Читать книгу Richard and Judy Bookclub - 3 Bestsellers in 1: The American Boy, The Savage Garden, The Righteous Men - Andrew Taylor, Andrew Taylor - Страница 60

The following day, Mr Noak sent down to say that he was unwell. He had a severe cold. Harmwell explained that his master would be obliged to keep to his bed for at least a day or two. Owing to boyhood illnesses, Mr Noak’s chest was weak. The greatest care was needed if he was to avoid fever, a severe and debilitating cough and possibly pneumonia. The news spread throughout the house long before Mr Carswall announced it formally at dinner, which gave Miss Carswall ample opportunity to consult her brown duodecimo volume.

“You must not be anxious, Papa,” she said when he told us the news with a long face. “I have already instructed Harmwell to dose Mr Noak regularly. I have prescribed a spoonful of syrup of horehound in a glass of spring water, into which he should stir ten drops of the spirit of sulphur: I am reliably informed that this is a remedy that will generally relieve the severest cold.”

“A very proper attention,” he said. “But I was depending on him for our excursion to Gloucester.” For an instant his lips formed the pout I had seen more than once on Miss Carswall’s face. “It is so provoking.”

“I suppose the poor man cannot help his health.”

“I do not say that he can.” Mr Carswall took another sip of wine. “But I shall miss his conversation. And Harmwell could have made himself useful when we passed through a turnpike, and in Gloucester. There are always arrangements to be made, errands to be run.”

“Surely there is at least a partial remedy immediately to hand? We should invite Mr Shield to accompany us in Mr Noak’s place.”

Carswall gestured for his glass to be refilled and stared down the table at me. “Aye, that might answer. You shall accompany us, Shield. Not to the ball itself, however – there will be no need for that. No doubt you will enjoy the change of scene. Yes, it will be quite a treat for you.”

I bowed and said nothing. Mr Carswall liked to give the impression that consulting his own comfort was merely the indirect means of doing someone else a favour. In my absence, the boys would be left in the care of Mrs Kerridge.

On the Wednesday morning, Mr Carswall plunged into a morass of indecision. He consulted his watch – he glanced at the dark, grey sky – he prophesied snow. What if we should become stuck in a snowdrift? What if a wheel should break while we were in the depths of the country? What if we had not allowed enough time for a journey at this time of year, and we were benighted on the road and froze to death? As he grew older, Mr Carswall lived in a world of terrifying possibilities, a world whose dangers increased in proportion to his own frailties.

Miss Carswall soothed him. There would be a constant stream of travellers. Most of our way would lie along the newly cut turnpike road beside the river. We would never be far from a pike-house, a farm or a village. Mr Shield, the coachman and the footmen were all able-bodied men capable of wielding a shovel or walking for assistance. Besides, it was not yet snowing, and even if it had been, there was no reason to fear that the road would be blocked.

At last Mr Carswall’s anxiety subsided sufficiently for us to leave. Miss Carswall’s maid and his own man had already gone on ahead to make our apartments ready, so the five of us travelled inside the great coach – the three ladies, Mr Carswall and I. Mr Carswall’s splendid equipage was nothing if not luxurious. We glided along the macadamised surface of the turnpike road. The coach’s big wheels and long springs combined with the perfectly flat gravelled surface to create an impression of rapid but almost effortless motion. I was in close proximity to both Mrs Frant and Miss Carswall; indeed I sometimes felt a gentle pressure from the latter’s foot upon my own. There was pleasure, too, in leaving behind Monkshill-park, that elegant and spacious prison.

We came into Gloucester by the Over Causeway, a circumstance which caused Mr Carswall much agitation, for the river was rising and the masonry of the arches was already in a ruinous condition. To his relief, we crossed the Westgate Bridge and entered the city while it was still light.

Our lodgings were in Fendall House in Lower Westgate-street, not far from St Nicholas’s Church with its stunted spire. Bowing and scraping, the owner of the house conducted our party up to the apartments on the first floor, formerly reserved for Lord Vauden. Nothing could have been more obliging, and nothing (I suspected) could have been more expensive.

