The American Boy (47 page)

“Don't try and gammon me. I smoked you a long time ago. A man of your parts must have a reason to want to live in a place like this.”

“Madam, I told you –”

“I know what you told me, and you don't have to tell me again.” She smoothed her apron. “You'll say it's none of my business, and in the ordinary way of things it ain't, not if there's no trouble. But he wasn't the sort of man I like to have inquiring about my lodgers. Sharp little runt, with a dreadful knowing way about him. He tried to bully me, too.”

I smiled at her. “I wish I had seen it.”

Mrs Jem did not return the smile. “Could have been a runner once, maybe, and now works private. The sort of fellow you'd find sniffing round the servants in an action for crim. con.”

“I assure you, ma'am, that is not the case here.” I felt myself grow warm, nevertheless: if Henry Frant were alive, then what had passed between Sophie and me on that afternoon in Gloucester would indeed have amounted to criminal conversation. “I – I cannot think what he wanted.”

“He wanted you,” Mrs Jem said. “That's plain enough. I give you fair warning: I don't want to lose you, Mr Shield, you're clean and obliging and you pays your rent. But I won't have unpleasantness in this house. I have to think of my girls.”

I bowed to her.

“Lord, don't waste your fine airs and graces on me. Just make sure that man don't come pestering us again.” She smiled as she spoke, though, and waved me away as she would have dismissed one of her own children.

I went quickly upstairs to my garret. I had little doubt what this visitor meant: Carswall had found out my direction. I cursed my own complacency. I had known from the beginning that he was a man of strong passions, a man capable of enduring hatred. I wished with all my heart that I had not hidden the ring in my room. Was there still time to dispose of it?

There was a loud knocking on the street door below, followed by voices in the hall, and then the patter of small feet running upwards. Lizzie and Lottie burst neck and neck into my room.

“Oh, sir,” Lottie began.

Lizzie pushed her sister against the jamb of the door, temporarily silencing her. “There's another man for you, sir, not the –”

Lottie interrupted her sister with a well-directed kick to the ankle. “No, sir, please, sir, he begs the favour of a word with you.”

As she brought the last words successfully out, a smug smile spread over her freckled face. Her sister pulled her hair. I broke up the altercation, as I had broken up many of their altercations before, by interposing my body between theirs, and marched them downstairs. In a way I was glad it had come to this: the decisions were made for me; there was no need to debate whether to stay or to run, to take the ring or to leave it where it was. As we walked, the children chattered to me, each apparently oblivious of the other's presence. My mouth was dry and I felt light-headed.

In the hall, a man in a black coat stood waiting. His back was turned to me, and he appeared to be studying the drops of dried blood on the floorboards that marked the place where Lottie and Lizzie had fought for possession of a sugar plum on Sunday afternoon. As I reached the foot of the stairs, he turned to greet me. I recognised the plump white face of Atkins, Mr Rowsell's clerk.

“Mr Shield, sir, I trust I find you well.”

While we said what was civil to each other, though without warmth on either side, he examined me with barely concealed curiosity. I thought it probable that he had known of the reception awaiting me at Mr Rowsell's house, but he had not warned me. He felt in his breast pocket and produced a letter.

“Mr Rowsell begged me to give you this. He said that if I found you here, he wished me to wait for an answer.”

I turned aside, broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

I looked at Atkins. “Pray give my compliments to Mr Rowsell, and Thursday would be quite convenient.”

Mr Rowsell took me to a tavern in Fleet-street. We drank first one bottle of claret with our dinner and then another. He was as amiable in his manner to me as ever but at first he steered our conversation resolutely towards general topics. He talked in fits and starts, rushing at his words as though he feared they might escape him if he did not hurry, and laughing boisterously at the slightest opportunity. Not that there was much cause for amusement – I remember we talked of the Cato Street Conspiracy against the government, which was then in the news, and the Peterloo Massacre in Manchester the previous summer. For all its wealth and vigour the country was tearing itself apart.

