Painting The Darkness (5 page)

For the first time, Davenall’s legal calm seemed ruffled. ‘Catherine retains her own solicitor in Bath, who will doubtless represent her at the examination. She is not in the habit of communicating with me. Generally, I only hear from her through Sir Hugo
.’

‘
Forgive me. I did not mean to intrude
.’

The smile reasserted itself. ‘There is nothing to forgive. What you propose is most desirable. Catherine and your wife were
once
very close, I believe. They will be able to reassure each other. It is timely, most timely
.’

‘
You really think so?
’

‘
I do, without doubt.’ He rose from his chair, with something of an effort: there was a touch of fatigue in his words and movements. ‘But I must be on my way. Time and tide, et cetera. We will meet at Bladeney House next Tuesday – at eight o’clock?
’

‘
I’ll be there
.’

‘
Good, good. Until then.’ We shook hands and, as we did so, he must have sensed my downcast mood. ‘Does something worry you about this visit to Cleave Court, Trenchard?
’

I looked straight at him. ‘What should there be to worry me?
’

‘
I don’t know
.’

‘
Nor do I. And perhaps that is it. Perhaps what worries me is the thought that I might not know my wife as well as I should
.’

He grasped my forearm sympathetically. ‘Steady, man. The probability is that, a week from now, it will all be over. Then you will be able to smile at such thoughts. Trust me: Mr Norton is just a nine days’ wonder
.’

III

James Norton had, as a matter of fact, already exceeded Richard Davenall’s estimate of his span by three days when, on Saturday, 7th October 1882, William and Constance Trenchard entrained at Paddington station for their visit to Cleave Court. They arrived late, studiously eschewing mention of the possibility that Norton might, even then, be breakfasting at his ease in the adjoining hotel, and settled themselves hastily in a first-class compartment. After indulging in some peripheral conversation concerning the arrangements made for Patience’s entertainment during their absence and commenting briefly on the kindness of the weather as the sun emerged over the tree-dotted valley of the River Brent, each subsided into the safety of reading, in William’s case that morning’s issue of
The
Times
, in Constance’s a collection of sonnets by Charles Tennyson Turner.

Neither was, in truth, absorbed in such study, but each preferred it to reopening what had already proved a painful subject. Should Constance not have consulted William before writing to Lady Davenall? William felt, understandably, that she should; he would not have objected to the proposed visit, and she should have known that. Constance felt, also understandably, that she could not explain her impulsive dispatch of the letter without showing William another letter presently lodged in a locked drawer of her bureau; by virtue of its reference to something of which she believed no living soul other than she knew, such a revelation was not to be contemplated. So it was that William Trenchard’s prophetic remarks to Richard Davenall seemed, in some measure, already to be borne out.

Not until the travellers had changed trains at Bath and boarded the local for Freshford did one of them attempt to break their silence. Sadly, the attempt was ill-timed. The train had wound down the Avon valley slowly, and was slowing still further for its scheduled stop at Limpley Stoke, when William Trenchard spoke. He could not have failed to notice the reverie into which his wife had fallen, gazing from the window at the fields and wooded slopes, but he had taken it for vague nostalgia rather than for any specific recollection tied to the Dundas Aqueduct beneath which they had passed but a few minutes before.

‘This part of the world must be full of memories for you,’ he said, exerting himself to inject some brightness into his voice.

She looked at him distantly – from within, as it were, the memories he had referred to – her expression blurred by intervening sunlight or the frontiers of her private world; he could not tell which. The violet dress she had not worn in years, the loosely draped lace shawl, the pearl ear-rings, the veil of gauze thrown back across the purple ribbons of her straw-brimmed hat: these were clues,
these
were tokens, but somehow, he knew, not meant for him.

He regretted the remark as soon as he had made it, regretted the panic that had inspired it, but knew it could not be otherwise: he was too weak not to try to bridge the growing gulf with words.

Suddenly, Constance smiled. ‘I am glad we came together, William. Really I am.’ But, if her words were meant to reassure him, they failed. They only served to convince him that she wished she had come alone.

