The Silent Boy

by Taylor, Andrew

  ‘Unharness the horse,’ the lady told him. ‘What are you waiting for? Quick! Cut the traces if necessary.’

  Her brisk tone freed the groom from his trance-like state. He unharnessed the horse with remarkable speed and led it limping down the field. It was fortunate that it hadn’t broken a leg.

  Savill picked up his portmanteau and offered the lady his arm. The bull watched the proceedings.

  ‘It’s Farmer Bradshaw’s bull,’ the lady told him. ‘We shall send a message to Mr Bradshaw and have the animal safely confined. No doubt he will have your chaise brought up to the village.’

  ‘What’s left of it,’ Savill said. The chaise had a broken wheel and the end of the axle had splintered.

  As they passed through the gate, he glanced back at the field. The bull had lost interest in them and was grazing beside his harem.

  Savill felt ridiculous, even cheated. A crisis was one thing but an anticlimax was quite another, particularly one which must lead to so much inconvenience.

  He walked with the lady along a narrow path, strewn with rocks, that ran between hedges. The groom followed, muttering under his breath, with the horse plodding after him.

  ‘It was most obliging of you to come to our assistance,’ Savill said, breaking the silence long after it had become awkward.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve provided much of that, sir.’

  ‘At least you had the kindness to come and share our fate.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure of that, sir.’ She smiled up at him, revealing very white teeth. She was older than he had thought, perhaps in her thirties. ‘I should have run off directly the bull began his charge.’

  ‘I hope we are not taking you out of your way.’

  ‘Not at all. Where are you going, sir?’

  ‘Charnwood Court.’ Savill flicked water away from his face. ‘Is it far?’

  ‘The other side of the village. I thought you might be going there.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘You weren’t coming from the village or you couldn’t have got the chaise into the field, not with the gate at that angle. I suppose you might have been going somewhere in the village, but I can’t think where. I know you’re not expected at Norbury Park or the Vicarage. So that only leaves Charnwood, really. There’s nowhere else, you see. You can’t get any sort of vehicle much beyond Charnwood.’

  There was a silence. The rain continued to fall steadily from a soft grey sky. Savill glanced at the lady. She had dark curls between the top of her collar and the brim of her hat.

  He cleared his throat. ‘My name is Savill, ma’am. I have business with Count de Quillon at Charnwood. Perhaps you know the gentleman?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That is to say, I have been introduced to him. Have you come far, sir?’

  ‘London, ma’am.’

  ‘It won’t help,’ the lady said.

  Savill stared at her. ‘I beg your pardon. What won’t help?’

  She glanced up at his face. ‘Brooding on your troubles, sir. It never answers.’

  Norbury lay at the bottom of a dark, steep-sided coomb. Dilapidated cottages faced each other across the single street. The church was set back above the road among a huddle of gravestones. Chickens pecked the dirt and squabbled with one another.

  At the upper end of the village was the inn where Savill had intended to dine and spend the night. The lady introduced him to the landlord, Mr Roach, a brisk, efficient man with bright eyes.

  ‘Mr Savill, sir, is it? Good day to you – we’ve been expecting you.’

  ‘Really? You surprise me.’

  ‘Yes, sir – they sent down from Charnwood two or three days ago to say you’d be coming. I’m to send you up to the house directly.’

  ‘I was intending to put up here.’

  ‘No, sir. Mr Fournier was most insistent, you are to go up to the house. But what’s happened?’

  ‘There has been an accident, Roach,’ the lady said. ‘We must send a message to Mr Bradshaw that his bull is loose. This poor gentleman’s chaise had a smash in Parker’s field because of it.’

  It was arranged that the remains of the chaise would be brought to Mr Roach’s barn. The groom would stay the night at the alehouse and return with the horse to Bath the following morning to consult with the proprietor of the livery stables about what should be done and about the thorny question of obtaining compensation from Farmer Bradshaw. Savill, having left a sum of money to defray the immediate cost of this, would travel to Charnwood in a vehicle that Mr Roach had in his stable.

  ‘An admirable plan,’ the lady said. ‘Now my father will be wanting his tea, and you must excuse me.’

