The Red Necklace (11 page)

Lost in the fury of his thoughts, he hadn’t heard one word Mr. Laxton had been saying, until finally, standing in the hall of the house in Queen Square, he realized that by some twist of fate he had entered another world, and he didn’t want to be here.

Henry Laxton’s valet, Vane, had been with his master for many years and spoke tolerable French. He took Yann upstairs and showed him a large bedchamber, dominated by a four-poster bed and smelling of oranges. They reminded Yann of hot summers and journeys with Têtu. Behind a screen at the far end was another door that led to a small antechamber, and there by the fire sat a bath filled with steaming hot water. What it was doing in the room Yann wasn’t sure until Vane started solemnly rolling up his sleeves and said that sir was to take a bath.

Yann stared at him in disbelief and then, seeing that this was no idle threat, made for the door, but to no avail. Vane was doglike in his determination, with a wiry strength that took Yann by surprise. Finally, defeated by exhaustion and the lack of sleep, he resigned himself to drowning.

He was washed and scrubbed until the water was as filthy as the Seine and his skin tingled all over. Wrapped in a large housecoat, he sat in front of the fire while a barber set about cutting off his long black locks and vigorously rubbing a lotion into his scalp, for the express reason, so he said, of ridding Yann of fleas.

From an assortment of shirts and breeches, Vane then set about dressing Yann as if he were a tailor’s dummy. Finally, he tied a cravat around his neck and set a looking glass before him. What Yann saw there was a stranger. If it hadn’t been for the anger in his face he would have said he was staring at someone else.

Vane inspected his handiwork and took Yann down to the sitting room on the first floor to present him to Mr. and Mrs. Laxton.

“Well, look at you, sir,” said Mr. Laxton in his perfect French. “To the manor born, I would say.”

Yann, not knowing what was expected of him, bowed stiffly. All this felt as if it were happening to someone else, that he was simply an actor upon the stage.

“You have met my niece, Sido de Villeduval, I gather,” said Mrs. Laxton.

Yann looked at her. Was he dreaming, or did she look like Sido?

“Yes.”

“And was she well?”

Was she well? He had to think what he was being asked. Was this the reason he had been brought here, to answer this one question—was Sido well?

Finally he said, “She is unhappy.”

After an awkward supper that seemed to go on and on, with many courses and unanswered questions, Mr. Laxton took him into his study. On hearing of Têtu’s death, he told Yann that this was to be his new home. What he meant by this, Yann had no idea. The only family he had ever known was Têtu. Home couldn’t be counted in candlesticks and cutlery, of that much he was sure. Home for him had been simple. Home was Têtu.

That night he lay awake, finding the soft mattress worrying, the smell of oranges unsettling. Finally he got out of bed and fell asleep in front of the fire, like a cat.

The days that followed were encompassed by ticking clocks and dull, meaningless routine. Time dragged its weary feet for Yann in this grand house. The long, empty momentum of the minutes and the passing hours was something he had never been aware of before.

A tutor had been employed for Yann, a Mr. Rose. He was as thin as a sheet of paper left flattened and forgotten in a book, and had about him the smell of dried-up ink. Knowledge had been beaten into him and he saw no reason why it shouldn’t be beaten into every other child. His philosophy of education was not one he had shared with Mr. Laxton.

On the first day of his employment, what appeared before Mr. Rose was a well-dressed, intelligent-looking young gentleman.

“Appearances can be deceptive,” Mr. Rose was to grumble three weeks later. “The boy is nothing more than a savage. No tailored garment is going to alter that fact.”

This cutting remark had been his first complaint, followed by, “The boy has no aptitude for learning.”

Mr. Laxton had spoken firmly to Yann, who stood in his study and said nothing.

Another two weeks passed, by which time Yann felt as if his very life was beginning to be drummed out of him by this wizened leaf of a tutor. He would gaze out of the window, longing to be down in the street where life went on, until he could take it no longer.

One day Mr. Rose, in a fit of temper, threw a book at Yann, hitting him on the head. Yann got up and calmly took the cane from his terrified tutor, breaking it across his leg before delivering a knockout blow. Mr. Rose almost flew across the room. He lay stretched out cold on the wooden floor, his nose bleeding profusely.

