The Thief of Time (20 page)

Elsie was Jack's sometime girlfriend and she worked as a cleaning maid in the house. The story, as far as Jack told it, was that Nat Pepys had made advances towards her on one of his visits to Cageley and had reappeared every weekend from then on with gifts for her until she let him have his way with her. It had killed Jack at the time, he said, to see what was going on; not because he was in love with Elsie – he wasn't -but because he hated to see the way that wealth could get Nat anything he wanted while he, Jack, was stuck shovelling horseshit from barn to bin. For all his hatred of his employer's son, what really galled him was the fact that Nat Pepys didn't even know that he existed. For this, Jack was eaten up with bitterness and it was a strong factor influencing why he wanted to get away from Cageley and start his life afresh.

‘And then', he said, ‘no one will ever order me around again.'

For my part, I didn't want him to go as our friendship began to be of great importance to me. In the meantime, I simply got on with my work and continued to put a little money aside each week so that if the day ever came when I wanted to leave as much as Jack did, I might have some chance of being able to do so without having to begin again from scratch.

I missed having Dominique in the house with me; it was the first time since we had met on the boat to Dover that we had been separated. Every Sunday evening she would come to dinner at the Ambertons' and every week, I sensed a little more distance growing between us and I didn't know how to fill that gap. True, it was a rare day that we did not see each other at all, for Jack and I would get our own meals from the kitchen and often she would be the one who would have prepared them for us as part of her work. She always made sure to be generous with our portions and became friendly with Jack as well, although I think he found her beauty intimidating and the fact that we were ‘related' somewhat surprising.

‘She's some looker, your sister,' he confided in me one day, ‘although I must admit she's a little on the skinny side for my tastes. You don't look much like each other, though, do you?'

‘Not much,' I said, not really wishing to discuss it.

The Ambertons, on the other hand, were fascinated by the lives that we led out at the house, so enthralled were they by the very existence of the aristocracy in their neighbourhood. It was a curious thing to Dominique and me that a whole village could be in such bewildering awe of one man and his wife. The whole thing seemed ridiculous to us but every Sunday both Mr and Mrs Amberton would quiz us for information about our employers, as if by sucking details from us they were bringing themselves one step closer to heaven.

‘I hear she has a carpet in her bedroom that's three inches thick and lined with fur,' said Mrs Amberton of Lady Margaret.

‘I've never been in her bedroom,' confessed Dominique, ‘but I know she favours floorboards.'

‘IT hear he has a collection of guns which rival that of the British Army, let alone a London museum, and he employs a man to spend all his time cleaning and polishing them,' said Mr Amberton.

‘If he has, I've never met him,' I said.

‘I hear that when their sons come to visit they serve a small suckled pig to each one of them and they only drink wine which is more than a century old.'

‘David and Alfred Junior hardly eat anything at all,' muttered Dominique. ‘And they both claim that alcohol is the devil's work. I haven't met the youngest one yet.'

After these meals, I would always walk Dominique back to the house and it was about the only time in the week when we got to spend any time together alone. We walked slowly, sometimes resting for a while by the lake if it was a warm evening. It was the time of the week that I most enjoyed for we were able to catch up with each other's lives without having to worry about anyone listening in or having to keep one eye on the clock at all times.

‘I can't remember being so happy as I am right now,' she told me one evening as we walked along the road, the Ambertons' dog Brutus scampering along beside us as noisily as his owners. ‘It's so peaceful here. There's no troubles. Everything seems so nice. I could stay here for ever.'

‘Eventually things will change,' I said. ‘We can't stay here for ever as much as we may want to. After all,' I told her, adopting some of Jack's independent beliefs, ‘we don't want to see ourselves as being someone else's lackeys for the rest of our lives. We could make our own fortunes.'

She sighed and said nothing. I found that I was often forced to continue with the idea of an ‘us' between Dominique, Tomas and me. Our one-time solid family unit had come slightly apart with the new arrangements in Cageley. I was sure that there were new aspects to Dominique's life of which I knew nothing. She spoke of friends she had made within the house and the village and of time they spent together from which I as a mere stable boy was naturally excluded. I would tell her about Jack and try to interest her in the idea of her and I and Jack and Elsie taking a picnic together somewhere, but she always agreed without appearing to care less. We were growing apart and it worried me for I did not want to arrive at Cageley House one morning only to find that she had left it for ever the night before.