The accommodations consisted of a large parlour with two tall windows at the front of the house, facing the south-west, and four bedrooms – one each for Mr Carswall and Mrs Lee, one for Miss Carswall and Mrs Frant, and a fourth which had been designed for Mr Noak. Having settled Mr Carswall in an elbow chair by the fire, our host handed him a letter which Sir George Ruispidge’s man had delivered not half an hour earlier.

Grunting, Carswall perused it. “Sir George asks a favour,” he said, addressing Miss Carswall. “He has heard that Mr Noak is not come with us, and begs to inquire whether Mrs Johnson might be able to take his place. It seems that the chamber reserved for her in their lodgings in Eastgate has been damaged by fire, and there is at present no other suitable accommodation available. He adds that Mrs Johnson would be most gratified to extend her acquaintance with Mrs Frant and Miss Carswall, so the arrangement would kill two birds with one stone.”

“It is a very civil note, Papa. But what about Mr Shield?”

“I see no difficulty there.” Mr Carswall glanced up at the landlord, who was hovering in front of him. “The boys’ tutor has come in place of Mr Noak, but he will not be coming to the ball and in any case he is a plain man with simple needs easily satisfied – eh, Shield?”

I bowed.

“I’m sure you can find him a bed, hey?” Carswall said, addressing the landlord.

“Yes, sir. We have a small chamber in the upper storey, and I have taken the liberty of having it prepared.”

“Capital.” The old man waved at Miss Carswall, as if repelling an objection she had not voiced. “You see? Shield would be perfectly happy in a hammock, I daresay. Indeed, in my experience young men prefer to rough it a little. And he will enjoy the independence, too – and not having the rest of us coming in late and disturbing him.”

The landlord murmured how very obliged he was to Mr Carswall, and how very obliged Sir George would be. He shot a sharp, sideways glance at me, which made it clear that he had assessed my position in Mr Carswall’s household with tolerable accuracy.

A squat and surly hall-boy took my bag and showed me to my room. I wondered if I would ever be able to find it again. Like many buildings in this city, Fendall House was a misleading place. To the front, all was neat, new, airy and spacious. Most of the establishment, however, lay to the rear and was an elderly warren of narrow staircases, small dark rooms, winding passages, low ceilings and creaking floorboards.

The tiny bedchamber to which I was shown, though indubitably a garret nestling under the tiles, had the dignity of its own staircase at the side of the house leading to an ill-lit lobby with its own door to the street. My dormer window looked across a dark little shrubbery to a fine modern wing built of redbrick to match the frontage.

We dined together in Mr Carswall’s parlour, and at an early hour because of the ball. Mrs Johnson was not yet come: she was to join our party after the ball, for Lady Ruispidge desired her attendance beforehand, and to return with the Carswalls and Mrs Lee to Fendall House afterwards.

Mr Carswall, Mrs Lee and Miss Carswall were already arrayed in their finery. Mrs Frant and I were required to admire those going to the ball, and when we had finished, those going to the ball admired each other. Mrs Frant looked wistful and said little. Around us, the house was in even more of a bustle than before, for other, lesser apartments had been let, and their occupants were also going to the ball. Though the parlour door was closed, we were constantly aware of hurrying footsteps, of slamming doors, shouted greetings and instructions.

When we had finished dinner, the time dragged. The only person who seemed content was Mrs Lee: she sat staring at the fire, her hands idle in her lap, an unopened book on the table beside her; she was well used to waiting upon the convenience of others. Mrs Frant sat sewing on the sofa, rarely speaking unless one of the Carswalls addressed her. I sat at the table with a copy of the previous week’s Gloucester Journal spread out before me.

Miss Carswall was never still for long – sometimes she would rush to the window to look down at the street; sometimes she would dart to the mirror; sometimes she would fly to Mrs Frant to hold a whispered conversation. There was a vitality about her that I had rarely seen at Monkshill-park. Society was meat and drink to her, and she fairly glowed with the prospect of nourishment. I could not suppress a pang at the knowledge that I was excluded.

