once went to the writing table in the corner, and brought me five or six sheets – and then, seeing the speed at which I worked, went back'for more, and stood attentively at my side, like the assistant who turns the pages for a musician, in case I should run out again.

I do not know how long I stood there, or how many drawings I made, but I was still labouring when Nisbet at length returned. He seemed shaken, but after a minute or two recovered somewhat, and, recalling his duties as a host, offered me a glass of wine – which I was only too happy to accept. As he handed it to me, his eye fell on my drawings, and he picked them up, and silently scrutinized them for a minute or more. At length he returned them to me, saying:

‘Send me a sketch of the finished painting when you've done it. The locomotive, too. I might be interested in buying.'

Heavens! We are almost there! My love to you always, and to the children.

Walter

XLIX

Letter from Laura Hartright to Walter Hartright,
7th December, 185–

Limmeridge,
Thursday

My darling boy,

Your letter quite frightened me. Such a horrible accident! That unfortunate man, and his poor wife! I scarce dare think about it.

Please, my darling, be careful.

Your loving wife,

Laura

L

From the journal of Walter Hartright, 10th December, 185–

Prepared the canvas today. Reviewed my drawings. Worked up two or three preliminary watercolour sketches.

But I cannot settle to it.

There is something disturbing about being back in London. Sometimes – most of the time – I still feel myself. But occasionally I seem to glimpse the world through the eyes of someone else entirely – someone I supposed I had cast off for ever, but who appears to have been waiting for me here, and to have gained strength from my return.

Perhaps I am just suffering from wounded pride. For I feel I have been ordered here like a performing animal, to go through my tricks before Lady Eastlake, and parrot Marian's views as my own.

I must force myself back to the picture. If I can but make
that
work, I shall truly know more of Turner than they ever could.

LI

From the journal of Marian Halcombe,
13th December, 185–

Thank God. My prayers have been answered.

How easily do we lose our sense of proportion. Twelve hours ago, had I been able to foresee the circumstances in which I write this, I should have been utterly distraught. But my heart, instead, is full of gratitude – for what I have lost, I can see, is as nothing compared with what I
thought
I had lost, and has been miraculously restored to me.

Now. I must be as good as my word, and set to work.

From this side of the abyss, it is hard to recognize the woman arriving in Fitzroy Square last night as myself. I observe her coldly (as a stranger would) being helped by Walter from the cab, and glancing expectantly towards the front door, and then devoting a full minute or more to smoothing her dress, settling her bonnet, and hoisting her skirts above the mire, as if a wrinkle or a stray hair or a muddy hem were the worst disaster that could befall her. There is something contemptible about such a petty display; and yet it moves me to pity, too – for I know what she in her blithe ignorance cannot even suspect: that her vanity is about to get its come-uppance.

I had supposed, from Elizabeth Eastlake's invitation, that we should be dining with them alone; and I was therefore surprised to find, on entering the drawing room, that there were two other people already there. At first glance you might have supposed them to be an elderly couple; for both were grey-haired, and they shared a kind of plain, no-nonsense demeanour that marked them out as members of the high-minded, rather than the fashionable, portion of the Eastlakes' acquaintance. Something in the way they stood, however – she talking animatedly, he stooping formally towards her, with the intent expression of someone who has difficulty hearing, but does not want to admit it – suggested that they were people who did not know each other well; and as they separated and turned towards us, preparing to be introduced, I saw that in fact she was a full twenty years older than he was. Her lively spirits, plainly, had enabled her to preserve the
manner and appearance of a much younger woman; while he (by some strange law of complementarity), though still only in his fifties, seemed to be hurrying into old age as fast as his stiff limbs could carry him.

‘Mrs. Somerville,' said Sir Charles. ‘I don't believe you know Miss Halcombe?'