He blundered on. ‘When were you last here?’

‘Not since that day.’

Which day? Trenchard had not the courage to ask, and Constance, in her distraction, did not realize the slip she had made.

At Freshford station Lady Davenall’s carriage was awaiting them. A gloomy footman drove them up in silence through the mellow-stoned village and out, along winding high-hedged lanes to their destination.

They crossed the boundaries of Cleave Court long before they saw it, bowled down the curving drive through the deer park screened by a dark avenue of elms, stricken into unobservance by the knowledge that one had been that way before and the other had not. At length, emerging from the canopy of elms, they could no longer disregard it. Bathed in sunlight, flanked by hangers of birch, chorused by a squadron of rooks, Cleave Court declared itself with stony rectangularity: a classical façade of tall windows and Doric columns, of pediments and balustrades, of pilastered wealth and corniced tradition.

‘The first baronet was Paymaster-General under Queen Anne,’ Trenchard murmured, almost to himself. Then, catching sight of Constance’s surprised look: ‘I felt I ought to know a little more about the Davenalls.’ His smile was not entirely warm. ‘The house was completed in 1713, just in time for Sir Christopher to retire to. Since then, the family has really done very little, besides fight in the
odd
campaign.’ Constance remained silent. ‘They also have the good fortune to own a substantial portion of the Somerset coalfield.’ The carriage pulled up in front of the house, and the footman jumped out to open the door and let down the step. ‘Of course,’ Trenchard continued, ‘I don’t suppose you can see any of the spoil-heaps from here.’ He gazed up at the distant line of the roof, broken by the bulbous shapes of stone-draped urns. ‘On the other hand, I don’t suppose anybody tries. Their family motto is “In captia vitalitas”. Loosely translated, “To live is to hunt …”.’

Constance glanced back from the open doorway of the house and finished the sentence for him. ‘Or be hunted.’

IV

When Constance and I reached Cleave Court on the appointed day, Lady Davenall received us in the orangery, attached to the main part of the house as a single-storey wing. It was a strange place to choose, with its stone-flagged floor and scatter of oriental rugs, luxuriant potted plants brought in against an early frost and dotted amongst thick-cushioned wicker chairs. We had passed through several richly furnished apartments to reach it, and it came to me, when we arrived, and found Lady Davenall reclining on a
chaise-longue
, crooking her finger at a peacock who strutted and pecked at a sprinkling of seed in the open french windows, that she might, in a sense, be in flight from all the wood-panelled opulence which marriage to a baronet had brought her
.

Seated opposite Lady Davenall was a stout tweed-suited man, cradling a tea-cup and saucer in his arms as if fearful of dropping them and squeezed, with apparent discomfort, into a low-backed bamboo chair that creaked ominously at his every move. With a crescendo of such creaks, he rose to greet us as the servant announced our names
.

‘
Baverstock, sir, solicitor,’ he breathed. His handshake left a
sheen
of sweat on my palm. ‘And commissioner for oaths,’ he added superfluously
.

Lady Davenall had, by now, also risen and welcomed Constance with an unhurried regal kiss. She shook my hand briefly, and I was at once dismayed by the iciness of her touch. It explained the alabaster paleness of her complexion, though not its smoothness, not its unnatural denial of the age I knew she must be. Her hair was grey, of course, as was her dress, no doubt still reflecting some diminished state of mourning for Sir Gervase, yet there were hints of pink somewhere in the fabric, implications of indifference, even to the object of our visit, about her reluctant formal smile. In other circumstances, I might have thought her bored with us before we began
.

‘
It is enchanting to see you again, Constance,’ she said. ‘And to meet the man who brought you happiness at last. I am so sorry that my family should once again be the unwitting cause of your distress
.’

Fresh China tea was brought and dispensed. Constance and I sat together on a wicker sofa and participated in the customary platitudes about the comfort of our journey. I found myself wondering, not for the first time, just what Constance had said in her letter. I could not let Lady Davenall know that she had kept it from me, of course, so I attempted to strike a confident note
.

