The Silent Boy Read online

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Charles turns so sharply that he bangs his thigh on the corner of the table. Mr Horton is standing in the doorway.

  ‘I’ve been watching you. Are you playing a game? Or is it the devil’s work? Eh?’

  Charles stares up at him. He has heard the servants saying that the Vicar does not call at Charnwood for fear of moral contamination. Charles does not know what this is but he suspects it is something to do with the drains.

  ‘Either way, you should be able to answer a plain question. This silence of yours won’t do.’ Mr Horton advances into the room. ‘Pasty little thing, aren’t you? And thin as a rake. It’s all that foreign muck they make you eat. You need some English food.’

  He pulls out a chair from the table and sits. He inflates his cheeks and lets the air out in a rush. His pink jowls quiver and his wig is slightly awry. He has three white crumbs on the lapel of his black coat, arranged like the points of an isosceles triangle.

  ‘Come here.’ He beckons Charles towards him. ‘I assume you speak English like a Christian? Or rather understand it, in your case? Your mother was English, after all – not that it signifies, necessarily. You could know Hottentot and nothing else – it would come to the same thing.’ He thrusts his face close to Charles’s. ‘The material point is that God will understand you, whatever language you speak. That’s all that matters.’

  Charles feels the soft touch of Mr Horton’s spittle on his cheek. He turns his head away.

  The Vicar’s voice sharpens, becomes peremptory. ‘Kneel, sir! Kneel, I say!’

  Charles does not move. Mr Horton seizes him by the neck, spins him about and pushes at the back of his knees to make them bend. Charles kneels. When he shows a tendency to slump on his heels, the Vicar seizes his hair and tugs him upwards, compelling him to kneel erect.

  ‘That’s better, my boy,’ Mr Horton says. ‘We are praying to Almighty God, you see, and we must show Him respect. Even a boy like you must understand that. It is no more than common sense, after all.’

  Huffing and puffing, he wriggles from his chair and lowers himself to his knees in front of Charles.

  ‘The Gospel of St Mark,’ he says, his voice slipping into the declamatory rhythms of the pulpit and the lectern. ‘Chapter seven, verse thirty-one: the miracle of the deaf-mute of Decapolis. “And they bring unto him one that was deaf, and had an impediment in his speech. And he took him aside from the multitude, and put his fingers in his ears, and he spit, and he touched his tongue.” Are you listening, my boy? You must lift up your soul unto God, even as a burnt offering unto his altars.’

  Charles sways on his knees.

  The Vicar pats him on the side of his head. ‘Stay still. Do me the courtesy of remembering that we are doing this for your sake. Now’ – he resumes his pulpit tone – ‘“And, looking up to heaven, he sighed and saith unto him, Ephphatha, that is, Be opened. And straightway his ears were opened and the string of his tongue was loosed, and he spake plain …”’

  Having established the scriptural authority for miracles involving mutes, Mr Horton sets to work in pursuit of his own miracle. He prays aloud, extempore and with much spittle and great enthusiasm. As the minutes pass and the Vicar continues with no sign of abating his fervour, and no suggestion that the flow of his eloquence will ever come to an end, Charles ceases to grapple with the meaning of the words. Even the sound of them blurs and recedes. Mr Horton’s voice roars like the wind and the waves in the English Channel, the volume rising and falling. Charles feels seasick now just as he had then.

  Later, as the words continue, he loses awareness even of their sound and, at last, even of himself.

  Everything changes.

  Charles finds himself lying on the floor. The Vicar and Miss Horton are kneeling beside him, one on either side. Charles’s nostrils are tingling and his lungs smart. Miss Horton holds an open bottle of hartshorn in her hand. Mrs West, her face alive with interest, is behind her.

  ‘The swoon’s passing,’ Miss Horton says. ‘Thank God.’

  ‘This is quite in order,’ the Vicar announces, wiping his forehead with a snuff-stained handkerchief. ‘The blessing of the Holy Spirit falls like a jolt of lightning on our weak mortal frames and prostrates us with its benevolent power. It would indeed be strange if it were otherwise.’

