The Silent Boy (22 page)

‘Thank you. I shall do what I can. And so will my daughter and my sister.’

‘I had not realized you had a daughter. How old is she?’

‘Lizzie is nineteen. She has her head full of foolish notions, like all girls of her age.’

‘Has she a beau yet?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. Tell me, ma’am, do you ever come to London?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Sometimes Mrs West is so kind as to invite me. She has taken apartments in Green Street. We are to go up to town in a week or two, I believe, before the weather worsens.’

‘Perhaps you would permit me to call on you? If Mrs West would not object. I should bring Charles, of course, so you might renew your acquaintance with him and see how he does.’

She coloured like a girl at a compliment. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘By all means. I know I can answer for Mrs West too. And bring Miss Elizabeth as well, if you wish. I should like that.’

A movement caught Savill’s attention. Charles was watching them intently. His face was pale, with bluish bruises under the eyes. He opened his mouth and drew breath as if about to say something. Then he turned back to Mrs West as Minerva.

Monsieur de Quillon was not alone, which disconcerted Savill – Fournier was with him, standing by the window and looking out at the garden at the dark smudge of woodland higher up the valley.

‘Well, sir?’ the Count said, without the usual courteous preamble. ‘What is it now?’

‘I wished you to know of my plans as soon as possible.’ Savill was equally brusque; he knew by the Count’s tone that Fournier had already told him the news. ‘Mrs West has offered me the loan of her phaeton. I intend to leave with Charles on Friday.’

The Count threw himself into a chair, which creaked under his weight and skidded an inch on the floorboard. ‘You cannot snatch my son away from me.’

‘First, sir, we cannot be sure he is your son. In the second place, the law has placed him in my care as a child of my late wife: and as far as the law is concerned, he is my son, not yours. Thirdly, if necessary I shall obtain an order from Mr Horton. I warn you, my lord, if you put obstacles in my way, you will find yourself in court.’

The Count’s face was even redder than usual. ‘I will not be lectured like that in my own house. I warn you, sir, I—’

Fournier laid a hand on his arm. ‘My friend, calm yourself.’

‘The boy is my son,’ the Count said. ‘My
son
. He stays with me.’

‘I’m afraid that is not possible.’

‘What? You would deny the ties of natural affection? Only a monster would—’

‘Forgive me,’ Savill snapped, ‘but we cannot be sure that such a tie even exists.’

‘Nonsense. You have only to look at Charles to see the resemblance. Besides, a father knows.’ The Count pounded his chest. ‘He knows here.’

‘All we can be sure of is that the boy is his mother’s son and that the law requires him to be placed under my guardianship. I know you have received a letter from my attorney explaining why you must release the boy into my custody. If you refuse to comply, I am in a position to enforce my right to him. I have a magistrate’s order here. I also have a letter that obliges Mr Horton to afford me any assistance I require on the authority of His Majesty’s Government. And if you compel me to use it, my lord, the matter will inevitably become public knowledge.’

Savill paused to allow the implications to sink in. The émigrés at Charnwood were unpopular enough, here and in London. It would do none of them any good if it became known that the Count de Quillon was flouting the law by refusing to release an English boy into the care of his English family.

The Count stared fixedly at the fire, breathing rapidly and heavily. He looked like a sulky bear that might at any moment erupt into violence, albeit a bear that wore a sombrely magnificent dark brown coat.

‘I need time to consider,’ he said at last, not looking at Savill. ‘Time to consult my advisers.’ He waved towards the door as if indicating the approximate whereabouts of a flock of secretaries, lawyers, equerries and aides-de-camp.

‘I myself am pressed for time,’ Savill said. ‘We leave on Friday morning. And may I remind you that I shall require the papers relating to my wife’s death?’

‘What papers?’ demanded the Count.

‘You know very well, my lord. The certificate of death. The notary’s statement.’

‘I shall write to Mrs West,’ the Count said, changing his line of attack. ‘I shall forbid the foolish woman to help you.’

Fournier said nothing. Nor did Savill. The threat fell into the silence. The Count’s words vanished like a handful of stones dropped in a pond.

