The American Boy (48 page)

“Sir,” I began, “are you to tell me that –”

But Rowsell rushed on, propelled by the current of his confession: “I could not afford to marry – indeed, I could barely support myself – and your grandparents would never have sanctioned such a match. Then a friend of my late father's, an attorney in Clerkenwell, offered me a clerkship. Here, at last, was the possibility of advancement, of attaining a situation in life which would enable me to marry and support a wife. Your mother urged me to seize the opportunity. Though no words were spoken on either side, I confess I cherished a hope that one day, a few years hence – but it was not to be.”

He turned aside to blow his nose and, I daresay, to wipe a tear from his eye. I stared into my glass, attempting to decipher the outlines of my own life, newly shrouded in mist. It seemed that I had acquired a past I did not want and the possibility of a future I did not desire. Was even my name no longer my own?

“We did not correspond, of course,” Mr Rowsell went on. “There was no engagement; it would not have been the thing. However – a year or two later, I heard of her marriage to Mr Shield: a worthy man, I am sure; and in those days most comfortably situated as well. I met him once at Mr Cutlack's, I believe. It often answers very well for a man to be considerably older than his wife. As indeed I have found myself, with Mrs Rowsell.”

“Sir,” I said urgently. “A year or two later?”

“What?” He reached for the wine. “Aye, one year and nine months. And each month passed like a century.”

“And you did not see my mother in that time?”

“No – but I had news of her, every now and then. I corresponded for a while with young Nicholas Cutlack, the old man's grandson; dead now, poor fellow; a fall from his horse. It was he who told me of your mother's marriage. I will not pretend that it was not a bitter blow, but still: a man must look forward, eh, not over his shoulder. I threw myself into work and in the fullness of time my principal invited me to become his partner. And he happened to have a daughter, and we found that we agreed very well together.”

I raised my glass. “Let us drink to Mrs Rowsell, sir.”

“God bless her,” murmured Mr Rowsell, dashing a tear from his eye. When he had set down his glass, he continued: “My tale is nearly done. Many years later, I saw your name in the newspapers in connection with that – that unfortunate incident in the Park. It is not a common surname, and one report mentioned that you came originally from Rosington. I inquired, and found that you were indeed the son of my old friend. So I made myself known to your aunt Reynolds – a most estimable woman, by the by, who was wonderfully kind to me when I was at Cutlack's.”

“She knew you? And she did not tell me?”

“The position was extraordinarily delicate, Tom – and on both sides. I wished to be of assistance but I could not be seen to help. I had Mrs Rowsell to consider and Mrs Reynolds was the first to acknowledge this. Your aunt was also extremely jealous of both your mother's reputation and yours. If my part became known, there are many in this world who would rush to place an uncharitable construction on my motives and on your mother's.”

“You place me under an obligation, sir.”

Rowsell dismissed it with a wave. “I wish with all my heart I did. But Mrs Reynolds was a proud woman. She would accept very little from me. All I could do was lighten the legal burden that she needed to carry after your arrest. And later I was glad to help her put her own affairs in order. As her time drew near, I suggested the possibility to her that I might try to obtain a clerkship for you, but she preferred to try Mr Bransby first. She said she did not think it right to be further obliged to me. And then, by and by, after her death, I came to be acquainted with you.”

“I regret I am become a source of embarrassment to you and Mrs Rowsell.”

“The fault is scarcely yours.” With a tip of a finger he converted the drop of spilled wine from a fox's head to a spider. “I scarcely know how it was but I had never found the opportunity to mention my previous attachment to Mrs Rowsell. Not that I concealed it, exactly – it was a case of
suppressio veri
rather than
suggestio falsi
. After all, it was so very long ago, you see, and the term ‘attachment' made more of it than I had any right to claim. There was no engagement between your mother and me, or even an understanding. But, as I say, on Christmas Day, I had drunk perhaps a little more deeply than usual, in honour of the occasion, and my tongue was less guarded, my mind less circumspect than it should have been.”

“Perhaps if I were to write to Mrs Rowsell and explain the circumstances?”