  None of the men spoke as she walked away, lifting her feet high above the mud of the village street. She crossed the road and took a narrow path that ran between two stone walls. It led to the churchyard, higher up the slope of the valley. Beyond the church were the roofs of a house that looked more substantial than the cottages in the village.

  ‘Ah well,’ said Mr Roach. He squinted up at the sky. ‘We better get you up to Charnwood, sir, before it starts raining again.’

  Twenty minutes later, a boy led out a small, sad pony attached to a two-wheeled vehicle that was the next best thing to a cart. Savill scrambled up to the seat beside Mr Roach. In the interim, they had become the focus of attention for a small but growing crowd that watched their every move with great interest. Some of the younger ones followed the chaise. Their comments floated up to him like a chorus of Somersetshire voices commenting on the action of a Greek tragedy.

  ‘Looks a cross one, don’t he? … Wish I’d seen him rolling in the mud … That bull wouldn’t hurt a fly. Reckon he’s scared of cows.’

  As the road left the village, it turned and climbed. One by one, the followers dropped away.

  ‘Who is the lady, by the by?’ Savill said. ‘I didn’t catch her name.’

  ‘Vicar’s daughter, sir; Miss Horton.’ Mr Roach pointed to the right with his whip. ‘See that, sir? That’s Norbury Park. She’ll have been on her way home from there.’

  In the distance, partly concealed in a fold of the hills, was a plain stone house of some size. Savill dredged a name from his memory. ‘Mrs West’s house?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Hardly the weather for a lady to walk out in.’

  ‘Lord bless you, sir, Miss Harriet don’t mind a bit of rain, no more than a duck does.’

  They pulled up in front of a pair of gates set in a wall with a small cottage beside them. Mr Roach leaned out of the cart, rattled his whip on the bars of the gates, and shouted: ‘Hey, there!’ in a voice that was possibly audible in the village.

  ‘Deaf,’ he explained to Savill, lowering his voice to a normal volume. ‘I don’t know why Mrs West lets her stay there. The lady’s too soft-hearted, and that’s a fact.’

  An old woman shuffled out of the cottage.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs White,’ Mr Roach shouted. ‘How’s your boy doing in the Dragoons? Keeping well, I hope?’

  She appeared not to hear him.

  ‘Leave the gates open, will you? I shan’t be long.’ Mr Roach dropped a copper into Mrs White’s outstretched hand before passing into the drive. She nodded to him. She paid no attention whatsoever to Savill.

  ‘Poor woman,’ Mr Roach said to Savill as they rattled slowly up the drive. ‘Lost her husband last winter, one son went off to be a soldier and the other one fell under a wagon when he was drunk. Grandson works in the gardens here but he’s always in mischief. Maybe the good Lord knows what He’s about, but damned if I do.’

  The light was already fading from the sky. Dead leaves on the ground muffled the sound of their wheels. The drive sloped steadily downwards.

  ‘Gloomy old place, eh, sir?’ Mr Roach said. ‘Wouldn’t want to live here myself. Dreadful damp. That’s why Mr West built the new house higher up on the other side of the valley.’ He grinned. ‘Still – better than living in France or heathen parts like that.’
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  Savill’s discomfort was steadily increasing. His clothes were soaked through. He had missed his dinner and he was ravenously hungry. Worst of all was the damage to his pride: he was aware how forlorn he must look. His arrival in this wretched chaise would hardly improve matters.

  ‘Sorry about the bumps, sir,’ Mr Roach said. ‘The back drive is even worse. That’s the one I generally use. But I reckon having you here turns this into a gentleman’s chaise.’

  He burst out laughing. Savill bared his teeth in what he hoped might resemble an answering smile. The drive followed a bend and suddenly reached its destination. Now they were clear of the protection of the overhanging trees, Savill became aware of how hard the rain was falling.

  ‘Well, this is it, sir,’ Mr Roach said, raising his whip in a sort of salute. ‘Charnwood. Not to everyone’s taste, perhaps, but you know what the sailors say: any port in a storm.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  It is growing dark when Charles is summoned. Mrs Cox sends a maid to tell him that he must go at once to the library.