But of course I knew her name (it is impossible to spend ten minutes in the company of a blue-stocking like Elizabeth East-lake without hearing it mentioned at least once), and was keenly conscious, as we shook hands, that it was a great honour to meet her. And yet I could not but feel a spasm of disappointment, too, that the Eastlakes had not considered us worthy of an evening by ourselves, but had merely seen us as one more social duty that must somehow be accommodated with all the others.

‘Mrs. Somerville, Mr. Hartright,' murmured Sir Charles. ‘Miss Halcombe, Mr. Cussons.'

The next moment, disappointment gave way to outright dismay; for, turning towards Mr. Cussons, I glimpsed out of the corner of my eye another couple arriving. I could not, for an instant, believe my first impression of them; but a second glance confirmed it:

Mr. and Mrs. Kingsett.

I don't know if Mr. Cussons noticed my shocked expression, for it was impossible to deduce anything from
his
face whatsoever. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man, with a high domed forehead fringed with feathery hair, and the alert unsmiling eyes of a bird of prey.

‘How do you do?' I said.

‘How do you do?'

I was painfully aware of the approaching Kingsetts, and frantically wondering how I should conduct myself towards them; but realizing I could not break free from Mr. Cussons just yet without seeming rude, I lingered beside him, waiting for him to go on. He, however, seemed to feel under no compulsion to say anything more, and merely continued to stare – intently enough, but entirely without interest, so that you felt he wasn't really looking at you at all, but merely keeping watch in case a mouse or a rabbit suddenly broke cover, and scuttled across the carpet. After fifteen seconds I felt I had earned my release – for surely a man
must exercise his claim to a woman's attention by speaking within a reasonable time, or else forfeit it altogether? – and, muttering an excuse, bowed to the inevitable, and turned to Lydia Kingsett.

I knew at once that matters had not improved since our last meeting. She looked more worn than ever, and her hands were deathly cold as she clasped mine – although she was, I think, genuinely glad to see me, and even managed a little smile as she said, with pathetic eagerness:

‘Miss Halcombe, Miss Halcombe, I'm so …'

But then she caught her husband's eye, and stopped abruptly.

‘You're what?' I said, laughing, and trying to encourage her with a tone of easy familiarity. ‘Come on, tell me.'

She mumbled, shook her head, stared at the floor. I touched her wrist, and bent close to her, as you would to a troubled child.

‘Hmm?'

But still she said nothing. In the awkward lull that followed, I felt her husband's gaze upon me, as palpable as heat from a fire, challenging me to turn and discover what had silenced her. I tried to resist, but after a few seconds curiosity got the better of me.

It was disagreeable enough just to see him again, like suddenly smelling some foul half-forgotten odour; but what made it worse was the leering way he was looking at me, which was so frankly insulting that I thought one of the other gentlemen must see it, and come to my defence. Mr. Cussons, however, was still surveying the world from his perch, and Walter and Sir Charles were engaged in conversations of their own; so I had no alternative but to try to deter Kingsett myself, by scowling imperiously at him.

For answer – to my amazement – he protruded his tongue an inch or two from his lips, and ran a finger unhurriedly along it, in a gesture of unmistakable depravity – all the while eyeing me with a shameless smirk. If anyone else observed it (and I pray they did not), they could not but have seen it as evidence of some past intimacy between us; and, although I knew myself to be guiltless, I could not help blushing furiously.

I was, for a moment, transfixed; and then, as I saw him starting to advance towards me, preparing to extend the hand he had just licked, I turned tail and fled. Elizabeth Eastlake was, mercifully,
talking to Walter, and I felt no compunction in intruding on them and drawing her to one side.

‘Please,' I said. ‘Do not ask Mr. Kingsett to take me down to dinner.'

‘Why?' she said, surprised, with a surreptitious glance in his direction.

‘I'll tell you later,' I whispered urgently – for already he had changed course, and was bearing down on us again.

She nodded, and – woman of the world that she is – promptly turned to intercept Kingsett, allowing me to make my escape. I don't know what she said to him, but when, a few minutes later, she whispered something to Sir Charles, and then slipped quietly from the room (presumably to change the place-names on the dinner table) he made no attempt to approach me again.