  Miss Horton presses Charles down. ‘Lie still,’ she says. ‘You need to get your breath, and then we’ll send for the chaise to take you home.’

  Home? Charles wonders. Where is home?

  ‘My carriage!’ Mrs West exclaims. ‘We shall take him back to Charnwood in that.’

  The Vicar waves his hand impatiently. ‘We have been privileged to witness the power of prayer,’ he tells the ladies sternly. ‘And now behold a miracle.’ He prods Charles in the chest. ‘In the name of Christ Jesus,’ he cries. ‘Speak!’

  Charles clenches his teeth to make a wall against the words. He stares at Mr Horton.

  Miss Horton pushes the cork into the bottle of smelling salts. ‘I’m afraid the miracle hasn’t worked, Papa,’ she says. ‘Or not quite yet.’

  There’s a pattering in the passage. Bessie noses open the door, slides between the Vicar and his daughter and sniffs Charles’s face.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘The boy is mine,’ the Count said. ‘And that is all that matters.’

  Savill felt a twinge of pity for Monsieur de Quillon. Here was a man who was used to being the master, whose health, birth and abilities had set him apart and above most of the human race. But now he was diminished: he retained the habits of grandeur but not its substance.

  They were in the room the English servants called the library, though there were few books in the two glass-fronted bookcases. Apart from a large table and a few chairs, there was no other furniture. Despite the fire, the air was chill and damp.

  The Count leaned back in his chair, which creaked beneath his weight. ‘I do not wish to cause you pain, sir. But you must realize that your wife was your wife only in name.’

  ‘Thank you, sir – I am perfectly aware of that,’ Savill said.

  ‘So you have no connection with the boy whatsoever – apart from in a narrowly legal way. Whereas I – well, sir, you leave me no choice: I must speak frankly – my blood runs in his veins. I am the boy’s father, with all that means in the way of natural affection and moral duty.’

  ‘Moral duty, sir?’ Savill said. The throbbing in his jaw acted as a goad to his temper. ‘Is that quite what you mean?’

  ‘I had the honour to enjoy the favours of the lady who was your wife at the time that he was conceived. There – I cannot put it more plainly than that.’

  ‘The lady was married to me, sir. She was married to me when the boy was conceived and born, and she was married to me at the time of her death. I have a right to the boy. I also have a responsibility for him.’

  ‘I doubt a court of law would agree with you, sir,’ the Count snapped. ‘The claim is against nature – it is against common sense.’

  ‘That is neither here nor there.’ Savill heard his own voice rising in volume to match the Count’s. ‘What matters is that it is the law. And, even if it weren’t, I’ve seen no evidence that the boy is in fact your son. Besides, even if you could prove that, which you can’t, it would not give you the right to dispose of the boy as you wish.’

  The Count pushed back his chair and stood up. He leaned heavily on the desk, his face flaming with anger. ‘You don’t know who you’re talking to, sir. I shall write to Mr Pitt – I shall write to the King – I shall—’

  ‘This is England, sir. Not France.’

  ‘You shall find that I am still capable of keeping my own son. You would do well to remember that—’

  The sound of a carriage on the drive brought him up short. Breathing hard, he walked to the window. There were voices in the hall and then outside. He bowed curtly to Savill and walked out of the room without another word.

  Savill stood up and stre
tched. The exertion made him feel dizzy and he clung to the back of his chair for support. His limbs still ached and the crater where the tooth had been was a place of pain. He wondered whether his letters to Rampton and the livery stable in Bath had really gone out this morning. He had seen the Count in a new light. He had glimpsed the strength of his determination to keep Charles, which confirmed how right Savill had been earlier to suspect Dr Gohlis’s motives. The question was, how ruthless was Monsieur de Quillon prepared to be in order to achieve his desire?

  The door opened, and Fournier came into the room.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m rejoiced to see you downstairs. I had not dared to hope you would be able to leave your chamber today. Have you heard? Charles is returned from the Vicarage.’

  ‘In the carriage?’

  ‘Yes – Mrs West was so good as to bring him back. She desires to meet you. Would the fresh air distress you? She does not wish to come into the house. Miss Horton is with her. No doubt you will wish to thank your fair rescuer as well.’