‘
We all hope that this unpleasantness will soon be at an end. We have only come here today to reassure ourselves that you are in no doubt as to the falsity of Norton’s claim
.’

Constance said nothing, though I felt her stiffen beside me. As for Lady Davenall, she gazed towards me with as much expression as she might have conferred on a pane of glass
.

‘
I am in no doubt,’ she said after a pause. ‘He presented himself here last week, as you know. He was able to suborn the servants – none of whom has been here long enough to remember James – into admitting him. I could see how they might have been taken in. The man has what I believe is called charisma. But he is not my son. My son is dead.’ Her words were delivered with flat unemotional authority
.

‘
Perhaps I should add,’ said Baverstock, ‘that Norton had the
effrontery
to visit Mr James’s old doctor – Fiveash – whilst he was here. Dr Fiveash is prepared to swear that this man is not his former patient
.’

‘
So you see,’ continued Lady Davenall, ‘this is not merely the addled judgement of a confused old lady.’ It seemed a patently absurd description to apply to herself, but it was Constance who took her meaning
.

‘
Unlike, you mean, that of Nanny Pursglove?
’

‘
Esme Pursglove,’ said Lady Davenall, with a thoughtful compression of the mouth, ‘was as loyal and diligent a nanny as one could wish for. So far as a rational judgement is concerned, however, one might as well consult this bay tree.’ She gestured vaguely at a leafy growth behind her
.

‘
You saw in Norton, then,’ I said, ‘no resemblance, however slight, to your son?
’

‘
None whatever
.’

‘
He displayed no knowledge that tended to sway you?
’

‘
Likewise, none
.’

‘
That, of course,’ put in Baverstock, ‘is the purpose of the examination on the eleventh: to expose Norton’s ignorance of all details of Mr James’s life
.’

‘
Ignorant or well-informed,’ said Lady Davenall, ‘it will make no difference to me. The man is an impostor, so transparent that he scarcely warrants the description
.’

Then, prefacing her words only with a slightly jarred replacement of her cup in its saucer, Constance said what I had feared she might. ‘I cannot agree with you, Lady Davenall.’ If there was shock at her words, only Baverstock and I displayed it. The mistress of Cleave Court did not so much as glance in Constance’s direction. When she did respond, it was not even to the point
.

‘
Would you and your husband care to see a little of the grounds before luncheon? You may find the few changes made since you were last here of interest. Besides, we must leave Mr Baverstock to concentrate on the rent-book for a while
.’

V

Later, Trenchard would remember the pace Lady Davenall set as she led him and Constance through the terraced gardens, discoursing as she did so, with no sign of breathlessness, on the seasonal beauties of the acer glade, on the difficulties of keeping the fallow deer out of that part of the grounds, on the tendency of the conduit serving the fountain to clog with fallen leaves. She carried a pannier basket under her arm and would stop periodically to remove dead leaves and twigs from favoured plants; her exchanges with a passing gardener were cold but knowledgeable.

Rather sooner, Trenchard would recall how little attention Constance paid to Lady Davenall’s commentary; he had to reply several times on her behalf when invited to praise some modification of the landscaping. If Constance did see what was pointed out to her, it was, he felt sure, at another time, with a different companion. She and Trenchard were walking together, but moving apart.

When they entered the deer park by a wicket gate from the wooded hillside behind the house, Lady Davenall inclined the route back towards the orangery, where she felt, presumably, that Baverstock had been given long enough to reconcile the Michaelmas rent-rolls. It was then that Constance pulled up and spoke for the first time since setting off on their tour.

‘Lady Davenall,’ she said, ‘surely we are not to return to the house without showing William the pride of Cleave Court?’

Lady Davenall turned and looked back at her coolly. ‘What can you mean, my dear?’

‘Why, the maze of course. Sir Harley’s Maze.’ Constance smiled at her husband with genuine pleasure. ‘There is a yew-tree maze here which you really should see, William. It’s on the other side of the deer park, beyond the walled garden.’ She pointed in that direction. ‘I often went there—’ She broke off suddenly.