The American Boy

by Andrew Taylor

  “I am surprised you are here,” I said, “though of course I am very happy to see you. But I had imagined you would be at school. Or at least that Edgar would be.”

  “Mr Carswall said Charlie could come back with me after all,” Edgar said. “So we are both at Mr Bransby’s still.”

  I nodded. Mr Bransby had been most obliging to Mr Carswall so the latter’s change of mind was understandable. “That must be agreeable for you both. So has Mr Bransby given the school a holiday?”

  “Not the school, sir,” Edgar said. “Only Charlie and me.”

  “Yesterday was my cousin Flora’s birthday, sir,” said Charlie. “There was a big dinner, and afterwards there was dancing and cards, and lots of people came. Flora begged for us to be invited, me because I am her cousin, and Edgar because he is my most particular friend. Captain Ruispidge came to fetch us from school. Only fancy! He drives a bang-up curricle gig and we sat squashed up beside him when we drove off. All the fellows were sick with envy.”

  “But we return to Mr Bransby’s this afternoon,” Edgar put in. “Mr Allan’s clerk will take us.”

  “And the bird, to be sure,” Charlie said.

  “The bird?” I said.

  “A parrot, sir. Mr Carswall gave it me. And we are to take it back to school: Mr Bransby has given us leave. We have just been to buy seed for it. It does not say much yet but we shall teach it.”

  “Oh, sir,” Edgar said, after an awkward pause in the conversation. “There is a new man at the school now, Mr Brown, and the fellows don’t like him half so well. They – we – wish you hadn’t left.”

  “I regret it myself,” I said, realising from this that Carswall and Bransby had not published the reason for my dismissal, or perhaps even the fact of it. Neither of them stood to gain from the scandal being known abroad.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Charlie said. “But was there a disagreement between you and Mr Carswall? We could not understand why you left Monkshill so suddenly, and Mr Carswall will not let your name be mentioned at home.”

  “There was a disagreement.” I smiled down at them. “But I need not trouble you with the details. Now, I must not detain you any longer.”

  “Should you like to see the bird, sir?” Edgar asked. “It is uncommonly interesting. And singularly intelligent, too. It keeps saying something, only we do not yet quite understand it.”

  “I should like it above all things. However –”

  “Edgar and I are to walk with it to Mr Allan’s this afternoon,” Charlie said suddenly. “Mr Carswall cannot spare the carriage. Mama says there is no need to go to the expense of a hackney for such a short walk. If you cared to join us, we should have the pleasure of showing it to you.”

  I bowed. “That would be most kind.” My conscience gave a twinge at the thought of making an unlicensed rendezvous with the boys. All at once, however, I thought of a stratagem which would not only be kind to my scruples but also of practical assistance. “Pray, Charlie, may I ask a favour of you? I have a letter for your mother here, which I meant to leave at the house as I passed, but it slipped my mind. I wonder if you would be so kind as to give it to her.”

  Charlie said he would be delighted to be of service. I noted a look of intelligence passing between the boys, and knew there was no need for me to hint that discretion was desirable. The boys were accustomed to living under tyranny, whether Mr Bransby’s or Mr Carswall’s, and tyranny nourishes the ability to keep secrets. It was arranged that we should meet in Bedford-square, which lay on the route they would take to Southampton-row since it allowed them to skirt safely to the north of St Giles.

  I spent the intervening time constantly in motion, for I was filled with a restless energy that would not let me stand still for a moment. I tramped north, past the new St Pancras Church they were building at the top of Woburn-place and up to Clarendon-square. There I panicked, thinking I might be late, and walked south again as though the devil himself were at my heels, reaching Bedford-square a good twenty minutes before the appointed time. I paced up and down the square and the surrounding streets until at last, at ten minutes past the hour, I saw the two small figures approaching, walking in file. As we drew nearer, I discovered that the boys carried on their shoulders a pole, from which hung a birdcage covered in blue serge cloth. We came together at the corner of the square, and they set down their burden with infinite solicitude.

  “When the cover is on, the bird believes it night-time,” Charlie said. “It falls asleep directly.”

