The Silent Boy (6 page)

Say nothing. Not a word to anyone.

One day, a wagon comes into the main courtyard, where the weeds are advancing in ragged green lines along the cracks between the flagstones. Men bring packing cases and begin to put things in them – pictures, statues, clocks and carpets. Some of the clocks are still ticking. They are nailed up alive in their coffins.

The remaining servants, working in relays, bring trunks and valises from the attics. They fill them with books, papers and clothes. Two more wagons come down the lane at the back of the house with a guard of armed men. They are loaded with the heavier items. They go away during the night. So do more of the servants, and then the house is emptier than ever.

As the people and the objects seep away from the Hotel de Quillon, Charles notices how shabby everything is – the damp patches on the plaster in the grand salon where the old tapestries used to hang; the cracks that snake across the ornate ceiling of the ladies’ withdrawing room; the leak in the roof of the room next to his which, one rainy night, brings down the whole ceiling.

Charles does not like the nighttimes because sometimes he wets the bed. This often happens on the nights after they have asked him the questions.

When he wets the bed, he is beaten the following morning. He understands this. He has done wrong. Since the old woman disappeared, no one notices if he wets the bed so it no longer matters.

One night, Dr Gohlis comes into Charles’s room and wakes him from a deep sleep. He squeezes the boy’s chin between finger and thumb. He holds the candle so Charles can see his face, orange and gold in the light of the flame.

‘Remember my
écorché
boy?’ he says. ‘Are you going to be like him one day?’

Charles knows that the
écorché
boy is called Louis. He is kept in the sitting room that has been set aside for the doctor’s use at the Hotel de Quillon. The door is locked when the doctor is not there.

One morning, Charles watches the doctor leave. He sees him hide the key on the ledge of the lintel above the door. Now Charles can visit Louis.

Often he chooses the very early morning when few people are stirring and the doctor is unlikely to be there. The
écorché
boy stands beside the doctor’s desk. Charles examines him carefully and presses his own body to see if he is the same underneath, under all that skin. He thinks of conversations they might have and games they might play. He likes to touch Louis and wishes that Louis could touch him. Once he kisses Louis’s cheek and he has the impression that Louis’s face is slightly wet, as if he has been crying.

One day the key is not on the lintel. The door is locked. Dr Gohlis is not there.

Who is left? Charles thinks there are perhaps half a dozen servants, the old abbé and himself. He cannot remember when he last saw the Count or Monsieur Fournier or Louis.

What will happen to me, Charles wonders. Will they leave me quite alone?

Then comes the night when everything changes. Just before dawn, Dr Gohlis wakes Charles, makes him dress and takes him downstairs. An old servant waits with two small valises in the hall.

Charles wants to say: ‘Where are we going?’ He also wants to ask Dr Gohlis what has happened to Louis.

But of course he cannot speak. He must not speak.

Not a word to anyone.

‘Mr Savill – may I make known Mr Malbourne, my clerk?’ Rampton said, enunciating the words with precision because he was wearing a set of ivory teeth. ‘Mr Malbourne – Mr Savill.’

They bowed to each other. Malbourne was a slender man with delicate, well-formed features and the address of a gentleman. Savill had found him and Rampton at work in the study when he arrived. The clerk’s right arm was in a black-silk sling, though he removed it when it was necessary for him to write.

This was Savill’s second visit to Vardells, nearly a month after his first, prompted by a letter from Rampton. It was late September now, and the leaves were turning on the lime trees beside the drive.

‘Mr Malbourne has intelligence that relates to Mrs Savill’s son,’ Rampton said. ‘It appears that Charles has been brought to England.’ He gestured to his clerk that he should continue.

‘Charles is living in the country with a party of newly arrived émigrés,’ Malbourne said. ‘Fleeing the massacres. There has been quite a flood of them.’

‘Where are they?’

‘They have taken a house in Somersetshire a few miles beyond Bath. Charnwood Court in the village of Norbury. The émigrés are people of some position in the world. Have you heard of the Count de Quillon?’

‘The late minister?’

‘Precisely. Though he held the seals of office for no more than three or four weeks before he was forced to resign.’

