The American Boy. Andrew Taylor
I waited another moment, studying the portrait. My interest, I told myself, was both pure and objective. I admired the painting as I might a beautiful statue or a line of poetry that spoke with both elegance and force to the heart. The brushwork was particularly fine, and the skin was exquisitely lifelike. Such beauty was refreshing, too, like a drink to a thirsty traveller. There was, therefore, no reason why I should not study it as much as I wished.
Ah, you will say, you were falling in love with Sophia Frant. But that is romantic nonsense. If you want plain speaking, I will give it you as I gave it to myself on that fateful day: leaving artistic considerations aside, I disliked her because she had so much I lacked in the way of wealth and the world’s esteem; and I also disliked her because I desired her, as I did almost any pretty woman I saw, and knew she could never be mine.
I heard footsteps outside the door and a high voice speaking indistinctly but loudly. I moved away and feigned an intense interest in the ormolu clock upon the mantel-shelf. The door opened and a boy rushed into the room, followed by a small, plain woman, dressed in black and with a wart on the side of her chin. What struck me immediately was that there was a remarkable resemblance between young Frant and Edgar Allan, the American boy. With their lofty brows, their bright eyes and their delicate features, they might almost have been brothers. Then I noticed the boy’s attire.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘I am Charles Augustus Frant.’
I shook the offered hand. ‘And I am Mr Shield.’
‘And this is Mrs Kerridge, my – one of the servants,’ the boy rushed on. ‘There was no need for her to come down with me, but she insisted.’
I nodded to her and she inclined her head. ‘I wished to ask if Master Charles’s box had arrived at the school yet, sir.’
‘I’m afraid I do not know. But I’m sure its absence would have been marked.’
‘And my mistress desired me to say that Master Charles feels the cold. When the weather begins to turn, perhaps a flannel undershirt next to the skin might be advisable.’
The boy snorted. I nodded gravely. My mind was on the lad’s clothes, though not in a way that Mrs Kerridge or indeed Mrs Frant would have liked. Whether at his own request or at his mother’s whim, Master Charles was wearing a beautifully cut olive greatcoat with black frogs. He carried under his arm a hat from which depended a long and handsome tassel; he clutched a cane in his left hand.
‘They’re bringing the carriage round, sir,’ Mrs Kerridge said, ‘and Master Charles’s valise is in the hall. Would you like anything before you go?’
The boy hopped from one leg to another.
‘Thank you, no,’ I said.
‘There’s the carriage.’ He ran over to the window. ‘Yes, it is ours.’
Mrs Kerridge looked up at me, squeezing her face to a frown. ‘Poor lamb,’ she murmured in a tone too low for him to hear. ‘Never been away from home before.’
I nodded, and smiled in a way I hoped the woman would find reassuring. When we opened the door, a footman was waiting by the front door and a black pageboy, not much older than Charles himself, hovered over the valise. Charles Frant, smiling graciously at his father’s servants, marched down the steps with a dignity befitting the Horse Guards, a dignity only slightly marred by the way he skipped up into the carriage. Mrs Kerridge and I followed more slowly, walking behind like a pair of acolytes.
‘He is very young for his age, sir,’ Mrs Kerridge muttered.
I smiled down at her. ‘He’s a handsome boy.’
‘Takes after his mother.’
‘Is she not here to say goodbye to him?’
‘She’s away nursing her uncle.’ Mrs Kerridge grimaced. ‘The poor gentleman’s dying, and he ain’t going easy. Otherwise Madam would be here. Will he be all right, sir? Boys can be cruel little varmints. He don’t realise. He don’t know many boys.’
‘It may not be easy at first. But most boys find there is much to enjoy at school as well. Once they are used to it.’
‘His mama frets about him.’
‘It often happens that an event is more distressing in anticipation than it is in actuality. You must endeavour to –’
I broke off, realising that Mrs Kerridge was no longer looking at me. She had been distracted by the sight of a carriage whirling into the square from Montague-street. It was an elegant light chariot, painted green and gold, and drawn by a pair of chestnuts. The coachman slipped between two carts and brought the equipage to a standstill behind our own, the wheels neatly aligned within a couple of inches of the kerb. He sat back on the box with the air of a man well pleased with himself.
‘Oh Lord,’ muttered Mrs Kerridge, but she was smiling.
The glass slid down. I glimpsed a pale face and a mass of auburn curls partly concealed by a large hat adorned with grogram.
‘Kerridge!’ the girl called. ‘Kerridge, dearest. Am I in time? Where’s Charlie?’
Charles jumped out of the Frants’ carriage and ran along the pavement. ‘Do you like this rig, Cousin Flora? Mighty fine, ain’t it?’
‘You look very handsome,’ she said. ‘Quite the military man.’
He held his face up for her to kiss him. She leaned down and I had a better view of her. She was older than I had thought – a young woman; not a girl. Mrs Kerridge came forward to be kissed in her turn. Then the young woman’s eyes turned to me.
‘And who is this? Will you introduce us, Charlie?’
He coloured. ‘I beg your pardon. Cousin Flora, allow me to name Mr Shield, an usher at Mr Bransby’s – my school, you know.’ He swallowed, and then gabbled, ‘Mr Shield, my cousin Miss Carswall.’
I bowed. With great condescension, Miss Carswall held out her hand. It was a little hand that seemed to vanish within my own. She wore lilac-coloured gloves, I recall, which matched the pelisse she wore over her white muslin dress.
‘You were about to convey my cousin to school, no doubt? I shall not detain you long, sir. I merely wished to say farewell to him, and to give him this.’
She undid the drawstring of her reticule and took out a small purse which she handed to him. ‘Put it somewhere safe, Charlie. You may wish to treat your friends.’ She bent down, kissed the top of his head, and gave him a little push away from her. ‘Your mama sends her best love, by the by. I saw her for a moment at Uncle George’s.’
For an instant the boy’s face became perfectly blank, drained of the fun and excitement.
Miss Carswall patted his shoulder. ‘She cannot leave him, not at this moment.’ She looked over the boy to Mrs Kerridge and myself. ‘I must not delay you any longer. Kerridge, dearest, may I drink tea with you before I go? It would be like old times.’
‘Mr Frant is within, miss.’
‘Oh.’ The young lady gave a little laugh, and a look of understanding passed between her and Mrs Kerridge. ‘Good God, I had almost forgot. I am promised to Emma Trenton. Another time, perhaps, and we shall have a good old prose together.’
Miss Carswall’s departure was the signal for ours. I followed Charlie into the Frants’ carriage. A moment later we turned into Southampton-row. The boy huddled into the corner and turned his head to stare out of the far window. The tassel on that ridiculous hat swayed and bounced behind him.
Flora Carswall could never have been called beautiful, unlike Mrs Frant. But she had a quality of ripeness about her, like fruit waiting to be plucked, demanding to be eaten.