Ingenious pain by Andrew Miller (books for men to read .txt) 📕

its suffering. The gentlemen applaud, more lights are brought, and behind the lights, servants bearing crystal decanters of port and claret and brandy. The visitors drink toasts:

'The future!'

'Knowledge!'

'Newton!'

Mr Canning walks around the table to James. 'You look very well in your new clothes, dear boy.' He straightens the edge of James's coat; a maternal touch.

'Gentlemen! If I may command your attention for a moment ... I should like to make known to you this young man - Master James Dyer - who has been living in my house for some while now. I hope in the spring to bring him to London with me that I might introduce him more formally at one of our regular meetings.'

The men inspect the boy; some make a shallow, good-humoured bow. The twins come and stand beside him. Canning is behind them, one hand on James's shoulder, one on Ann's.

He says: 'They are my family. Dear to me as children of my own. Come, I think they are of an age when they might take a glass of claret.'

The twins are much admired. The claret colours their cheeks, their eyes catch all the candle points, their noses quiver. The gentlemen, drinking freely, are increasingly gallant. They seem to savour the twins' particular appeal. The girls smile their favour on James. His manner makes him seem much older, self-contained. But for the richness of his coat he might have been a Quaker child. Some of the gentlemen take an interest in him, discreetly quiz him, but soon grow tired of the closeness of his answers. They turn away to the decanters or the twins or to each other. The fat man, Bentley, remains, his head toad-like upon the wattles of his neck. He makes desultory enquiries about the boy's diet, sleeping habits, general health. All the while his nails are fixed in the flesh of the boy's wrist, digging until the

skin is broken and drops of blood discolour the lace of James's new shirt.

Bentley says: 'How very clever of Canning to discover you. We shall have some times together, you and I.'

He pulls a large handkerchief from his pocket and dabs the boy's blood from his fingers.

There is no warning.

He is woken early one morning, told to dress warmly, given chocolate to drink, a plate of eggs for breakfast. Mr Canning is waiting in the hall, a servant smoothing the shoulders of his travelling coat.

Canning says: 'You have not been in London before, I believe. Some say it is the greatest city since imperial Rome. Others that it is the devil's drawing room. Both descriptions are true. Have you been to see the twins?'

'No, sir.'

Since the night of the air pump the twins have been laid up in bed with fevers: dreams of smoke, dreams of fire.

'Never mind,' says Canning. 'We shall bring them something back from London. A fan, a comb. Something a la mode. I do so like to surprise them.'

They step out, cross a corridor of late March sunlight and mount into the cool leathery interior of the coach. There is a cry of 'Hey! Get up there!' and the wheels crackle over gravel, draw them through the tender shadows of the trees, along the drive, out through iron gates. Canning pulls a copy oi Philosophical Treatise from his pocket and begins to read, now and then nodding

or shaking his head at some choice or controversial item. James leans up against the window. It is the same from which he last saw Gummer, sprawled on the cobbles at Salisbury while the men beat him. He would like to see Gummer again, see what has become of him. They were a good match in their way, and it was amusing to fool so many people. Perhaps Canning's men murdered him, or else he is swinging at some junction, body in chains, pulled at by crows. Who exactly would mourn such a useless, cunning man?

By dusk they are passing Kensington Gardens. Despite the chill. Canning pulls down the window so that the boy can see better, see and hear, for the city with its elegant lamp-lit squares, its soldiers on horseback, its barrows and carts and hawkers, makes a most satisfying racket.

At several points there is a crush of coaches and sedan chairs. Then the coachmen and the chairmen roar at each other, vicious and comic, their chained obscenities oddly formal. Children, huge eyes and fragile limbs, weave between the traffic. Beggars hold up their hands to the window, flinch at the coachman's whip. A whiff of burning, a whiff of drains, even a thread of scent as the coach of a fashionable woman passes close beside their own.

Up Piccadilly, past St James's, then Horse Guards Parade, the Strand, Fleet Street . . . The coach halts, the footman opens the door, James and Canning dismount. They turn into a narrow court on the left. At the end of the court is a house with a lamp outside. As they approach, an elderly man with a gown and staff comes out to meet them.

Welcome, Mr Canning, sir. Most of the other gentlemen are gathered.'

'Very well. Lute.' Canning presses a coin into the man's hand. 'Lead on.'

They enter the building, ascending the stairs past portraits of the society's presidents and alumni.

'Do you know who this is, James?' Canning has stopped in front of the most imposing of the portraits. A thin-faced, humourless man, apparently much irritated.

'Sir Isaac Newton, James. I had the honour of knowing him when I was young.'

Lute brings them to a door at the back of the house. Above the door, in a gold scroll: 'Nullius in Verba'. When Lute opens the door there is a sea-sound of voices, hushed as they notice the arrival of Canning. Several of the faces - including Bentley -James recognises from their visit to the house. Lute bangs the heel of his staff on the floor, announces them. Canning takes James's arm and steps with him on to