Free The Silent Boy by Andrew Taylor Page A

tell you directly.’
    ‘You shall tell me nothing until you have sat down in your armchair and we have rung for hot water.’
    She would not let him say what he wished to say until the water had been brought, the tea measured out, and the infusion was brewing.
    ‘Well, sir, you may speak,’ she said, folding her hands in her lap and looking at him with a sort of mock gravity that usually made him laugh.
    ‘I was obliged to go out of town the other day and see your Uncle Rampton,’ he said.
    She made a face. ‘Nothing disagreeable?’
    ‘Not for you, I hope.’
    ‘I think he must be an odious man. He does nothing for you.’
    ‘My dear,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid there’s news of your mother.’
    At once the cheerfulness left Lizzie’s face. She raised her hand to her mouth as if holding back the words that were trying to get out. Savill knew that she barely remembered her mother, who had absconded when she was very young; and, even before that, she had seen little of her, for in those days Augusta had not been much troubled by maternal feelings.
    ‘She’s not here?’ Lizzie blurted out, the colour rushing to her cheeks. ‘Not in London?’
    ‘No. My dear, you must prepare yourself for a shock. I am sorry to say that your mother is dead.’
    Lizzie’s face puckered, as if age had prematurely withered it. ‘Oh. I – I see.’
    ‘She died in Paris.’ Savill leaned forward and took his daughter’s hand, which lay limp and warm in his. ‘Mr Rampton said it was very sudden. I do not know the details yet, but I shall in a week or two.’
    ‘I don’t know what to say, Papa.’
    ‘You don’t have to say anything. Nothing is changed – not for you – not for me.’
    She raised her head suddenly. ‘But it has. For you, at least. You can marry again.’ Her colour deepened. ‘That is to say, should you wish to.’ She sat up very straight and turned away to busy herself with the tea.
    Savill was seized by a desire to laugh. He said gravely, ‘I have no intention of marrying at present. Besides, you must not worry about me. Or about your mother.’
    ‘But I don’t know what to feel,’ she said in a voice that was almost a child’s wail.
    ‘You don’t have to feel anything, my love.’
    ‘Will we go into mourning?’
    ‘Perhaps not, in the circumstances.’ He rubbed his scar, which had begun to itch. ‘I will consult your aunt – she will know what is proper. But first there is one other thing you must know.’
    She looked down at her lap and did not speak.
    ‘After she went away, your mother had a child. A son. He is still alive.’
    Her head jerked up. ‘I have a brother?’
    ‘Yes. A half-brother.’
    ‘Why did you not tell me before?’
    ‘Because I did not know myself until I saw your uncle Rampton.’
    ‘How old is he?’
    ‘Ten or eleven, I believe,’ Savill said.
    ‘A half-brother,’ she repeated. He watched her calculating the arithmetic. ‘So – who was his father? I – I’m sorry, perhaps it is indelicate of me to—’
    ‘It is natural that you should ask. But I’m afraid I cannot tell you that either, because I do not know. Perhaps I will find out when I see him.’
    ‘Is he here? In England?’
    ‘Yes. Not in London, though.’
    ‘When shall we see him? Where will he live? Will he live with us here?’
    ‘I expect you will see him at some point, but I do not know quite when. As for where he will live, Mr Rampton has a fancy to adopt him. If he does that, I dare say the boy would live with him, except when he is at school, and so on.’
    ‘But he should live with us, Papa.’ Colour flooded over her face. ‘If he’s my brother, I’m nearer kin to him than Mr Rampton.’
    ‘True. But Mr Rampton can give him things that we cannot give him.’
    She forced him to stop again. ‘It is not that you don’t want him, is it? Because he – he’s not your son?’
    ‘No …’ Savill hesitated. ‘Or rather, I do not think so.’
    ‘What is his