Mr Rowsell took me to a tavern in Fleet-street. We drank first one bottle of claret with our dinner and then another. He was as amiable in his manner to me as ever but at first he steered our conversation resolutely towards general topics. He talked in fits and starts, rushing at his words as though he feared they might escape him if he did not hurry, and laughing boisterously at the slightest opportunity. Not that there was much cause for amusement – I remember we talked of the Cato Street Conspiracy against the government, which was then in the news, and the Peterloo Massacre in Manchester the previous summer. For all its wealth and vigour the country was tearing itself apart.
“These are troubled times for the nation,” Mr Rowsell said, as we broached the third bottle. “I fear there may be a crash, a great crisis in public confidence that will make the collapse of Wavenhoe’s seem no more than a trifling upset. So keep your capital safe, Tom, do not be tempted into speculation.”
“Thank you, sir.” I eyed my host’s face with some anxiety, for it had grown dark with wine. “May I ask what you meant in your letter? About an explanation?”
“An explanation?” He shut his eyes for a moment. “Aye, well, first I must tell you that I have written to Mr Bransby. When I was trying to find you out, he was naturally the first person I thought of.”
“In that case you will know that I have resigned from my position at his school.”
“Yes – he – well, not to beat about the bush – he made a number of allegations about your conduct which I found hard to credit.”
“That is perhaps because they were untrue.”
Rowsell’s eyebrows shot up. “I am glad to hear it, Tom.”
“Theft, philandering and neglecting my duty to his pupils?”
He nodded. “I reminded the reverend gentleman that there was a law of libel in this country. He did not reply to my second letter.”
“Surely Mrs Rowsell must have known of my disgrace long before you heard of it from Mr Bransby?”
“Yes, yes, Mrs Rowsell – yes, I shall come to that.” His colour darkened still more, and he applied himself to his wine. “I did not know where you were. I cannot tell you how glad I was when Quintus Atkins came up to me on Monday morning and said he had found you.”
“On Monday? Not Tuesday?”
“Yes, it was Monday, I’m sure of it – you would not think it to look at him, but Atkins has a gift for talking to strangers, for asking harmless questions in a way that does not cause offence, and a wide acquaintance. I did not think it likely you would have returned to Rosington, or even left town. I determined to concentrate our search on the vicinity of the Strand – I thought it the most likely part of London for you to choose, you see, because of its long association with your aunt. It was merely a matter of his tramping the streets and asking questions for long enough, and there you were. To be precise, he was introduced to a stonemason in a public house. It turned out you had written a letter for the man. And later Atkins confirmed it by buying a glass of rum for a former sailor who lodges on the floor below you. I may say that both men gave you fine testimonials. So then I wrote the letter he brought you.”
I hesitated, wanting to pursue the matter further but uncertain how best to go about it. “Forgive me for labouring the point, sir, but I heard that another man came looking for me at Gaunt-court on Tuesday. I wondered whether someone else, perhaps less benevolent than yourself, wished to find me.”
“I’m positive that Atkins told me the news on Monday.” Rowsell frowned. “Mr Carswall? Could it have been he?”
“It’s possible.”
“Do you feel able to tell me more about the circumstances?”
“I left Monkshill-park under a cloud. The cloud was none of my making, and Mr Carswall treated me unjustly. His malevolence pursued me to London, for he wrote to Mr Bransby and made certain accusations – those you have already heard. He manufactured evidence to support the most serious of those accusations. He meant to cost me my position, sir, and possibly my liberty – and even, perhaps, my life.”
“If you were my client, I would advise you not to repeat those accusations in public.” Rowsell dabbed his finger in a circle of wine on the table and drew the outline of a head resembling a fox’s. “He is a wealthy man, Mr Carswall, and one with a certain reputation. He may be an old dog, but he can still bite.”
“I was forewarned of his scheme by a friend,” I continued. “So I came straight to you, intending to lay the matter before you and ask your advice.”
Rowsell lowered his head over his glass. “I am sorry. It was most unfortunate that I was not in the way when you called.”
“I went to Lincoln’s Inn first, and Atkins sent me on to Northington-street. I concluded from Mrs Rowsell’s reception of me that Mr Carswall had reached you before me, and poisoned your mind and hers against me.”
“Very natural, my dear boy. That was not the case, however – the first I heard of what had happened was when Mr Bransby replied to my letter of inquiry. No, Mrs Rowsell’s conduct sprang from another source. I hold myself very much to blame. I have not been altogether candid with you, I am afraid, and the fault is entirely mine. Circumstances placed me in an awkward position, and indeed they still do.” He swallowed half a glass of wine. “That is why I asked you to dine with me here, rather than at Northington-street.”
“If I have distressed Mrs Rowsell in any way, I regret it extremely.”
“No, it is not you who have distressed her: it is I. And of course I have also distressed you. Tell me, did you never wonder why your excellent aunt placed her affairs in my hands? I do not wish to seem immodest, but it must have occurred to you that I am moderately successful in what I do, and that I would not usually attend so assiduously to the affairs of a lady in her circumstances, however amiable she was in her personal character. Mrs Reynolds’s estate, as you know, was not large.”
