Andrew Taylor - The Silent Boy

‘Then why has he buried himself in the country?’ Savill asked.

‘Because his resources are limited,’ Malbourne said. ‘Most of his fortune is in France, and it has been seized. His estates have been sequestered. Also he and his allies have not many friends in London. After all, they are dangerous revolutionaries themselves: they tried to manipulate their king to their own advantage.’

‘Their chickens have come home to roost,’ Rampton observed.

‘Indeed, sir,’ Malbourne continued. ‘Moreover, they are detested by those of their fellow countrymen already in London, who have never wavered from their old allegiance to King Louis and never compromised their principles.’

‘Very true,’ Rampton said. ‘And, to speak plainly, my dear Savill, the Count and his friends have such a history of fomenting sedition, of flirting with the mob, that we ourselves have little desire to play host to them.’

‘Yet you let them come here.’

‘Unfortunately we lack the legal instruments to prevent it,’ Malbourne said.

‘For the time being,’ Rampton said. ‘But that is neither here nor there. Tell him about Fournier.’

‘Fournier?’ Savill said. ‘The man who dealt with the funeral arrangements?’

Malbourne bowed. ‘Yes, sir. He is the Count’s principal ally. Fournier preceded Monsieur de Quillon to England. Indeed, I believe Charnwood is leased to him, not the Count. He is a younger son of the Marquis de St Étienne and was the Bishop of Lodève under the old regime. But he has resigned his orders and now prefers to be known simply as Fournier.’ He smiled. ‘Citizen Fournier, no doubt.’

‘An atheist, they say,’ Rampton said sourly. ‘The worst of men.’

‘Mind you keep your seat this time,’ Rampton said as Malbourne was leaving.

Malbourne saluted them with his whip. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

He rode down the drive, urging his horse to a trot and then to a canter.

‘Foolish young man,’ Rampton said fondly. ‘He sprained his arm last month when he had a tumble. Hence the sling. It cannot be denied that there’s a reckless streak to Horace.’ He smiled. ‘Just as there was to his grandfather. That’s where the money went, you know, and the estates. He gambled as if his life depended on it – Vingt-et-un.’

Horse and rider were out of sight now but Savill heard the drumming of the hooves accelerate to a gallop.

Rampton stared along the terrace, at the far end of which two workmen were building a low wall. ‘Look, sir. Those damned swallows. They are already smearing their filth on my new library.’

‘Is Mr Malbourne in a hurry or does he always ride like that?’ Savill said.

‘He is expected at the Woorgreens’ this evening and he will not wish to be late.’ Rampton glanced at Savill and decided to enlighten his ignorance. ‘Mr Woorgreen, the East India Nabob. He is betrothed to the younger Miss Woorgreen. He will have twelve hundred a year by it, I believe. There’s also the consideration that her mother’s brother is a friend of Mr Pitt’s.’

They went into the house. Savill was engaged to dine and spend the night.

‘Horace Malbourne is a man of parts,’ Rampton said, leading the way into the study. ‘Well connected too. But if he wishes to get on in the world, he knows he must set aside his wild oats and marry money. If all goes well, we shall see him in Parliament in a year or two.’

How very agreeable it must be, Savill thought, to have one’s life mapped out like that: a comfortable place in a government office, a rich wife, a seat in Parliament.

‘He was my ward, you know – his poor mama entrusted him to me when she died.’ Rampton rang the bell and sat down before the fire. ‘But he has amply repaid my care and now he is most valuable to me. When he marries, though, he will spread his wings and fly away.’

Like a swallow, Savill thought, when winter comes.

The manservant came and Rampton gave orders for dinner. Savill wondered whether the introduction of Mr Malbourne had been designed to serve a secondary purpose: to show Savill that Rampton was worthy to stand in the place of a father; that he might safely be entrusted with the care of Augusta’s son.

‘By the way,’ Rampton went on, ‘I have not confided in him that I may adopt Charles.’

‘Because that has not been settled, sir.’

‘Quite so. But in any case I think it better that Malbourne believes that I’m assisting you to win control of the boy solely in view of our family connection. Also, of course, it’s in the Government’s interest to know more about the household at Charnwood and what they are doing.’

Soon afterwards, they went into dinner. Savill had not accepted Rampton’s proposition, but the very fact of his being here was significant, and they both knew it. Rampton had the sense not to press home his advantage. Instead he talked with an appearance of frankness about the situation in France and the Government’s policy towards it.

It was almost enjoyable, Savill found, to talk with Rampton on a footing that, if not precisely equal, was at least one of independence. Once upon a time, Rampton had been his unwilling patron because Savill had married his niece. He, Savill, had served as one of his clerks in the American Department during the late war, though he had never been in such high favour as the elegant Mr Malbourne.

Despite himself, he was impressed by his host. Rampton’s career had collapsed near the end of the war, when the King had dismissed the American secretary and closed down the entire department. Yet, somehow, he had clawed his way back.

But to what, exactly? When Savill had tried to probe further, all he could discover was that Rampton now worked in some capacity for the Post Office, and also advised the Secretary of State for the Home Department on regulations for the government of Ireland. He let slip that he held a sinecure, too, Clerk of the Peace and Chief Clerk of the Supreme Court in Jamaica, which must provide him with a substantial income. All this suggested that the Government now held him in considerable esteem.

After dinner, Rampton showed Savill his new library, where they inspected the fireplace he had imported from Italy. They took a light supper in the salon next door at about eleven o’clock. They drank each other’s health in an atmosphere that might almost have been described as cordial.

Rampton sat back in his chair. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Have we an agreement? In principle, if not in detail.’

‘Are we not ahead of ourselves, sir? The boy’s still in Somersetshire, still in the care of his friends.’

‘You have the power to change that, sir.’ Rampton took up an apple and began to peel it with a silver knife. ‘It’s in the best interests of everyone concerned.’

‘We don’t know what the boy would wish.’

Rampton waved the knife. ‘That’s neither here nor there. He is only a boy, after all. He is not legally of an age where he may control his own destiny. We may safely leave his opinions out of it.’

Savill said nothing.

‘Well?’ Rampton said, setting down his glass more forcibly than was necessary.

‘I reserve the right to defer my final decision until I have met the boy.’

There was silence, which grew uncomfortable.

‘You have changed, haven’t you, Mr Savill?’ Rampton said.

‘Time does alter a man, sir.’

‘True – and that scar, too. And, if I were to hazard a guess, I should say that you are not as comfortably situated as perhaps you might have wished to be at this time of life.’

‘You suggest I am a poor man.’ Savill’s tooth began to throb.

‘Not at all, sir. I merely meant to imply that perhaps, like most of us, you would prefer to be a little more comfortable than you are.’