She stared at me. Her lips were slightly parted, her hand rested on the newel post. It was a graceful pose, and curiously formal, as though her limbs had been arranged at the whim of a portrait painter. She gave a queer little sob, turned, and pattered up the stairs and out of sight.
45
The next day, the Monday after Christmas, brought unexpected news. One of the servants rode out to collect the letter bag, returning shortly after midday. The bag was taken to Mr Carswall in the library but its arrival sent a ripple of anticipation throughout the house. A few minutes later, Mr Carswall came into the ladies’ sitting room.
“I have here a letter from Mr Noak, my dear,” he said to Miss Carswall. “He is at present taking the waters at Cheltenham Spa, on the recommendation, I understand, of Mr Allan. He proposes to travel to South Wales next week, where he has an interest in some mining machinery. He inquires whether it would be convenient for him to call as he will be passing so near.” He glanced at the two boys who were trying to make themselves as small as possible in the corner of the room. “He promised Mrs Allan that he would send her news of Edgar if that were possible.”
“I am sure we should be delighted to see him, Papa,” Miss Carswall replied. “If he is to dine with us, no doubt you would like to offer him a bed for the night?”
“One can hardly expect him to travel on our lanes at this time of year, and in this weather, after sunset. No, I think we should invite him to spend a few days with us. He is a very considerable man in his way, and I would not want to be backward in showing him every civility.” He glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand and then at me. “He writes that he is travelling with his clerk. You remember him, Mr Shield? The nigger.”
I bowed.
Mr Carswall took a turn about the room while the rest of us waited in silence. There was an element of agitation about him that I found hard to explain. At that moment, I remembered the very first occasion I had met Mr Noak, when he had arrived at the Frants’ house in Russell-square and the servant had tried to deny him entry until he wrote Carswall’s name on his card and sent it in to Mr Frant.
“Mama,” said Charlie suddenly. “There are horses on the drive.”
This intelligence caused a flurry of excitement. Mr Carswall joined the boys at the window, followed almost immediately by Miss Carswall. A moment later a curricle swept into view.
“It is Sir George and Captain Ruispidge,” Miss Carswall cried. “Heavens, I am not fit to be seen!” She broke away from the group at the window. “My gown! And my curls need frizzing. I must find Kerridge – you do not mind if I borrow her, Sophie? – my maid is so stupid she will take an age. Do not under any circumstances let them leave.”
I opened the door for her. She smiled up at me as she passed out of the room, and I swear one of her eyelids drooped in the suggestion of a wink. She was inviting me to join her in mocking her own vanity; she had a way of making a man she wanted to please into her conspirator. And I could not help but smile back. As I did so, I saw over her shoulder that Mrs Frant had raised her head and was looking at us.
Mr Carswall was almost as excited as his daughter. Sir George had sent a servant to inquire how Edgar did after his accident, but this was the first time that he had done us the honour of calling in person at Monkshill. The condescension was all the more marked in that Captain Ruispidge had accompanied him. Mr Carswall was most put out when he recalled that a fire had not been lit in the drawing room that day, on the grounds of economy. He rang the bell.
“The fire must have been laid. We shall have it lit.”
“But it will be much more natural if we receive them here, sir,” Mrs Frant said coldly. “They will not want us to make a fuss over them, not for a morning call from neighbours. They will feel more easy if they find us here, engaged in our ordinary occupations. Besides, it will take an age for the drawing room to warm up.”
Carswall looked sharply at her but then nodded. “I daresay you know what you’re about. Very well.”
A moment later Sir George and Captain Ruispidge were announced. First they established that the ankle, the ostensible reason for their call, was as well as could be expected; thanks to Mrs Johnson, the news of the boy’s mishap had already spread to Clearland-court. Lady Ruispidge, it appeared, had interested herself in the case, and inquired most particularly after Edgar.
“She recommends the joint be fomented with vinegar, or camphorated spirits of wine,” Sir George informed Mrs Frant. “If excessively painful, a few drops of laudanum may be added. The treatment should be frequently renewed. And of course the injured part should be kept in a state of rest.”
