‘Thank you, Mama,’ I said.
She looked at me suspiciously. ‘At one time, Emma, you could not find your tongue. Now you frequently use it to ill effect. Being in employment will guide you to its proper use.’
The maid came in with lighted candles. By the flickering new flame I looked at my mother again and thought: I can never, never tell her. But what when my belly begins to swell for all to see? There will be no concealment possible then.
After the maid had gone she said: ‘As a matter of fact, I believe I may have found something for you.’ She hesitated in a fashion she had no doubt used to effect in the theatre. ‘Your Uncle Francis.’
‘D’you mean – who took the service at the funeral?’
‘Yes, the Canon.’
‘Who lives on the moors?’
‘At Blisland. On the edge of the moors. He has recently lost his housekeeper companion and wants someone to take her place. He would normally be looking for someone more mature and with more experience, but in a letter to him I have pressed your case. He has the advantage of having met you and knows about your handicap, and you are distantly related. You have had the advantage of seeing how this house is run, and have been trained in simple cooking and domestic affairs. He is, he tells me, very poor, so he cannot afford to pay more than a nominal sum in wages; but you will have two servants, and the run of the house. I only hope he will accept you.’
I listened almost indifferently for I could not see myself taking employment in a rectory carrying an illegitimate child. I thought I knew enough about the Anglican church to be sure it would not want to give shelter to a fallen woman. Perhaps if I were to strangle the child when it was born, or contrive an abortion …
Hope was ebbing. I knew no one to speak to, no one to confide in.
‘Mama,’ I said.
‘Yes?’
‘No matter.’
‘It will be a different household from this,’ she said, ‘more devout, more spartan. That sort of discipline will be good for you.’
I stared at the cupid on the wallpaper, which was still peeling, in the state it had been ten years ago.
‘Desmond is going to spend more money on the church here. I heard him discussing it with the Canon at the funeral. He could well spend some on this house too.’
She looked at me sourly. ‘I wrote to the Canon ten days ago. I heard he was looking for a housekeeper. I am hoping to hear any day.’
III
CELEBRATIONS WERE to take place that summer to mark the Coronation of William IV. A West Briton was delivered to us, and I read the details with attention.
King William had now reigned a year, and had expressed the wish that his coronation, which was due to take place in two weeks’ time, should be an altogether quieter and less expensive occasion than when his brother had been crowned. Nevertheless this did not deter his loyal subjects from celebrating the occasion, and, as often happened in Cornwall nowadays, Truro had been made the centre of the rejoicing. On the Sunday there was to be a solemn service in St Mary’s Church, to which all the distinguished people of the county were invited; but on the day before there was to take place an outdoor fête, a regatta timed for full tide, a banquet in the streets, a ball in the Assembly Rooms, fireworks. Now if there was one man I could name who couldn’t fail to be in the swim of such an occasion it was Mr Fox. He was drawn to ‘events’, celebrations, balls, concerts. In some capacity he would be in Truro a week on Saturday. It was now or never for me. How could I get there? Clearly I would receive no permission from my mother. But if I again took French leave, how could I physically reach the town? Falmouth was just across the bay. Truro was ten miles inland at the last important navigable point of the River Fal. The distance from St Anthony might well be fifteen miles. I could walk that.
It would mean crossing creeks like Percuil, and eventually the river at King Harry. But it could be done. Of course the simplest way would be to hire a cutter at St Mawes and take it all the way. But with life ahead of me looking very bleak I was not anxious to go to the added expense. I had a substantial amount of Uncle Davey’s legacy still, but who knew what privations I might have to face if Bram continued to ignore me?
It had been the habit of Desmond and Mary when they were in their teens to walk to Truro sometimes and spend a night with the Boscawen children at Tregothnan on the way, but I had never gone with them and I shrank from arriving at the Falmouths’ great house as an unannounced guest.
I thought of enlisting Desmond’s help on this second adventure, but I could not trust him not to tell Tamsin if some crisis arose. After all, his first loyalty was to her.
Leaving Place House was no problem if one were prepared to be brazen about it – even Aunt Anna had several times got as far as the quay in her nightdress – but it would be too humiliating to be brought back. So a degree of contrivance was worthwhile.
Dawn was breaking late now, but if I left at six in the morning there would be plenty of light in the Cornish sky. Six hours, seven hours it might take. Celebrations were due to begin at eleven with a parade, but the day was to be a full one, ending with fireworks at midnight. That should be time enough. Provided I could find him. What was he most likely to be interested in? The regatta, which began at two?