“I had remarked on your kindness many times, sir. You will think me foolish but I had ascribed it to philanthropy, to a natural benevolence.”
“I am reproved. I wish that were true. Though, in fairness to myself, I may state that I assisted your aunt in her legal affairs, and indeed yourself, with no thought of gain. My motives were disinterested but I cannot claim they sprang from general benevolence.” Rowsell broke off to pour more wine. He had neglected his food, which was unlike him, for he was usually a good trencher-man.
I said gently, “I would not pain you, sir. Whatever your reasons, you were very kind to me when my aunt died and afterwards, and I shall always be grateful for that.”
“Mrs Rowsell,” he said, apparently out of the blue, “is a great reader of novels.”
I stared at him. “I beg your pardon. I think I did not quite catch –”
“What I mean to say is this,” he broke in, speaking low and fast and rather indistinctly. “Her mind has been to some extent formed by the reading that delights her hours of leisure. Nothing gives her greater pleasure than to settle down of an evening with a volume of the latest novel from the library. One could sometimes wish – ah, but no matter; I digress.” He ran out of words and stabbed the meat he had barely touched with uncharacteristic venom.
I said, “One judges a man by his actions, and yours have been uniformly generous.”
Rowsell swallowed a mouthful of wine. Then he stretched his arm across the table and touched the sleeve of my coat. “My dear boy. You are so like your mother sometimes. It is quite uncanny.”
I laid down my knife and fork. “My mother, sir? My mother? You have the advantage of me: I did not realise that you knew her.”
“Yes. A lady of great charm and refinement. Indeed, there lies my difficulty, the source of my present difficulty, that is to say, with regard to Mrs Rowsell. You recall that you were to have eaten your dinner with us on Christmas Day, but were unable to join us? It was on that very occasion that I allowed a few ill-timed words to slip out. We were dining with two of Mrs Rowsell’s aunts and several of her cousins, and I suggested we drink a toast to you in your absence. With hindsight, I see that this was not altogether wise. It led to Mrs Rowsell’s inquiring a little more deeply than before about the – ah – the evident affection in which I held you. I mentioned that I had known both your mother and your aunt when I was a young man. I – I chanced to expatiate at some length on your mother’s many good qualities. I realise now, of course, that my enthusiasm was ill judged. Though Mrs Rowsell knew you were the nephew of a valued client, she was not aware that at one time I had been acquainted with your mother.”
“When you say ‘acquainted’ –?”
“Indeed, rather more than acquainted.”
He broke off again, having given the last words a singular emphasis, and looked miserably at me. By now a terrible suspicion was forming in my mind. I helped him to another glass of wine and he gulped it down as though it had been so much water. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
“It grows quite warm in here, I find.” He attempted a smile. “I do not think I have mentioned that, as a very young man, I passed a year or two in Rosington?”
I agreed that he had not mentioned this fact.
“I did not mean to conceal the circumstance: but delicacy urged me to choose with care my moment of revealing it. I went to Rosington to fill a position as a junior clerk to an auctioneers – Cutlack’s: you may recall the name?”
I inclined my head.
“Old Josiah Cutlack was then the head of the family. It was at his house that I had the honour of meeting the young lady who later became your mother. She was a friend of Josiah’s niece. We saw each other on subsequent occasions and – well, to cut a long story short, I developed a great tenderness for her. And she – she did not look unkindly on me.”
“Sir,” I began, “are you to tell me that –”
But Rowsell rushed on, propelled by the current of his confession: “I could not afford to marry – indeed, I could barely support myself – and your grandparents would never have sanctioned such a match. Then a friend of my late father’s, an attorney in Clerkenwell, offered me a clerkship. Here, at last, was the possibility of advancement, of attaining a situation in life which would enable me to marry and support a wife. Your mother urged me to seize the opportunity. Though no words were spoken on either side, I confess I cherished a hope that one day, a few years hence – but it was not to be.”
He turned aside to blow his nose and, I daresay, to wipe a tear from his eye. I stared into my glass, attempting to decipher the outlines of my own life, newly shrouded in mist. It seemed that I had acquired a past I did not want and the possibility of a future I did not desire. Was even my name no longer my own?
“We did not correspond, of course,” Mr Rowsell went on. “There was no engagement; it would not have been the thing. However – a year or two later, I heard of her marriage to Mr Shield: a worthy man, I am sure; and in those days most comfortably situated as well. I met him once at Mr Cutlack’s, I believe. It often answers very well for a man to be considerably older than his wife. As indeed I have found myself, with Mrs Rowsell.”
“Sir,” I said urgently. “A year or two later?”
“What?” He reached for the wine. “Aye, one year and nine months. And each month passed like a century.”
“And you did not see my mother in that time?”
“No – but I had news of her, every now and then. I corresponded for a while with young Nicholas Cutlack, the old man’s grandson; dead now, poor fellow; a fall from his horse. It was he who told me of your mother’s marriage. I will not pretend that it was not a bitter blow, but still: a man must look forward, eh, not over his shoulder. I threw myself into work and in the fullness of time my principal invited me to become his partner. And he happened to have a daughter, and we found that we agreed very well together.”
