The American Boy

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE FRANTS’ HOUSE was on the south side of Russell-square. I rang the bell and waited. The brass plate sparkled. The paint was new. If a surface could be polished, it had been polished. If it could be scrubbed, it had been scrubbed.

A manservant answered the door, a tall fellow with a fleshy, hook-nosed face. I told him my name and business, and he left me to kick my heels in a big dining room overlooking the square. I walked over to the window and stared down at the square garden. The curtains were striped silk, cream and green, and the green seemed to have been chosen to match exactly the grass outside.

The door opened, and I turned to see Mr Henry Frant. As I did so, I looked for the first time at the wall beside the door, which was opposite the window. A portrait hung there, Mrs Frant to the life, sitting in a park with a tiny boy leaning against her knee and a spaniel stretched on the ground at her feet. In the distance was a prospect of a large stone-built mansion-house.

‘You’re Mr Bransby’s usher, I collect?’ Frant walked quickly towards me, his left hand in his pocket, bringing with him a scent of lavender water. He was the man I had seen at the carriage window in Ermine-street. ‘The boy will be down in a moment.’

There was no sign of recognition on his face. I was too insignificant for him to have remembered me, of course, but it was also possible to believe that my own appearance had changed in the last month. Frant made no move to shake hands; nor was there an offer of refreshment or even a chair. There was an air of excitement about him, of absorption in his own affairs.

‘The boy has milksop tendencies, fostered by his mother,’ he announced. ‘I particularly desire that these traits be eradicated.’

I bowed. In the portrait, Mrs Frant’s small white hand toyed with a brown ringlet that had escaped the confines of her bonnet.

‘He is not to be indulged, do you hear? He has had enough of that already. But now he is grown too old for the softness of women. It is time for him to learn to be a man. Behaving like a blushing maiden will be no good to him when he goes to Westminster. That is one reason why I have determined to send him to Mr Bransby’s.’

‘So he has never been to school before, sir?’

‘He has had tutors at home.’ Frant waved his right hand as though pushing them away, and the great signet ring on his forefinger gleamed as it caught the light from the window. ‘He does well enough at his books. Now it is time for him to learn something equally useful: how to deal with his fellows. But I will not detain you any longer. Pray give my compliments to Mr Bransby.’

Before I could manage even another bow, Frant was out of the room, the door snapping shut behind him. I envied him: here was a man who had everything the gods could bestow including an air of breeding and consequence that sat naturally upon him, as though he were its rightful possessor. Even now, God help me, part of me envies him as he was then.

I waited another moment, studying the portrait. My interest, I told myself, was both pure and objective. I admired the painting as I might a beautiful statue or a line of poetry that spoke with both elegance and force to the heart. The brushwork was particularly fine, and the skin was exquisitely lifelike. Such beauty was refreshing, too, like a drink to a thirsty traveller. There was, therefore, no reason why I should not study it as much as I wished.

Ah, you will say, you were falling in love with Sophia Frant. But that is romantic nonsense. If you want plain speaking, I will give it you as I gave it to myself on that fateful day: leaving artistic considerations aside, I disliked her because she had so much I lacked in the way of wealth and the world’s esteem; and I also disliked her because I desired her, as I did almost any pretty woman I saw, and knew she could never be mine.

I heard footsteps outside the door and a high voice speaking indistinctly but loudly. I moved away and feigned an intense interest in the ormolu clock upon the mantel-shelf. The door opened and a boy rushed into the room, followed by a small, plain woman, dressed in black and with a wart on the side of her chin. What struck me immediately was that there was a remarkable resemblance between young Frant and Edgar Allan, the American boy. With their lofty brows, their bright eyes and their delicate features, they might almost have been brothers. Then I noticed the boy’s attire.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘I am Charles Augustus Frant.’

I shook the offered hand. ‘And I am Mr Shield.’

‘And this is Mrs Kerridge, my – one of the servants,’ the boy rushed on. ‘There was no need for her to come down with me, but she insisted.’

I nodded to her and she inclined her head. ‘I wished to ask if Master Charles’s box had arrived at the school yet, sir.’