  He crouched and slowly raised the cover. Having seen how the cage swung on the pole, I was not surprised to find its occupant already awake. It was an unkempt creature, its plumage dull and ragged, with a wicked look in its eyes. The cage itself, on the other hand, was spotless. Charlie was still in the honeymoon of proprietorship. I desperately desired to know what answer Sophie had given but I knew better than to ask for it.

  “Has the bird a name?”

  “It has two, sir,” Edgar said.

  “His name is Jackson,” Charlie said. “After Gentleman Jackson, the pugilist. I’m sure the bird would be a doughty fighter if he could. But I said Edgar could choose a name for him too, though he is my bird, for there is no reason why a bird should not have two names any more than a person has.”

  “Very true,” I said.

  “My name for him is Tamerlane.”

  “That is a very grand appellation.”

  “He is a very grand bird,” Edgar said gravely. “I am sure he is intelligent. We shall teach him heroic poetry.”

  “He already speaks,” Charlie put in. He poked a finger through the bars of the cage and prodded the unfortunate fowl, which scuttled away to the other end of its perch. “Come, Jackson, talk to us.”

  The bird preserved an obstinate silence. Despite the boys’ pleading, it stared balefully through the bars and refused to utter a sound.

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” Charlie said. “You would have enjoyed it enormously. He speaks so clearly – it is just as though he were a real person, only one cannot quite make out what he is saying.”

  “It is no matter. Tell me, were you able to give my letter to your mother?”

  He looked up at me, his eyes apparently guileless, and as so often with children, I wondered how much he noticed, how much he understood. “Oh yes, sir. Mama sent her compliments, and said there would be no answer.”

  I nodded, hoping that my expression somehow implied that this was entirely what I had expected.

  “Ayez peur,” squawked the wretched bird.

  “What did that –?” I began, and choked back the rest of the question.

  Edgar clapped his hands. “There! I knew he would. Is it not quite splendid, sir?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “And does he not sound exactly like a person?”

  “Oh, identical.”

  “Can you make out what he says?” Charlie said.

  “Ayez peur,” repeated the bird, and pecked at his seed.

  “I believe I can,” I said, “though he has not perfectly mastered the consonants. Does he not say ‘I hate beer’?”

  “Ayez peur,” said the bird for the third time and defecated on the floor of the cage.

  “Yes, that is undoubtedly it,” I went on. “Does he abstain from all liquor, or is it only beer that arouses his disgust?”

  My feeble attempt at wit struck the boys as exquisitely funny. We talked for a few minutes more until Edgar touched his companion’s arm.

  “We must walk on, Charlie,” he said. “Mr Allan will not be happy if his clerk is kept waiting.”

  Charlie bent over the cage and carefully restored the blue cover.

  Edgar said, his voice so low that only I could hear: “Mrs Frant goes to the burying ground this afternoon, I believe. I heard her telling Mrs Kerridge. Mr Frant’s headstone has now been set up.”

  “There,” said Charlie. “It is night again. I daresay Jackson does not mind the swaying of the cage as we carry him, for quite
probably it reminds him of the swaying of the trees in his native jungle.”

  “Thank you,” I said to Edgar, and then again, more loudly, “Thank you so much for showing me Jackson Tamerlane. I am sure you will soon succeed in teaching him entire poems.”

  We shook hands and parted. I stood for a moment watching their little procession hurrying along the pavement towards Southampton-row. And then I too began to move slowly in an eastward direction, though bearing towards the north, so that I would not follow in their footsteps.

  I blundered along, a man in a trance, sometimes brushing against walls and other pedestrians, sometimes stumbling. Passers-by avoided me, gave me disapproving looks. I felt dazed, as though I had woken from a heavy sleep and found myself in a time and place that were entirely strange to me.

  In my head I heard over and over again the sound of Jackson Tamerlane squawking out the only words it knew: Ayez peur, ayez peur.