“How very kind of her,” Mrs Frant said. “Pray thank her for the advice.”
Captain Jack fell to praising the park – he praised the house – he praised its appointments – he compared Clearland-court unfavourably to it – at least, with a glance at his brother, in some respects. Then, somehow, he was sitting beside Mrs Frant and engaging her in conversation. I was too far away to hear what was said but once or twice I noticed her grave face breaking into a smile.
Meanwhile, Sir George and Mr Carswall began to discuss agricultural topics. Owing to Mr Carswall’s ignorance of these, they passed rapidly from the price of corn to politics. When Miss Carswall returned, however, having dressed her hair and changed her gown, Sir George’s attention turned from her father to her. The couple’s conversation had the stately inevitability of an old-fashioned country dance. He inquired whether she preferred the country to the town, to which she replied that they both had much to recommend them. He discovered that she played a little and painted a little. He wondered whether it would interest her to look through some of his mother’s music. Later, after her delighted response to this proposal had run its course, he suggested that when the weather was warmer, it might amuse her to sketch the ruins of Flaxern Abbey down by the river. He could undertake to show her a number of particularly fine viewpoints.
Then he turned to the world of literature. I knew already that Miss Carswall enjoyed sighing over novels and the more sentimental varieties of modern poetry, and that, unlike most of her sex, she read the newspapers assiduously. It soon became apparent, though, that Sir George’s tastes were altogether more serious. Fortunately he did not inquire too closely about her reading but instead described his own. Like many gentlemen, he was convinced of the importance of his own opinions and the manifold advantages that would accrue to those who heard them. He recommended several religious works of an evangelical persuasion and expatiated on the moral beauties of Cowper’s poetry. Miss Carswall played her part gamely but I do not think it came easily to her.
The boys and I said little. There were no rôles for us to play in the billing and cooing between the Carswalls and the Ruispidges. I sat forgotten in my corner. Charlie and Edgar were called over to meet Captain Jack, but their conversation did not last long. Soon it became apparent that the boys were bored.
Edgar took matters into his own hands. He was a headstrong boy, unlike the pliant Charlie, and persuaded Mrs Frant to allow the three of us to withdraw on the grounds that moderate exercise would complete the cure of his ankle. Once outside, Edgar refused to take my arm but accepted a stick. We walked as far as the kitchen gardens and back. On the way, I learned that the boys had not given up their intention of searching for the monks’ treasure.
“They would not hide it in the grange,” Edgar said. “Any more than in the abbey itself. They would be the first places where King Henry’s men would look.”
“They might bury it somewhere near,” Charlie suggested.
“Or find a cave. But I think it very likely they would have hidden it up at Monkshill rather than down by the Abbey. It would be far safer.”
As we were returning to the house, we heard the sound of the curricle receding down the drive. We found the rest of the party still in the small sitting room. Mr Carswall was standing by the window and rubbing his hands with pleasure.
“They are engag
ed to dine with us when Mr Noak will be here,” he told me, for he needed to tell someone whom he had not told before. He turned back to Miss Carswall. “We must have game, Flora. Nothing but the best. If only Lady Ruispidge will be able to accept as well.”
He ran on in a similar vein for much of the day. There came a moment when Miss Carswall and Mrs Frant were out of the room; I was waiting for the boys to bring down their books; and Mr Carswall was enlarging upon his plans for the dinner party to Mrs Lee. Mrs Lee was his ideal interlocutor for she rarely said anything of significance but knew to perfection when to insert into the flow of someone else’s words those little phrases of assent and interest that are so agreeable and encouraging to the other party.
“I have half a mind to invite Mrs Johnson, too,” Carswall said in his harsh, carrying voice. “After all, it was she who was kind to Edgar. It would be a very proper attention, too: she is a cousin of the Ruispidges, as well as a neighbour. And it would look most odd if we did not ask her, particularly if she is still staying at Clearland.”