There was a quality of happy anticipation about Miss Carswall’s fidgets. But Mr Carswall could not settle, either, and his restlessness was a darker matter. At first he tried with little success to engage Mrs Frant in conversation. There was a strain of gallantry in much of what he said, which could not but be offensive to the recipient. Then, still talking, he took out his watch and looked at the time. Ten minutes later he repeated the action. As the evening crept towards the hour of the ball, he fell silent; the level in the decanter sank and he consulted his watch with increasing frequency. Finally, he left the timepiece open in the palm of his hand all the time and stared at the dial with a look of strained fascination upon his face.

The arrival of the tea things at seven o’clock brought a moment’s relief. Here at last was something to do. With the best will in the world, though, we could not take tea for ever. Soon that uncomfortable silence descended upon the room once more, punctuated by brief spurts of speech. Even Miss Carswall fell silent.

“Half-past eight o’clock,” said Mr Carswall, reverting to a subject that had been touched upon many times that evening. “That would not be unreasonably early, I believe.”

“Papa,” cried Miss Carswall, “no one you would want to speak to would be there so early.”

“But should we not send for the coach? That will take a little time. We should want a place by the fire, after all.”

“The only people there would be tradesmen and their families,” his daughter replied tartly, for her upbringing had given her a finer notion of gentility than her sire. “They will still be tuning the fiddles! You may depend upon it, everyone else will dine much later and therefore come later.”

Carswall grumbled, Miss Carswall protested; but I knew from the way Miss Carswall’s feet were tapping on the carpet that secretly she longed to be in the Assembly Rooms. In the end she and her father compromised on nine o’clock and they sent for the coach.

The hands of Mr Carswall’s watch crept around the dial until the noises inside the house and in the street made it clear that the Carswalls would not suffer the ignominy of being the first people at the ball. A few minutes before the hour, Mrs Frant’s dress rustled as she rose to her feet. I pushed back my chair.

“Pray do not disturb yourself, Mr Shield.” She raised her voice, addressing the Carswalls and Mrs Lee: “I – that is, I find the excitement of the day has tired me out. You will forgive me if I retire?”

I held the door for her. As she passed me, no more than a few inches away, I felt the familiar pull, as iron filings to a powerful magnet. She looked up, and for an instant I thought – I hoped – that she had felt it too. Then she smiled up at me, wished me a quiet goodnight and slipped away.

“Poor Sophie,” Miss Carswall said, moving to the window, drawn by the sound of carriages arriving. “So mortifying not to be able to enjoy oneself – and the poor love will be in mourning for months and months.” She parted the folds of heavy curtains and peered into the street. “Oh!”

“What is it?” Carswall asked.

“It is snowing. Look – great big flakes like saucers.”

“There! What did I tell you? We should never have come.”

“You must not let it prey on your mind, Papa. Ten to one the snow won’t settle. Everyone says it is milder today. Besides, here we have warmth, food, society and comfortable beds. If the worst should come to the worst and we are snowed in, not that we shall be, it would at least be in agreeable circumstances.” She glanced outside again. “Look at the press of carriages! Oh – there is ours pulling up at the door! Would it not be heaven if we reached the Bell just after the Ruispidges? Then we might encounter them in the passage, and enter with them. It would look very well, would it not? It would seem as if we were come together.”

Mrs Lee suddenly emerged from her torpor. “My dear, you must wear your wrap when we go out in the passage at the Bell. The draughts are most dangerous. Oh, I do hope they have swept the floor properly this time – after the last ball, the hem of my dress was quite black with dust. And it was the passage to blame, I am sure of it.”

Miss Carswall stood on tiptoe and twirled, admiring herself in the mirror between the windows. “Thank heavens I bought this wrap. It sets off the colour of the dress to perfection.” In the brackets flanking the mirror the candle flames seemed to nod in agreement.

I murmured, “It matches your eyes, too, Miss Carswall, if I may say so.”

She looked at me, her face grave as a nun’s but her eyes sparkling. “You are too kind, sir,” she said softly.

“My gloves, my gloves,” cried Mr Carswall. “Who has taken them?”

“I believe I see them on the arm of your chair, sir,” I said.