  72

  From the burying ground of St George’s, Bloomsbury, I heard the cries of children at play, shrill and incomprehensible as the language of birds. Directly to the south lay the stately buildings of the Foundling Hospital, flanked by the gardens of the Mecklenburgh and Brunswick-squares.

  Sophie was not here. Perhaps she had already left. Perhaps Edgar had been mistaken about the time or even the place. I tried to summon up her face and for once even that comfort was denied me.

  I sought solace in activity. The cemetery looked newly polished in the late afternoon sunshine of a spring day. An attendant loitered by the gate. I gave him sixpence to show me the grave I sought. The headstone was small and plain, raw and unweathered. Here were no weeping cherubs or fulsome inscriptions. Incised in the stone were these words and nothing else:

  HENRY WILLIAM PARKER FRANT

  17th July 1775–25th November 1819

  aet. suæ 44

  With his lean figure, Henry Frant had looked younger. The date of his birth stirred a memory: I recalled that according to the tablet in the church at Flaxern Parva his mother Emily had departed this life in the same year: perhaps she had died in childbirth, or from complications arising from it. I had a sudden vision, at once unexpected, intense and unwelcome, of a small boy alone among the servants in that great house at Monkshill; growing up without a mother, and with a father dedicated to dissolute pursuits that took him far away from his child; and, when Monkshill had to be sold, of a boy removed from the comfort of the familiar and sent to live among strangers in Ireland. Henry Frant was, or had been, a gentleman: but perhaps there had been little to envy in his situation.

  I turned aside and paced up and down the gravel walks, the refrain of that unlovely fowl never far from my mind. A funeral procession passed me and automatically I uncovered and stood aside. Oh, the awful panoply of death! The last of the mourners went by. And there, hurrying away along a path at right angles to the procession, was the unmistakable figure of Sophie Frant. She was quite alone.

  I walked rapidly in pursuit. Widow’s weeds often mask their wearers with a layer of anonymity: even when the face is unveiled, one sees the widow, not the woman. There was no mistaking Sophie, though. I recognised every line of her body; I had traced in fact and in fancy the curve of her neck; I knew her posture and I knew the way she walked, with her eyes turning from side to side; for her mind was always alert, always watchful, always interested.

  She heard my footsteps on the gravel behind her and stood aside to let me pass, pretending to study an inscription. I drew level and stopped. Slowly her head turned towards me.

  I bowed. Neither of us spoke. There we were, four or five feet apart. I was aware of the cortège winding its way to an open grave within a stone’s throw of the place dedicated to the mortal remains of Henry Frant. It was a fine afternoon, and there were others visiting the dead. Here, among the graves, a tide of living humanity ebbed and flowed around us.

  She pushed the veil away from her face. It was always her eyes that drew me. I took a step nearer, then stopped as though chained to my situation like a dog in a yard. At Monkshill, seeing her every day, dining at the same table, walking in the same grounds – all this had bred a false intimacy between us, in the sense that it had seemed entirely natural for a woman in her position to treat me almost as her equal. But these last three months apart had dispelled this rosy mist of illusion: now, seeing her again, I could not help but be aware of the great chasm that lay between us: of the contrast between my shabby second-hand clothes and the dark elegance of hers. I did not recognise her cloak, or the pelisse or gown I glimpsed beneath.

  “Tom,” she said, “I – I must not see you.”

  “Then why did you not write me an answer to my note? Why leave me in suspense?”

  She winced as if I had hit her. “That was not what I intended. I thought a clean, immediate break was best.”

  “For whom?”

  She looked directly at me. “For me. And perhaps for you. Besides, further intercourse between us would not be kind to my cousin.”

  “To Miss Carswall? But what has she to do with it?”

  “You should know that better than I, sir.”

  I felt myself grow warm. “Sophie – my dear, please: if you mean that last evening in Monkshill, Miss Carswall came to the schoolroom merely to wish me goodbye and to lend me some money for my journey. It was an act of kindness, nothing more.”

  She turned her head away, and her hat and veil obscured her face. “Even if that is true, there is another reason why I must not see you or write to you.”

  “Is this because of the accusation Mr Carswall has fabricated against me?”