‘I’m afraid I do not know. But I’m sure its absence would have been marked.’

‘And my mistress desired me to say that Master Charles feels the cold. When the weather begins to turn, perhaps a flannel undershirt next to the skin might be advisable.’

The boy snorted. I nodded gravely. My mind was on the lad’s clothes, though not in a way that Mrs Kerridge or indeed Mrs Frant would have liked. Whether at his own request or at his mother’s whim, Master Charles was wearing a beautifully cut olive greatcoat with black frogs. He carried under his arm a hat from which depended a long and handsome tassel; he clutched a cane in his left hand.

‘They’re bringing the carriage round, sir,’ Mrs Kerridge said, ‘and Master Charles’s valise is in the hall. Would you like anything before you go?’

The boy hopped from one leg to another.

‘Thank you, no,’ I said.

‘There’s the carriage.’ He ran over to the window. ‘Yes, it is ours.’

Mrs Kerridge looked up at me, squeezing her face to a frown. ‘Poor lamb,’ she murmured in a tone too low for him to hear. ‘Never been away from home before.’

I nodded, and smiled in a way I hoped the woman would find reassuring. When we opened the door, a footman was waiting by the front door and a black pageboy, not much older than Charles himself, hovered over the valise. Charles Frant, smiling graciously at his father’s servants, marched down the steps with a dignity befitting the Horse Guards, a dignity only slightly marred by the way he skipped up into the carriage. Mrs Kerridge and I followed more slowly, walking behind like a pair of acolytes.

‘He is very young for his age, sir,’ Mrs Kerridge muttered.

I smiled down at her. ‘He’s a handsome boy.’

‘Takes after his mother.’

‘Is she not here to say goodbye to him?’

‘She’s away nursing her uncle.’ Mrs Kerridge grimaced. ‘The poor gentleman’s dying, and he ain’t going easy. Otherwise Madam would be here. Will he be all right, sir? Boys can be cruel little varmints. He don’t realise. He don’t know many boys.’

‘It may not be easy at first. But most boys find there is much to enjoy at school as well. Once they are used to it.’

‘His mama frets about him.’

‘It often happens that an event is more distressing in anticipation than it is in actuality. You must endeavour to –’

I broke off, realising that Mrs Kerridge was no longer looking at me. She had been distracted by the sight of a carriage whirling into the square from Montague-street. It was an elegant light chariot, painted green and gold, and drawn by a pair of chestnuts. The coachman slipped between two carts and brought the equipage to a standstill behind our own, the wheels neatly aligned within a couple of inches of the kerb. He sat back on the box with the air of a man well pleased with himself.

‘Oh Lord,’ muttered Mrs Kerridge, but she was smiling.

The glass slid down. I glimpsed a pale face and a mass of auburn curls partly concealed by a large hat adorned with grogram.

‘Kerridge!’ the girl called. ‘Kerridge, dearest. Am I in time? Where’s Charlie?’

Charles jumped out of the Frants’ carriage and ran along the pavement. ‘Do you like this rig, Cousin Flora? Mighty fine, ain’t it?’

‘You look very handsome,’ she said. ‘Quite the military man.’

He held his face up for her to kiss him. She leaned down and I had a better view of her. She was older than I had thought – a young woman; not a girl. Mrs Kerridge came forward to be kissed in her turn. Then the young woman’s eyes turned to me.

‘And who is this? Will you introduce us, Charlie?’

He coloured. ‘I beg your pardon. Cousin Flora, allow me to name Mr Shield, an usher at Mr Bransby’s – my school, you know.’ He swallowed, and then gabbled, ‘Mr Shield, my cousin Miss Carswall.’

I bowed. With great condescension, Miss Carswall held out her hand. It was a little hand that seemed to vanish within my own. She wore lilac-coloured gloves, I recall, which matched the pelisse she wore over her white muslin dress.

‘You were about to convey my cousin to school, no doubt? I shall not detain you long, sir. I merely wished to say farewell to him, and to give him this.’

