Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [191]
‘Tolerably well, I thank you.’ Kemp regarded the Secretary with a sombreness the warmth of his welcome had done nothing to relax. The years had taken colour from his cheeks and compressed his lips with a certain grimness of endurance or denial – though it was not evident whether of claims from within or without. But the eyes were unchanged: narrow and very dark, with a piercing insistence of regard that verged always on the antagonistic. He was dressed faultlessly in a suit of dark brown velvet set off by foams of lace at the neck and cuffs. His black hair was longer now, in accordance with the fashion; he wore it free of powder, caught in a dark red ribbon behind.
‘We need not make a long business of this,’ he said. ‘I shall not encroach on your time more than is needful. You have affairs of state to look to.’
‘Cares of state, sir, I prefer to name ’em. There is a neat epigram to be got out of that rhyme, but these days, alas, I have no time for composition. Do you scribble yourself, sir? No? One needs peace for it. You will not mind if I continue with my toilette? I am bidden to my Lady Everney’s in the forenoon.’
‘Indeed? By all means, continue. I would not have you disappoint Lady Everney.’
Templeton shot him a sharp glance in the mirror, but made no reply. He had begun touching in the paint with a small brush.
‘You know me and you know whom I represent,’ Kemp was beginning, ‘so there is no need for –’
A small negro page boy in a white turban and surcoat came in bearing a sugar bowl, a steaming cup of chocolate and a plate of wafers on a japanned tray.
‘About time, my pretty fellow,’ Templeton said. ‘Set it down here beside me. You must learn to be sharper.’
The little boy smiled and his eyes flashed eagerly. He had teeth of amazing perfection.
‘He doesn’t know much English as yet,’ Templeton said. ‘I haven’t had him above two weeks. I got him at auction at George’s Coffee House in the Strand. I gave the last one to my Lord Granville, who had taken a fancy for him. This one is even better-looking. One should buy them pockmarked of course, ’tis more secure, but I like a smooth skin. Will you take some chocolate?’
‘Thank you, no,’ Kemp said. ‘I have breakfasted but lately.’ This was not strictly true as it was now mid-morning, but a certain kind of disgusted impatience was growing in him and he had no wish to share more than was necessary with the man before him – the knowledge there was between them had to be shared, and the space of the room and the stale air in it.
‘So then,’ Templeton said to the negro boy, waving an irritable hand. ‘Why are you waiting there? Shoo, shoo, shoo. Go.’
‘I am come on the same grounds as last time,’ Kemp said in level tones. ‘Nothing of substance has been achieved on your part since then, in spite of the monies made over to you for your use as you thought fit.’
‘Ah, base metal, curse me, I knew we should soon come to money,’ Templeton said in a tone of disdain.
‘Yes, sir, money,’ Kemp said with a slight smile. ‘You find it a wearisome topic, I dare say, but those who dispense it incline to take an interest in how it is used.’
His disgust persisted. It was more for himself now. I should have sent someone else, he thought. But he trusted no one. He knew that Templeton was frightened and that his every gesture and inflection was assumed to disguise the fact. He knew more: he knew the man’s circumstances, his connections, those who were in his interest, those who were in his pocket, his gambling debts, his taste for boys, his wife of the days before his preferment alone and drunken in their country house, consoling herself with footmen. He was sick to the soul with his knowledge of Templeton.
‘No doubt it is perverse of them to press enquiry so far,’ he said drily, ‘but there it is.’
‘You are sarcastic, sir. It is not true to say that nothing has been achieved. I have risked displeasure at court by resisting demands for increased sugar duties to swell the revenues. There has been no increase since they were raised to help finance the war with the French,