  Savill followed Fournier to the library door. ‘And Charles?’ he said.

  Fournier shrugged. ‘Mr Horton’s miracle? Alas, his prayers failed to answer.’

  The sun was out and the ladies had climbed from the carriage and were talking to the Count, who stood with his hand resting on Charles’s shoulder. They turned as Fournier and Savill descended the shallow steps from the door.

  Fournier approached the elder of the two ladies, a stout woman with a weathered face. ‘Madam, permit me to introduce Mr Savill from London.’

  ‘An encounter with Mr Bradshaw’s bull!’ she said in a harsh, carrying voice. ‘And a ride in Mr Roach’s cart. What a welcome Norbury has given you, sir.’

  Savill bowed to her. ‘I shall cherish the memory for the rest of my life, madam.’

  She laughed. ‘And you have met Miss Horton, of course.’

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, coming forward to greet him. ‘I hope I find you a little more comfortable than you were on Thursday?’

  She was older than he had thought – well past thirty, probably, though the years sat lightly on her because of her unlined face and the vivacity of her manner.

  ‘Pray excuse me,’ the Count said, in a manner that made it sound like an order. He bowed to the ladies and went into the house, pushing Charles before him.

  ‘Will you come inside a moment?’ Fournier asked.

  ‘I think not.’ Mrs West looked at Fournier for an instant, and Savill was aware of words unsaid between them. ‘But a walk in the garden would be delightful. Harriet has never seen the statue of Neptune there. I remember Mr West telling me that it is of Roman manufacture, and it was brought from Bath.’ She touched Fournier’s arm playfully, almost flirtatiously. ‘But you will be able to advise us whether it is a real antiquity or a mere copy.’

  So, Savill thought, is that how the land lies? He remembered the hint about Fournier and Mrs West that Malbourne had dropped in London. There was a disparity in age between them – Mrs West was perhaps a dozen years older than Fournier, but that signified no more than the fact that Fournier was lame. The only thing that mattered was that each of them had something the other wanted. That was always the only thing that mattered in affairs of this nature.

  Arm in arm, Mrs West and Fournier strolled away. Savill felt weak and light-headed. He gave Miss Horton his arm but he was uncertain which of them was really supporting the other. They followed the others towards the Garden of Neptune.

  ‘I’m sorry your father’s experiment proved fruitless,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a pity, certainly.’ Miss Horton’s fingers tightened on his arm. ‘I feel so sad for him. Charles, that is. You should have seen him with Bessie, my father’s dog. He must have been starved of affection since his mother died.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not that I mean to imply that the Count and Monsieur Fournier do not do everything that is proper. But …’

  ‘A child needs more than what is proper,’ Savill said.

  ‘Precisely. Which is why I wondered whether you or anyone else would object if I tried an experiment of my own.’ She looked up at him. ‘Simply to spend a little time with him. To read him a story, perhaps, or play a game.’

  ‘You’re too kind,’ Savill said stiffly. ‘But unfortunately it will not be possible. I shall take him to London with me on Monday.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, seeing the disappointment in her face.

  ‘Not at all, sir. It was merely a whim. Do you reside in London?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’ He felt a need to provide more information, if only to compensate for his curtness. ‘In Nightingale Lane.’

  ‘How charming. Is it “a green and grassy shrine, With myrtle bower’d and jessamine?”’

  He knew by her tone that she was quoting some wretched poem or another. She was mocking him. ‘It is hard by Bedford Square,’ he said. ‘We are bowered with new houses and roads and shops.’

  They fell silent and walked on. Twenty yards in front of them, Fournier and Mrs West were deep in conversation, their heads very close together.

  Savill seized on a change of subject. ‘Norbury seems an agreeable spot.’

  ‘It is the most tedious place imaginable,’ Miss Horton said sharply. ‘If it were not for Mrs West’s society, I believe it would drive me mad.’

  ‘Have you always lived here, ma’am?’

  ‘Since I was fifteen, when we came here from Bristol. Mr West and Papa were at Oxford together, and he presented Papa with the living when it became vacant.’