Yann went down the stairs to Mr. Laxton’s study and told him exactly what he had done and why.

There was a general commotion, a doctor was called for, and Mr. Rose, regaining consciousness, demanded that the boy be brought before a magistrate and sent to the clink for the savage he was. Then, seeing that Mr. Laxton was going to do nothing of the sort, he left, appalled, holding his handkerchief to his very sore nose.

Immediately he went hurrying around to Lady Faulkner, whose son Jack had benefited greatly from his tutoring. For her part she had swiftly and delightedly passed on the news that the Laxtons, for want of a child, had taken in an alleycat.The scandal kept many a lady happy over her morning coffee and many a gentleman at his club wondering what the respectable banker was thinking of.

The Laxtons took no notice whatsoever of the gossip, and employed another tutor who had no more control over Yann than the dreadful Mr. Rose. He lasted only a month before storming out of the house, announcing that the boy was unteachable.

Finally free of his tutors, Yann took to leaving the house without permission and going off by himself to explore London. The vulgar tongue of the streets began to intrigue him: It was a stewpot of words and sounds that he was hungry to taste. It took him no time to speak these earthy words with a near-perfect Cockney accent.

All attempts at keeping him at home failed. Locked doors and high windows were no barrier to him. He would frequently climb down the side of the house at night without being noticed by the night-watchman. He had always found the darkness friendly: It was like a huge overcoat, one he was well used to wearing. He could see almost as clearly in the dark as in the day, and had never understood people’s fear of it.

For all the trouble Yann caused the Laxtons, they could not help liking the boy. There was nothing timid in his nature. He was fearless, stood up and fought, despised injustice, and cared little about the injuries he received. Mr. Rose was an ass of a man for not seeing how clever the boy was. Anyone who had a tongue that could master English this quickly was no fool. Têtu had been right when he told Cordell the boy had talent. The problem lay in how to make him see the opportunities he was merrily throwing away.

Mrs. Laxton understood better than her husband what Yann felt. She too had been sent near mad by grief, and it was the memory of what she had gone through that made her brave.

Late one foggy March night she waited in Yann’s room for him to come back from one of his escapades. He looked sheepish as he climbed through the window to see her sitting there in the dark. He was certain he was going to be punished. Instead she lit a candle and invited him to sit down.

“What is it you want?” she asked.

“To go back to Paris.”

“Why?”

“I want to find out what happened to Têtu.”

“You know what happened, he was shot. It was a terrible tragedy for you. Why do you think he sent you here?”

Yann shrugged his shoulders.

“No, that won’t do,” she said sharply. “You are a clever boy. Now, tell me again.”

“To learn to speak English, and I can now.”

“You have the accent of the street and the manners of a ruffian. Your friend Têtu went to Mr. Cordell and told him you were talented, that you deserved to be given an opportunity, that there was a lot more to you than meets the eye. What I have seen is a stubborn, unhappy Gypsy who is too wrapped up in himself to see what his friend sacrificed for him.”

“I
am
a Gypsy,” said Yann through gritted teeth, realizing that he was about to break down. “I don’t belong here, not in your world. Not in all this softness. Not imprisoned by walls—”

“When I was nine my mother died,” Mrs. Laxton interrupted. “She was very pious, and I believed that the only reason she had left me was because I had been naughty. I was lucky; I had a loving older sister who helped me to understand that she hadn’t left me behind for anything I had done.” She leaned forward and touched Yann’s hand. “It’s not your fault Têtu died. You couldn’t have caught the bullet; you are not a magician.”

Yann felt burning hot tears sting the corners of his eyes.

“I should have stayed with him—I shouldn’t have run.”

He was suddenly aware that Mr. Laxton was standing in the doorway, listening.

“Stayed to be killed,” Mr. Laxton said. “That would have been a waste.”

“We are here to help you,” said his wife softly, “but you refuse to let even a chink of light into that dark space in your head.”