“These are troubled times for the nation,” Mr Rowsell said, as we broached the third bottle. “I fear there may be a crash, a great crisis in public confidence that will make the collapse of Wavenhoe's seem no more than a trifling upset. So keep your capital safe, Tom, do not be tempted into speculation.”

“Thank you, sir.” I eyed my host's face with some anxiety, for it had grown dark with wine. “May I ask what you meant in your letter? About an explanation?”

“An explanation?” He shut his eyes for a moment. “Aye, well, first I must tell you that I have written to Mr Bransby. When I was trying to find you out, he was naturally the first person I thought of.”

“In that case you will know that I have resigned from my position at his school.”

“Yes – he – well, not to beat about the bush – he made a number of allegations about your conduct which I found hard to credit.”

“That is perhaps because they were untrue.”

Rowsell's eyebrows shot up. “I am glad to hear it, Tom.”

“Theft, philandering and neglecting my duty to his pupils?”

He nodded. “I reminded the reverend gentleman that there was a law of libel in this country. He did not reply to my second letter.”

“Surely Mrs Rowsell must have known of my disgrace long before you heard of it from Mr Bransby?”

“Yes, yes, Mrs Rowsell – yes, I shall come to that.” His colour darkened still more, and he applied himself to his wine. “I did not know where you were. I cannot tell you how glad I was when Quintus Atkins came up to me on Monday morning and said he had found you.”

“On
Monday
? Not Tuesday?”

“Yes, it was Monday, I'm sure of it – you would not think it to look at him, but Atkins has a gift for talking to strangers, for asking harmless questions in a way that does not cause offence, and a wide acquaintance. I did not think it likely you would have returned to Rosington, or even left town. I determined to concentrate our search on the vicinity of the Strand – I thought it the most likely part of London for you to choose, you see, because of its long association with your aunt. It was merely a matter of his tramping the streets and asking questions for long enough, and there you were. To be precise, he was introduced to a stonemason in a public house. It turned out you had written a letter for the man. And later Atkins confirmed it by buying a glass of rum for a former sailor who lodges on the floor below you. I may say that both men gave you fine testimonials. So then I wrote the letter he brought you.”

I hesitated, wanting to pursue the matter further but uncertain how best to go about it. “Forgive me for labouring the point, sir, but I heard that another man came looking for me at Gaunt-court on Tuesday. I wondered whether someone else, perhaps less benevolent than yourself, wished to find me.”

“I'm positive that Atkins told me the news on Monday.” Rowsell frowned. “Mr Carswall? Could it have been he?”

“It's possible.”

“Do you feel able to tell me more about the circumstances?”

“I left Monkshill-park under a cloud. The cloud was none of my making, and Mr Carswall treated me unjustly. His malevolence pursued me to London, for he wrote to Mr Bransby and made certain accusations – those you have already heard. He manufactured evidence to support the most serious of those accusations. He meant to cost me my position, sir, and possibly my liberty – and even, perhaps, my life.”

“If you were my client, I would advise you not to repeat those accusations in public.” Rowsell dabbed his finger in a circle of wine on the table and drew the outline of a head resembling a fox's. “He is a wealthy man, Mr Carswall, and one with a certain reputation. He may be an old dog, but he can still bite.”

“I was forewarned of his scheme by a friend,” I continued. “So I came straight to you, intending to lay the matter before you and ask your advice.”

Rowsell lowered his head over his glass. “I am sorry. It was most unfortunate that I was not in the way when you called.”

“I went to Lincoln's Inn first, and Atkins sent me on to Northington-street. I concluded from Mrs Rowsell's reception of me that Mr Carswall had reached you before me, and poisoned your mind and hers against me.”

“Very natural, my dear boy. That was not the case, however – the first I heard of what had happened was when Mr Bransby replied to my letter of inquiry. No, Mrs Rowsell's conduct sprang from another source. I hold myself very much to blame. I have not been altogether candid with you, I am afraid, and the fault is entirely mine. Circumstances placed me in an awkward position, and indeed they still do.” He swallowed half a glass of wine. “That is why I asked you to dine with me here, rather than at Northington-street.”

