The American Boy by Andrew Taylor Page A

stairs, followed by a knock on the door. I looked round, expecting Charlie or the footman. But it was Mrs Frant who entered the room. I stood up hastily and, made clumsy by surprise, sketched an awkward bow.
    â€œPray be seated, Mr Shield. Thank you for coming with Charlie. I trust they have made you comfortable?”
    Her colour was up and she had her hand to the side, as though running up the stairs had given her a stitch. I said I was well looked after, and asked after Mr Wavenhoe.
    â€œI fear he is not long for this world.”
    â€œHas Charlie seen him?”
    â€œNo – my uncle is asleep. Kerridge took Charlie downstairs with her for something to eat.” Her face broke into a smile, instantly suppressed. “She believes she must feed him every time she sees him. He will be with you directly. If you need any refreshment, by the way, you must ring the bell. As for meals, I thought it might be more convenient if you and Charlie had them up here.”
    She moved to the barred window, which looked across an eighteen-inch lead-lined gully to the back of the parapet of the street façade. She wore greys and lilacs today, a transitional stage before the blacks she would don when her uncle died. A strand of hair had escaped from her cap, and she pushed it back with a finger. Her movements were always graceful, a joy to watch.
    She turned towards me, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth as though impatient with herself. “You must have lights,” she said almost pettishly, tugging the bell. “It is growing dark. I cannot abide the dark.”
    While we waited for the servant to come she questioned me about how Charlie was faring at school. I reassured her as best I could. He was much happier than he had been. No, he was not exactly industrious, but he coped with the work that was expected of him. Yes, he was indeed occasionally flogged, but so were all boys and there was nothing out of the way in it. As for his appetite, I rarely saw the boys eating, so I could not comment with any authority, but I had seen him on several occasions emerging from the pastry-cook’s in the village. Finally, as to his motions, I feared I had no information upon that topic whatsoever.
    Mrs Frant blushed and said I must excuse the fondness of a mother.
    A moment later, the footman brought my tea and a lamp. When the shadows fled from the corners of the room, then so did the curious intimacy of my conversation with Mrs Frant. Yet she lingered. I asked her what regimen she would like us to follow while we were here. She replied that perhaps we might work in the mornings, take the air in the afternoons, and return to our books for a short while in the evening.
    â€œOf course, there may be interruptions.” She twisted her wedding ring round her finger. “One cannot predict the course of events. Mr Shield, I cannot –”
    She broke off at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. There was a tap on the door, and Mrs Kerridge and Charlie entered.
    â€œI saw him,” Charlie said. “I thought he was dead at first, he lay so still, but then I heard his breathing.”
    â€œDid he wake?”
    â€œNo, madam,” Mrs Kerridge said. “The apothecary gave Mr Wavenhoe his draught, and he’s sleeping soundly.”
    Mrs Frant stood up and ran her fingers through the boy’s hair. “Then you shall have a holiday for the rest of the afternoon.”
    â€œI shall go and see the coaches, Mama.”
    â€œVery well. But do not stay too long – it is possible your uncle may wake and call for you.”
    Soon I was alone again in the long, narrow room. I drank tea and read for upwards of an hour. Then I became restless, and decided to go out to buy tobacco.
    I took the front stairs. As I came down the last flight into the marble-floored hall, a door opened and an old man emerged, wheezing with effort, from the room beyond. He was not tall, but he was broad and had once