  Monsieur de Quillon is seated in his armchair, his legs wide, stretched towards the fire. Dr Gohlis is in the shadows, idly turning a great globe that stands in the corner.

  The Count beckons Charles towards him. ‘What’s this I hear?’ he says in his deep, hoarse voice. ‘You’ve fouled your bed again? It won’t do, do you hear? Not for someone like you.’

  Charles wonders whether it would be different if he were like someone else.

  ‘I was going to have them thrash the nonsense out of you. But the doctor suggests we give you a chance to make amends.’

  Charles glances at Dr Gohlis. He is surprised, and made wary, by the kindness.

  The Count massages his temples with his fingers. ‘So if you start talking again, we’ll say no more about it. You won’t be beaten. The matter will be closed.’ He looks directly at Charles and says, almost as if they were equals, one man to another: ‘Well? What do you think?’

  Charles would like to say, ‘Thank you, sir,’ but he can say nothing. He does not even bow.

  The Count sighs and throws himself back in his chair.

  ‘It’s merely a matter of will,’ the doctor says, abandoning the revolving world and coming toward the fireplace. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, my boy. Nothing at all.’ He takes Charles’s chin and tilts it so Charles is forced to look directly up at him. ‘Open your mouth.’

  Dr Gohlis prods Charles’s lips with his forefinger, forcing the mouth open. He pushes the lower jaw further down.

  ‘You see, my lord,’ he says, looking from Charles to Monsieur de Quillon, ‘the tongue, the vocal cords – everything is there for the production of speech, nothing is damaged.’ He releases Charles’s chin. ‘I am demonstrating to him that there is absolutely no medical reason why he cannot speak. The argument is addressed to his intellect – for, though he is still young, he has a rudimentary rational faculty, and we must make this our ally.’

  ‘I dare say, Doctor.’ Monsieur de Quillon takes up a paper from the table beside him. ‘But I don’t want to hear your lecture on the subject. Get on with it, man, will you?’

  Charles glimpses a flicker of anger in the doctor’s face as the Count bends his great head over the paper. He is surprised to find himself entertaining the notion that grown-ups can like or dislike other grown-ups.

  Gohlis brings his head down to Charles’s. ‘No one likes pain, do they, my boy? It is abhorrent to any rational being. And you, being human, are capable of reason, capax rationis. You will have enough Latinity for that. In other words, to put it as plainly as I can, this means that, if you have any choice in the matter, you will strive to avoid pain.’

  Charles stares at the globe, which is no longer turning. He hears the rustle of paper and Monsieur de Quillon’s laboured breathing.

  ‘I intend to beat you for fouling your bed like a baby,’ Dr Gohlis says. ‘Unless – and listen carefully now – unless you say to Monsieur de Quillon, “I ask your pardon, monseigneur.”’

  The words float into the air. There are black, buzzing insects, swirling, darting, following their own secret paths.

  ‘That is the rational thing to do, Charles. Your intellect knows that pain is not agreeable, and that it should be avoided if at all possible. You may do this very easily, simply by saying five words.’

  Charles has not wronged Monsieur de Quillon. Or Dr Gohlis. He has wronged no one except perhaps the maid who changed his bed, the old woman who will wash his sheet, and the red-headed gardener’s boy who leads the donkey and the laundry cart up and down the back drive. But they would do all these things in any case; they are paid to do these tasks, so he cannot be said to have wronged even them.

  ‘You must understand what I am saying. I have already demonstrated to you that there is no reason, no physiological reason, for your silence.’

  Surely you cannot apologize for something that does not deserve an apology to someone whom you have not harmed? It is not a rational thing to do. Why does the doctor not see that? Perhaps it is the doctor who is not a rational being.

  ‘Remember, my boy – you are capax rationis.’

  Charles knows what the phrase means because the Abbé Viré, the priest who used to give him lessons, explained it to him long ago before he lost his wits. Man is a reasoning being, the old man told him, and that is why Charles is obliged to love God. Reason offers no other choice.

  ‘Will you speak?’ Dr Gohlis asks. ‘Will you?’

