Andrew Taylor 2-Book Collection: The American Boy, The Scent of Death. Andrew Taylor
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I asked after Mr Wavenhoe.
“I fear he is sinking fast.” She lowered her voice. “These last few months have not been happy ones for him, so in some respects it is a blessed relief.” Her eyes strayed to Charlie. “There is nothing distressing about it. Or rather, that is to say, not for the spectator.” She coloured most becomingly. “Lord, my father says I let my tongue run away with me, and I fear he is right. What I mean to say, is that Mr Wavenhoe looks at present like one who is very tired and very sleepy. Nothing more than that.”
I smiled at her and inclined my head. It was a kindly thought. To see the dying is often disagreeable, particularly for a child. The sound of male voices became louder behind the closed door.
“Oh dear,” Miss Carswall said. “Papa and Mr Frant are in there.” She bit her lip. “I am staying here to help Mrs Frant with the nursing, and Papa looks in at least once a day to see how we do. But now I must take Charlie up to his mama and Kerridge or they will wonder where we are.” She turned to the footman. “Show Mr Shield up to his room, will you? And he and Master Charles will need a room to sit in. Has Mrs Frant left instructions?”
“I understand the housekeeper has lit a fire in the old schoolroom, miss. Mr Shield’s room is next door.”
We went upstairs. Miss Carswall led Charlie away. I looked after her, watching her hips swaying beneath the muslin of her gown. I realised the footman was doing the same and quickly looked away. We men are all the same under the skin: we fear death, and in our healthy maturity we desire copulation.
We climbed higher and the footman showed me first into a bedroom under the eaves, and then into a long schoolroom next to it. There were fires burning in the grates of both rooms, a luxury I was not used to. The man inquired very civilly if I desired any refreshment, and I asked for tea. He bowed and went away, leaving me to warm my hands by the fire.
A little later, there came footsteps on the stairs, followed by a knock on the door. I looked round, expecting Charlie or the footman. But it was Mrs Frant who entered the room. I stood up hastily and, made clumsy by surprise, sketched an awkward bow.
“Pray be seated, Mr Shield. Thank you for coming with Charlie. I trust they have made you comfortable?”
Her colour was up and she had her hand to the side, as though running up the stairs had given her a stitch. I said I was well looked after, and asked after Mr Wavenhoe.
“I fear he is not long for this world.”
“Has Charlie seen him?”
“No – my uncle is asleep. Kerridge took Charlie downstairs with her for something to eat.” Her face broke into a smile, instantly suppressed. “She believes she must feed him every time she sees him. He will be with you directly. If you need any refreshment, by the way, you must ring the bell. As for meals, I thought it might be more convenient if you and Charlie had them up here.”
She moved to the barred window, which looked across an eighteen-inch lead-lined gully to the back of the parapet of the street façade. She wore greys and lilacs today, a transitional stage before the blacks she would don when her uncle died. A strand of hair had escaped from her cap, and she pushed it back with a finger. Her movements were always graceful, a joy to watch.
She turned towards me, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth as though impatient with herself. “You must have lights,” she said almost pettishly, tugging the bell. “It is growing dark. I cannot abide the dark.”
While we waited for the servant to come she questioned me about how Charlie was faring at school. I reassured her as best I could. He was much happier than he had been. No, he was not exactly industrious, but he coped with the work that was expected of him. Yes, he was indeed occasionally flogged, but so were all boys and there was nothing out of the way in it. As for his appetite, I rarely saw the boys eating, so I could not comment with any authority, but I had seen him on several occasions emerging from the pastry-cook’s in the village. Finally, as to his motions, I feared I had no information upon that topic whatsoever.
Mrs Frant blushed and said I must excuse the fondness of a mother.
A moment later, the footman brought my tea and a lamp. When the shadows fled from the corners of the room, then so did the curious intimacy of my conversation with Mrs Frant. Yet she lingered. I asked her what regimen she would like us to follow while we were here. She replied that perhaps we might work in the mornings, take the air in the afternoons, and return to our books for a short while in the evening.
“Of course, there may be interruptions.” She twisted her wedding ring round her finger. “One cannot predict the course of events. Mr Shield, I cannot –”
She broke off at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. There was a tap on the door, and Mrs Kerridge and Charlie entered.
“I saw him,” Charlie said. “I thought he was dead at first, he lay so still, but then I heard his breathing.”
“Did he wake?”
“No, madam,” Mrs Kerridge said. “The apothecary gave Mr Wavenhoe his draught, and he’s sleeping soundly.”
Mrs Frant stood up and ran her fingers through the boy’s hair. “Then you shall have a holiday for the rest of the afternoon.”
“I shall go and see the coaches, Mama.”
“Very well. But do not stay too long – it is possible your uncle may wake and call for you.”
Soon I was alone again in the long, narrow room. I drank tea and read for upwards of an hour. Then I became restless, and decided to go out to buy tobacco.
I took the front stairs. As I came down the last flight into the marble-floored hall, a door opened and an old man emerged, wheezing with effort, from the room beyond. He was not tall, but he was broad and had once been powerfully built. He had thick black hair streaked with silver and a fleshy face dominated by a great curving nose. He wore a dark blue coat and a showy but dishevelled cravat.
“Ha!” he said as he saw me. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Shield, sir.”
“And who the devil is Shield?”
“I brought Master Charles from his school. I am an usher there.”
“Charlie’s bear leader, eh?” He had a rich voice, which he seemed to wrench from deep within his chest. “Thought you were the damned parson for a moment, in that black coat of yours.”
I smiled and bowed, taking this for a pleasantry.
The elegant figure of Henry Frant appeared in the doorway behind him.
“Mr Shield,” he said. “Good afternoon.”
I bowed again. “Your servant, sir.”
“Don’t know why you and Sophie thought the boy ought to have a tutor,” the old man said. “I’ll wager he gets enough book-learning at school. They get too much of that already. We’re breeding a race of damned milksops.”
“Your views on the rearing of the young, sir,” Frant observed, “always merit the most profound consideration.”
Mr Carswall rested one hand on the newel post, looked back at the rest of us and broke wind. It was curious that this old, infirm man had the power to make one feel a little less substantial than one usually was. Even Henry Frant was diminished by his presence. The old man grunted and, swaying like a tree in a gale, mounted the stairs. Frant nodded at me and strolled across the hall and into another room. I buttoned up my coat, took my hat and gloves and went out into the raw November air.
Albemarle-street was a quiet, sombre place, lying under the shadow of death. The acrid smell of sea coal filled my nostrils. I crossed the road and glanced back at the house. For an instant, I glimpsed the white blur of a face at one of the drawing-room windows on the first floor. Someone had been standing there – staring idly into the street? or watching me? – and had retreated into the room.
I