The American Boy. Andrew Taylor

CHAPTER FIVE

      MY AUNT’S DEATH drew me deeper into the labyrinth. It brought me to Mr Rowsell and Mrs Jem.

      Her last letter to me was brief and, judging by the handwriting, written in the later stages of her illness. In it, she expressed the hope that we might meet again in that better place beyond the grave and assured me that, if heaven permitted it, she would watch over me. Turning to more practical matters, she informed me that she had left money to defray the expense of her funeral. There was nothing for me to do, for she had decided all the details, even the nature of her memorial, even the mason to cut the letters. Finally, she directed me to wait on her attorney Mr Rowsell at Lincoln’s Inn.

      I called at the lawyer’s chambers. Mr Rowsell was a large, red-faced man, bulging in the prison of his clothing as though the blood were bursting to escape from his body. He directed his moon-faced clerk to fetch my aunt’s papers. While we waited he scribbled in his pocketbook. When the clerk returned, Rowsell looked through the will, glancing up at me with bright, bird-like eyes, his manner a curious compound of the curt and the furtive. There were two bequests of five pounds apiece, he told me, one to the maid of all work and the other to the landlady.

      ‘The residue comes to you, Mr Shield,’ he said. ‘Apart from my bill, of course, which will be a charge on the estate.’

      ‘There cannot be much.’

      ‘She drew up a schedule, I believe,’ said Rowsell, reaching into the little deed-box. ‘But do not let your hopes rise too high, young man.’ He took out a sheet of paper, glanced at it and handed it to me. ‘Her goods and chattels, such as they were,’ he continued, staring at me over his spectacles, ‘and a sum of money. A little over a hundred pounds, in all probability. Heaven knows how she managed to put it by on that annuity of hers.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘I am pressed for time this morning so I shall not detain you any longer. If you leave your direction with Atkins on your way out, I will write to you when we are in a position to conclude the business.’

      A hundred pounds! I walked down to the Strand in a daze similar to intoxication. My steps were unsteady. A hundred pounds!

      I went to the house where my aunt had lodged and arranged for the disposal of her possessions. Of the larger items, I kept only the tea caddy with its spoon. The landlady found a friend named Mrs Jem who was willing to buy the furniture. I suspected I would have got a higher price if I had been prepared to look elsewhere, but I did not want the trouble of it. Mrs Jem also bought my aunt’s clothes.

      ‘Not that they’re worth more than a few shillings,’ she said with a martyred smile; she was a mountainous woman with handsome little features buried in her broad face. ‘More patches and darns than anything else. Still, you won’t want them, will you, so it’s doing you a favour. I’ve only thirty shillings. Will you wait while I fetch the rest of the money?’

      ‘No.’ I could not bear to stay here any longer, for I wanted to contemplate both my loss and my good fortune in peace and quiet. ‘I will take the thirty shillings and collect the balance later.’

      ‘As you wish,’ she said. ‘Three Gaunt-court. It’s not a stone’s throw away.’

      ‘A long throw.’

      She gave me a hard stare. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have the money waiting for you. Six shillings, no more no less. I pay my debts, Mr Shield, and I expect others to pay theirs.’

      I could not resist a schoolboy pun. ‘Mrs Jem,’ I said solemnly, ‘you are indeed a pearl of great price.’

      ‘That’s enough of your impudence,’ she replied. ‘If you’re going, you’d better go.’

      The balloon of mirth subsided as I walked away from the house where my aunt had lived. So this was all that a life amounted to – a mound of freshly turned earth in a churchyard, a few pieces of furniture scattered among other people’s rooms, and a handful of clothes that nobody but the poor would want to buy.

      There was also the small matter of the money which would come to me. For the first time in my life, I was about to be a man of substance, the absolute master of £103 and a few shillings and pence. The knowledge changed me. Wealth may not bring happiness, but at least it has the power to avert certain causes of sorrow. And it makes a man feel he has a place in the world.

       CHAPTER SIX

      WEALTH. THAT BRINGS me to Wavenhoe’s Bank. It was Mr Bransby who first mentioned its name to me. I never went there, never met old Mr Wavenhoe himself until he was on his deathbed, but Wavenhoe’s was the chain that bound us all together, the British and the Americans, the Frants and the Carswalls, Charlie and Edgar. Money plays its own tune, and in our different ways we all found ourselves dancing to it.

      Early in October, I applied to Bransby for leave to go up to town. It was on that occasion that he mentioned Wavenhoe’s. I needed to visit London because Mr Rowsell had papers for me to sign, and I wished to collect the few shillings that Mrs Jem owed me. He made no difficulty about my request.

      ‘Upon one condition, however,’ he went on. ‘I should like you to go on Tuesday. Then you may undertake two errands for me while you are there. Not that you will find them onerous – quite the reverse, I fancy. When you travel up to town, you will take the boy Allan with you and leave him at his parents’ house in Southampton-row. Number thirty-nine. His father writes that his mother desires to have him measured for a suit of clothes against the winter.’

      ‘Will I collect him on my way back, sir?’

      ‘No. I understand he is to return later in the evening, and that Mr Allan will make the arrangements. Once you have left him at his father’s house, you may discharge your own business. But afterwards I wish you to call at a house in Russell-square so that you may convey a new pupil to the school. Or rather, he will convey you. The boy’s father tells me he will order the carriage.’ Bransby leaned back in his chair, his body pressing against his waistcoat buttons. ‘His name is Frant.’

      I nodded. I remembered the lady who had smiled at me at the gate of the school, and also the man who had nearly set his servants on to me as I walked up Ermine-street. I felt my pulse beating somewhere among the fingers of my clasped hands.

      ‘Master Frant should suit us very well. His father is one of the partners of Wavenhoe’s Bank. A very sound concern indeed.’

      ‘How old is the boy, sir?’

      ‘Ten or eleven. As it happens, this school was commended to Mr Frant by Allan’s father. He is an American of Scottish descent, but resident in London. I understand that he and Mr Frant have conducted business together. Mark this well, Shield: first, a satisfied parent will share his satisfaction with other parents; second, Mr Frant is a gentleman-like man who not only moves in good society but meets wealthy men in the course of his business. Wealthy men have sons who require an education. I would wish you to make a particularly good impression, therefore, on Mr and Mrs Allan and Mr and Mrs Frant.’

      ‘I shall endeavour to do so, sir.’

      Bransby leaned forward across the desk so that he could study me more closely. ‘I am confident that your manner will be everything that is appropriate. But I must confess – and pray do not take this amiss – that some alteration to your dress might be desirable. I advanced you a small sum for clothing, did I not, but perhaps not enough?’

      I began to speak: ‘It is unfortunate, sir, that –’

      ‘And, indeed,’ Bransby rushed on, his colour darkening, ‘you have now been with us for nearly a month and your work has, on the whole, been satisfactory. That being so, from next quarterday I propose to pay you a salary of twelve pounds a year, as well as your board and lodging. It is on the understanding, naturally, that your dress will be appropriate to an usher at this establishment and that your conduct continues to give satisfaction in all respects. In the circumstances, I am minded to advance