  Charles says nothing.

  There are footsteps in the hall. Monsieur Fournier enters the library. The doctor clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth and goes to stand by the window to look at the rain. Charles shrinks away from him, knocking against the globe.

  Fournier’s eyebrows rise at the sight of the boy. His eyebrows are unusual because they have a kink in them in the outer edges. This makes him look elegantly surprised all the time. Charles thinks this may be misleading. Nothing really seems to surprise Fournier at all.

  ‘Still silent?’ he says.

  ‘It’s quite ridiculous,’ says the Count.

  Fournier smiles and the crooked eyebrows ride even higher. ‘Mum’s the word,’ he says in English, though they have been talking in French until now. ‘That’s what the English say. Is it not droll?’

  ‘I confess the humour escapes me at present.’

  Monsieur Fournier cocks his head. ‘It may have to escape you for longer. You remember the gardener’s boy?’

  ‘No,’ the Count said. ‘Why the devil should I?’

  ‘The one you thrashed the other day.’

  ‘Oh yes – what of him?’

  ‘His grandmother has been to see the Vicar, who is also the magistrate here. There is talk of an action for assault.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake – he’s only a peasant, and our own servant too. What is the difficulty?’

  ‘This is England,’ Fournier says.

  ‘Do they not beat their servants here?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But not as we do. You know the English – they do things differently. When it suits them.’

  ‘More fool them.’

  ‘Besides, in theory he’s in the employ of Mrs West. I think a few shillings should resolve it, as far as the boy and his grandmother are concerned. But it will be inconvenient if we upset Mr Horton any more than we already have.’

  ‘A village curé?’ the Count says. ‘What a country this is! What an absurd country.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. But Mr Horton is a gentleman, and a man of much influence in his own parish.’ Fournier smiled. ‘We would do well to make him obliged to us. And, fortunately, there is a solution to hand: Charles.’

  ‘Dear God, you speak in riddles this afternoon.’

  ‘It’s quite simple. Mr Horton believes in the power of prayer.’

  ‘Superstitious nonsense,’ Gohlis muttered.

  ‘That’s neither here nor there,’ Fournier says. ‘I shall write to Mr Horton before dinne
r. And you would do well—’ He breaks off and cocks his head. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Someone coming up the drive, sir,’ Gohlis said. ‘We have a visitor. In a cart, of all things.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Fournier glances at the Count. For a moment the men do not move or speak. Everyone is listening. Rain patters on the long windows at the end of the room. Dr Gohlis laughs, a high, nervous giggle. Monsieur de Quillon scowls at him.

  ‘Charles,’ the Count says, ‘go upstairs. Go to your room and stay there until you are summoned.’

  Fournier says nothing. He watches them with his bright eyes.

  Someone knocks on the front door.

  ‘Use the main stairs,’ Monsieur de Quillon says to Charles. ‘Go. Go now.’

  Fournier accompanies Charles into the hall. Joseph the footman is moving towards the front door.

  ‘Just a minute,’ Fournier says to the servant in English. ‘Who is it? Do you know?’

  The footman changes course. He goes to a small window that commands a view of the forecourt in front of the house.

  Charles climbs the stairs. He turns at the half-landing and continues up the next flight.

  ‘It’s Mr Roach’s cart, sir,’ he hears Joseph say. ‘And there’s a man sitting beside him. Don’t know him from Adam.’

  ‘You may open the door now,’ Monsieur Fournier says.

  Charles hears the click of the library door closing. He glances down the stairs but he can see little of the hall below. What he can see, however, is the great mirror that hangs at the turn of the stairs so that the ladies and gentlemen may look at themselves as they go to dinner. The mirror is set in a gilt frame that is no longer golden but a dirty yellow brown. The glass is spotted with damp. The silvering near the bottom has quite worn away. Charles has hardly noticed the mirror’s existence before because usually he uses the back stairs.

  In the foggy world of the reflection, a boy wavers in the depths of the mirror. Ignoring the voices in the hall below, Charles steps up to it and stretches out his right hand towards the boy he sees there. In the mirror the reflected boy mimics his action.