She undid the drawstring of her reticule and took out a small purse which she handed to him. ‘Put it somewhere safe, Charlie. You may wish to treat your friends.’ She bent down, kissed the top of his head, and gave him a little push away from her. ‘Your mama sends her best love, by the by. I saw her for a moment at Uncle George’s.’

For an instant the boy’s face became perfectly blank, drained of the fun and excitement.

Miss Carswall patted his shoulder. ‘She cannot leave him, not at this moment.’ She looked over the boy to Mrs Kerridge and myself. ‘I must not delay you any longer. Kerridge, dearest, may I drink tea with you before I go? It would be like old times.’

‘Mr Frant is within, miss.’

‘Oh.’ The young lady gave a little laugh, and a look of understanding passed between her and Mrs Kerridge. ‘Good God, I had almost forgot. I am promised to Emma Trenton. Another time, perhaps, and we shall have a good old prose together.’

Miss Carswall’s departure was the signal for ours. I followed Charlie into the Frants’ carriage. A moment later we turned into Southampton-row. The boy huddled into the corner and turned his head to stare out of the far window. The tassel on that ridiculous hat swayed and bounced behind him.

Flora Carswall could never have been called beautiful, unlike Mrs Frant. But she had a quality of ripeness about her, like fruit waiting to be plucked, demanding to be eaten.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I FOUND IT difficult to sleep that night. My mind was possessed with a strange excitement that would not let me rest. I felt that during the day I had crossed from one part of my life into another, as though its events formed a river between two countries. I lay in my narrow bed, my body twitching and turning and sighing. I measured the passage of time by the striking of clocks. At last, a little after half-past one, my restlessness drove me from the warmth of my bed to smoke a pipe.

Mr Bransby held that snuff was the only form of tobacco acceptable to a gentleman so Dansey and I found it necessary to smoke outside. But I knew where the key to the side door was kept. A moment later I walked down the lawn, my footsteps making no noise on the wet grass. There were a few clouds but the stars were bright enough for me to see my way. To the south was a faint lessening of the darkness, a yellow haze, the false dawn of London by night, the city which never went to sleep. Beneath the trees it was completely dark. I smoked in the shelter of a copper beech, leaning against the trunk. Leaves stirred above my head. Tiny crackles and rustles near my feet hinted at the passage of small, secretive animals.

Then came another sound, a screech so sharp and hard and unexpected that I jerked myself away from the tree and almost choked on the smoke in my mouth. It came from the direction of the house. There was another, quieter noise, the scrape of metal against metal, followed by a smothered laugh.

I crouched and knocked out the pipe on the soft, damp earth. I moved forward, my feet making little sound on the leaf mould and the husks of last year’s beech nuts. By now my eyes had grown accustomed to the near darkness. Something white was hanging from an attic window in the boys’ wing. The room behind it was in darkness. I veered aside into the slightly deeper darkness running along the line of a hedge.

The attic was not in the same wing of the house as my own and Dansey’s. Most of the boys slept in dormitories, with ten or twelve of them crammed together in one of the larger rooms below. But in this part of the attic storey, two or three boys might share one of the smaller rooms if their parents were willing to pay extra for the privilege.

Once again, I heard the gasp of laughter, snuffed out almost as soon as it began. Suddenly, and with an anger so sharp that it stabbed me like a knife, I knew what I had seen. I went quickly into the house, lit my candle and made my way to the stairs leading to the boys’ attics. I found myself in a narrow corridor. By the light of the candle I saw five doors, all closed.

I tried the doors in turn until I found the one I wanted. I saw three truckle beds in the wavering glow of the candle flame. From two of them came the sound of loud, regular snoring. From the third came the broken breathing of a person trying not to cry. The window was closed.

‘Which boys are in this room?’ I demanded, not troubling to lower my voice.

One boy stopped snoring. To compensate, the other snored with redoubled force. The third boy, the one who had been trying not to cry, became completely silent.

I pulled the blankets from the nearest bed and tossed them on the floor. Its occupant continued to snore. I held the candle close to his face.

‘Quird,’ I said. ‘You will wait behind after morning school.’

