The American Boy. Andrew Taylor

Kerridge curtsied.

      Mrs Frant turned to me. ‘I confide my son to your charge, sir. I regret we have inconvenienced you.’

      I bowed, sensing that my own colour was rising. What you must realise is that she was beautiful, and her beauty had the power to invest the simplest words with charm. In her company I was like a man in the desert who stumbles on a pool of clear water fringed with palms. You will understand nothing of what follows unless you understand that.

      ‘How did you come here?’ she asked me.

      ‘In a hired chaise, madam. It is outside.’

      ‘Tell them to have it brought round to the area door. It – it will be quicker than using the hall door.’

      Quicker, and more discreet. She hugged her son. Her husband and Mr Noak were chatting about the inconvenience of travelling post, at the mercy of other people’s worn-out horses. I stared at the angle between her neck and shoulder and wondered how soft the skin would be, and what it would smell of.

      She pushed Charles gently away from her. ‘Go with Mr Shield, Charlie. And write to me often.’

      ‘But Mama –’

      ‘Go, dearest. Go quickly now.’

      ‘This way, Master Charles.’ Mrs Kerridge placed an arm over the boy’s thin shoulders and urged him away from the front of the hall. Looking back at me, she added, ‘If you would be so kind as to come this way, sir.’

      She smiled at Mr Noak’s man, still standing, still watching with grave interest.

      ‘I am Mrs Kerridge, sir.’

      ‘Salutation Harmwell, ma’am. At your service.’

      ‘Come and dry out in the servants’ hall. Perhaps we can offer you a little refreshment while you wait?’

      He paused for a moment, as if contemplating the meaning of her question; then he bowed his assent, and for an instant his gravity dissolved into what was almost a smile.

      I wondered how well Harmwell spoke English. He was undoubtedly a fine figure of a man, though, in any language. Aye, and Mrs Kerridge thought so too; I could tell that from the way she stumbled on the stairs and clung to his arm and thanked him so prettily for his support. It struck me for the first time that, though by no stretch of the imagination was she a handsome woman, she had a fine, mature figure and a pleasing smile when she chose to use it.

      In the basement, the cook emerged and lured young Frant into her kitchen to select the contents of our hamper for the drive back to school. I waited in the shadows by the staircase, ignored and feeling somewhat of a fool. Mrs Kerridge showed Mr Harmwell into the servants’ hall. A moment later she returned, demanding a decanter of Madeira and a plate of biscuits. Unaware of my presence, she raised a finger to detain Frederick, who was about to fetch the chaise.

      ‘What did that scrawny little fellow write on his card?’ she muttered. ‘Did you see?’

      He glanced from side to side, then spoke in a low voice to match hers. ‘Can’t have been more than two or three words. I could only read one of them. Carswall.’

      ‘Mr Carswall?’

      Frederick shrugged. ‘Who else?’ He gave a snort of amusement. ‘Unless it was Miss Flora.’

      ‘Don’t be pert,’ Mrs Kerridge said. ‘Well, well. You’d better fetch that hackney.’

      As the footman was leaving, I shifted my weight from one foot to another. My boot creaked. Mrs Kerridge looked quickly in my direction, and then away. I kept my face bland. Perhaps she wondered whether I had marked the oddity of it. If Mr Frant had been eagerly awaiting the arrival of Mr Noak, why had not Mr Noak simply sent in his card? And why had the name of Carswall acted as his Open Sesame?

      The page came clumping down the stairs with indecorous speed.

      ‘Don’t run, Juvenal,’ snapped Mrs Kerridge. ‘It ain’t genteel.’

      ‘The mistress told Mr Loomis to have the carriage brought round,’ the boy gasped. ‘Mr Wavenhoe’s, that is, she come in that. She’s a-going back to Albemarle-street.’

      Frederick grinned. ‘I wouldn’t want to linger here if it was my uncle a-dying, and him as rich as half a dozen nabobs.’

      ‘That’s more than enough from you,’ Mrs Kerridge said. ‘It’s not your place to go prattling about your betters. If you want to keep your situation, you’d better mind that tongue of yours.’ She turned to me, no doubt to alert the others to my presence. ‘Mr Shield, sir, I’m sorry to keep you waiting down here. Ah, here’s Master Charles.’

      The lad came out of the kitchen holding a basket covered with a cloth. Frederick called out that our chaise was at the door. A moment later, the boy and I were driving back to Stoke Newington. I unstrapped the hamper and Charlie Frant wept quietly into the napkin that had been wrapped round the warm rolls.

      ‘In a year’s time,’ I said, ‘you will smile at this.’

      ‘I won’t, sir,’ he retorted, his voice thick with grief. ‘I shall never forget this day.’

      I told him all things passed, even memories, and I ate cold chicken. And as I ate, I wondered if I had spoken the truth: for how could a man ever forget the face of Mrs Frant?

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

      THE NEXT INCIDENT of this history would have turned out very differently if there had not been the physical resemblance between young Allan and Charlie Frant. The similarity between them was sufficiently striking for Mr Bransby on occasion to mistake one for the other.

      On the day after my return from London, I gave Morley and Quird another flogging after morning school. I made them yelp, and for once I derived a melancholy satisfaction from the infliction of pain. Charlie Frant was pale but composed. I believed they had let him alone during the night. Morley and Quird were uncertain how far they could try me.

      After dinner, I took a turn about the garden. It was a fine afternoon, and I strolled down the gravel walk to the trees at the end. On my left was a high hedge dividing the lawn from the part of the garden used as the boys’ playground. The high, indistinct chatter of their voices formed a background to my meditations. Then a shriller voice, suddenly much louder than the rest as if its owner were becoming heated, penetrated my thoughts.

      ‘He’s your brother, isn’t he? Must be. So is he a little bastard like you?’

      Another voice spoke; I could not make out the words.

      ‘You’re brothers, I know you are.’ The first voice was Quird’s, made even shriller by the fact that it would occasionally dive deep down the register. ‘A pair of little bastards – with the same mother, I should think, but different fathers.’

      ‘Damn you,’ cried a voice I recognised as Allan’s, anger making his American twang more pronounced than usual. ‘Do not insult my mother.’

      ‘I shall, you little traitor bastard. Your mother’s a – a nymph of the pavey. A – a fellow who knows her saw her in the Haymarket. She’s nothing but a moll.’

      ‘My mother is dead,’ Allan said in a low voice.

      ‘Liar. Morley saw her, didn’t you, Morley? So you’re a bastard and a liar.’

      ‘I’m not a liar. My mother and father are dead. Mr and Mrs Allan adopted me.’

      Quird made a noise like breaking wind. ‘Oh yes, and I’m the Emperor of China, didn’t you know, you Yankee bastard?’

      ‘I’ll fight you.’

      ‘You? You little scrub. Fight me?’

      ‘One cannot always fight with the sons of gentlemen,’