  She shook her head. “I knew that was nonsense. So did Flora.”

  “He had someone sew the ring into my greatcoat. I suspect it was Pratt. By great good fortune, I found it there when I reached London. I have made arrangements for it to be returned anonymously.”

  “I have been so anxious. I did not know where you were, or how you were.” Sophie spoke more quickly now, and her face was alive with animation. “Mr Carswall changed his mind about withdrawing Charlie from Mr Bransby’s. But you are no longer there, I collect?”

  I nodded. “Mr Bransby and Mr Carswall came to an understanding. I resigned before I was discharged.”

  “How do you live?”

  I saw her looking at me, and knew the figure I must cut in my battered hat and threadbare coat. “I live very well, thank you. I am not without friends.”

  “I am glad.”

  “And you?”

  Her shoulders twitched. “I live with my cousins, as before. Mr Carswall sees to everything. He pays Kerridge’s wages, and Mr Bransby’s bills. I want for nothing.”

  “Sophie, there is still –”

  “I am looking for Mr Frant’s grave,” she interrupted, and her interruption was a form of reproof. “The headstone was set up only last week. I thought I should see it.”

  I pointed. “It is over there.”

  “Mr Carswall paid for that, too.”

  Uninvited, I paced in silence beside her. I indicated the headstone and we stopped. Sophie stared at it for a moment, her face pale and still. I do not think there was any trace of emotion in her countenance. She might have been studying a bill of fare.

  “Do you think he is at peace?” she said suddenly.

  “I do not know.”

  “He was always restless. I think he would have liked to be at peace. To be nothing. To want nothing.”

  Her right hand gestured towards the grave, and the movement brought to mind the way a mourner throws a handful of earth on top of the coffin before it is covered over for ever. There was a finality about it. Without looking at me, she walked away. I replaced my hat and followed.

  “Sophie,” I said, because after what had happened between us I would not call her Mrs Frant. “Will you listen to me?”

  “Pray do not speak.” Her eyes were bright. “Please, Tom.”

  “I must. There may not be another opportunity. You cannot stay where you
are.”

  “Why not? The Carswalls are my cousins.”

  “What will happen when Miss Carswall marries Sir George? You will be alone with that foul old man.”

  “That is my concern. Not yours.”

  “It is my concern: I cannot stand back and leave you there unprotected.”

  “I do not want your pity, sir.”

  “I do not wish to give you pity. I wish to give you love. I cannot give you much, Sophie, but I believe that I could through my exertions preserve you and Charlie from absolute want, even now. If you would let me, I would offer you my hand with all my heart.”

  “I cannot entertain such a proposal. It is quite out of the question.”

  “Then let me support you without marriage.”

  “As your mistress, do you mean?” she said sharply. “I had not thought you –”

  “No, no. I mean as a sister, as whatever you wished. My lodgings are perfectly respectable, and I would put you under the protection of the woman of the house and move elsewhere.”

  “No, sir, no.” Her voice had become gentler. “It cannot be.”

  “I know we should be poor at first, but in time I hope to earn a modest competence. I have friends, I am willing to work. I would do all in my power –”

  “I do not doubt it, Tom.” She touched my arm. “But it cannot be. When my year of mourning is up, I am to marry Mr Carswall.”

  I stared appalled at her for a moment, my mouth open like an idiot’s. Then I grasped her hand and said, “Sophie, my love, no, you must not –”

  “Why not?” She moved aside, pulling her hand from mine. “It is for Charlie’s sake. Mr Carswall has promised to settle a considerable sum on him on the day we are married, and to provide for him in his will.”

  “It is damnable. Carswall is a monster. I –”

  “It will be a perfectly respectable arrangement in the eyes of the world, and in the eyes of our family and friends. We are cousins. There is a disparity of age but that don’t signify. I have no doubt we shall do very well. Charlie will be provided for, and I shall live in comfort. I cannot pretend these considerations mean nothing to me. And, as I have accepted Mr Carswall as my future husband, I must respect his wishes. Any acquaintance between you and me must come to an end.”