“If I have distressed Mrs Rowsell in any way, I regret it extremely.”

“No, it is not you who have distressed her: it is I. And of course I have also distressed you. Tell me, did you never wonder why your excellent aunt placed her affairs in my hands? I do not wish to seem immodest, but it must have occurred to you that I am moderately successful in what I do, and that I would not usually attend so assiduously to the affairs of a lady in her circumstances, however amiable she was in her personal character. Mrs Reynolds's estate, as you know, was not large.”

“I had remarked on your kindness many times, sir. You will think me foolish but I had ascribed it to philanthropy, to a natural benevolence.”

“I am reproved. I wish that were true. Though, in fairness to myself, I may state that I assisted your aunt in her legal affairs, and indeed yourself, with no thought of gain. My motives were disinterested but I cannot claim they sprang from general benevolence.” Rowsell broke off to pour more wine. He had neglected his food, which was unlike him, for he was usually a good trencher-man.

I said gently, “I would not pain you, sir. Whatever your reasons, you were very kind to me when my aunt died and afterwards, and I shall always be grateful for that.”

“Mrs Rowsell,” he said, apparently out of the blue, “is a great reader of novels.”

I stared at him. “I beg your pardon. I think I did not quite catch –”

“What I mean to say is this,” he broke in, speaking low and fast and rather indistinctly. “Her mind has been to some extent formed by the reading that delights her hours of leisure. Nothing gives her greater pleasure than to settle down of an evening with a volume of the latest novel from the library. One could sometimes wish – ah, but no matter; I digress.” He ran out of words and stabbed the meat he had barely touched with uncharacteristic venom.

I said, “One judges a man by his actions, and yours have been uniformly generous.”

Rowsell swallowed a mouthful of wine. Then he stretched his arm across the table and touched the sleeve of my coat. “My dear boy. You are so like your mother sometimes. It is quite uncanny.”

I laid down my knife and fork. “My mother, sir? My
mother
? You have the advantage of me: I did not realise that you knew her.”

“Yes. A lady of great charm and refinement. Indeed, there lies my difficulty, the source of my present difficulty, that is to say, with regard to Mrs Rowsell. You recall that you were to have eaten your dinner with us on Christmas Day, but were unable to join us? It was on that very occasion that I allowed a few ill-timed words to slip out. We were dining with two of Mrs Rowsell's aunts and several of her cousins, and I suggested we drink a toast to you in your absence. With hindsight, I see that this was not altogether wise. It led to Mrs Rowsell's inquiring a little more deeply than before about the – ah – the evident affection in which I held you. I mentioned that I had known both your mother and your aunt when I was a young man. I – I chanced to expatiate at some length on your mother's many good qualities. I realise now, of course, that my enthusiasm was ill judged. Though Mrs Rowsell knew you were the nephew of a valued client, she was not aware that at one time I had been acquainted with your mother.”

“When you say ‘acquainted' –?”

“Indeed, rather more than acquainted.”

He broke off again, having given the last words a singular emphasis, and looked miserably at me. By now a terrible suspicion was forming in my mind. I helped him to another glass of wine and he gulped it down as though it had been so much water. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

“It grows quite warm in here, I find.” He attempted a smile. “I do not think I have mentioned that, as a very young man, I passed a year or two in Rosington?”

I agreed that he had not mentioned this fact.

“I did not mean to conceal the circumstance: but delicacy urged me to choose with care my moment of revealing it. I went to Rosington to fill a position as a junior clerk to an auctioneers – Cutlack's: you may recall the name?”

I inclined my head.

“Old Josiah Cutlack was then the head of the family. It was at his house that I had the honour of meeting the young lady who later became your mother. She was a friend of Josiah's niece. We saw each other on subsequent occasions and – well, to cut a long story short, I developed a great tenderness for her. And she – she did not look unkindly on me.”