was to give a dinner in Park-lane. It is to be this very evening. The Prime Minister† is to be amongst the guests. There is so much to celebrate! His Lordship has anew heir – he has now been named, in proper legal form, in the recently signed codicil to his Lordship’s will. This would be cause enough to kill the fatted calf; but to increase the general joy, the heir is to marry Miss Emily Carteret, his Lordship’s cousin once removed, who, following the tragic death of her father, will herself succeed to the Tansor title in the course of time. Such an exquisitely fortuitous match! And then, to cap it all, the heir has just published a new work – the thirteenth to be offered to a grateful public – and Lord Tansor has been appointed Her Majesty’s Special Envoy and Plenipotentiary to the Emperors of Brazil and Haiti and the Republics of New Granada and Venezuela. During his Lordship’s absence, the newly married couple are to take up residence at Evenwood, and Lord Tansor further proposes to place the management of his estates, and of his many business interests, in the capable hands of his heir, Mr Phoebus Daunt.
The establishment in his Lordship’s town-house was a relatively small one; and so, to ensure the smooth running of so large and splendid an occasion, it had been necessary for extra servants to be hired. Advertisements were placed, and Mrs Horatia Venables, proprietress of the Office for Domestic Servants, Great Coram-street, had been engaged by his Lordship’s agent, Captain Tallis, to secure and evaluate applicants for the evening. Amongst those who offered themselves in Great Coram-street for the available positions was a certain Ernest Geddington – a name I had used from time to time in my work.
‘I see you have lived as a footman under a butler for Lord Wilmersham,’* said Mrs Venables, looking over her spectacles at Mr Geddington.
‘I had that honour,’ replied Mr Geddington.
‘And before that, you were a footman in the establishment of the Duke of Devonshire, at Chatsworth?’
‘I was.’
‘And you have a character from his Grace?’
‘One can easily be secured, if it is required.’
‘There is no need,’ replied Mrs Venables loftily. ‘Lord Wilmersham’s recommendation here will suffice, though I confess I have not had the pleasure of advising his Lordship before on the hiring of servants; but as this is only a temporary appointment, for one evening only, I am content to forgo the usual formalities. The standard today has been dreadfully low. You will present yourself at Lord Tansor’s residence in Park-lane on Monday morning, at ten o’clock sharp, asking for his Lordship’s butler, Mr James Cranshaw.’ She handed me a paper on which she had indicated my suitability for the position. ‘Livery will be provided. Please to remain here a little longer for your measurements to be taken.’
I did as I was told. Before I left Mrs Venables’s establishment, I learned that my principal task would be to attend the guests as they arrived and departed in their carriages, and to be on hand during the dinner to open doors and perform any other necessary duties.
It was now half past seven on the great day. I boiled my kettle to make some tea, then cut myself a slice of bread and sat at my work-table to take my breakfast. There was paper all around me. ‘Note on Dr A. Daunt: Feb. 1849’ – ‘Description of Millhead, taken from F. Walker,
Le Grice left for the war last week, fortunately too late to take part in the bloody engagement at Inkerman,* though the reports now coming back, telling of the terrible privations being suffered by our troops, have given me great concern for his immediate prospects. The night before he sailed, we had a farewell dinner at the Ship and Turtle, during which he urged me once again to leave England until he returned.
‘It’ll be better, old chap,’ he said.
Like me, he had concluded that our friend on the river had been Pluckrose. Yet although I had confided in him concerning the punitive action taken by Mr Abraham Gabb and company, Le Grice had come to the same conclusion as I: that, even without the assistance of Pluckrose, Daunt still posed a threat to my safety. But I had not wished to admit the fact, given Le Grice’s impending departure for the East; and so I had given him a false assurance that he need not concern himself on that score.
‘I am certain that Daunt will do no harm to me. What possible reason can he have? He is to be married soon, and I am nothing to him any more. I can never forgive him, of course, but I intend to forget him.’
‘And Miss Carteret?’
‘You mean, of course, the future Mrs Phoebus Duport. I have forgotten her too.’
Le Grice’s face darkened.
‘Forget Daunt? Forget Miss Carteret? You may as well say that you intend to forget your name.’
‘But I
‘Damn you, G,’ he growled. ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. You know as well as I do that the danger from Daunt is real, Pluckrose or no Pluckrose. For the sake of our friendship, I urge you to go travelling. Give it all up. Go away – the longer the better. If I were Daunt, I’d want you dead for what you knew about me. Even though you can’t prove what you know, things might still be made jolly awkward for him if you had a mind to do so.’
‘But I don’t,’ I said quietly. ‘Really, I don’t. There’s nothing to fear; so now, drink up, and here’s to the next time you and I sit down together over grilled fowl and gin-punch.’ Of course he saw through my feeble pretence. But had he also seen what burned in my eyes, which nothing could disguise or assuage?
We parted on the pavement. A handshake, a brief ‘Good-night!’, and he was gone.
Now, on the morning of the 11th of December, I sat for a while at my table, wondering where Le Grice was now, and what he was doing. ‘May the gods keep you safe, you old bonehead,’ I whispered. Then, feeling like a boy again, I threw on my great-coat and muffler, and went out into the snow – my heart as light as a child’s – to look upon Great Leviathan in his winter clothes.
London was going about its usual business, despite the beautiful inconvenience of the weather. The ice-carts were out, loaded with glistening frozen fragments from ponds and streams, instead of produce from the green- market; and the omnibuses were being pulled through the rutted accumulations of dirtied snow in the roadways by extra horses. People walked along, heads down, through the biting cold, with mufflers – for those who had them – wound tight over their mouths. Hats and coats and capes were flecked and dabbed with white, and every public-
