The Silent Boy by Andrew Taylor

aware how forlorn he must look. His arrival in this wretched chaise would hardly improve matters.
    ‘Sorry about the bumps, sir,’ Mr Roach said. ‘The back drive is even worse. That’s the one I generally use. But I reckon having you here turns this into a gentleman’s chaise.’
    He burst out laughing. Savill bared his teeth in what he hoped might resemble an answering smile. The drive followed a bend and suddenly reached its destination. Now they were clear of the protection of the overhanging trees, Savill became aware of how hard the rain was falling.
    ‘Well, this is it, sir,’ Mr Roach said, raising his whip in a sort of salute. ‘Charnwood. Not to everyone’s taste, perhaps, but you know what the sailors say: any port in a storm.’

Chapter Thirteen
     
    It is growing dark when Charles is summoned. Mrs Cox sends a maid to tell him that he must go at once to the library.
    Monsieur de Quillon is seated in his armchair, his legs wide, stretched towards the fire. Dr Gohlis is in the shadows, idly turning a great globe that stands in the corner.
    The Count beckons Charles towards him. ‘What’s this I hear?’ he says in his deep, hoarse voice. ‘You’ve fouled your bed again? It won’t do, do you hear? Not for someone like you.’
    Charles wonders whether it would be different if he were like someone else.
    ‘I was going to have them thrash the nonsense out of you. But the doctor suggests we give you a chance to make amends.’
    Charles glances at Dr Gohlis. He is surprised, and made wary, by the kindness.
    The Count massages his temples with his fingers. ‘So if you start talking again, we’ll say no more about it. You won’t be beaten. The matter will be closed.’ He looks directly at Charles and says, almost as if they were equals, one man to another: ‘Well? What do you think?’
    Charles would like to say, ‘Thank you, sir,’ but he can say nothing. He does not even bow.
    The Count sighs and throws himself back in his chair.
    ‘It’s merely a matter of will,’ the doctor says, abandoning the revolving world and coming toward the fireplace. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, my boy. Nothing at all.’ He takes Charles’s chin and tilts it so Charles is forced to look directly up at him. ‘Open your mouth.’
    Dr Gohlis prods Charles’s lips with his forefinger, forcing the mouth open. He pushes the lower jaw further down.
    ‘You see, my lord,’ he says, looking from Charles to Monsieur de Quillon, ‘the tongue, the vocal cords – everything is there for the production of speech, nothing is damaged.’ He releases Charles’s chin. ‘I am demonstrating to him that there is absolutely no medical reason why he cannot speak. The argument is addressed to his intellect – for, though he is still young, he has a rudimentary rational faculty, and we must make this our ally.’
    ‘I dare say, Doctor.’ Monsieur de Quillon takes up a paper from the table beside him. ‘But I don’t want to hear your lecture on the subject. Get on with it, man, will you?’
    Charles glimpses a flicker of anger in the doctor’s face as the Count bends his great head over the paper. He is surprised to find himself entertaining the notion that grown-ups can like or dislike other grown-ups.
    Gohlis brings his head down to Charles’s. ‘No one likes pain, do they, my boy? It is abhorrent to any rational being. And you, being human, are capable of reason,
capax rationis
. You will have enough Latinity for that. In other words, to put it as plainly as I can, this means that, if you have any choice in the matter, you will strive to avoid pain.’
    Charles stares at the globe, which is no longer turning. He hears the rustle of paper and Monsieur de Quillon’s laboured breathing.
    ‘I intend to beat you for fouling your bed like a baby,’ Dr Gohlis says. ‘Unless – and listen carefully now – unless you say to Monsieur de Quillon, “I ask your pardon, monseigneur.”’
    The words float into the air. There