I stripped the covers from the next bed. Another boy stared up at me, making no pretence at sleep.

‘You will accompany him, Morley.’

My foot caught on something on the floor. I bent down and made out a length of rope like a basking snake, most of it pushed beneath Morley’s bed.

With a grunt of anger, I threw off the covers from the third bed. There was Charlie Frant, his nightshirt rucked up above his waist and a handkerchief tied round his mouth.

I swore. I placed the candle on the windowsill, lifted the boy up and pulled down the nightshirt. He was trembling uncontrollably. I untied the handkerchief. The lad spat out a rag they had pushed inside his mouth. He retched once. Then, without a word, he fell back on the bed, turned away from me and buried his head in the pillow and began to sob.

Morley and Quird had hung him out of the window. The older boys had lashed his ankles round the central mullion to prevent him from breaking his neck on the gravel walk below.

‘I will see you tomorrow,’ I heard myself saying to them. ‘At present, I cannot see any reason why I should not flog you twice a day and every day until Christmas.’

I wondered whether I should remove young Frant from his tormentors, but what would I do with him? The boy had to sleep somewhere. But the nub of the matter was that, sooner or later, by day or by night, young Frant would have to face up to Quird and Morley. Punishing them was one thing; but trying to shield him was another.

I went back to my own room. I did not sleep until dawn. When I did, it seemed only moments before the bell rang for another day of hearing little savages construe Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

CHAPTER NINE

I WATCHED CHARLIE Frant in morning school, both before breakfast and after it. The boy sat by himself at the back of the room. I doubted if he turned a page of his book or even saw what was written on the one in front of him. His coat was now too bedraggled to have a military air. He had tear tracks on his cheeks, and his nostrils were caked with blood and mucus. Smears on the sleeve showed where he had wiped his nose.

At breakfast, I told Dansey what had happened in the night. The older man shrugged.

‘If the boy goes to Westminster School, he’ll get far worse than that.’

‘But we cannot let it pass.’

‘We cannot prevent it.’

‘If the older boys would but exert some authority over the younger ones –’

Dansey shook his head. ‘This is not a public school. We do not have a tradition of self-governance by the boys.’

‘If I went to Mr Bransby, might he not expel them or at least discipline them – Quird and Morley, I mean?’

‘You forget, my dear Shield: the true aim of this establishment is not an educational one. Considered properly, it is nothing but a machine for making money. That is why Mr Bransby has sunk his capital in it. That is why you and I are sitting here drinking weak coffee at Mr Bransby’s expense. Both Quird and Morley have younger brothers.’ Dansey’s lips twisted into their Janus-like frowning smile. ‘Their fathers pay their bills.’

‘Then is there nothing to be done?’

‘You can beat the wretched boys so soundly that you reduce their ability to persecute their unfortunate friend. At least I can be of assistance in that respect.’

At eleven o’clock, after the second session of morning school, I flogged Morley and Quird harder than I had ever flogged a boy before. They did not enjoy it but they did not complain. Custom blunts even pain.

Later, I caught sight of Charlie Frant in the playground. Half a dozen boys had grouped around him in a ragged circle. They tossed the hat from one to the other, encouraging him to make ineffectual grabs for it. The hat had lost its tassel. Some wag had contrived to pin it on the back of the olive-green coat.

‘Donkey,’ they chanted. ‘Who’s a little donkey? Bray, bray, bray.’

When lessons resumed after dinner, Frant was not at his desk. He had hidden himself away to lick his wounds. I decided that if Lord Nelson could turn a blind eye to matters he did not wish to see, then so could I. I did not, however, turn a blind eye to either Quird or Morley. Their work, never distinguished, withered under the unremitting attention that I bestowed upon it. I gave them both the imposition of copying out ten pages of the geography textbook by the following morning.

Towards the end of afternoon school, the manservant came from Mr Bransby’s part of the house and desired Dansey and myself to wait upon his master without delay. We found him in his study, pacing up and down behind his desk, his face dark with rage and a trail of spilt snuff cascading down his waistcoat.

‘Here’s a fine to-do,’ he began without any preamble, before I had even closed the door. ‘That wretched boy Frant.’