‘He was the old king’s godson,’ Rampton said. ‘Some say it was a nearer connection still, through his mother, and that was why he was in such favour at Versailles when he was a young man. This king made him a Chevalier of St Louis. Not that it stopped him from dabbling with the Revolution when it suited his purpose.’

‘The point is, sir,’ Malbourne went on, ‘Monsieur de Quillon is altogether the grand gentleman. He is not an easy man to deal with. He is accustomed to having his own way, to moving in the great world.’

‘Then why has he buried himself in the country?’ Savill asked.

‘Because his resources are limited,’ Malbourne said. ‘Most of his fortune is in France, and it has been seized. His estates have been sequestered. Also he and his allies have not many friends in London. After all, they are dangerous revolutionaries themselves: they tried to manipulate their king to their own advantage.’

‘Their chickens have come home to roost,’ Rampton observed.

‘Indeed, sir,’ Malbourne continued. ‘Moreover, they are detested by those of their fellow countrymen already in London, who have never wavered from their old allegiance to King Louis and never compromised their principles.’

‘Very true,’ Rampton said. ‘And, to speak plainly, my dear Savill, the Count and his friends have such a history of fomenting sedition, of flirting with the mob, that we ourselves have little desire to play host to them.’

‘Yet you let them come here.’

‘Unfortunately we lack the legal instruments to prevent it,’ Malbourne said.

‘For the time being,’ Rampton said. ‘But that is neither here nor there. Tell him about Fournier.’

‘Fournier?’ Savill said. ‘The man who dealt with the funeral arrangements?’

Malbourne bowed. ‘Yes, sir. He is the Count’s principal ally. Fournier preceded Monsieur de Quillon to England. Indeed, I believe Charnwood is leased to him, not the Count. He is a younger son of the Marquis de St Étienne and was the Bishop of Lodève under the old regime. But he has resigned his orders and now prefers to be known simply as Fournier.’ He smiled. ‘Citizen Fournier, no doubt.’

‘An atheist, they say,’ Rampton said sourly. ‘The worst of men.’

‘Mind you keep your seat this time,’ Rampton said as Malbourne was leaving.

Malbourne saluted them with his whip. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

He rode down the drive, urging his horse to a trot and then to a canter.

‘Foolish young man,’ Rampton said fondly. ‘He sprained his arm last month when he had a tumble. Hence the sling. It cannot be denied that there’s a reckless streak to Horace.’ He smiled. ‘Just as there was to his grandfather. That’s where the money went, you know, and the estates. He gambled as if his life depended on it – Vingt-et-un.’

Horse and rider were out of sight now but Savill heard the drumming of the hooves accelerate to a gallop.

Rampton stared along the terrace, at the far end of which two workmen were building a low wall. ‘Look, sir. Those damned swallows. They are already smearing their filth on my new library.’

‘Is Mr Malbourne in a hurry or does he always ride like that?’ Savill said.

‘He is expected at the Woorgreens’ this evening and he will not wish to be late.’ Rampton glanced at Savill and decided to enlighten his ignorance. ‘Mr Woorgreen, the East India Nabob. He is betrothed to the younger Miss Woorgreen. He will have twelve hundred a year by it, I believe. There’s also the consideration that her mother’s brother is a friend of Mr Pitt’s.’

They went into the house. Savill was engaged to dine and spend the night.

‘Horace Malbourne is a man of parts,’ Rampton said, leading the way into the study. ‘Well connected too. But if he wishes to get on in the world, he knows he must set aside his wild oats and marry money. If all goes well, we shall see him in Parliament in a year or two.’

How very agreeable it must be, Savill thought, to have one’s life mapped out like that: a comfortable place in a government office, a rich wife, a seat in Parliament.

‘He was my ward, you know – his poor mama entrusted him to me when she died.’ Rampton rang the bell and sat down before the fire. ‘But he has amply repaid my care and now he is most valuable to me. When he marries, though, he will spread his wings and fly away.’

Like a swallow, Savill thought, when winter comes.

