The American Boy. Andrew Taylor
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sir. It was warm work.’
‘Sit down.’ He took out an ivory snuff-box, helped himself to a pinch and sneezed into a handkerchief spotted with brown stains. ‘So you want a position, hey?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Mrs Reynolds tells me that there are at least two good reasons why you are entirely unsuitable for any post I might be able to offer you.’
‘If you would permit me, I would endeavour to explain.’
‘Some would say that facts explain themselves. You left your last position without a reference. And, more recently, if I understand your aunt aright, you have been the next best thing to a Bedlamite.’
‘I cannot deny either charge, sir. But there were reasons for my behaviour, and there are reasons why those episodes happened and why they will not happen again.’
‘You have two minutes in which to convince me.’
‘Sir, my father was an apothecary in the town of Rosington. His practice prospered, and one of his patrons was a canon of the cathedral, who presented me to a vacancy at the grammar school. When I left there, I matriculated at Jesus College, Cambridge.’
‘You held a scholarship there?’
‘No, sir. My father assisted me. He knew I had no aptitude for the apothecary’s trade and he intended me eventually to take holy orders. Unfortunately, near the end of my first year, he died of a putrid fever, and his affairs were found to be much embarrassed, so I left the university without taking my degree.’
‘What of your mother?’
‘She had died when I was a lad. But the master of the grammar school, who had known me as a boy, gave me a job as an assistant usher, teaching the younger boys. All went well for a few years, but, alas, he died and his successor did not look so kindly on me.’ I hesitated, for the master had a daughter named Fanny, the memory of whom still brought me pain. ‘We disagreed, sir – that was the long and the short of it. I said foolish things I instantly regretted.’
‘As is usually the case,’ Bransby said.
‘It was then April 1815, and I fell in with a recruiting sergeant.’
He took another pinch of snuff. ‘Doubtless he made you so drunk that you practically snatched the King’s shilling from his hand and went off to fight the monster Bonaparte single-handed. Well, sir, you have given me ample proof that you are a foolish, headstrong young man who has a belligerent nature and cannot hold his liquor. And now shall we come to Bedlam?’
I squeezed the thick brim of my hat until it bent under the pressure. ‘Sir, I was never there in my life.’
He scowled. ‘Mrs Reynolds writes that you were placed under restraint, and lived for a while in the care of a doctor. Whether in Bedlam itself or not is immaterial. How came you to be in such a state?’
‘Many men had the misfortune to be wounded in the late war. It so happened that I was wounded in my mind as well as in my body.’
‘Wounded in the mind? You sound like a school miss with the vapours. Why not speak plainly? Your wits were disordered.’
‘I was ill, sir. Like one with a fever. I acted imprudently.’
‘Imprudent? Good God, is that what you call it? I understand you threw your Waterloo Medal at an officer of the Guards in Rotten-row.’
‘I regret it excessively, sir.’
He sneezed, and his little eyes watered. ‘It is true that your aunt, Mrs Reynolds, was the best housekeeper my parents ever had. As a boy I never had any reason to doubt her veracity or indeed her kindness. But those two facts do not necessarily encourage me to allow a lunatic and a drunkard a position of authority over the boys entrusted to my care.’
‘Sir, I am neither of those things.’
He glared at me. ‘A man, moreover, whose former employers will not speak for him.’
‘But my aunt speaks for me. If you know her, sir, you will know she would not do that lightly.’
For a moment neither of us spoke. Through the open window came the clop of hooves from the road beyond. A fly swam noisily through the heavy air. I was slowly baking, basted in sweat in the oven of my own clothes. My black coat was too heavy for a day like this but it was the only one I had. I wore it buttoned to the throat to conceal the fact that I did not have a shirt beneath.
I stood up. ‘I must detain you no longer, sir.’
‘Be so good as to sit down. I have not concluded this conversation.’ Bransby picked up his eye glasses and twirled them between finger and thumb. ‘I am persuaded to give you a trial.’ He spoke harshly, as if he had in mind a trial in a court of law. ‘I will provide you with your board and lodging for a quarter. I will also advance you a small sum of money so you may dress in a manner appropriate to a junior usher at this establishment. If your conduct is in any way unsatisfactory, you will leave at once. If all goes well, however, at the end of the three months, I may decide to renew the arrangement between us, perhaps on different terms. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ring the bell there. You will need refreshment before you return to London.’
I stood up again and tugged the rope on the left of the fireplace.
‘Tell me,’ he added, without any change of tone, ‘is Mrs Reynolds dying?’
I felt tears prick my eyelids. I said, ‘She does not confide in me, but she grows weaker daily.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. She has a small annuity, I collect? You must not mind me if I am blunt. It is as well for us to be frank about such matters.’
There is a thin line between frankness and brutality. I never knew on which side of the line Bransby stood. I heard a tap on the door.
‘Enter!’ cried Mr Bransby.
I turned, expecting a servant in answer to the bell. Instead a small, neat boy slipped into the room.
‘Ah, Allan. Good morning.’
‘Good morning, sir.’
He and Bransby shook hands.
‘Make your bow to Mr Shield, Allan,’ Bransby told him. ‘You will be seeing more of him in the weeks to come.’
Allan glanced at me and obeyed. He was a well-made child with large, bright eyes and a high forehead. In his hand was a letter.
‘Are Mr and Mrs Allan quite well?’ Bransby inquired.
‘Yes, sir. My father asked me to present his compliments, and to give you this.’
Bransby took the letter, glanced at the superscription and dropped it on the desk. ‘I trust you will apply yourself with extra force after this long holiday. Idleness does not become you.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Adde quod ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes.’ He prodded the boy in the chest. ‘Continue and construe.’
‘I regret, sir, I cannot.’
Bransby boxed the lad’s ears with casual efficiency. He turned to me. ‘Eh, Mr Shield? I need not ask you to construe, but perhaps you would be so good as to complete the sentence?’
‘Emollit mores nec sinit esse feros. Add that to have studied the liberal arts with assiduity refines one’s manners and does not allow them to be coarse.’
‘You see, Allan? Mr Shield was wont to mind his book. Epistulae Ex Ponto, book the second. He knows his Ovid and so shall you.’
When we were alone, Bransby wiped fragments of snuff from his nostrils with the stained handkerchief. ‘One must always show them who is master, Shield,’ he said. ‘Remember that. Kindness is all very well