On a bright summer afternoon, Mr Davies, who was the stable manager in charge of Jack and me, came to see us as we were cleaning out the stables. A dreary, middle-aged man, he spent most of his time – it seemed to me – ordering supplies and sitting in the kitchen, rarely bothering to speak to either of us. He had basically allowed Jack to take charge over the way in which the stables were run and, although he kept nominal control, all questions or queries came through Jack. His disdain for all the house employees was obvious, even though he was no more than a hired hand himself. He avoided speaking to us most of the time and when he did it was usually simply to point out our flaws. On one occasion, when there was a fire in the kitchen which ruined a day's cooking, he made a point of hovering around us until he eventually muttered the phrase ‘at least the fire wasn't my fault', as if either Jack or I cared even a jot. For a man who was so keen to be seen as our superior, he was very concerned that we should see him as a competent manager, a phrase which could rarely have been applied to him. It came as a surprise therefore to see him approach us that afternoon and tell us to put away our pitchforks for a moment as he had something important to tell us.

‘Next week', he began, ‘Sir Alfred's son is coming down here for a few days with some friends of his. They're going to be organising a hunt and we'll have several more horses for you to take care of during their stay. He's made it clear that he wants them to look their very best each morning so you'll have to work extra hard.'

‘We can't make them look any better than they already do,' said Jack, matter-of-factly. ‘So don't ask for more because that's as good as it gets. You don't like what we do, you can give it a go yourself.'

‘Well, you'll need to stay on longer then to make sure that these other horses get the same wonderful treatment then, won't you, Jack?' said Mr Davies sarcastically, grinning through his broken teeth at Jack. ‘Because you know what he's like when he gives his orders, especially when he has his friends down with him. And he's the master after all. Pays your wages.'

And yours, I thought. Jack grunted and shook his head as if the very word ‘master' offended him. ‘Which one is it anyway?' he asked. ‘David or Alfred?'

‘Neither one,' said Mr Davies. ‘It's the young one, Nat. Apparently it's his twenty-first birthday or some such thing and that's what the hunt is organised for.'

Jack cursed under his breath and kicked the ground in frustration.
^T
know what I'd like to give him for his birthday,' he muttered, but Mr Davies ignored him.

‘Later on, I'll give you your hours for next week,' he said. ‘And don't worry, you'll be getting paid a little extra for them at the end of it. So no late nights, all right, because we'll need you here on your toes.'

I shrugged when he left. It seemed all right to me. I enjoyed my work and the way that the physical exercise was improving my body. My arms and chest had swelled a little and Mr and Mrs Amberton remarked upon what a handsome young man I was turning into. No longer the boy who had arrived there a few months earlier, I had already noticed that I was attracting a few flirtatious looks from the village girls. And a few more pounds for my savings couldn't hurt. It was the first time I began to feel like an adult and it was a sensation I enjoyed. It was also fortunate that I felt that way, for no childish behaviour could have allowed me to survive my first encounter with Nat Pepys.

The year 1793 was a turning point in my life for it is about the year at which I believe I stopped the physical act of ageing. I cannot pin it down to a particular date or an event – I cannot even be sure that 1793 was the exact year – I just believe that it was around this time that my body's natural inclination to decline became dormant. It was also during 1793 that I had one of my least pleasant personal experiences, an event of such distasteful memory to me that I feel a strange misery for the human condition descend upon my mind even as I recall the manner in which that year turned out. But, unpalatable as it was, it remains one of the most memorable times of my life.

In 1793, I turned fifty years old and, with the exception of a few distressing fashion trends of the time such as the tendency to wear a small ponytail at the back of one's hair and to dress in a ridiculously effete manner, there is no great difference between the man I was then and the man I am today, 206 years later. My height of six feet and one half inch had not begun to shake off an inch or two as I wizened down to the shrunken frame of an older man as it might with another; my standard body weight of between 190 and 220 pounds was fixed at a pleasing 205 and my skin resisted the temptation to sag or grow wrinkly as with so many of my contemporaries; my hair had thinned slightly and turned a shade of grey which lent a distinguished air to my comportment and this was a condition which pleased me. All in all, I settled into an attractive middle age from which I have yet to be released. In 1793, when the French Revolution was at its height, I began the process which was to make me a thief of time.

I had been back in England for about twenty years. My third decade had been spent in Europe, where I began to work in banking and had some good fortune along the way. At the age of thirty, I returned to London and, after my initial success in business, I invested wisely and befriended credible people in the banking world there who assisted me with my initiatives. In time, I owned a house and had a decent capital from which to earn my income. I worked hard and spent wisely. Those years were passed with a clear intention on my part to make my life comfortable and I rarely gave much thought to either my personal or spiritual happiness. All I did was work and earn money, and eventually I felt that I wanted more from life.

It had never been my intention to stay in London for ever and as I turned fifty I began to regret the fact that I had not travelled very widely during those years. Of course, at that stage I believed that my life was cruising slowly towards its close as it was not particularly common for a man to live past a half century in those days; at times I felt that I had missed my chance to know more of the world. I grew a little disconsolate, examining my life and seeing money where a happy family life might have been. Little did I know how many wives were to come, how much travelling, how many years would remain for me. I began to feel that I had wasted my life.

