Andrew Taylor - The American Boy

Mrs Frant turned back to me and said, "Miss Carswall asked me to accompany them to Oxbody-lane, and so did Sir George and Captain Ruispidge." She spoke as though answering a question, as though we had been in the middle of conversation. "But I felt it wiser to decline."

"I see."

"I noticed your expression when she proposed the expedition at breakfast. Miss Carswall does not mean to be vexing, you know. She is like a child when in high spirits. She cannot see beyond her own excitement."

"Surely it would pain you to see the inheritance Mr Wavenhoe left her, that should have been yours?"

She inclined her head. "I am ashamed to admit it. It is merely that – oh, what is the use of complaining?"

"I should never have witnessed that codicil," I said. "I regret it extremely."

"Truly, it does not signify. If it had not been you, Mr Carswall would have found someone else."

"He is a monster!" I burst out. "And Miss Carswall is-"

"Believe me, Miss Carswall has hardships of her own," Mrs Frant said. "She has suffered. I cannot condemn her."

The silence returned. For the moment I brushed aside this new mystery concerning Miss Carswall in favour of an infinitely more urgent matter. Mrs Frant's presence in this room was quite improper, so much so that I could hardly believe the evidence of my senses. If we were discovered, the scandal would ruin us both. I should advise her to leave immediately. Yet I did not. I knew, in that part of me that was still capable of rational thought, that the very fact that she was here must mean that she needed me for a reason so overwhelming that in comparison nothing else truly mattered.

She stood up. "I beg your pardon," she said again, in a rush. "I have no right-" She broke off and stared at the windowsill, at the spots of ink and the grubby handkerchief. "I – I have caused such confusion."

"You should not beg my pardon," I said. "I am glad you are come."

She looked directly at me then. I had no words left to say. Still with her eyes on mine, she held out her hand, palm downwards, the fingers slightly curled, for all the world as though she were a great lady receiving me, and extending her hand for me to kiss.

Into my mind flooded the realisation that I had arrived at last at my Rubicon: like Caesar at his river, I could go back or I could go forwards. If I retreated, then nothing need change. If I went forward, I would move into the unknown, and all I would know for certain was that nothing would ever be the same again.

Slowly I stretched out my own hand and wrapped my fingers around hers. It was a cold day, and a cold room, but by some miracle her skin was warm. I looked at her slender fingers, not her face. I encircled her hand in both of mine. She whispered something I did not catch. I took a step forward and bowed my head.

It is of no concern to the reader why, since that day, I have kept and shall always keep the 13th of January as a private anniversary. No lips shall breathe the secret of what happened that afternoon in the cramped, whitewashed garret of the house in Westgate-street. Even the cracks in the windowpanes, the splashes of ink and the swirling brown damp stains on the ceiling shared in its perfection. It resolved nothing: it was merely perfect, merely itself.

Later that day, the rest of the party dined with the Ruispidge brothers in a private room at the Bell. They returned late, by which time I had retired, and the following morning Mr Carswall pronounced the roads safe enough for travel.

We left Gloucester under convoy of the Ruispidges in their chaise; the brothers had obligingly delayed their departure until we were ready to leave. We drove together along the toll road as far as the turning to Monkshill-park, a circumstance that greatly contributed to Mr Carswall's peace of mind.

The Ruispidges left us a mile or two from Monkshill. Mr Carswall's coach crawled up the long, curving lane running along the northern boundary of the park to Flaxern Parva. As we passed Grange Cottage, I noticed that the shutters were open, and that smoke was emerging from two of the chimneys.

"Mrs Johnson must be coming home soon," Miss Carswall said. "She may be back already."

Sophie glanced at me. "She has made a swift recovery."

"Yes – Lady Ruispidge will be so relieved, I'm sure. And Sir George, of course."

At last the coach entered the drive of Monkshill-park. Carswall drew out his watch and studied the dial, whistling tunelessly and noiselessly as he did so. He announced with grim satisfaction that our speed from Gloucester had been, on average, four and three-quarter miles per hour, a commendable achievement given the inclement weather.

We drew up outside the house. The boys ran to greet us. I saw with a pang of jealousy how Sophie – as I now allowed myself to think of her – seized upon Charlie as if she were starving and he a loaf of newly baked bread. Mrs Kerridge and Harmwell came out, and Sophie at once inquired after Mr Noak.

"He is much improved, ma'am, thank you," Salutation Harmwell said in his sonorous voice.

"What are these boys doing?" cried Carswall. "Have they run mad in our absence?"

"Oh, Papa," said Miss Carswall. "It is only that they are pleased to see us. Look, the dogs are acting in just the same way."

"I cannot abide children under my feet. Besides, it is clear they want instruction in manners as well as their schoolbook. Take them away, Shield, and make them learn something. And if they will not apply themselves, use the strap."

I said nothing. I was still in my greatcoat, and I was hungry and thirsty and cold.

"Get along, man," roared Carswall. "I do not pay you to stand there gawping at your boots."

For a moment there was the sort of silence that precedes a scream, as if everyone in the hall were holding his breath. Carswall had never before spoken so rudely to me: and this was in public, in front of the boys, the servants and the ladies. In Gloucester he had spent most of his waking hours on his best behaviour, and now at last, I suppose, he could be comfortable after his own fashion: he was like a man who, when the company has gone, spits in the fireplace and breaks wind in the drawing room.

I would like to say that I made some grand romantic gesture: that I dashed my glove across the old tyrant's face and demanded satisfaction, or at the very least stormed out of his house, vowing I would never darken his doors again. Instead, mindful of Sophie, mindful of my precarious place in Mr Carswall's scheme of things and at Mr Bransby's school, I kept silent. I walked up the stairs. I heard the boys pounding after me.

"Come, come," Carswall said below me. "Why are we standing here? Pratt! Is there a fire in the library?"

I do not know whether the boys sensed my shame or my anger, but they were remarkably obliging for the rest of the afternoon. They did not whisper to each other; they construed and translated as though their lives depended on it. While they were working, I could not help thinking of Sophie, and at times I looked at Charlie and tried to trace her dear features in his face.

A little before five o'clock, I tired of this unnatural diligence, not least because I disliked the knowledge that I was the object of the boys' fear or their pity, or possibly both. I asked them what they had been doing while we had been away and the flow of their conversation soon swept away the barriers of reserve between us.

"It was like a holiday, sir," Edgar said. "Mr Noak kept to his bed the whole time, and there were only the servants."

"So you ran wild?"

"Oh, no, sir," cried Charlie. "Well, not very often. Kerridge would not let us."

"So she kept an eye on you?"

"She and Mr Harmwell. Did you know, he has an immense fund of stories. Ghost stories that chill the blood."