As for myself, I felt the life of the school settle around me like an old coat. But one part of my life was incomplete. I own that I dwelt overmuch in my daydreams during this period. When I was in this unsatisfactory state I no longer thought much of Fanny, the girl whose ghostly presence had lingered in my mind for years. Instead, I frequently encountered both Miss Carswall and her cousin Mrs Frant. Daydreams have this advantage over real life: one is not obliged to be constant.
There was nothing to warn me of the troubles that lay ahead. One evening, however, Mr Bransby summoned Dansey and myself to his private room.
“I have had a disturbing communication from Mrs Frant, gentlemen,” he said. “She writes that her son and young Allan have been accosted in the village by the ruffian who approached them before. The man’s effrontery beggars belief.”
“We have heard nothing about this from the boys, sir?” Dansey said.
Bransby shook his head. “He did not linger. And there was no unpleasantness. No, it seems that he simply came up to them in the High-street, gave them a half-sovereign apiece, told them to mind their book and walked away.”
“How extraordinary,” Dansey said. “I gained the impression that he was not the sort of man who had a ready supply of half-sovereigns.”
“Just so.” Mr Bransby fumbled for his snuff-box. “I have interrogated Frant and Allan, of course. Frant mentioned the meeting to his mother in a letter. They had nothing substantial to add to what they had told her, except to emphasise that the man’s behaviour was noticeably more benevolent than on the previous occasion. Allan added that he was more respectably dressed than before.”
“So we may infer from all this that he is in more comfortable circumstances?”
“Indeed. But Mrs Frant is understandably somewhat agitated. She does not like the idea that boys of this establishment, and in particular her son, should be at the mercy of meetings with strange men. I propose to inform the boys that they must report any suspicious strangers in the village to me at once. Moreover, Mr Dansey, I would be obliged if you would alert the innkeepers and tradesmen to the danger. You and Mr Shield will circulate a description of the man in question.”
“You believe he may return, sir?”
“It is not a question of what I believe, Mr Dansey, but rather a matter of trying to allay Mrs Frant’s fears.”
Dansey bowed.
I could have revealed the identity of the stranger. But it was not my secret to tell. Nor did I think it would be kind to Edgar Allan. The gap between father and son was too wide to be easily bridged, especially in that the boy had no knowledge whatsoever of his natural father and believed him to have died long ago in the United States. It could only come as a shock to the lad to learn that David Poe was an impoverished drunkard on his very doorstep.
I said, “You do not think it likely he will venture to return, sir?”
“For my part, I doubt it. He will not show his face here again.”
In that, at least, Mr Bransby was entirely correct.
18
All this time, George Wavenhoe lay dying in his fine house in Albemarle-street. The old man took his time, hesitating between this world and the next, but by November matters had come to a crisis, and it was clear that the end could not be far away. Once again I was summoned to Mr Bransby’s private room, this time without Dansey.
“I am in receipt of another letter from Mrs Frant,” he said with a trace of irritation. “You are aware that her uncle, Mr Wavenhoe, has been very ill for some time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“His medical attendants now believe him to be at death’s door. He has expressed a wish to say farewell to his great-nephew. Mrs Frant requests that you convey her son to Mr Wavenhoe’s house, where she and the rest of his family have gathered. And she further requests that you remain with him while he is there.”
I confess my heart leapt at the prospect of being under the same roof as Sophia Frant for a few days. “But surely that will be most inconvenient for the conduct of the school, sir? Could she not send a servant instead to collect him?”
Bransby held up his hand. “Mr Wavenhoe’s establishment is in some disorder. Both Mrs Frant and the boy’s old nurse are fully occupied in nursing Mr Wavenhoe. She does not wish her son to be neglected, or to mope, while he is with them.” He took a pinch of snuff and sneezed. “As to the inconvenience, that is to some extent mitigated by the fact that Mrs Frant is prepared to pay handsomely for the privilege of having your company for her son. It should only be for a day or two.”