The Count shook himself like a wet dog emerging from water. ‘Well, sir. You have had your say.’ His voice was low and quiet, almost gentle. ‘But I tell you this: Charles is mine, and one way or another I shall keep him.’

There was no going back now that Savill had set his will so openly against the Count’s. The conventions of hospitality, of host and guest, had broken down.

When he left the library, Savill stood in the hall for a moment, listening to the rise and fall of voices on the other side of the door – the Count’s growling bass and Fournier’s higher-pitched, nimbler chatter.

No one else was about. Savill rang for Joseph and desired him to ask the housekeeper to wait on him in the drawing room. Joseph did not trouble to conceal his surprise at the request.

Mrs Cox arrived moments later, keys jingling and skirts rustling.

‘Madam,’ Savill said without preamble, ‘I am obliged to leave Charnwood on Friday, at about nine o’clock. Master Charles will accompany me. Mrs West’s phaeton will collect us.’

Her tongue appeared between her lips. ‘His Lordship hasn’t mentioned it, sir. Or Monsieur Fournier.’

‘I am just come from them. I would like you to ensure that Master Charles is ready to go. He will not be returning here.’

Her face was sulky now. ‘Very well, sir. If His Lordship says—’

‘Does he have many possessions? If necessary, perhaps you would arrange for them to be sent on.’

‘Master Charles doesn’t have much more than the clothes he stands up in. Left them all behind in France, I dare say. Or had them stolen, more likely.’

‘Charles,’ Savill said. ‘Do you understand? We shall leave here on Friday, you and I.’

The boy lowered the spoon to the bowl. He did not look at what he was doing. The spoon overbalanced and spilled its load of bread and milk on Mrs Cox’s table.

‘You heard what Mrs West said, no doubt. We shall drive to Bath in her phaeton. It will be quite an adventure.’

Charles stared at him. He licked the white line from his upper lip. It occurred to Savill that perhaps the boy did not want any more adventures.

‘If all goes well,’ he went on, ‘we shall reach Bath in a few hours, though it will depend on the state of the roads. We shall go to an inn and I shall hire a chaise to take us to London after we have dined.’

The boy lowered his eyes. Savill came closer, drew out a chair and sat down beside him. He took Charles’s hand, which lay limp and unresponsive in his own.

‘I know this is hard,’ he said gently. ‘And you cannot want to venture among strangers. But I promise you this: once this is over, once we reach London, your life will be more settled. You will be with your own family.’

As he heard himself saying this, Savill wondered if he was misleading the boy, lying to him even. He did not know what would happen to Charles in London, whether in the end he would go to his uncle Rampton or stay with Savill. But would Rampton want a mute boy as his heir? What would Lizzie do with a silent half-brother?

Beneath this was another, darker question: was the muteness merely a symptom of some deeper and more dangerous disorder that unfitted Charles for life in a private family?

‘I will make sure you are quite happy and comfortable,’ Savill said, knowing it was a promise no man could make.

Charles slowly turned his head away and stared at the wall.

That evening, Joseph brought Savill a packet of papers tied with a blue ribbon and sealed with the Count’s seal. It contained the papers that recorded Augusta’s death and burial, together with the statement from the notary. Nothing else was enclosed. Savill examined them carefully. The papers seemed entirely in order.

Now, at last, he told himself, Augusta is dead and here is the proof in my hand.

He knew he should feel happy. The day after tomorrow he would travel home, a free man in the eyes of himself and the world. He would see Lizzie again and introduce her silent brother to her.

But happiness proved fugitive. His spirits were depressed. He had a great desire to drink until he had driven away the memories and arrived at peaceful oblivion. Moreover, he could not quite believe that the Count would let them leave Charnwood. There was more going on in this house than Savill understood.

Supper that evening was an awkward occasion despite Fournier’s attempts to lighten the tone. If the Count had been a small boy and not a former minister of state and peer of France, Savill would have said he was sulking.

Afterwards, the Count retired at once. Dr Gohlis, who had been sitting apart from the others and eating with silent efficiency, moved closer to Fournier and Savill.

‘Your departure will leave quite a vacancy at our table,’ Fournier said, turning to Savill. ‘Have I phrased that idiomatically? No matter – the sense is clear.’

