So far, so good. I had done what was required of me by Mr Cranshaw, and had aroused no one’s suspicion. But now I must wait upon events, for I had no plan other than to insinuate myself into the establishment and, if I could, put myself close to Daunt. Beyond that, I had no immediate thought. If this last act of our lives was destined to play out in my favour, then I would be most content. If not, so be it. I would have lost nothing – for I had nothing.
And so I waited, standing mutely just inside the front door, wondering when he would come – and when she would come.
The carriages began to arrive. First, I handed out the famous Madame Taglioni* (for whom, though the lady was by no means in the first flush of youth, Lord Tansor cherished an uncharacteristically sentimental regard), and then the fat daughter of Lord Cotterstock (a costive old roué, with a face like weathered rock, who was already half dead from an unmentionable ailment), followed by her equally porcine mamma and brother. The carriages continued to roll in through the snow to pull up under the lantern of the porte-cochère. Ambassadors, Honourable Members, bankers, generals, dukes and earls, and their ladies: I opened their carriage doors and helped them to disembark, and no one gave me a second glance. At last the Prime Minister himself arrived, to be greeted by Lord and Lady Tansor, followed, in the very next moment, by a sleek carriage bearing the Duport arms.
As I opened the carriage door, I was met first by her perfume; then, as I bent to fold down the step, I saw her feet, encased in delicate grey-kid pumps, decorated with jet beading. She gave me her gloved hand, but I was invisible to her. As she emerged from the carriage, her warm breath misted the air; and for a passing moment, with her hand resting in mine, it was as though she belonged to me once more. The thought made me forget what I was supposed to be, and I began to close my grip gently round her fingers. She shot an angry, insulted look at me, instantly removed her hand, and swept up the steps. There she paused for a moment and looked back.
‘You there! Hold the door!’
I obeyed his command, and he stepped down from the carriage – immaculate, dressed in the highest taste and quality. I made an obeisance as he passed and, as I closed the carriage door behind him, glanced up to see him take Miss Carteret’s arm at the top of the steps and lead her inside.
After the last guests had arrived, I was sent to the dining-room to take up my station by the double doors that led into the vestibule. There I remained, still unregarded by all who passed back and forth, even by my fellow servants. I stood motionless but my eyes were busy, looking for my opportunity.
My faithless girl was seated at the head of the table, an ethereal figure in pale-blue silk, surmounted by a barège overskirt sewn with gold and silver stars, her black hair set off to perfection by a tulle and lace cap ornamented with pale-pink satin ribbon. On her left sat a dessicated young gentleman whom I identified from the guest list as the Honourable John Tanker, MP; on her right was Phoebus Daunt, in all his smiling pride.
After all the guests had settled themselves at the sumptuously decorated table, which gleamed and glittered as candlelight flashed off an abundance of gold and silver and crystal, the soup was brought in. Lord Tansor had become an enthusiast for service à la française, no doubt following its introduction at Evenwood when his protégé had come of age; and so the soup was succeeded by fish, which in turn was followed by the entrées – a dozen in all – and the roasts, and so on, in due order, to the sweets and desserts. It was some relief to me that I had not been required to join the band of brother footmen who were handing round the dishes, for as they bent down to each guest, they had to say aloud the name of the dish that they were offering. I watched with fascinated interest as one of them brought his lips close to Miss Carteret’s ear to ask whether she would take some of the Boeuf à la flammande.* She made the most delicate gesture of assent, and then held up her hand to prevent him placing too much of the dish on her plate. Next to her, Daunt received a much larger portion and then, just as the footman was about to turn to the next guest, called him back to request some more.
In the place of honour at the head of the board, the Prime Minister sat with Lord Tansor, engaged in close and detached conversation. Lord Aberdeen looked tired and drawn, no doubt from the increasing strain of prosecuting the campaign in the Crimea, and more than once I saw Lord Tansor place a reassuring hand on his arm. Around them conversation and laughter flowed, to a contrapuntal rhythm of tinkling glasses and the sound of the finest gold cutlery on Sèvres plates.
But now the soup and fish had come and gone, and so had the entrées and roasts. The sweets and ices had been cleared away to make room for six huge branched epergnes,* laden with dried fruits, nuts, cakes, and sweet biscuits. Lord Tansor rose to his feet, glass in hand, and his guests began to fall silent.
‘My Lords, Ladies, and Gentleman,’ he began, his deep baritone voice instantly commanding attention. ‘I give you a toast. To Mr Phoebus Daunt, whom I am proud to call my son, as well as my heir, and to his future wife, Miss Emily Carteret.’
Glasses were charged and raised, and the happy couple were toasted, to resounding clapping and cheers. Then, from a gallery at the far end of the room, a small military band struck up with ‘See, the Conquering Hero Comes’.† After the last notes had died away, the heir himself responded with fulsome deference, loquaciously thanking his Lordship for his graciousness and generosity, and then – of all things – quoting at length, without a scintilla of shame, from one of his own poems in praise of great men. He was succeeded by Lord Cotterstock, who struggled to his feet with the help of his son to thank Lord Tansor, on behalf of himself and the other distinguished guests, for his overwhelming hospitality, and to congratulate his Lordship on his plenipotentiary appointment, ‘a position,’ he noted, looking sternly around him, as if to defy anyone to contradict him, ‘that has not often been filled with such conspicuous distinction’.
All this time, Miss Carteret sat with a quiet little smile on her face, turning now towards her noble relative, now towards her lover: a smile, not of crowing triumph at her lot, but more of wistful content, as though she had emerged from some great trouble into a haven of settled security. I had watched her all evening, drinking in every movement, every gesture; marvelling at her gaiety and assurance, and at her aching beauty. Never so beautiful as tonight! So lost was I in observing her that, for a moment, I did not notice that Daunt had risen from his place, and was saying something to Lord Tansor. Then he moved away, nodding greetings to several of the guests, shaking hands as he passed, and stopping occasionally to receive the congratulations of some well-wisher. He approached the door where I was standing, and I inclined my head dutifully as he passed.
‘Are you quite well, sir?’ I heard Cranshaw asking him. ‘You look rather pale.’
‘One of my headaches, I fear. I’m off to take a little air before the ladies leave.’
‘Very good, sir.’
With a thrill of anticipation, I seized my chance. As soon as Cranshaw had re-entered the dining-room, I slipped away, just in time to see Daunt’s figure disappearing through a door at the back of the vestibule. Heart beating, I descended the stairs, and found my way as quickly as I could to the room in which my suit was hanging. Servants were coming and going, and there was a great babble and noise. No one paid any attention to me. In a flash, I retrieved the knife, and made my way to a glazed door at the end of the passage, through which I could see a flight of steps leading up the side of a lighted conservatory. Gently, I opened the door and stepped out into the cold night air. Would he come out? Was this the moment?