For an instant, a wild hope surged through me: could Mrs Frant have invited me for her own sake, rather than her son’s? A moment’s reflection was enough to show me my folly.
“You will leave this afternoon,” Bransby said. “I could wish it otherwise. Sooner or later the boy must learn to stand on his own two feet.”
When Charlie Frant heard that I was to take him to his uncle Wavenhoe’s, and why, his face aged. The skin wrinkled, the colour fled. I glimpsed the old man he might at some point in the future become.
“May Allan come with me, sir?” he asked.
“No, I’m afraid not. But you must bring your books.”
Later that day we drove up to town. Charlie resisted my efforts at conversation, and I was reminded of that other journey, when I had taken him back to school in disgrace. Although it was only the middle of the afternoon, it was such a raw, damp, grey day it felt hours later than it really was. When we turned from the noise and lights of the bustle of Piccadilly into Albemarle-street, what struck me first was the quiet. They had put down straw to muffle the sound of wheels and bribed the organ grinders, the beggars and the street sellers to take themselves elsewhere.
Mr Wavenhoe lived in a substantial house near the northern end of the street. The servant took our hats and coats in the hall. Men were talking in raised voices in a room on the right of the front door. There were footsteps on the stairs. I looked up to see Flora Carswall running towards us, her feet flickering in and out on the stone steps. She stooped and kissed Charlie who shied away from the embrace. She smiled at me and held out her hand.
“Mr Shield, is it not? We met briefly outside my cousin’s house in Russell-square.”
I told her I remembered our meeting well, which was no more than the truth. She said she was come to take Charlie up to his mother. I asked after Mr Wavenhoe.
“I fear he is sinking fast.” She lowered her voice. “These last few months have not been happy ones for him, so in some respects it is a blessed relief.” Her eyes strayed to Charlie. “There is nothing distressing about it. Or rather, that is to say, not for the spectator.” She coloured most becomingly. “Lord, my father says I let my tongue run away with me, and I fear he is right. What I mean to say, is that Mr Wavenhoe looks at present like one who is very tired and very sleepy. Nothing more than that.”
I smiled at her and inclined my head. It was a kindly thought. To see the dying is often disagreeable, particularly for a child. The sound of male voices became louder behind the closed door.
“Oh dear,” Miss Carswall said. “Papa and Mr Frant are in there.” She bit her lip. “I am staying here to help Mrs Frant with the nursing, and Papa looks in at least once a day to see how we do. But now I must take Charlie up to his mama and Kerridge or they will wonder where we are.” She turned to the footman. “Show Mr Shield up to his room, will you? And he and Master Charles will need a room to sit in. Has Mrs Frant left instructions?”
“I understand the housekeeper has lit a fire in the old schoolroom, miss. Mr Shield’s room is next door.”
We went upstairs. Miss Carswall led Charlie away. I looked after her, watching her hips swaying beneath the muslin of her gown. I realised the footman was doing the same and quickly looked away. We men are all the same under the skin: we fear death, and in our healthy maturity we desire copulation.
We climbed higher and the footman showed me first into a bedroom under the eaves, and then into a long schoolro
om next to it. There were fires burning in the grates of both rooms, a luxury I was not used to. The man inquired very civilly if I desired any refreshment, and I asked for tea. He bowed and went away, leaving me to warm my hands by the fire.
A little later, there came footsteps on the stairs, followed by a knock on the door. I looked round, expecting Charlie or the footman. But it was Mrs Frant who entered the room. I stood up hastily and, made clumsy by surprise, sketched an awkward bow.
“Pray be seated, Mr Shield. Thank you for coming with Charlie. I trust they have made you comfortable?”
Her colour was up and she had her hand to the side, as though running up the stairs had given her a stitch. I said I was well looked after, and asked after Mr Wavenhoe.
“I fear he is not long for this world.”
“Has Charlie seen him?”
“No – my uncle is asleep. Kerridge took Charlie downstairs with her for something to eat.” Her face broke into a smile, instantly suppressed. “She believes she must feed him every time she sees him. He will be with you directly. If you need any refreshment, by the way, you must ring the bell. As for meals, I thought it might be more convenient if you and Charlie had them up here.”