“I hope there will still be a place by the fire,” croaked Mrs Lee. “If only we had not waited so long.”

At last the three of them were gone and I was alone. I listened to their voices and footsteps fading on the stairs and in the hall. The front door closed. Silence flowed into the parlour. I sat down at the table again and turned a page of the newspaper.

I tried to read. But the newspaper bored me. I was aware of noises outside the room – the hurrying of servants’ feet, the ebb and flow of carriages in the street below, raised voices, and distant snatches of music. Miss Carswall was right. There is nothing so sad as sitting alone and listening to the sounds of others enjoying themselves in society.

I was not sleepy. I could have gone out and settled in the corner of a taproom or a coffee house but I was not in the mood for company. Instead, I fetched pen and paper and settled down to write overdue letters to Edward Dansey and Mr Rowsell.

I must have written for well over an hour. I could be entirely frank, of course, with neither man, though for different reasons. But there was plenty of matter for my pen in describing the splendours of Monkshill-park and the characters of its principal inhabitants. I was nearing the end of the second letter when there came a tap on the door. I looked up, expecting a maidservant. Instead it was Sophia Frant, still in the dress she had worn at dinner.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Shield,” she said hurriedly in a voice that was not altogether steady. “I hope I do not disturb you.”

“I am entirely at your service, ma’am.”

“I wish to consult with you on a matter of – of some delicacy.”

I drew up a chair to the fire. “Pray sit down.”

“A moment ago, I happened to go to one of the windows in our chamber,” she began in a low voice. “The sashes were rattling, and I wished to wedge them. The window on that side overlooks the lane running up to Westgate-street. I looked down, and I saw a woman.” She hesitated. “I – I must request you to treat this as a confidence, Mr Shield.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“I knew I might rely on you.” She was calmer now, fully in control of herself. “The fact of the matter is this: a shaft of light fell across the lane from a doorway of a tavern, and it showed the face of the woman. It was Mrs Johnson.”

“But I thought she was with the Ruispidges, at the assembly.”

“So did I. But wait, there is more. Mrs Johnson was wearing a cloak with a hood. But the hood had fallen backwards from her head. She did not have a cap, and her hair was quite loose, falling in disarray to her shoulders. I – I watched her walking up to Westgate-street. She swayed from side to side, and once she slipped and nearly fell. A man came out of the tavern and put his hand on her arm and she pushed him away. Then she turned the corner and I saw her no more. And the man followed her.”

“She is indisposed?” It was my turn to pause. “Or –?”

“Or something worse,” Mrs Frant finished for me. “It is possible that she entered the house once I lost sight of her. I went to the chamber set aside for her – it is just along the passage from ours. Her luggage is come but there was no sign of her. Not that I thought it likely, because we would have heard her knocking on the door.”

“Might she be below-stairs?”

“No, she is not – I rang for the maid and asked if she had seen Mrs Johnson this evening. I pretended I had a message for her – I did not like to say the truth. I do not know whether the people here are trustworthy. And if Mrs Johnson is not herself …” Her voice died away.

“No,” I said. “I understand your drift, ma’am. May I suggest that I go in search of Mrs Johnson? It will not take me a moment to fetch my hat and greatcoat. The part of the building where I am lodged has a separate flight of stairs that runs down to a side entrance. I am sure I could slip out without attracting attention.”

“Let us hope so.” Mrs Frant stood up. “I am infinitely obliged to you, Mr Shield. If you allow me two minutes.”

“Madam – you cannot accompany me.”

“Why not?”

“It would not be fitting. If you were seen –”

She was already at the door. “I shall not be seen.”

“It is still snowing, ma’am.”

“A little snow will not harm me. I too have a cloak with a hood. You must be sensible of Mrs Johnson’s feelings if she were to suspect that a man were pursuing her at this time of night. Especially if her wits are at all disordered.”

“But she knows me.”

“She does not know you well. No, Mr Shield, my mind is quite made up. I shall be perfectly safe under your protection. And if we find – when we find – Mrs Johnson, she need feel no uneasiness at being accosted by a lady.”