‘He has absconded?’ Dansey said.

Bransby snorted.

‘Not worse, I hope?’ There was the barest trace of amusement in Dansey’s voice, like an intellectual whisper pitched too low for Mr Bransby’s range of comprehension. ‘He has – harmed himself?’

Bransby shook his head. ‘It appears that he strolled away, as cool as a cucumber, after the boys’ dinner. He walked a little way and then found a carrier willing to give him a ride to Holborn. I understand that Mrs Frant is away from home but the servants at once sent word to Mr Frant.’ He waved a letter as though trying to swat a fly. ‘His stable boy brought this.’

He took another turn in silence up and down the room. We watched him warily.

‘It is most vexing,’ he continued at length, glowering at each of us in turn. ‘That it should concern Mr Frant – the very man we should study to please in every particular.’

‘Has he settled on withdrawing the boy?’ Dansey asked.

‘We are spared that, at least. Mr Frant wishes his son to return to us. But he demands that the boy be suitably chastised for his transgression so that he apprehends that the discipline of the school is firmly allied to paternal authority. Mr Frant desires me to send an under-master to collect his son, and he proposes that the under-master should flog the boy in his, that is to say Mr Frant’s, presence and in the boy’s own home. He suggests that in this way the boy will realise that he has no choice but to knuckle down to the discipline of the school and that by this he will learn a valuable lesson that will stand him in good stead in his later life.’ Bransby’s heavy-lidded eyes swung towards me. ‘No doubt you were about to volunteer, Shield. Indeed, my choice would have fallen on you in any case. You are a younger man than Mr Dansey, and therefore have the stronger right arm. There is also the fact that I can spare you more easily than I can Mr Dansey.’

‘Sir,’ I began, ‘is not such a course –?’

Dansey, standing behind me and to the left, stabbed his finger into my back. ‘Such a course of action is indeed a trifle unusual,’ he interrupted smoothly, ‘but in the circumstances I have no doubt that it will prove efficacious. Mr Frant’s paternal concern is laudable.’

Bransby nodded. ‘Quite so.’ He glanced at me. ‘The stable boy has ridden back to town with my answer. The chaise from the inn will be here in about half an hour. Be so good as to discuss with Mr Dansey how he should best discharge your evening duties as well as his own.’

‘When will it be convenient for me to wait upon Mr Frant?’

‘As soon as possible. You will find him now at Russell-square.’

A moment later, Dansey and I went through the door from the private part of the house to the school. A crowd of inky boys scattered as though we had the plague.

‘Did you ever hear of anything so unfeeling?’ I burst out, keeping my voice low for fear of eavesdroppers. ‘It is barbaric.’

‘Are you alluding to the behaviour of Mr Frant or the behaviour of Mr Bransby?’

‘I – I meant Mr Frant. He wishes to make a spectacle of his own son.’

‘He is entirely within his rights to do so, is he not? You would not dispute a father’s right to exercise authority over his child, I take it? Whether directly or in a delegated form is surely immaterial.’

‘Of course not. By the by, I must thank you for your timely interruption. I own I was becoming a little heated.’

‘Mr Frant and his bank could purchase this entire establishment many times over,’ Dansey observed. ‘And purchase Mr Quird and Mr Morley as well, for that matter. Mr Frant is a fashionable man, too, who moves in the best circles. If it is at all possible, Mr Bransby will do all in his power to indulge him. It is not to be wondered at.’

‘But it is hardly just. It is the boy’s tormentors who deserve chastisement.’

‘There is little point in railing against circumstances one cannot change. And remember that, by acting as Mr Bransby’s agent in this, you may to some degree be able to palliate the severity of the punishment.’

We stopped at the foot of the stairs, Dansey about to go about his duties, I to fetch my hat, gloves and stick from my room. For a moment we looked at each other. Men are strange animals, myself included, riddled with inconsistencies. Now, in that moment at the foot of the stairs, the silence became almost oppressive with the weight of things unsaid. Then Dansey nodded, I bowed, and we went our separate ways.