She moved to the barred window, which looked across an eighteen-inch lead-lined gully to the back of the parapet of the street façade. She wore greys and lilacs today, a transitional stage before the blacks she would don when her uncle died. A strand of hair had escaped from her cap, and she pushed it back with a finger. Her movements were always graceful, a joy to watch.
She turned towards me, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth as though impatient with herself. “You must have lights,” she said almost pettishly, tugging the bell. “It is growing dark. I cannot abide the dark.”
While we waited for the servant to come she questioned me about how Charlie was faring at school. I reassured her as best I could. He was much happier than he had been. No, he was not exactly industrious, but he coped with the work that was expected of him. Yes, he was indeed occasionally flogged, but so were all boys and there was nothing out of the way in it. As for his appetite, I rarely saw the boys eating, so I could not comment with any authority, but I had seen him on several occasions emerging from the pastry-cook’s in the village. Finally, as to his motions, I feared I had no information upon that topic whatsoever.
Mrs Frant blushed and said I must excuse the fondness of a mother.
A moment later, the footman brought my tea and a lamp. When the shadows fled from the corners of the room, then so did the curious intimacy of my conversation with Mrs Frant. Yet she lingered. I asked her what regimen she would like us to follow while we were here. She replied that perhaps we might work in the mornings, take the air in the afternoons, and return to our books for a short while in the evening.
“Of course, there may be interruptions.” She twisted her wedding ring round her finger. “One cannot predict the course of events. Mr Shield, I cannot –”
She broke off at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. There was a tap on the door, and Mrs Kerridge and Charlie entered.
“I saw him,” Charlie said. “I thought he was dead at first, he lay so still, but then I heard his breathing.”
“Did he wake?”
“No, madam,” Mrs Kerridge said. “The apothecary gave Mr Wavenhoe his draught, and he’s sleeping soundly.”
Mrs Frant stood up and ran her fingers through the boy’s hair. “Then you shall have a holiday for the rest of the afternoon.”
“I shall go and see the coaches, Mama.”
“Very well. But do not stay too long – it is possible your uncle may wake and call for you.”
Soon I was alone again in the long, narrow room. I drank tea and read for upwards of an hour. Then I became restless, and decided to go out to buy tobacco.
I took the front stairs. As I came down the last flight into the marble-floored hall, a door opened and an old man emerged, wheezing with effort, from the room beyond. He was not tall, but he was broad and had once been powerfully built. He had thick black hair streaked with silver and a fleshy face dominated by a great curving nose. He wore a dark blue coat and a showy but dishevelled cravat.
“Ha!” he said as he saw me. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Shield, sir.”
“And who the devil is Shield?”
“I brought Master Charles from his school. I am an usher there.”
“Charlie’s bear leader, eh?” He had a rich voice, which he seemed to wrench from deep within his chest. “Thought you were the damned parson for a moment, in that black coat of yours.”
I smiled and bowed, taking this for a pleasantry.
The elegant figure of Henry Frant appeared in the doorway behind him.
“Mr Shield,” he said. “Good afternoon.”
I bowed again. “Your servant, sir.”
“Don’t know why you and Sophie thought the boy ought to have a tutor,” the old man said. “I’ll wager he gets enough book-learning at school. They get too much of that already. We’re breeding a race of damned milksops.”
“Your views on the rearing of the young, sir,” Frant observed, “always merit the most profound consideration.”
Mr Carswall rested one hand on the newel post, looked back at the rest of us and broke wind. It was curious that this old, infirm man had the power to make one feel a little less substantial than one usually was. Even Henry Frant was diminished by his presence. The old man grunted and, swaying like a tree in a gale, mounted the stairs. Frant nodded at me and strolled across the hall and into another room. I buttoned up my coat, took my hat and gloves and went out into the raw November air.