I stood in a corner, silently congratulating myself. This was not what I had imagined it would be – it might turn out to be a dull and worthless evening – but at least I had averted the worst harm it could do me.

Or so I thought.

I was spared Mr. Kingsett; but in all other respects the dinner turned out every bit as gruesome as I had feared. The price I paid for my deliverance was to be seated next to Mr. Cussons, who for most of the meal showed as little inclination to talk as he had done before it. I did try to breach the silence with a trivial comment or two, but they were as futile as pebbles flung against a castle wall; for he seemed to regard human communication as an unnecessary distraction, and merely grunted and glowered at me when I spoke, as though I had interrupted an important business meeting between him and his soup.

Sir Charles sat to my right, and was pleasant enough; but
he
was largely taken up with rescuing Mrs. Somerville from Mr. Kingsett, who – under the revised arrangement – was now between her and Lady Eastlake. Kingsett was almost as silent as Mr. Cussons – though not, in his case, out of aloofness, but rather from a kind of sulky petulance. The conversation, when it caught fire at all, was about photography, and prisms, and optical effects; and knowing himself unqualified to contribute to it (it was, quite literally above his head; for Elizabeth Eastlake is at
least three inches taller than he is), he did his best to extinguish it altogether. Whenever either of his neighbours said anything, he would sigh, and shift in his chair, and clatter his knife and fork; or gaze absently into space; or appear to listen, with a foolish, put-upon little smile that said:
It's all nonsense, and
I
won't be taken in by it.
But his principal occupation, which he resumed whenever there was a lull, was terrorizing his wife – staring at her with such undisguised loathing and contempt that the poor woman was almost paralysed with misery and fear, and could only respond to Walter's repeated attempts to draw her out with a few stammered words. I cannot deny being relieved that it was she, and not I, who was the object of this relentless persecution; and yet it left me feeling desperately angry and frustrated, too – as if I were being forced to witness some dreadful unequal battle, while being quite powerless to help the victims.

I was also, I own, haunted by another, less worthy thought: how was I going to explain this disaster to Walter? From his easy, cheerful manner you would never have guessed that he felt there was anything wrong, or that he was less than delighted with the company in which he found himself; but once or twice I caught him looking at me curiously down the length of the table, as if to say:
Why did you summon me back to London for
this? To which I could not think of a reply – save to confess candidly that I had over-estimated both Lady Eastlake's enthusiasm for my ideas, and her regard for me personally. Six months ago I might have made such an admission easily enough – indeed, I should have hastened to do so, knowing that he would reassure me, and soothe my bruised
amour propre
– but now the chasm between us seemed to make it impossible.

On only one occasion did the conversation veer in the direction I had hoped. Mrs. Somerville was reminiscing about Italy with Sir Charles when – suddenly observing that no-one had said a word to me for five minutes – she decided to take pity on me.

‘Do you know Italy, Miss Halcombe?'

‘Not well, I'm afraid.'

‘You should, you should. I am obliged to live there, for my husband's health. But I cannot say it is a great sacrifice.'

She laughed, and Sir Charles smiled and nodded in agreement.

‘The buildings,' she went on. ‘The landscape.' She shook her
head, as if such sublime beauty were altogether beyond her powers of description. ‘And the quality of the light. Truly remarkable.'

‘That, doubtless,' I said, seizing my chance, ‘is why Turner was so drawn to it?'

‘Oh, indeed, indeed. I discussed it with him often.'

She paused, busying herself with something on her plate; and, before she could go on, Sir Charles said mildly:

‘And you, I think, are fond of Italy too, Mr. Cussons?'

Mr. Cussons glared – his eyebrows shot up – his head jerked to one side.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘You are fond of Italy?'

Mr. Cussons sat back – looked about him – settled himself on his perch. He had seen his rabbit. He pounced.