  They came to the garden, where the four of them lined up in front of the statue and solemnly inspected it.

  ‘It is sadly battered,’ Mrs West said. ‘I’m afraid it is not as impressive as I remembered.’

  ‘One must always inspect antiquities with the eye of the imagination, dear madam,’ Fournier said, gazing raptly at the statue. ‘Think what dramatic scenes must have unfolded before its unseeing eyes.’

  Mrs West had lost interest in Neptune. ‘Mr Savill, pray show me the view from the further gate. I have quite forgotten what it looks like.’

  She took Savill’s arm and drew him away from the others. ‘I understand that you are come to take Charles away.’ The old lady’s curiosity was naked. ‘Do you represent his family, sir?’

  ‘Yes. His late mother was my wife.’

  Mrs West’s mouth hung open for a moment. There was a burst of laughter from Fournier.

  ‘You must forgive me, sir,’ she said. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Pray do not give it another thought, ma’am.’ Savill glanced back at Harriet, who was smiling at Fournier.

  ‘Has Charles much family in England, sir?’ Mrs West said.

  ‘My daughter, my sister and myself – and my wife’s uncle.’

  ‘It must be a great consolation for the boy to know he is not alone in the world. Is he to live with you?’

  ‘I do not know, ma’am.’ Savill stumbled but regained his balance. ‘I beg your pardon. You see, there is a good deal to be settled.’

  ‘Has he met his English relations before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Mrs West, ‘if you ask me, sir – and I know it is none of my business – there is much to be said for leaving him at Charnwood for the time being. Here at least he is surrounded by familiar faces. And of course there’s his condition to consider. It must be accounted a considerable advantage that the Count has his own physician. Dr Gohlis is a very superior man. He has studied all over Europe and is entirely au fait in all the modern developments of his profession.’

  ‘No doubt.’ Savill wondered if Fournier had put her up to this. ‘But I believe Charles will do better in the long run with his own kin. I would have left with him already if it had not been for the accident to my chaise.’

  ‘And a troublesome tooth, I hear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She peered up at his face. It see
med to him that her own face shimmered as if under water.

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ she said, ‘but you are not well. I do not like the look of your pallor. Charles may not need the doctor, but I’m quite sure that you do.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Count steers Charles into the house. In the hall, he lifts his heavy hand from Charles’s shoulder. He stares down at him and shakes his head. He goes into the library, closing the door.

  Charles does not know what to do. Given a choice, he would stay with Miss Horton but the Count has clearly decided otherwise. No one takes any notice of him. He sidles away towards the servants’ quarters.

  Two of the maids are whispering in the passage leading to the kitchen.

  ‘Turned my blood cold as ice,’ Martha says. She’s carrying a bowl covered with a cloth.

  ‘I’ll have them screams ringing in my ears till the day I die,’ says Susan. ‘You just see if I don’t.’ She catches sight of Charles. ‘Has Parson done it?’ she demands. ‘Can you talk now, lad?’

  While they wait for an answer, they stare at him with huge eyes, hoping for wonders and miracles. He stares back.

  ‘He’d not talk English, would he?’ Martha says. ‘Not like a Christian. He’d talk French.’ She nods at him. ‘Parley voo? Eh? Parley voo?’

  Joseph comes up behind the women. ‘He won’t parley anything. Jevons said that Parson prayed so hard he had steam coming out of him, and the boy just fell down in a swoon, like he was dead. And all for nothing. He’s got the devil in him, that one has.’ He points at the basin. ‘What’s all this then?’

  ‘Mr Savill’s mess from yesterday, from when doctor pulled his tooth out. Screaming fit to burst, he was. Found this by the washstand.’

  Martha twitches the cloth aside. Charles glimpses the bloody rags in the bowl. He shuts his eyes and leans against the wall. He pants for breath.

  ‘Bellowed like a stuck pig. Didn’t have him down as a coward,’ Joseph says. ‘I thought he’d bear it like a man.’

  ‘Tooth was rotten and it broke up when doctor pulled it out,’ Martha says. ‘That’s why it was so bad.’