‘You have been kindness itself,’ Savill said stiffly. ‘And the good doctor here, who has dealt with my wretched tooth. I wish I were leaving on a happier note.’

Fournier took up an apple and began to peel it. A coil of skin slipped from the knife and fell to the plate beneath.

‘We all do,’ he said. ‘And permit me to express the hope that our paths will cross again, perhaps in London. I have enjoyed our conversations so much.’

‘I fear His Lordship would not say the same.’

‘Come, let us not quarrel about what cannot be mended.’ Fournier cut a slice of apple. ‘I am afraid that the Count is not a man to give up his son without a struggle.’

‘A boy he
believes
to be his son.’

‘Faith is always stronger than reason, as any bishop will tell you. I was once a bishop myself, of course, so I speak with confidence on the matter.’ Fournier smiled, and for an instant malice flickered over his smooth, agreeable face. ‘But in this case, sir, it is not only the Count who is unwilling to compromise. Is it?’

‘Listen,’ Charles whispers. ‘Can you hear me?’

Louis is still near the window. The day has only just begun. In the pale grey light, Charles can see only part of him, from the waist down. This is because he, Charles, is standing on the manger in the stable below. He has raised the trapdoor less than a foot above the floor of Dr Gohlis’s laboratory. His view of Louis is limited by the legs and the top of the table.

‘It’s tomorrow,’ Charles says. ‘He’s taking me to London tomorrow.’

‘You won’t leave me behind?’ Louis says. ‘Please don’t.’

‘Of course I won’t. Trust me.’

‘Oh, Charles – thank God you are my friend.’

‘I’ll come for you very early in the morning, before anyone is about. But I must get the back door key tonight.’

‘You think of everything,’ Louis says. ‘Where would I be without you?’

It is still early in the morning on this, Charles’s last day at Charnwood.

His preparations are already well advanced. Yesterday, he took more scraps from the pig bucket to the castle in the woods. A few days earlier, he stole a tinderbox and a broken knife from the scullery.

Today, when he sets off towards the Garden of Neptune and the woods beyond, he is carrying a bundle in his arms. There are two moth-eaten travelling cloaks, relics of previous tenants, which he discovered in a closet in the side hall. The nights are growing colder and they will need the warmth. Inside them, wrapped in an old newspaper, is a large slice of veal-and-ham pie that Charles found in the larder. His mouth waters at the very thought of it.

As he reaches the trees, a momentary doubt touches him. He clambers over the stile and pauses, peering into the gloom ahead. The ground is sodden with dew and yesterday’s rain. It is colder and greyer than in the garden. He screws up his courage and plods on, reminding himself that it will be worth it in the end, when he and Louis are living together, wild boys in the woods, talking to each other with silent words.

Charles reaches the castle, the mound among the trees that is almost entirely surrounded by the stream. This will be their desert island, he reminds himself, and when they are living here he will tell Louis the story of Robinson Crusoe.

He drapes the cloaks over a branch. He adds the veal-and-ham pie to the items concealed in the hollow in the yew tree which has become his cupboard. As a reward, he allows himself to break off a fragment of pastry. It dissolves in a moment, adding to his hunger rather than diminishing it.

Everything is orderly, Charles thinks, everything is planned, everything is known. Mr Crusoe would approve.

He makes his way back to Charnwood. As he is running down the path from the woods to the Garden of Neptune, he hears the sound of hooves. He stops, resting his hand on the gate into the garden.

His eyes drift over the trees to the hills beyond the wood, which at this time of day are grey smudges against the paler grey of the sky. From here one can see a stretch of the track that crosses into the next valley. A rider is approaching. He is too far away for Charles to be able to distinguish anything about him, beyond the fact that he wears a blue coat.

He passes into the garden. The stable clock is striking eight. Charles’s breakfast is waiting for him in the housekeeper’s room. Mrs Cox isn’t there.

She does not like to watch him eating, and nor do the other servants. They treat him as if he was a wild animal, he thinks, dirty and unwanted. They are afraid, perhaps, afraid that the terrible thing locked up inside him might somehow be infectious, that the thing is catching, like measles.