The manservant came and Rampton gave orders for dinner. Savill wondered whether the introduction of Mr Malbourne had been designed to serve a secondary purpose: to show Savill that Rampton was worthy to stand in the place of a father; that he might safely be entrusted with the care of Augusta’s son.

‘By the way,’ Rampton went on, ‘I have not confided in him that I may adopt Charles.’

‘Because that has not been settled, sir.’

‘Quite so. But in any case I think it better that Malbourne believes that I’m assisting you to win control of the boy solely in view of our family connection. Also, of course, it’s in the Government’s interest to know more about the household at Charnwood and what they are doing.’

Soon afterwards, they went into dinner. Savill had not accepted Rampton’s proposition, but the very fact of his being here was significant, and they both knew it. Rampton had the sense not to press home his advantage. Instead he talked with an appearance of frankness about the situation in France and the Government’s policy towards it.

It was almost enjoyable, Savill found, to talk with Rampton on a footing that, if not precisely equal, was at least one of independence. Once upon a time, Rampton had been his unwilling patron because Savill had married his niece. He, Savill, had served as one of his clerks in the American Department during the late war, though he had never been in such high favour as the elegant Mr Malbourne.

Despite himself, he was impressed by his host. Rampton’s career had collapsed near the end of the war, when the King had dismissed the American secretary and closed down the entire department. Yet, somehow, he had clawed his way back.

But to what, exactly? When Savill had tried to probe further, all he could discover was that Rampton now worked in some capacity for the Post Office, and also advised the Secretary of State for the Home Department on regulations for the government of Ireland. He let slip that he held a sinecure, too, Clerk of the Peace and Chief Clerk of the Supreme Court in Jamaica, which must provide him with a substantial income. All this suggested that the Government now held him in considerable esteem.

After dinner, Rampton showed Savill his new library, where they inspected the fireplace he had imported from Italy. They took a light supper in the salon next door at about eleven o’clock. They drank each other’s health in an atmosphere that might almost have been described as cordial.

Rampton sat back in his chair. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Have we an agreement? In principle, if not in detail.’

‘Are we not ahead of ourselves, sir? The boy’s still in Somersetshire, still in the care of his friends.’

‘You have the power to change that, sir.’ Rampton took up an apple and began to peel it with a silver knife. ‘It’s in the best interests of everyone concerned.’

‘We don’t know what the boy would wish.’

Rampton waved the knife. ‘That’s neither here nor there. He is only a boy, after all. He is not legally of an age where he may control his own destiny. We may safely leave his opinions out of it.’

Savill said nothing.

‘Well?’ Rampton said, setting down his glass more forcibly than was necessary.

‘I reserve the right to defer my final decision until I have met the boy.’

There was silence, which grew uncomfortable.

‘You have changed, haven’t you, Mr Savill?’ Rampton said.

‘Time does alter a man, sir.’

‘True – and that scar, too. And, if I were to hazard a guess, I should say that you are not as comfortably situated as perhaps you might have wished to be at this time of life.’

‘You suggest I am a poor man.’ Savill’s tooth began to throb.

‘Not at all, sir. I merely meant to imply that perhaps, like most of us, you would prefer to be a little more comfortable than you are.’

Savill bowed.

‘I’m told that you act as the English agent of several Americans who have property in this country and you undertake a variety of commissions for them. And sometimes also for gentlemen of the law.’

Rampton paused. He sat back in his chair and smiled at Savill, who said nothing.

‘That’s all very well, I’m sure,’ Rampton went on, ‘But in this unsettled world of ours, there is much to be said for the tranquillity of mind that a fixed salary brings, is there not?’ Frowning, he massaged his fingers. ‘I might possibly be able to put you in the way of a position, which would provide a modest competence paid quarterly. A clerkship in the Colonies, perhaps, you know the sort of thing. You would be able to appoint a deputy to do the work so you would not find it inconvenient or unduly onerous.’

A bribe, Savill thought. He is offering me a bribe if I do as he wishes. He took out a pair of dice he kept in his waistcoat pocket and rolled them from one hand to the other. A seven.

‘I had not put you down as a gambler, sir,’ Rampton said.

‘I’m not. The dice remind me that chance plays its part in all our actions.’

‘You are grown quite philosophical.’