Mrs Lee cleared her throat loudly, an action so unusually emphatic that he stared at her in surprise. “I do not know whether you are aware of a certain unhappy circumstance in Mrs Johnson’s early life, sir,” she said in a low tone. “It might be prudent to consider the wisdom of such an invitation very carefully.”
“What? Speak plainly, madam. I cannot understand you if you talk in riddles.”
Mrs Lee drew back in her chair, and the features of her face trembled. But her voice was perfectly steady, though even quieter than before, so quiet I had to strain to hear it: “You must be the best judge, sir. It was merely that I wondered whether you were aware that, before Mrs Johnson’s marriage, there was – or rather it was believed that there was – what they call an understanding between her and Mr Henry Frant.”
46
Mr Noak was due to arrive on Monday, the 3rd January. The Ruispidges had been invited to dinner the following day. The weather continued very cold – as I have mentioned, it was an exceptionally cold winter that year.
I cannot say that we were a cheerful household. By his very nature, Mr Carswall engendered a domestic strain that affected us all, even the boys, even the servants. Now, after the exchange I had overheard in the library, I knew of another, more specific source of discord. I watched and said nothing. I noted that Mrs Frant avoided an open breach with Mr Carswall but rarely spoke to him or allowed herself to be alone with him. Once I glimpsed an expression of despair on her face when I came across her walking in the garden and believing herself unobserved. One evening I heard the sound of sobbing as I passed her door.
The boys and I were happiest outside. Sometimes we went down to the lake and skated on the ice. I had grown up in the Fens, where the combination of cold winters and an inexhaustible supply of water made skating an acquirement one picked up almost as soon as the ability to walk. The boys lacked this early training, and gave me undeserved credit for my skill on the ice.
One afternoon I saw Miss Carswall and Mrs Frant watching us from the bank. At the time I was skating slowly on the far side of the lake, with a boy attached to either hand. I released Edgar, in order to raise my hat to the ladies. His arms flailed, his body twisted to and fro, but he kept his balance. Vanity prompted me to abandon my charges, and to skate across the lake at speed, and with many graceful pirouettes, on the spurious errand of discovering whether there was anything we might do for our visitors.
“How I envy you,” Mrs Frant said with unusual animation. “To travel so quickly, to be so free.”
“I’m sure it is capital exercise,” put in Miss Carswall. “Look at the boys – their cheeks are as red as pippins.”
“Better than dancing, even,” Mrs Frant continued. “It must be like gliding through another element, like flying.”
“I am sure there are more skates at the house,” Miss Carswall said. “I wonder if we might find pairs that would fit us.”
Her cousin gave a little shudder.
“You need not look like that,” Miss Carswall said with a laugh. “One cannot always have new things. Besides, I believe Mr Cranmere’s family were all excessively well bred.”
As she spoke, she twisted her face into a painfully genteel expression. Mrs Frant and I burst out laughing.
“But how would we learn?” Mrs Frant objected. “It must be very difficult.”
“We might have a chair brought down, if you wished,” I suggested. “Then I could push you on it across the ice.”
“But I do not want to be pushed,” she said with a smile. “I want to skate by myself. I’m sure my cousin does, too.”
“Then if you would permit me, I could teach you, as I have been teaching the boys.” I looked from one to the other. “Though it is largely a matter of teaching oneself. The principal difficulty at the beginning is that of retaining one’s balance. Once one has the trick of that, the rest will follow.”
As if to illustrate my point, the boys were now zigzagging across the frozen water towards us. Their progress was slow, and no one would have called it elegant, but progress it was.
Miss Carswall took a gloved hand from her muff and laid it on her cousin’s sleeve. “Oh, pray let us try it, Sophie. I am sure the boys and Mr Shield will make sure we come to no harm.”
The ladies’ skating lessons began that very afternoon. Chivalry dictated that I should take them by the hand, just as I had the boys, one on my left, one on my right. There we were in the very dry, very cold air, with no sound but the hissing and scraping of the blades beneath us, the panting of our breath and the occasional bursts of laughter. Physical exertion can act as a form of intoxication, as can excitement; and sometimes it seemed to me that I was doubly drunk.
