Twelve Days
by Charles Lacey
Chapter 6
Wednesday 18th December
Whether it was over-excitement or that I had certainly eaten far too much at dinner the day before I don't know, but I didn't sleep well that night. I woke for the second or third time in the wee small hours to hear muffled noises from above me. I couldn't make them out. I waited for a little while to see what would happen, but they continued. Clearly, it was something to do with Tracy, and it seemed only right to go and see if there was anything amiss.
I opened the door of his room. He was lying on his mattress, covered with a blanket, face down and muffled in the pillow, struggling with his emotions. I quickly went over to him, putting a hand on his shoulder and saying softly, "Tracy, what is the trouble? Can I help?"
"No," he replied, "There's nothing anyone can do. Go back to bed."
"But what is it?" I persisted, "Are you unwell? Can I fetch some water, or hot milk or something, for you?"
"No. No, thank you."
I knelt by his mattress and put a hand on his shoulder.
"What is it, dear Tracy? Please tell me."
"It's nothing. It's…"
And with this he finally broke down. There was nothing I could do but to hold him, to let him know that there was someone in the world who cared about him. He was only a boy, about my own age, and it was evident that some great misfortune had overtaken him. I lay down upon the mattress by his side and put my arms around him. He sobbed into my chest, as if his heart would break.
When he had recovered enough to be able to speak again, he said, "Thank you, Master Christopher. You're all so kind. I don't deserve it."
That was the point at which the mystery was solved for me. It wasn't the words he used, but the whole manner of his speaking. To this day, I don't know how it came to me, but I knew then what his trouble was. Only details remained to be filled in. It explained his perfect table manners, his refined speech and his evident familiarity with life in a good house.
"Not Master Christopher," I whispered to him, "Just Christopher – or Chris. Your friend."
He was silent then, barely breathing.
"You are one of us, aren't you? Not a servant…" I continued.
He nodded two or three times, and said, so softly even I could barely hear it, "Yes."
"Come with me," I said. "We'll go to my room. It'll be warmer there."
My bed was both wider and more comfortable, and probably cleaner, than the old flock mattress Tracy had been lying on. I don't know why my parents had kept the thing. I had two good woollen blankets as well as linen sheets and a thick eiderdown. We tiptoed down the stairs, crept into my bedroom, and into my bed. We lay close together, and I clasped Tracy's hand in mine. I remember feeling all the bones of his fingers, but he pressed my hand back before removing his and turning onto his side to sleep. Not immediately, but sooner than I would have expected, I slept too.
In those days it was not thought untoward for boys to share beds: though it was not the practice at Embleton, it certainly was still in some schools. So I wasn't worried about someone coming in to wake me and finding us together.
Which, of course, was exactly what happened. It was Rose's turn to bring my morning tea. She came in, saw us sitting up together in my bed. I had only just time to remove my arm from around Tracy's shoulders as the door opened. She was clearly taken aback, but I said, "Good morning, Rose. Could Tracy have a cup of tea, too?"
Bless her! She went downstairs and came back with a second cup. But she also said, "Master Christopher, the Master would like to see you in his Study, as soon as you are dressed."
I wasn't especially anxious about this. Obviously Rose had told him that Tracy had been in my bed with me. I knew Papa was a stickler for Good Form, but I also knew he was both fair and kindly, and would at least give me a chance to explain. So Tracy and I went in to him together.
"Good morning, young man," said Papa drily, "would you be good enough to tell me why Tracy was sharing your bed last night? As far as I am aware, he has a perfectly good one in the servants' quarters."
"Yes, Papa. But Tracy is…" and there I stopped, unsure how to proceed.
"Yes? Tracy is?..."
There was another silence. Then Tracy spoke.
"I'm very sorry indeed to have deceived you, sir. I ought to have told you before. I was not always a beggar, but… my father is Sir Algernon –"
Here Tracy gave the name of a very prominent Personage, a Member of Parliament with an expectation of being in the Cabinet before long, and also an aristocrat of the most unimpeachable antecedents. His wife, Tracy's stepmother, was the younger daughter of a Duke, to add to his credentials.
