Читать книгу Andrew Taylor 2-Book Collection: The American Boy, The Scent of Death - Andrew Taylor, Andrew Taylor - Страница 31

In my absence, the schoolroom had filled with smoke. No one could remember the last time a fire had been lit in there. The flue of the chimney appeared to be partly blocked. The sweep was summoned for the following morning. In the meantime, Mrs Frant decided that Charlie and I should use the library on the ground floor for our lessons.

We sat at a table drawn near to the fire. I set Charlie to construe twelve lines of Ovid. He was willing enough but his mind could not stay on the task for long. I too found it hard to concentrate. Then the door opened, and the servant showed Mr Noak into the room. He wore evening dress, plain but respectable.

I sprang up, ready to withdraw with Charlie. The footman said sulkily that he had not realised that anyone was using the room.

“Pray do not disturb yourself,” Mr Noak said to me. “If I may, I shall sit here and turn the pages of a book until Mr Frant is at leisure.”

The servant withdrew. Mr Noak advanced towards the fire holding out his hands.

“Good evening, sir,” Charlie said. “We met at my father’s house a few weeks ago.”

“Master Charles, is it not?”

They shook hands. Charlie was a well-bred little boy, and he now turned to me. “May I present my – my tutor, Mr Shield, sir?”

Noak held out his hand to me too. “I believe I saw you on the same occasion, Mr Shield. We were not introduced, and I’m glad to remedy the deficiency now.”

The words were gracious but Noak had a harsh, staccato way of delivery which made them sound almost insulting. I moved aside the table so he could warm himself at the fire. He looked down at the open book.

“I do not approve of Ovid,” he said in precisely the tone of voice he had used before. “He may have been a great poet but I am told he was licentious in his mode of life.”

Charlie stared wide-eyed at Mr Noak.

I said, “We choose passages which display his genius but do not dwell on his less agreeable qualities.”

“Then again, one must ask oneself what is the utility of studying the languages of antiquity? We live in a world where commerce is king.”

“Permit me to remind you, sir, that Latin is the language of natural science. Moreover, the study of the language and the literature of great civilisations cannot be wasted effort. If nothing else it must school the mind.”

“Pagan civilisations, sir,” Noak said. “Civilisations that passed their peak two thousand years ago or more. We have come on a little since then, I fancy.”

“That we have been able to build so high is surely a tribute to the strength of the foundations.”

Mr Noak stared at me but said nothing. In my present position I could hardly afford to anger anybody. Yet he had talked such obvious nonsense that I felt it my duty to advance some counter arguments, if only for Charlie’s sake. At this moment the door opened and Henry Frant came in. The almost foppish elegance of his dress was in stark contrast to Mr Noak’s sober attire. Charlie caught his breath. I had the curious impression that he would have liked to shrink into himself.

“My dear sir,” Frant cried. “How glad I am to see you.”

As he advanced to shake hands, I gathered up our possessions and prepared to leave.

“You have been renewing your acquaintance with Charles, I see, and with Mr Shield.”

Noak nodded. “I am afraid I have disturbed them at their studies.”

“Not at all, sir,” I said.

Mr Noak continued as if I had not spoken. “Mr Shield and I have been having a most interesting conversation concerning the place of the classical languages in the modern world.”

Frant shot me a quick glance but swerved away from this subject. “I have kept you waiting – I am so sorry. It was kind of you to meet me here.”

“How does Mr Wavenhoe do?”

Frant spread out his hands. “As well as can be expected. I fear he may not be with us long.”

“Perhaps you would prefer it –” Noak began.

“I would not on any account postpone our dinner,” Frant said quickly. “Mr Wavenhoe is sleeping now, and I understand from his medical attendants that an immediate crisis is not to be expected. Nor is he expected to wake for some hours. They tell me the carriage is at the door.”

Noak lingered by the fire. “I had wondered whether I might see Mr Carswall here,” he remarked. “He is Mr Wavenhoe’s cousin, is he not?”

“He has indeed been here today, and may look in again,” Frant said smoothly. “But I believe he is not in the way at present.”

“I had the pleasure of meeting him and his daughter briefly the other evening. Though of course I knew him by reputation already.”

At the door, Noak paused, turned and said goodbye to Charlie and myself. At last the door closed and we were alone again. Charlie sat down in his chair and picked up his pen. All the colour and excitement of the afternoon had drained away from his face. He looked pinched and miserable. I told myself that a father must inspire awe in his children as well as affection. But Mr Frant always made it easier for Charlie to fear him than to love him.

“We shall shut up our books for the day,” I said. “Is that a backgammon board on the table there? If you like, I will give you a game.”

We sat opposite each other at the table by the fire and laid out the pieces. The familiar click of the counters and the rattle of the dice had a soothing effect. Charlie became engrossed in the game, which he won with ease. I waited for him to set out the counters again so I might have my revenge, but instead he toyed with them, moving them at random about the board.

“Sir?” Charlie said. “Sir, what is a by-blow?”

“It is a child whose parents are not married to each other.”

“A bastard?”

“Just so. Sometimes people will use words like that when they have no basis in fact, simply with the intention of wounding. It is best to disregard them.”

Charlie shook his head. “It was not like that, sir. It was Mrs Kerridge. I overheard her talking to Loomis –”

“One should not eavesdrop on servants’ tittle-tattle,” I put in automatically.

“No, sir, but I could hardly help overhearing, as they spoke loud and the door was open and I was in the kitchen with Cook. Kerridge said, ‘the poor mite, being a by-blow’, and afterwards when I asked her what it meant, she told me not to bother my head about it. They were talking about Uncle Wavenhoe dying.”

“And she said you were a by-blow?”

“Oh no, sir – not me. Cousin Flora.”