I raised my glass. “Let us drink to Mrs Rowsell, sir.”
“God bless her,” murmured Mr Rowsell, dashing a tear from his eye. When he had set down his glass, he continued: “My tale is nearly done. Many years later, I saw your name in the newspapers in connection with that – that unfortunate incident in the Park. It is not a common surname, and one report mentioned that you came originally from Rosington. I inquired, and found that you were indeed the son of my old friend. So I made myself known to your aunt Reynolds – a most estimable woman, by the by, who was wonderfully kind to me when I was at Cutlack’s.”
“She knew you? And she did not tell me?”
“The position was extraordinarily delicate, Tom – and on both sides. I wished to be of assistance but I could not be seen to help. I had Mrs Rowsell to consider and Mrs Reynolds was the first to acknowledge this. Your aunt was also extremely jealous of both your mother’s reputation and yours. If my part became known, there are many in this world who would rush to place an uncharitable construction on my motives and on your mother’s.”
“You place me under an obligation, sir.”
Rowsell dismissed it with a wave. “I wish with all my heart I did. But Mrs Reynolds was a proud woman. She would accept very little from me. All I could do was lighten the legal burden that she needed to carry after your arrest. And later I was glad to help her put her own affairs in order. As her time drew near, I suggested the possibility to her that I might try to obtain a clerkship for you, but she preferred to try Mr Bransby first. She said she did not think it right to be further obliged to me. And then, by and by, after her death, I came to be acquainted with you.”
“I regret I am become a source of embarrassment to you and Mrs Rowsell.”
“The fault is scarcely yours.” With a tip of a finger he converted the drop of spilled wine from a fox’s head to a spider. “I scarcely know how it was but I had never found the opportunity to mention my previous attachment to Mrs Rowsell. Not that I concealed it, exactly – it was a case of suppressio veri rather than suggestio falsi. After all, it was so very long ago, you see, and the term ‘attachment’ made more of it than I had any right to claim. There was no engagement between your mother and me, or even an understanding. But, as I say, on Christmas Day, I had drunk perhaps a little more deeply than usual, in honour of the occasion, and my tongue was less guarded, my mind less circumspect than it should have been.”
“Perhaps if I were to write to Mrs Rowsell and explain the circumstances?”
“Thank you, but I do not think it would answer. It was a great misfortune that Mrs Rowsell’s aunts and cousins were at table with us. Their presence added salt to the wound. In all events, I regret to say that Mrs Rowsell misinterpreted what I said – quite understandably; the fault was entirely mine – and drew an erroneous conclusion, one which might not have been out of place in one of her novels. It was inexpressibly painful. There were tears – there were accusations – I had betrayed her in her own home – I was taking the bread out of our children’s mouths – my character was quite beneath contempt. Mrs Rowsell is a woman of great tenacity, and once she has an idea in her mind, it can be very difficult to shift it.”
Mr Rowsell ran out of words. My first reaction was relief: despite his many virtues, I was glad he had not suddenly become my father. Now I knew the reason for his kindness in the past, I honoured him for it. My mother’s heart had chosen wisely though her head had set its veto against it. As for Mrs Rowsell, no wonder my appearance on her doorstep had thrown her into such a passion. I felt sorry for them both: if Mrs Rowsell believed me to be her husband’s illegitimate son, brought like a cuckoo into their home, then the bosom of the family could not have been a happy place for either of them since that unlucky Christmas dinner.
“It was cursed ill luck that I was forced to keep to my bed on that day you came to my house. I heard the hullabaloo at the door, though I did not know its cause. The rest you know. I wish it had not taken us such an unconscionable time to track you down. I might have found you sooner had I employed an agent. But once I had heard those absurd accusations from Mr Bransby, I thought it wiser not to involve a third party.”
“May I speak frankly, sir? Two men asked after me at Gaunt-court on Tuesday. The second was Atkins, but the first –”
“You fear that Mr Carswall has set a man to track you down?”
“I do not know what to fear. The first man questioned the children about me. My landlady sent him about his business, though not before he had discovered that I was lodging there. She thought it likely that he was some sort of inquiry agent, perhaps a former Bow-street runner who works for a lawyer.”
“You have done nothing wrong, dear boy: it may be best simply to stay where you are and let events take their course. On the other hand, if Mr Carswall intends to bring an action against you, he must have evidence to support his case.” Mr Rowsell leaned forward, his features suddenly grim: he had become the man of business again, and all trace of the kindly host had vanished. “There’s more to this than meets the eye, I fancy. I saw the reports in the newspapers about a lady who died by an accidental fall in the ice-house at Monkshill-park in January. And of course Miss Carswall is to marry Sir George Ruispidge, no doubt with a very handsome dowry. But I am at a loss to see how all this could affect you, or what possible reason Mr Carswall could have for pursuing you.”
I bent down and hooked a finger between my right shoe and my stocking. I fished out a small bundle, wrapped in a square of linen, which I laid between us on the table. I pulled back the folds of cloth one by one. There, winking up at us, was Amelia Parker’s mourning ring.