“I don’t want anything from you. I don’t want your help. I never wanted to come here!” Yann was shouting now, so angry at the tears that wouldn’t stop rolling down his face, joining together under his chin. “Save your money and save your pity. I want none of it!”

Blast the tears, why didn’t they stop?

“The door is open. If you want to go back to Paris, go,” said Henry Laxton. “I am not your jailer. You are not a slave, you are a free man.”

Yann bolted down the stairs two at a time. He pushed past the startled doorman and out into the foggy night air.

Henry Laxton leaned over the banisters and watched him go. “Well, that’s that. What a fine mess we’ve made.”

His wife put her arms around him.
“Mon chéri,”
she said, “don’t despair. I promise you, this is not the end. It is just the beginning.”

chapter thirteen

If ann only stopped running when he reached Seven Dials. The sound of his feet on the pavement was the drumbeat that finally calmed him down. Gasping for breath he leaned against the corner of a building, grateful for the thick fog, and laughed out loud at his own stupidity. Well, he thought bitterly, I can’t go back there again.

He felt certain that the Laxtons would be mighty pleased to be rid of him. Mrs. Laxton had called him a Gypsy! He
was
a Gypsy. What did any of it matter now? He pulled the collar of his coat up, the biting cold tickling its way through the seams. He could hear around him the distorted voices of people sounding as if they were underwater, their words swimming before them, their owners following, appearing out of the fog like phantoms before disappearing again.

As the cold found its way into his bones it dawned on him exactly how alone he was. Like a small pebble on a stony beach.

He shook his head. He had been a complete fool. What did he have? Nothing, just the clothes he stood up in, not a penny to his name. He looked down at his coat. In the morning he would pawn it. That should give him some money, at least enough for a day or so. For the time being he would just have to keep on walking.

He made his way toward Covent Garden, where the audiences were spilling out of the theaters. All those people, eager to be home! Sedan chairs vying for business, boasting how fast they went. Carriages lined up, horses snorting.

Maybe he should try to find work in the theater, though he wondered quite what he had to offer. The ability to throw his voice was surely not enough, not now that he couldn’t read minds. That gift had abandoned him. It belonged to another time.

The bells of St. Martin’s were chiming eleven o’clock as he walked away from the piazza. It was going to be a long, cold night.

On the last stroke he heard someone call out for help. It was a sharp, urgent cry that was strangled the minute it had found a voice.

Yann stopped and listened. It was the cry of a desperate man. The fog made it hard to work out where he was. He heard nothing more.

Then he caught the growl of voices coming from down an alleyway that smelled worse than the river Seine on a hot day. Through the fog a little way ahead of him he could make out two men who seemed to have a third man held hostage against the wall.

Yann moved quickly out of sight. The men didn’t notice him.

From what he could see, the one nearest him looked like a fish-eyed monster, his hand as wide as a shovel covering the third man’s mouth, while the second, a ratlike creature, egged him on.

“What have we got here, Sam?” said the fish-eyed monster.

“A gentleman in a fine coat!” leered Sam. “With shiny buckles on his shoes! Hey, Joe, I reckon we’ve caught ourselves a plum pudding of a gent!”

“Go on, take it off,” said Joe, taking his hand away from the gentleman’s mouth and pulling at the coat.

“Please, my dear commodious sirs,” cried the gentleman, “I am but a poor thespian and this is my humble costume. I wear it to trip the light fantastic and earn my meager bread and cheese. The buckles are nothing more than paste, for I am but a poor Malvolio whose yellow stockings are thus gartered.”

“You what?” said Sam.

“Let’s take him to Dr. Death,” said Joe. “He’ll shut him up. He pays handsome for a good healthy body, he does.”

All this was too much for the actor, who let out a muffled moan. “My stars above, no I beg thee, let not my night’s candle be so rudely snuffed out. I implore you, gallant gentlemen, to spare me!”

Sam was now rifling through his pockets. “Nothing,” he said despairingly. “He ain’t got nothing, not even a penny.”

“
Must
be a bleeding actor, then.”

“My dear sir, my name is Mr. Trippen of Drury Lane. You aren’t going to kill the famous Touchstone the Clown, are you? Think what the papers will say.”