Richard and Judy Bookclub - 3 Bestsellers in 1: The American Boy, The Savage Garden, The Righteous Men
way his own. He pulled out his watch and showed it to the company. “I think it very likely that Masséna had a timepiece from the same workshop that produced this. They say Napoleon himself was one of Breguet’s patrons.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Sir George said, his forehead wrinkling. “But who is Breguet?”
“Abraham-Louis Breguet, sir – the finest watchmaker in the world.” Mr Carswall glanced fondly at the timepiece in his palm. “Certainly a number of Napoleon’s officers are known to have had these watches, for they are accurate to a tenth of a second, proof against sudden shocks, and capable of running for eight years without being overhauled, and without going slow. They say – and Captain Ruispidge will I’m sure correct me if I’m wrong – that many of the Emperor’s victories can be attributed to his genius for timing, and it is not far-fetched to imagine that this accuracy in the matter of time depended on a Breguet watch.”
So the old man ran on, to an audience of blank faces. I was mortified on his behalf, despite the way he had slighted me, and turned aside to look for the boys. I did not see them in this part of the churchyard, so I walked back towards the porch, meaning to circumnavigate the church until I found them.
“Mr Shield,” Miss Carswall said, just behind me.
Startled, I swung round. She had broken away from the others, and stood at my elbow.
“Would you be so good as to do me a favour?”
“Of course, Miss Carswall.”
“I have foolishly left my handkerchief in the church, in the pew where we were sitting.”
“Then you must allow me to fetch it for you.”
I passed through the porch into the church and walked down the nave. A moment later, I heard the door open again behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. There was Miss Carswall, smiling.
“Mr Shield, I do so apologise. It was in my muff all the time.” She held up the wisp of embroidered silk. “I sent you on a fool’s errand.”
I retraced my steps. “It don’t signify.”
She waited on the threshold, her hand on the door. “Oh, but it does,” she said quietly. “Particularly as I knew the handkerchief was in my muff all the time.”
“I’m afraid I do not understand.”
“It is very simple. I wished to apologise for my father’s behaviour.”
I felt myself blushing once again and turned aside.
“I know I should not say this of my father, but I cannot ignore the fact that he sometimes acts in a manner that –”
“You must not distress yourself, Miss Carswall. It is of no moment.”
She stamped her foot. “He treats you like a servant. It is not just. I saw him pushing you out of his way. I wished the ground would open up and swallow me. Or – even better – swallow him.”
“I beg of you, do not be disturbed on my account.”
She turned her head, as though about to leave, but then looked back at me. “Pray, do not take it amiss, my talking to you in this way. You must think me very forward. I should beg your pardon.”
“On the contrary, I think you most considerate of an inferior’s feelings.”
“Oh?” Miss Carswall waited for me to go on. “Is that all?”
“I honour you for it.”
“Oh!” she said, with a different inflection, and darted into the porch.
I followed her under the canopy of evergreen leaves and branches. She stopped in the middle of the porch and looked at me. Beyond the archway into the churchyard I saw the green of the grass, the grey of the gravestones and the blue of the sky. The path from the lych-gate made a right angle as it turned towards the porch. I heard the voices of other people, but I saw no one except Miss Carswall; and no one could see us.
“In the church,” I said, “there was a tablet on the wall which –”
“Hush.”
Flora Carswall laid her hand on my arm, raised herself on tiptoe and kissed my cheek.
Shocked, I sprang back, jarring my elbow against the great iron latch on the door. Her perfume filled my nostrils, and the warmth of her lips burned like a brand on my skin. She smiled, and this time her face was full of mischief.
“This is the time and the place where such liberties are permitted, sir, or at least condoned,” she said in a voice not much louder than a whisper. “Look.”
She pointed upwards and I saw that hanging from the vault above her head was a great bush of mistletoe studded with white berries. My heart pounded in my chest.
“You must pick off one of the berries now,” she said in the same caressing voice. “But there are still plenty left.”
She turned away and stepped into the blinding sunshine of Christmas morning.
The fine, cold, clear weather continued. On the morning of St Stephen’s Day, the household went to church again. On this occasion, Carswall ordered the chaise as well as the coach, and we rumbled in procession through the winding lanes to Flaxern Parva. Alas, Mr Carswall was doomed to disappointment. The Ruispidges’ pews were empty.
When we returned to the mansion, the boys were in tearing spirits, partly from the holiday and partly from want of exercise. They fell in willingly enough when I proposed a walk.
“You should take Mr Shield to see our ruined abbey,” Miss Carswall suggested, looking up from her bureau; though it was Sunday, she was at work on her accounts. “It is a vastly romantic spot, and one generally sees cowled figures flitting from pillar to pillar.”
She bent her head over her account book. She and I had not spoken in private since what had passed between us in the church porch on Christmas Day. I did not know what to think about her feelings, or indeed about my own. I was aware that we had both behaved improperly, yet somehow I contrived not to dwell on that side of the matter.
“Yes, sir,” put in Charlie, “please let us go to the abbey. Edgar, they say the monks buried treasure there.”
Mrs Frant, who had been writing a letter at a table in the window, looked up at this. “Don’t fill Edgar’s head with such nonsense, Charlie. It is only a foolish story that country people tell.”
I looked at her, sitting in the cold winter sunlight, and said, “Are the ruins extensive, ma’am?”
“I have not seen them, Mr Shield. My cousin will tell you.”
“You must prepare to be disappointed,” Miss Carswall said. “A few stones, that is all. It was not even a true abbey. The Rector told Papa that all the land around here was owned by the monks at Flaxern Magna, which is down by the river. He believes that our little ruins mark the site of one of the monks’ outlying farms. Papa was most put out. He wanted a veritable abbey, not a tumbledown farmhouse.”
“But the monks were there. So I expect there are ghosts,” Charlie said, with the air of one dangling a further bait. “And treasure. It’s more likely they’d hide it there than in the abbey, isn’t it? That’s the first place people would look.”
Mrs Frant smiled at him. “When the park was laid out, I believe a few silver pennies were found among the foundations. Perhaps that may be the origin of the story of treasure. Country people are very credulous.”
“Where were they found?”
She busied herself in folding her letter. “I don’t know, Charlie.”
“Then