Albemarle-street was a quiet, sombre place, lying under the shadow of death. The acrid smell of sea coal filled my nostrils. I crossed the road and glanced back at the house. For an instant, I glimpsed the white blur of a face at one of the drawing-room windows on the first floor. Someone had been standing there – staring idly into the street? or watching me? – and had retreated into the room.
I walked rapidly down towards the lights and the bustle. Charlie had said he wanted to watch the coaches, and I knew where he would have gone. During my long convalescence, when I was staying with my aunt, I would sometimes walk to Piccadilly and watch the fast coaches leaving and arriving from the White Horse Cellar. Half the small boys in London, of all conditions, of all ages, laboured under the same compulsion.
I stepped briskly into Piccadilly, dodged across the road, and made my way along the crowded pavement towards a tobacconist’s. The shop was full of customers, and it was a quarter of an hour before I emerged with a paper of cigars in my pocket.
A few paces ahead of me walked a couple, arm in arm and muffled against the cold. The man raised his stick and hailed a passing hackney. He helped the lady in, and I think his hand must have brushed against her bosom, though whether on purpose or by accident I could not tell. She turned, half in, half out of the hackney, and tapped him playfully on the cheek in mock reproof. The woman was Mrs Kerridge, and the cheek she tapped had a familiar dusky hue.
“Brewer-street,” said Salutation Harmwell, and followed Mrs Kerridge into the coach.
There was nothing suspicious about that, of course, or not then. It was not unusual to see a white-skinned woman arm in arm with a well-set-up blackamoor. Dusky gentlemen were rumoured to have certain advantages when it came to pleasing ladies, advantages denied to the men of other races. But I own I was shocked and a little surprised. Mrs Kerridge had seemed so sober, so prim, so old. Why, I thought to myself, she must be forty if she’s a day. Yet when she looked down at Harmwell, her face had been as bright as a girl’s at her first ball.
I stared after the hackney, wondering what the pair of them were going to do in Brewer-street and feeling an unaccountable stab of envy. At that moment a hand touched my sleeve. I turned, expecting to see Charlie at my elbow.
“I always said Mrs Kerridge was a deep one,” said Flora Carswall. “
I believe my cousin sent her on an errand to Russell-square.”
I raised my hat and bowed. An abigail in a black cloak hovered a few paces away, her eyes discreetly averted.
“And where are you off to, Mr Shield, on this dreary afternoon?” Miss Carswall asked.
“The White Horse Cellar.” It did not seem quite genteel to confess that I had been looking for a tobacconist’s. “I believe Charlie may be there.”
“You are looking for him?”
“Not really. I am at leisure for an hour or so.”
“It is vastly agreeable to see the coaches depart, is it not? All that bustle and excitement, and the thought that one might purchase a ticket, climb aboard and go anywhere, anywhere in the world.”
“I was thinking something very similar.”
“Most people do, probably. How I hate this place.”
I stared at her for an instant. Why should a girl like Flora Carswall dislike a city that could gratify her every whim? I said, “Then for your sake I hope your stay here will be brief.”
“That depends on poor Mr Wavenhoe. But it is not being in Town that I dislike – quite the reverse, in fact – but the gloom of Albemarle-street and some of the people one is obliged to meet there.” She smiled at me, her outburst apparently forgotten. “I wonder – if you are at leisure, might I request the favour of your company? Then I could send my maid home – the poor girl has a mountain of sewing. I have one or two errands to run; they will not take long.”
I could hardly have refused even if I had wanted to. Miss Carswall took my arm and we threaded our way through the crowds down St James’s-street. In Pall Mall, she scanned the latest novels in Payne and Foss’s for a few minutes and spent rather more time with Messrs Harding, Howell, & Co. The people there made much of her. She bought a pair of gloves, examined some lace newly arrived from Belgium, and inquired after the progress of a hat she was having made for her. She even asked my opinion about whether a certain colour matched her eyes and prettily deferred to my verdict. She was excessively animated; and the longer we were together the more I liked her, and the more I wondered whether our meeting had been coincidental.
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