I was living in a fine house in London which was far too large for my needs and I had recently agreed to allow my nephew Tom to stay with me. Tom was my first true nephew, the son of the half-brother I had brought to England with me in 1760, and like so many of his descendants he was a difficult lad who showed no great interest in creating a life for himself and instead drifted from job to job until time caught up with him. I believe he was waiting for me to die so that his inheritance might finally come through. Little did he know that this was not something that he should have been relying upon. I was sitting at home one evening with Tom, who was aged around twenty at the time, and feeling considerably depressed with the turn my life had taken when we decided on a whim to take a trip.

‘We could go to Ireland,' suggested Tom. ‘It's not too far and it might be a pleasant place to live for a while. I've always fancied a country existence.'

I shook my head. ‘I don't think so,' I said. ‘It's poor and miserable and it rains all the time. No use for the constitution. It would depress me even more than I already am.'

‘Perhaps Australia?'

‘I think not.'

‘Africa then. There's a whole continent there waiting to be explored.'

‘Too hot. And too underdeveloped. You know me, Tom, I like my home comforts. No, at heart I am a European. That's where I feel at my happiest. On the continent. Although I haven't seen much of it, I grant you.'

‘Well, I've never even been outside of England.'

‘You're young, I'm old. You have plenty of time ahead of you.'

Tom thought about it and said nothing for a while. Wherever we went, it would be on my money so he perhaps felt a twinge of conscience about proposing a trip. Or perhaps not.

‘We could try Europe,' he said in a quiet voice after a while. ‘There's got to be a lot to see there. We could try Scandinavia. I've always liked the sound of it.'

We discussed it further for some time until it was agreed. We would spend six months travelling around Europe, visiting some of the sites of great architecture which existed there – also the art galleries and museums, since I have always had an artistic bent. Tom would be my companion and secretary, for there would still be many business affairs which I would have to deal with while I was away. Letters to be written, meetings to be arranged, minutes to be taken. He was quite efficient, for one of the Thomases, and I felt that I could trust him entirely with this task.

One evening some months later, while relaxing outside our hotel in Locarno, Switzerland, after a long day climbing around the mountains with some ladies, each of whom showed more energy and commitment to the task than either of us did, Tom expressed a desire to see France. I shuddered slightly as it was the last place in the world I had intended visiting owing to the less than pleasant memories that I had of the place, but he was adamant.

‘I am partly French, after all,' he told me. ‘I'd like to see where my father grew up.
⁵

‘Your father grew up in Dover and then a small village called Cageley,' I told him irritably. ‘We could have stayed in England if you wanted to see where your father grew up, Tom. He left Paris when he was an infant, remember.'

‘Nevertheless, it's where he was born and where his earliest experiences were. And my grandparents, they were both French, were they not?'

‘Yes,' I said, grudgingly, ‘I suppose so.'

‘And you're French through and through. You haven't been back there since you left as a boy. Surely you want to see it again. See how it's changed.'

‘I never cared for it much in the first place, Tom,' I told him. ‘I don't see why I'd want to go back and feign a little romantic nostalgia.' I shrugged the idea off and wondered how I could dissuade him, so sure was I that I did not want to return to that country. The urge to learn more about one's heritage, however, is a powerful one and he claimed it was cruel of me to prevent him from seeing the streets where we had grown up, the city where my parents had lived and died, the place that we had left in order to begin our new lives.

‘What if I just told you about them?' I asked. ‘There are plenty of tales I could tell you about our early days in Paris and what went on there, if that's what you want to hear. I could tell you how your grandfather met my mother, if that would interest you. It happened one afternoon when she was leaving the theatre and a boy -'

‘I know this story, Uncle Matthieu,' he said, interrupting me with a look of frustration upon his face. ‘You've told me all those stories already. Many times.'

‘Not all of them surely.'

‘Well, a lot of them anyway. I don't need to hear them again. I want to see Paris. Is it too much to ask? Isn't there any part of you that wonders how the place has changed in thirty years? You ran away from it once with nothing, don't you want to go back now that you have made a success out of your life and see what it has become without you?'

I nodded. He was right, of course. Despite myself, my mind had often turned to France in the intervening years. Although I had no great patriotic feelings towards the country, I was none the less a Frenchman; although I had nothing but bad memories of Paris, it remained the city of my birth. And while I had occasionally had nightmares about our lives there, about the day my father died, the afternoon my mother was murdered, and the morning my stepfather was executed, it carried a strange and wholly understandable fascination for me. Tom was right; I did want to see Paris again. And so an arrangement was made to visit the city and late in 1792 we began to move slowly across Europe, stopping at places of interest for a few weeks at a time, and by the spring of the following year we had arrived at our destination, the city of my birth.

