Richard and Judy Bookclub - 3 Bestsellers in 1: The American Boy, The Savage Garden, The Righteous Men
himself, the very man who designed the Bank of England. Mind you, Soane don’t come cheap, and didn’t come cheap even then, thirty-odd years ago. And no expense was spared in the building. Not that I had to pay for that, sir, not a brass farthing. Reap what others sow: it is a fine motto in life, young man, mark it well: and remember that the man with ready money is king. No, Mr Cranmere spent so much in tearing down the old house and building this that he could not afford to live in it. He struggled on until 1815 but in the end he had to sell in a hurry. For a fraction of its worth: it was either that or the bailiffs. The folly of mankind never ceases to amaze me.” Carswall poured himself another glass of wine and stared into the fire. “Yes, though I say it myself, it is an establishment to be proud of, worthy of any gentleman in the county; any gentleman in the land, come to that.”
He rumbled on in this vein for twenty minutes. There I sat, an audience of one, chained to my seat. Gradually his enunciation became slurred, and the pauses between sentences grew longer, then the pauses between phrases and words. He had his feet on the fender and his shoes had fallen into the hearth. His breeches were unbuttoned and spotted with stains of wine and gravy. The last thing he said before he dropped into a doze lodged in my memory, simply because it was so out of tune with what had gone before.
“When my grandfather came to Monkshill, he touched his hat to the proprietor. Now I am the proprietor.” He glared at me with eyes half concealed behind straggling eyebrows, like a beast in a thicket, as though I had dared to contradict him. “So who is master now, hey? Tell me that. Who is master now?”
On Christmas morning, there was some debate at breakfast on the subject of how our party should travel to church. There were three equipages at Monkshill: a big coach, which at a pinch would hold six; the chaise that had brought Edgar and me from Gloucester, and which would hold three at most; and finally a low pony-phaeton for the ladies, which was judged quite unsuitable for the gravity of the occasion. Mr Carswall had been of the opinion that the chaise should be harnessed as well as the coach, but Miss Carswall pointed out that they could easily accommodate six in the coach, especially in that two of them were only boys. Then, as she realised the implications of what she had said, her eyes turned towards mine in silent apology.
The arithmetic was stark: Mr Carswall, Mrs Lee, Mrs Frant, Miss Carswall and the two boys made six. There was not a seat for me. It was a perfectly clear statement of my position at Monkshill, all the clearer because I believed it unintended.
Her father said with a slight air of disappointment, “I suppose we might make do with just the coach. But I would not like it to seem that that was all we had at our disposal.”
“Papa, I do not think that likely.”
“It is such a lovely day,” Mrs Frant said. “I am sure the boys would like to walk.”
“Yes, indeed,” cried Miss Carswall. “That would answer very well. I daresay they would enjoy it, and we would not have to squeeze up in the coach.” Once more she turned to me. “That is, Mr Shield, if you would be kind enough to escort them.”
I bowed my assent. “How far is Flaxern Parva?”
“Not above a mile and a half,” she replied. “It is nearer three if one goes by the drive and the road, but there is a path across the park, and the church is on the nearer side of the village.” She clapped her hands. “How I envy you. The air is so refreshing.”
Later in the morning the boys and I stood on the steps outside the front door and watched the Carswalls’ coach rolling round to the front of the house, rising and sinking on its long springs like a ship at sea, and glittering like a gigantic, brightly varnished child’s toy. There was a coat of arms on each door. A crest glittered in silver radiance from every part of the harness where a crest could possibly be placed. The coachman wore a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a curly wig the colour of corn. Two liveried footmen, one of them Pratt, lolled on the box behind, carrying bouquets and gold-headed canes.
Carswall came out of the house and looked with childlike glee at his toy. “I got the machine for a hundred and fifty guineas when Cranmere sold up,” he said, beating the brass ferrule of his stick against the stone of the step. “A bargain, hey? It was hardly a month old. He hadn’t even paid for it.”
The boys and I set off across the frosty park. The sky was a dark, clear blue and the air was so cold it cut into the back of one’s throat like neat spirits. Our way took us past the lake we had visited the previous day. The boys ran ahead to slide on the ice. I pretended not to notice. A church bell tolled beyond the trees on the other side of the lake.
“Come now,” I ordered, “we must hurry. Mr Carswall will be displeased if we are late.”
They took this as an invitation to slither across to the further shore of the lake, the one nearer the trees, and I hurried along the bank after them. Charlie left the lake and plunged down the path that ran between two enclosed covers. I hoped no one was at hand to observe their behaviour: it was most unbecoming that two young gentlemen should behave in such an undignified way as they walked to divine service on one of the holiest days in the church’s calendar.
We hurried down a path through woodland. Charlie warned us with ghoulish relish not to venture among the trees without one of the keepers by our side for Mr Carswall had planted mantraps among the covers against the poachers.
At last the woods came to an end. To my relief, I saw the little church no more than three hundred yards away. It had a low tower, constructed of the rust-coloured local sandstone, and a sagging roof of stone tiles fissured with cracks and blotched with lichen. The churchyard was crowded with villagers in their Sunday best. The coach had not yet arrived.
The path led directly to a small gate set in the wall of the churchyard. Two grooms were walking a chaise and a curricle up and down the adjacent lane. Charlie, with a confidence I envied, made for the knot of gentlefolk standing near the church porch.
Just then Mr Carswall’s coach burst into view. With a great clatter of hooves, rumbling of wheels and cracking of whips, it careered down the high road, forcing a party of villagers to press against the churchyard wall to avoid being run down. The coachman drew up outside the lych-gate. He artfully contrived to rein the horses up more tightly so they champed their bits and arched their necks as though better bred than they were.
“Damn me,” said a young gentleman standing with his back to me. “Travelling en prince, eh? I must say I’d –”
A second man, a little older than his companion, had caught sight of us on the path and stopped the speaker in mid-sentence with a hand on the arm. They watched – we watched – as the footmen alighted at breakneck speed, as they opened the door and pulled down the steps, as Carswall emerged, inch by inch, like a great snail from its glistening shell, his bright little eyes darting from side to side to mark who was watching.
When the old man reached the safety of the ground, he turned, swaying, leaning heavily on his stick, and held out his arm for Mrs Lee, in a gesture which was designed to be courtly but seemed merely theatrical. The old lady stepped down, blinking in the sunlight. Next came Sophia Frant, and I heard one of the gentlemen in front of me draw in his breath. Finally Miss Carswall appeared in the doorway of the carriage. For an instant she paused, glancing round like an actress surveying her audience, and smiling at the crowd in the churchyard with dazzling impartiality. Then she fluttered down the steps and took Mrs Frant’s arm.
The bell tolled on. The villagers fell back to either side of the path as Carswall’s party advanced slowly towards the porch. Beside me, the two gentlemen removed their hats and bowed. There was a marked contrast between the quiet elegance of their dress and the magnificence of Carswall’s.
“Sir George!” Carswall exclaimed as they drew level with the elder of the two. “The compliments of the season to you. And to you, my dear sir,” he added, turning in the direction of the second gentleman. “How is Lady Ruispidge? I trust she is well?”