Andrew Taylor - The American Boy

"Yes," said the lady, and made as if to turn away.

"Did I not see you in Town a few weeks ago?" Miss Carswall asked, in that little innocent voice she used when she was up to mischief. "I thought I glimpsed you in Pall Mall the other week – you was going into Payne and Foss's – but there was such a crush I could not be sure, and then the carriage moved on and it was too late."

"No," Mrs Johnson replied. "You must be mistaken. I have not been further than Cheltenham these six or seven months."

At that moment, I recalled when and where I might have seen Mrs Johnson before. I was not perfectly convinced, mind you, not then.

"You must not hesitate to step out of your garden into the park, ma'am," Carswall interrupted, addressing Mrs Johnson. "You must treat it quite as your own. I shall tell my people so. A word of caution, though: keep away from the covers. We have had such a plague of poachers in the last few months that I have had to sow the woods with a number of surprises. I would not wish a friend to fall foul of one of them."

Mrs Johnson bowed. A moment later, I saw her watching Mr Carswall as he turned back to Sir George and, for an instant, I surprised upon her face an expression of distaste that amounted almost to hatred.

"I say, George," said Captain Jack, who until now had been chatting with Mrs Frant and Miss Carswall, "I was acquainted with Mrs Frant's father. He was most kind to me when I went out to Portugal in the year nine. Colonel Marpool of the Ninety-Seventh, you know, though at the time he was seconded to the Portuguese army. A most distinguished officer – he played a great part in the recovery of Oporto, and he gave Massena himself a drubbing at Coimbra."

Mr Carswall beamed, as though the exploits of Mrs Frant's father were in some mysterious way his own. He pulled out his watch and showed it to the company. "I think it very likely that Massena had a timepiece from the same workshop that produced this. They say Napoleon himself was one of Breguet's patrons."

"I beg your pardon, sir?" Sir George said, his forehead wrinkling. "But who is Breguet?"

"Abraham-Louis Breguet, sir – the finest watchmaker in the world." Mr Carswall glanced fondly at the timepiece in his palm. "Certainly a number of Napoleon's officers are known to have had these watches, for they are accurate to a tenth of a second, proof against sudden shocks, and capable of running for eight years without being overhauled, and without going slow. They say – and Captain Ruispidge will I'm sure correct me if I'm wrong – that many of the Emperor's victories can be attributed to his genius for timing, and it is not far-fetched to imagine that this accuracy in the matter of time depended on a Breguet watch."

So the old man ran on, to an audience of blank faces. I was mortified on his behalf, despite the way he had slighted me, and turned aside to look for the boys. I did not see them in this part of the churchyard, so I walked back towards the porch, meaning to circumnavigate the church until I found them.

"Mr Shield," Miss Carswall said, just behind me.

Startled, I swung round. She had broken away from the others, and stood at my elbow.

"Would you be so good as to do me a favour?"

"Of course, Miss Carswall."

"I have foolishly left my handkerchief in the church, in the pew where we were sitting."

"Then you must allow me to fetch it for you."

I passed through the porch into the church and walked down the nave. A moment later, I heard the door open again behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. There was Miss Carswall, smiling.

"Mr Shield, I do so apologise. It was in my muff all the time." She held up the wisp of embroidered silk. "I sent you on a fool's errand."

I retraced my steps. "It don't signify."

She waited on the threshold, her hand on the door. "Oh, but it does," she said quietly. "Particularly as I knew the handkerchief was in my muff all the time."

"I'm afraid I do not understand."

"It is very simple. I wished to apologise for my father's behaviour."

I felt myself blushing once again and turned aside.

"I know I should not say this of my father, but I cannot ignore the fact that he sometimes acts in a manner that-"

"You must not distress yourself, Miss Carswall. It is of no moment."

She stamped her foot. "He treats you like a servant. It is not just. I saw him pushing you out of his way. I wished the ground would open up and swallow me. Or – even better – swallow him."

"I beg of you, do not be disturbed on my account."

She turned her head, as though about to leave, but then looked back at me. "Pray, do not take it amiss, my talking to you in this way. You must think me very forward. I should beg your pardon."

"On the contrary, I think you most considerate of an inferior's feelings."

"Oh?" Miss Carswall waited for me to go on. "Is that all?"

"I honour you for it."

"Oh!" she said, with a different inflection, and darted into the porch.

I followed her under the canopy of evergreen leaves and branches. She stopped in the middle of the porch and looked at me. Beyond the archway into the churchyard I saw the green of the grass, the grey of the gravestones and the blue of the sky. The path from the lych-gate made a right angle as it turned towards the porch. I heard the voices of other people, but I saw no one except Miss Carswall; and no one could see us.

"In the church," I said, "there was a tablet on the wall which-"

"Hush."

Flora Carswall laid her hand on my arm, raised herself on tiptoe and kissed my cheek.

Shocked, I sprang back, jarring my elbow against the great iron latch on the door. Her perfume filled my nostrils, and the warmth of her lips burned like a brand on my skin. She smiled, and this time her face was full of mischief.

"This is the time and the place where such liberties are permitted, sir, or at least condoned," she said in a voice not much louder than a whisper. "Look."

She pointed upwards and I saw that hanging from the vault above her head was a great bush of mistletoe studded with white berries. My heart pounded in my chest.

"You must pick off one of the berries now," she said in the same caressing voice. "But there are still plenty left."

She turned away and stepped into the blinding sunshine of Christmas morning.

The fine, cold, clear weather continued. On the morning of St Stephen's Day, the household went to church again. On this occasion, Carswall ordered the chaise as well as the coach, and we rumbled in procession through the winding lanes to Flaxern Parva. Alas, Mr Carswall was doomed to disappointment. The Ruispidges' pews were empty.

When we returned to the mansion, the boys were in tearing spirits, partly from the holiday and partly from want of exercise. They fell in willingly enough when I proposed a walk.

"You should take Mr Shield to see our ruined abbey," Miss Carswall suggested, looking up from her bureau; though it was Sunday, she was at work on her accounts. "It is a vastly romantic spot, and one generally sees cowled figures flitting from pillar to pillar."

She bent her head over her account book. She and I had not spoken in private since what had passed between us in the church porch on Christmas Day. I did not know what to think about her feelings, or indeed about my own. I was aware that we had both behaved improperly, yet somehow I contrived not to dwell on that side of the matter.

"Yes, sir," put in Charlie, "please let us go to the abbey. Edgar, they say the monks buried treasure there."

Mrs Frant, who had been writing a letter at a table in the window, looked up at this. "Don't fill Edgar's head with such nonsense, Charlie. It is only a foolish story that country people tell."

I looked at her, sitting in the cold winter sunlight, and said, "Are the ruins extensive, ma'am?"