Tom was a bloodthirsty lad and it was a flaw that would eventually prove to be his undoing. Although not personally sadistic – he was never brave enough to be the person actually inflicting pain on others -he enjoyed watching others suffer, playing the role of voyeur in another person's misery. In London, I knew that he attended the cockfights and would return home after them with a slightly crazed expression in his eyes. He enjoyed boxing bouts and competitions where men would end up bloodied and beaten. And so, in order to satisfy this perversion, Paris in 1793 was not a wholly unpleasant place for him to be.

The Bastille, that massive, stinking, infected prison where the aristos had been placed by the new Republicans, had fallen in 1789 and from then on there was a near endless series of demonstrations in the capital which forced the king, Louis XVI, to quit Paris with his family later that year. Over the course of the early 1790s, as the National Assembly strove harder and harder to force the king to accept their constitution and push through greater reforms that would sting his absolutism, it became clear that the atmosphere of the Terror was about to begin. In 1792, a year before we arrived in the city, Dr Joseph-Ignace Guillotin convinced the National Assembly to introduce the device – created not by him but by his colleague Antoine Louis – to deal with offenders and shortly after that the great killing machine was set up in the Place de la Concorde where she held sway over her citizens for the following few years.

It was into this atmosphere of distrust, betrayal and abject fear that Tom and I arrived in the spring of 1793. The king had already been beheaded and, as we drove into Paris, I felt a strange lack of feeling for the place which betrayed my anticipation of returning to my native city. I had expected to be moved by my return, particularly by the manner in which I was coming back after my long exile; no longer a poor orphan who saw pickpocketing as the only way to make a life for himself, but a successful businessman who had risen above the station of his birth to become a wealthy man. I thought of my parents and to a lesser extent of Tomas, but hardly gave Dominique a thought, as our relationship had been one solely based in England and, although we shared a birthplace, we never met in France at all and had rarely spoken of it.

We immediately settled into a boarding house as far to the outskirts of the city as possible and it was my intention to stay there for about a week before moving south to explore a portion of the country with which I was unfamiliar.

‘You can feel it, can't you?' asked Tom, coming into my room on that first day, his thick, dark hair practically bouncing away from his skull in his excitement. ‘The atmosphere in the city. There's a real stink of blood in the air.'

‘Charming,' I muttered. ‘It's always one of the more pleasant aspects to a modern city. It's just the phrase they should use in the guidebooks. Really makes the holiday memorable.'

‘Oh, come on Uncle Matthieu,' he said, bounding around the room enthusiastically like a little puppy dog who has just been unleashed from a tiny garden into a large open park. ‘You should be thrilled to be here and at such an important time too. Don't you have any feelings for Paris? Remember the way you were brought up here.'

‘We were poor, certainly, but -'

‘You were poor because no one was interested in feeding you. Everything went to the rich.'

‘The rich simply
had
everything in the first place. It was the way of the world.'

He shrugged, disappointed by my refusal to be drawn into the debate. ‘Same difference,' he said. The aristos taking everything, leaving everyone else with nothing. It's not fair.'

I raised an eyebrow. I had never seen Tom as the revolutionary sort before. Indeed, it was my belief that given the chance he would much prefer to live his life as a wealthy, idle, drunken aristocrat than a poor, stinking, sober peasant, even if his ideals may have tended more towards the latter. Still, I suppose in retrospect that his basic belief -why should they have when we have not – was true enough in theory, even if it did not exactly apply to him, who was living off my money quite comfortably and without complaint.

It was shortly after we arrived that we first met Thérèse Nantes, whose parents owned the boarding house where we were staying. She was a dark haired girl of around eighteen and, to her obvious irritation, an only child, a position which required her to take an added weight of responsibility in her parents' business. I suspected that in healthier times the Nantes family had employed a small coterie of maids and cooks, for at peak capacity the boarding house could have held up to thirty guests. Now, however, with visitors to the city at an obvious decline, there was only an old French couple who had lived there for years and a couple of passing tradesmen in residence along with Tom and me. Therese wandered around her home with a permanent scowl on her face and responded to her parents with little more than monosyllabic grunts. When serving food, one learned not to ask for anything which was not already on the plate lest the dinner itself should drop mysteriously into one's lap.

Her mood improved immeasurably, however, as her friendship with my nephew developed. At first it was difficult to notice any signs of her thaw, but gradually, as the weeks passed, she would greet us for our evening meal with a look that bore a suspicious resemblance to a half-smile. The morning my breakfast was served to me with the phrase ‘enjoy your meal' was a revelation and, when she offered to top up our wine glasses one night as we sat in the parlour, it felt like nothing short of a breakthrough. I took this as an encouragement towards conversation.