Richard and Judy Bookclub - 3 Bestsellers in 1: The American Boy, The Savage Garden, The Righteous Men. Andrew Taylor

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СКАЧАТЬ the word “murder” on the page lying open before her.

      “Am I to understand that Mrs Frant has had a relapse?” I asked. “She seemed much improved when I saw her yesterday.”

      “I am rejoiced to say that she is much better. But she tires easily, and her physician recommends that she rest in her room during the afternoon.” Miss Carswall looked directly at me – there was a frankness about her demeanour, an openness, which I found most appealing – and said: “While we are on the subject of health, you are looking rather better than I feared you would. Mrs Frant told me that you were attacked.”

      “It was unpleasant rather than serious.”

      “I suspect you make light of it.” She shivered deliciously. “We are none of us safe!”

      “No harm was done. Mr Harmwell beat back my assailants, and then he was kind enough to escort me home in a hackney.”

      Miss Carswall’s smile broke out like the sun from behind clouds. “Is it possible that his motives were not entirely disinterested, sir? Bearing in mind that touching scene we witnessed in Piccadilly?”

      I grinned at her. “I understand that Mrs Kerridge has been copying out receipts for Mr Harmwell’s mother.”

      The smile turned into a giggle. “Tell that to the Marines.” As she spoke, Miss Carswall moved in her chair and the hem of her skirt rose up, exposing pretty ankles and elegant calves encased in French-silk stockings. “Why, it seems unnatural for Kerridge to have a follower. She must be old enough to be my mother.”

      At this, she coloured and fell silent, for the remark was not the best of taste, especially from one situated as Miss Carswall was. I wondered, not for the first time, if there was more than met the eye in Harmwell’s interest in Mrs Kerridge. She was better placed than most to know exactly what was going on in this family. She was Mrs Frant’s maid, the only servant who remained from that lost house in Russell-square. She had also looked after Miss Carswall when she had lived with her cousin for upward of two years while Mr Frant was in Canada, and of course she had known Charlie since he was a baby. The three of them held her in great affection, and often confided in her. On account of this, perhaps, Mrs Kerridge wielded an influence over the other servants out of proportion to her official standing among them.

      “Mr Carswall tells me you are soon to remove to the country,” I said, to break the silence before it grew awkward.

      “We are indeed. Papa is so provoking. He talks of unnecessary expense, which is nonsense. But he will not listen to reason.” She spoke these words in a self-mocking manner, which converted them from a criticism of her father to a commentary on her own shortcomings.

      “You prefer the town, I think, miss?”

      “Oh, indeed. I remember how delightful it was when I first came to live with Sophie in Russell-square, and suddenly Bath itself seemed no more interesting than a village. I know Town is practically empty now, and it will be even emptier after Christmas. But even in that condition, it is far more agreeable to me than the vacant prospects and unpolished inhabitants of the countryside. I – I shall miss my friends, too. In London, one knows so many people that one may to a large extent choose with whom one associates. But it is quite different at Monkshill. We have a very limited acquaintance.” She paused a moment and then added, with peculiar emphasis: “Yes, I shall miss certain friends very much.”

      She had been gazing at the paper on her lap, but when she spoke those last few words, she raised her face to mine, which gave what she said a particular force, and made it difficult not to place a particular construction upon the words. Miss Carswall smiled at me and was about to say something else. But at this interesting moment, the door of the drawing room flew open and Charlie burst in on us.

      “Cousin Flora!” he cried. “Mama says I do not have to go back to school!”

       Chapter 32

      I returned to Stoke Newington on Thursday, the 9th December. As the month progressed, the weather grew worse. The cold and the lengthening nights were perfectly in tune with my gloomy spirits. Sometimes I slipped into a fit of wild despair. When my mind was unoccupied, two faces rushed to fill the vacancy, those of Mrs Frant and Miss Carswall. I was amazed by my own folly: if it were ludicrous to pine for one lady so far removed from my own sphere of society, then how much more absurd to pine for two? Yet however much I brought philosophy to my aid, I could not expel those two lovely images from my thoughts.

      “You are out of sorts, Tom,” said Edward Dansey one evening as we sat over the dying fire.

      “It is merely a fit of the dumps. I beg your pardon – I do not wish to be a plague.”

      “One’s spirits have their seasons, just as the weather has. What is it you are reading?”

      I passed the book to him.

      “The Carmina of Catullus?” He held the book up to the candle and turned over the pages. “Charming, charming,” he murmured. “All the passion of youth is here, and all its folly. I should not let Mr Bransby see you reading it, however.”

      “I am re-reading the poems not for their matter but for their metre,” I said.

      “Yes, there are elements of interest in Catullus’s use of phalaecians and scazons. As for the hexametric poems, it is undeniable that he handles the metre with far more elegance than Lucretius contrives, though to my mind a greater employment of enjambment would have improved them still further. His elegiacs, on the other hand, do not merit the compliment of imitation, and his pentameters are often positively uncouth.” He looked up, saw my face and turned his lopsided smile on me. “You must not mind me, Tom, I am a little out of sorts myself.” He returned the volume. “Have you heard the news? Quird is to be withdrawn from the school.”

      “I cannot say I am sorry to hear it.”

      “It appears that his father was badly hit when Wavenhoe’s collapsed. The family has lost nearly all it had.”

      “It is, I’m afraid, a common enough story.” I held out my hands to the fire. “I hope they are not in actual want?”

      “Not quite. It is a dreadful business.” Dansey’s eyes glowed orange in the candlelight. “But of course few have suffered as Mrs Frant has suffered. Is it true that she is entirely dependent on the charity of her cousin Mr Carswall?”

      “I believe so.” I heard a trace of agitation in my tone, for I remembered that fatal codicil that had removed, with my unconscious assistance, her last hope of financial independence. I forced myself to continue: “And Charlie, too, of course.”

      Dansey waved a long-fingered hand. “At least he is young. Youth has astonishing resilience. But Mrs Frant’s position must be truly wretched.”

      I mumbled agreement, not trusting myself to speak.

      “No doubt she loved him?”

      I made no reply, though Dansey waited for one.

      “Yes, but then love is a curious emotion,” he went on in a moment, as though I had answered in the affirmative. “We commonly use one word where at least three are required. When poets speak of love, they describe a passionate attachment СКАЧАТЬ