“Thank you, but I do not think it would answer. It was a great misfortune that Mrs Rowsell's aunts and cousins were at table with us. Their presence added salt to the wound. In all events, I regret to say that Mrs Rowsell misinterpreted what I said – quite understandably; the fault was entirely mine – and drew an erroneous conclusion, one which might not have been out of place in one of her novels. It was inexpressibly painful. There were tears – there were accusations – I had betrayed her in her own home – I was taking the bread out of our children's mouths – my character was quite beneath contempt. Mrs Rowsell is a woman of great tenacity, and once she has an idea in her mind, it can be very difficult to shift it.”

Mr Rowsell ran out of words. My first reaction was relief: despite his many virtues, I was glad he had not suddenly become my father. Now I knew the reason for his kindness in the past, I honoured him for it. My mother's heart had chosen wisely though her head had set its veto against it. As for Mrs Rowsell, no wonder my appearance on her doorstep had thrown her into such a passion. I felt sorry for them both: if Mrs Rowsell believed me to be her husband's illegitimate son, brought like a cuckoo into their home, then the bosom of the family could not have been a happy place for either of them since that unlucky Christmas dinner.

“It was cursed ill luck that I was forced to keep to my bed on that day you came to my house. I heard the hullabaloo at the door, though I did not know its cause. The rest you know. I wish it had not taken us such an unconscionable time to track you down. I might have found you sooner had I employed an agent. But once I had heard those absurd accusations from Mr Bransby, I thought it wiser not to involve a third party.”

“May I speak frankly, sir? Two men asked after me at Gaunt-court on Tuesday. The second was Atkins, but the first –”

“You fear that Mr Carswall has set a man to track you down?”

“I do not know what to fear. The first man questioned the children about me. My landlady sent him about his business, though not before he had discovered that I was lodging there. She thought it likely that he was some sort of inquiry agent, perhaps a former Bow-street runner who works for a lawyer.”

“You have done nothing wrong, dear boy: it may be best simply to stay where you are and let events take their course. On the other hand, if Mr Carswall intends to bring an action against you, he must have evidence to support his case.” Mr Rowsell leaned forward, his features suddenly grim: he had become the man of business again, and all trace of the kindly host had vanished. “There's more to this than meets the eye, I fancy. I saw the reports in the newspapers about a lady who died by an accidental fall in the ice-house at Monkshill-park in January. And of course Miss Carswall is to marry Sir George Ruispidge, no doubt with a very handsome dowry. But I am at a loss to see how all this could affect you, or what possible reason Mr Carswall could have for pursuing you.”

I bent down and hooked a finger between my right shoe and my stocking. I fished out a small bundle, wrapped in a square of linen, which I laid between us on the table. I pulled back the folds of cloth one by one. There, winking up at us, was Amelia Parker's mourning ring.

“Oh please, sir,” cried Lizzie as she opened the door to me on my return to Gaunt-court, “we was watching you coming up to the door. Are you
fearfully
lushy?”

Lottie punched her arm. “That ain't polite, Lizzie. Say ‘disguised' instead.”

“Don't be foolish,” I said, and advanced into the hall, stumbling slightly when my legs somehow became entangled with my stick. “Neither term is apt.”

“I tell you, he's been at the blue tape,” Lizzie continued. “Just like Pa. Ain't you, sir?”

“Blue tape is a low expression,” Lottie snarled.

I turned and looked sternly down at them. “I have not had a drop of gin, children. Nor am I intoxicated. I may seem a little elevated in my spirits, but I am as sober as a judge.”

“Oooh,” squealed Lizzie. “Ain't it lovely? Talks just like a book, don't he?”

Feet shuffled on the basement stairs, and Mrs Jem appeared. She ran her eyes over me. I suspect I was perhaps a little dishevelled, owing to a tumble in the gutter on my way down Fleet-street. When I beamed at her, she gave a shake of her head and said, “You get along upstairs. Leave your clothes outside your door. I'll send someone up for them.”

There is no arguing with an autocrat. The girls vanished into the back regions of the house. I made my way slowly upwards, flight by swaying flight.