Papa, not surprisingly, was decidedly sceptical about what Tracy had revealed.
"And what is your full name?"
"Tracy Algernon Noel DeVere – " (for reasons of discretion I omit his surname).
"Then, young man, can you explain to me why you were dressed in rags, and sleeping under the arches at Chelsea Reach – if, indeed, you were actually doing so?"
Tracy went red and shuffled his feet. "I was sent down from my school, sir, and my father… sent me away." Tracy made a strained sound in his throat, trying not to break down again. "I tried to find work, but everyone just laughed. I stayed with my aunt Clarissa for a few weeks, but my father found out and made her send me away. That was in the spring. I had a room in Rotherhithe, but when the money ran out I had to leave there. Eventually I fell in with some lads who were mudlarks at Rotherhithe Docks; I joined their gang and slept and ate with them. But they sent me away, too. They said I was too 'posh' for them. I think they believed I was a police spy."
Papa was silent for a few minutes, blowing softly through his moustache as was his habit when thinking. Tracy and I were standing side by side. I let my hand stray towards him and clasped his hand, stroking the back of it with my thumb. I couldn't think of any better way to convey my understanding and sympathy. He squeezed my hand back.
"Very well," said Papa at length. "I shall make inquiries about this. Sir Algernon is well known to the head of my Department in the Civil Service, so I will be in a position to do so, hopefully within a few days. I will say that your speech and manner do seem to bear out what you say, but it could be just clever acting. If your story proves to be true, then you have nothing to fear and, unless your father alters his mind, you may remain here, perhaps as a companion to my son or something of that kind. If, on the other hand, you are proved to have lied to me, then – well, you still saved my daughter from drowning, and I will not be unduly harsh, but you will leave my house as soon as Christmas is over."
"Thank you, sir," replied Tracy.
"For the moment, you had better go downstairs. You may take your meals in the kitchen for the time being."
Tracy and I spent the best part of the day together, and very enjoyable it was. We were in the kitchen for most of the morning. After luncheon we went for a short walk in Kensington Gardens, but as his feet were still very sore from the frostbite we did not prolong it. When we were back from the Gardens Tracy lay on my bed while I sat in the chair and rubbed Zam-Buk ointment into his feet; then we both read books until he was called downstairs to help with the servants' dinner.
That night was the last one that Tracy was to spend in the boxroom. I listened carefully in case he became upset again, but all was quiet. But I was thinking hard. Could Tracy really be an impostor? Perhaps he was tricking his way into a gentleman's house in order to rob it. No, I could not believe he was anything other than a gentleman's son himself, fallen on hard times. In my heart of hearts, I knew he was what he claimed to be. There are a thousand little mannerisms, tricks of speech that reveal a man – or a boy – to be a gentleman. No actor, however well prepared, could have mastered all of them.
I felt very glad that I hadn't patronized him. It would have been more than ironic. Papa was from good solid middle-class stock, who had got on in life due to native shrewdness and hard work; he had a senior position in the Colonial Office. Tracy's father was several degrees above us in the social scale. If there were any patronage to be given, it was for him, not me, to bestow it. That he did not was due to his own good manners, which he had certainly not inherited from his father. Sir Algernon was a rising star in Parliament, widely expected to make his way to a Cabinet post. He was certainly an able speaker in the House: his speeches were extensively quoted in The Times . In private life he was a bully, a bigot and a snob.
I later learned from Tracy that his mother, whom he adored, had died when he was just nine, and his father had re-married; he had nothing in common with his step-mother who was a very suitable companion for a rising politician but appeared to have no softer emotions. I tried to imagine how I should have felt had Mamma died and Papa re-married someone who disliked me. It brought tears to my eyes, and on that occasion it was Tracy who had to comfort me. It was a deep and abiding sadness to us both that he had tried to make friends with his step-mother. He had the most warm and loving heart that ever mortal owned, but every kindly overture he made was met with chilly reproof.
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