The Silent Boy. Andrew Taylor

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       Chapter Seven

      ‘Mr Savill – may I make known Mr Malbourne, my clerk?’ Rampton said, enunciating the words with precision because he was wearing a set of ivory teeth. ‘Mr Malbourne – Mr Savill.’

      They bowed to each other. Malbourne was a slender man with delicate, well-formed features and the address of a gentleman. Savill had found him and Rampton at work in the study when he arrived. The clerk’s right arm was in a black-silk sling, though he removed it when it was necessary for him to write.

      This was Savill’s second visit to Vardells, nearly a month after his first, prompted by a letter from Rampton. It was late September now, and the leaves were turning on the lime trees beside the drive.

      ‘Mr Malbourne has intelligence that relates to Mrs Savill’s son,’ Rampton said. ‘It appears that Charles has been brought to England.’ He gestured to his clerk that he should continue.

      ‘Charles is living in the country with a party of newly arrived émigrés,’ Malbourne said. ‘Fleeing the massacres. There has been quite a flood of them.’

      ‘Where are they?’

      ‘They have taken a house in Somersetshire a few miles beyond Bath. Charnwood Court in the village of Norbury. The émigrés are people of some position in the world. Have you heard of the Count de Quillon?’

      ‘The late minister?’

      ‘Precisely. Though he held the seals of office for no more than three or four weeks before he was forced to resign.’

      ‘He was the old king’s godson,’ Rampton said. ‘Some say it was a nearer connection still, through his mother, and that was why he was in such favour at Versailles when he was a young man. This king made him a Chevalier of St Louis. Not that it stopped him from dabbling with the Revolution when it suited his purpose.’

      ‘The point is, sir,’ Malbourne went on, ‘Monsieur de Quillon is altogether the grand gentleman. He is not an easy man to deal with. He is accustomed to having his own way, to moving in the great world.’

      ‘Then why has he buried himself in the country?’ Savill asked.

      ‘Because his resources are limited,’ Malbourne said. ‘Most of his fortune is in France, and it has been seized. His estates have been sequestered. Also he and his allies have not many friends in London. After all, they are dangerous revolutionaries themselves: they tried to manipulate their king to their own advantage.’

      ‘Their chickens have come home to roost,’ Rampton observed.

      ‘Indeed, sir,’ Malbourne continued. ‘Moreover, they are detested by those of their fellow countrymen already in London, who have never wavered from their old allegiance to King Louis and never compromised their principles.’

      ‘Very true,’ Rampton said. ‘And, to speak plainly, my dear Savill, the Count and his friends have such a history of fomenting sedition, of flirting with the mob, that we ourselves have little desire to play host to them.’

      ‘Yet you let them come here.’

      ‘Unfortunately we lack the legal instruments to prevent it,’ Malbourne said.

      ‘For the time being,’ Rampton said. ‘But that is neither here nor there. Tell him about Fournier.’

      ‘Fournier?’ Savill said. ‘The man who dealt with the funeral arrangements?’

      Malbourne bowed. ‘Yes, sir. He is the Count’s principal ally. Fournier preceded Monsieur de Quillon to England. Indeed, I believe Charnwood is leased to him, not the Count. He is a younger son of the Marquis de St Étienne and was the Bishop of Lodève under the old regime. But he has resigned his orders and now prefers to be known simply as Fournier.’ He smiled. ‘Citizen Fournier, no doubt.’

      ‘An atheist, they say,’ Rampton said sourly. ‘The worst of men.’

      ‘Mind you keep your seat this time,’ Rampton said as Malbourne was leaving.

      Malbourne saluted them with his whip. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

      He rode down the drive, urging his horse to a trot and then to a canter.

      ‘Foolish young man,’ Rampton said fondly. ‘He sprained his arm last month when he had a tumble. Hence the sling. It cannot be denied that there’s a reckless streak to Horace.’ He smiled. ‘Just as there was to his grandfather. That’s where the money went, you know, and the estates. He gambled as if his life depended on it – Vingt-et-un.’

      Horse and rider were out of sight now but Savill heard the drumming of the hooves accelerate to a gallop.

      Rampton stared along the terrace, at the far end of which two workmen were building a low wall. ‘Look, sir. Those damned swallows. They are already smearing their filth on my new library.’

      ‘Is Mr Malbourne in a hurry or does he always ride like that?’ Savill said.

      ‘He is expected at the Woorgreens’ this evening and he will not wish to be late.’ Rampton glanced at Savill and decided to enlighten his ignorance. ‘Mr Woorgreen, the East India Nabob. He is betrothed to the younger Miss Woorgreen. He will have twelve hundred a year by it, I believe. There’s also the consideration that her mother’s brother is a friend of Mr Pitt’s.’

      They went into the house. Savill was engaged to dine and spend the night.

      ‘Horace Malbourne is a man of parts,’ Rampton said, leading the way into the study. ‘Well connected too. But if he wishes to get on in the world, he knows he must set aside his wild oats and marry money. If all goes well, we shall see him in Parliament in a year or two.’

      How very agreeable it must be, Savill thought, to have one’s life mapped out like that: a comfortable place in a government office, a rich СКАЧАТЬ