“Mind what you do with your candle,” Mrs Jem called up after me. “I don't want you burning us all in our beds.”

As I mounted the stairs, my head seemed to clear as the altitude increased. I had drunk a quantity of claret during and after dinner but I had not followed Mr Rowsell's example and rammed home the claret with brandy. The truth was, it was not merely wine that intoxicated me: it was also relief.

Unlike Dansey, Mr Rowsell had been both immediate and unequivocal in his offers of support. At least one person unhesitatingly accepted my word before Mr Carswall's. Of course, I had not told him everything. Only a scrub would have revealed what had passed between Sophie and myself; and I could not be entirely frank about my relations with Miss Carswall.

Nor had I mentioned my suspicions concerning Mrs Johnson's death. Had I done so, it would have led inevitably to even wilder and more dangerous speculations about the identity of the murdered man at Wellington-terrace. Mr Rowsell must have thought me mad if I had blurted out my suspicion that Henry Frant had been not only an embezzler, but also a murderer, and that now he had killed his former accomplice, Mrs Johnson.

No, it would have been wildly indiscreet to confide my worst fears to him. However, Mr Rowsell had lifted a weight from my mind. There was no doubt, he thought, that the ring should be returned to Mr Carswall. Until its ownership should be definitively established, if it ever were, Mr Carswall had the best title to it. My possession of the ring made me immediately vulnerable, and Mr Rowsell was shocked I had retained it for so long.

“Leave it with me,” he had said. “I will see that Mr Carswall receives it.”

“But your hand must not appear in the matter, sir.”

At that stage, Rowsell still had most of his wits about him. “It is perfectly simple. If you give me his direction, I will have the ring sent in such a way that the sender cannot be traced. There will be no covering note. The address will be written in capital letters. Stay, we shall muddy the waters still further: I am sending Atkins up to Manchester next week: I shall give him the ring and desire him to post it from there. So you need not trouble yourself in the slightest. Forget you ever saw it.”

Once I reached the haven of my room, I sat on the little bed, which was rocking like a hammock aboard ship, and stripped off my coat, neckcloth, waistcoat and boots. I became aware that pushing through my relief like a green shoot in a flower bed was another emotion: a desire to write to Sophie. It struck me that the return of the ring might even be construed in some quarters as confirmation of my guilt, and it seemed a matter of urgency to make clear, at least to her, that I neither acted like a guilty party nor considered myself to be one.

I realise now – considering the matter coolly and soberly in another time and place – that this argument was barely rational, the flimsiest justification imaginable: I wished to write to Sophie, that was the long and the short of it, and I wished to do so directly. Without pausing for thought, I found pen, ink and paper and sat down at the washstand, which also served as my writing desk.

I was still sitting there when Mr Jem himself toiled up the stairs, tapped on my door and asked me how I did, when church bells struck first the half-hour and then the hour. At last I gave up the struggle to find words which would convey everything I wished to say, both explicitly and implicitly. I wrote simply this:

I neither dated nor signed the letter. I folded the paper and sealed it with a wafer. I wrote Sophie's name on the front in a disguised scrawl, but not her direction because I was uncertain whether she had come to town with Mr Carswall. Finally, I raised the letter to my lips and kissed it.

A moment later, I dropped my clothes outside the door, climbed into bed and fell asleep with the candle still burning.

The following morning, I woke to find myself dry-mouthed but surprisingly clear-headed. As I lay there, still with the soft tendrils of sleep around me, the thought of Sophie filled my mind so vividly that I felt, with but a minute extra effort, I could reach out my hand and touch the warm, living woman.

I sat up in bed and saw on the corner of the washstand the letter I had written her the previous evening. Before she could read it, however, I had to find her. Though it was probable that she was with the Carswalls at Margaret-street, it was by no means certain. I hoped that if I strolled through the neighbourhood for long enough I might catch a glimpse of her. Perhaps – and at this point my heart began to beat faster – I might even be able to press the letter into her hand. For I dared not trust it to the two-penny post. An hour or so later it would be in Mr Carswall's hands, for every letter to the household was seen by him. I thought him more than capable of reading any that came for Sophie.