Mrs Frant fell twice, Miss Carswall five times. In order to help a lady up, I had to put my arm around her, to feel her weight. I cannot deny that I enjoyed these upsets, and I suspect that Miss Carswall fell more often than she needed. In sum, the hours we spent together on the ice were peculiarly intimate – not indecorous, but on the other hand not something that was discussed in Mr Carswall’s hearing.
In the intervals of skating, the boys continued their hunt for the monks’ treasure. They ranged over the park, exploring every nook and cranny they could find. They tried excavation in one of the kitchen gardens but the head gardener did not share their antiquarian enthusiasm and in any case the ground was too hard for their spades.
The treasure hunters had high hopes of a shell grotto on the shore of the lake. It was in the form of a short, barrel-vaulted tunnel ending in an apse, where stood a ghostly statue of Aphrodite. Moisture dripped through the roof and glittered on the shells that studded the interior. When one held up a lantern, it was as though one confronted a beautiful and almost naked woman in a cold cave of sparkling diamonds. The boys’ hopes were dashed when Mr Carswall, overhearing their excited conversation on the subject, told them that according to the estate records the grotto had been constructed on Mr Cranmere’s orders not fifteen years before.
During this period Sir George Ruispidge and his brother were frequent visitors. Usually, but not always, they rode or drove over together. They came on the slightest pretext – to inquire yet again after Edgar’s ankle; to return a borrowed volume; to bring a newspaper newly arrived from London. The brothers’ manner towards me did not encourage undue familiarity.
On one occasion they came down to the lake. Sir George stayed on the bank but Captain Ruispidge requested the loan of my skates and soon showed himself an able performer on the ice. He took my place beside the ladies, and I fancied he exerted himself to be agreeable, more so than mere courtesy required.
All this time, I continued to turn over in my mind the events of the last few weeks that might suggest that Henry Frant was still alive. The intelligence from Mrs Lee concerning a former understanding between him and Mrs Johnson had naturally aroused my suspicions. Mrs Johnson denied visiting London recently, but there was reason to believe that she might have
done so on at least one occasion. Finally, I considered the man I had glimpsed at the window of Grange Cottage.
Puzzling and even suspicious as these circumstances were, could I deduce from them that Mrs Johnson was sheltering her former lover? The more I subjected the possibility to rational analysis, the less plausible it seemed. In the first place, a youthful attachment, however ardent, was no guarantee of a present one, as my own experience showed. In the second place, if Henry Frant were still alive, surely he would avoid Monkshill-park, where so many people who knew him intimately had gathered?
If Frant had contrived his own murder, it must have been with the intention of creating a new life for himself somewhere, under a new name. In order to do that with any security, it would be necessary for him to flee abroad. He was a man who had lived too much in the world to be safe from discovery anywhere in his native country.
One morning, when the boys were examining the ruins of the monks’ grange, my eyes wandered to Mrs Johnson’s cottage. The boys were absorbed in a game of make-believe so I sauntered across to the palings and through the gate. The house and garden seemed even more forlorn and unloved than on my last visit. The shutters were across the ground-floor windows. No smoke came from the chimneys. Mrs Johnson was still at Clearland-court, and even her servant had gone.
I walked round the house. At the back was a small stable and a row of outhouses. As I walked back through the yard, I noticed a footprint frozen in the patch of mud by the pump. Judging by the size, it was a man’s.
I returned to the park. I knew there were a dozen perfectly innocent explanations for that footprint. Yet the sight of it was enough to feed that state of uncertainty that had become so uncomfortably familiar to me.
When I reached the ruins, the boys were no longer there. I walked up the slope, shouting for them. I had nearly reached the lake, approaching it from the east, when I heard an answering call from the edge of the wood between the water and Flaxern Parva. Mindful of the mantraps, I ran and slid across the ice to the west bank of the lake. I found the boys not among the trees but in a defile that cut into the flank of the ridge perhaps fifty yards from the lake.
The American Boy Page 22