What would I take? Something to eat and drink. Strong shoes. A cloak against a shower – a light dress so that one did not become too hot walking. A comb; three guineas to be on the safe side. Small change. A silk scarf to hide the disagreeable side of my face. Did I intend to walk back the same day? I would be too late to catch Joey Dixon’s market boat back from Falmouth to St Mawes. If I absented myself for another night my mother would be beside herself. But had I anything to lose?
The weather was changing. Clouds were drifting up from the south-west. By the Friday the sun was fitful, and now and then a cloud let drop a few speckles of rain. So be it.
I left the house at five. There should have been a glimmering of light by then, but the clouds were lowering, and I stumbled twice in the black sleeping depths of the house and stood heart in mouth waiting for discovery. The greatest risk was that Parish should bark, but he had been so severely trained not to wake his mistress that he was no guard dog.
Side door, then skirting the church, which raised a pinnacle in the dark, past some scaffolding that the workmen had put up, walking on grass when I could to avoid the crunch of pebbles. A cow’s white face peered at me over a hedge and made me jump. Out of earshot of the house I returned to the pebbles, saw the big white farm gate between the granite posts, slid through with a click of the latch, slung light pack on shoulder and the adventure had begun.
Somehow I felt more hopeful than I had done since the night of the concert. I was at least doing something, taking an action which with any sort of luck would enable me to meet him again. Truro was a small town, and though it would be crowded with people from the country around, Bram was one of the gentry. He would be organizing something or taking some prominent part in it all.
I carried with me a map that Aunt Anna had kept in her drawer, marked with crosses where her whist-playing friends lived. It did not extend to Truro but it covered the area as far as Carnon Downs. The problem was negotiating all the little inlets of the River Fal, but I had worked out what seemed to be the easiest route. First obstacle, right at the outset, was the Polvarth Ferry which would enable me to cross to St Mawes. I knew this did not begin until six, but Tregundle lived on this side, and moored his boat for the night at the quay below his cottage.
The steep lane to the quay was much overgrown and full of glow-worms. Their tiny greenish twinkling lights flanked me all the way down. They seemed a good omen. Then an owl screeched overhead and I was not so sure.
By now daylight had almost come, and the creek glimmered through the trees. There were steps from his thatched cottage to the quay. In the distance a cock crowed into the still air. It was half tide and the boat leaned on its elbow in the sandy shingle, the water glimmering a foot from its bo
ws. I stared across. It was no distance to the other bank. I could wade it. But I never had. In the middle it might unexpectedly come up to my waist and I had no wish to get my skirts wet. I walked awkwardly across the pebbles and looked at the creek. The water was perceptibly rising, inch by inch. In an hour the dinghy would be afloat. I could not wait.
Unlatch the rope and push. An inch at a time at first. I was sweating, and a drift of rain in the wind was not unwelcome. Halfway in the water the pressure was suddenly taken off. I gave the boat an extra shove and as it floated jumped in. The ferryman had taken the oars but left a paddle, and with that I propelled myself to the other side.
IV
FROM ST Mawes I took the coast lane to St Just, skirting the inlet, watched the bats flying in the dawn light among the sentinelled trees. Tregorland, Tregellans, Penperth; then the long descent to Tolverne and King Harry Ferry. I waited for the first crossing, ate a piece of cold pasty and bought a cup of milk from a nearby cottage. A dozen bullocks were also waiting for the ferry. Roped together, they snuffled and stamped and snorted until the oarsmen had brought the ferry to the quay. Then, with one farmer to lead them and one to beat them from behind, they were launched into the River Fal and obliged to swim to preserve their lives. The farmer at the back followed me onto the ferry, leaping on perilously as it slid away from the bank, then with his partner took a hand at the oars as we launched into midstream, followed by twelve animals dragged along with stout ropes. At the other side there was much confusion as several of the animals struggling to get ashore nearly upset the ferry. Ignoring this I went quickly on up the hill, past Trelissick, then on to Come-to-Good (it was a Quaker meeting house: would Bram Fox be known there?). Soon after that I joined the coaching road for Truro, and from there it was straightforward, though up hill and down dale.
It was when I came to the outskirts of the town that I realized the enormity of the task. The streets were crowded, the harbour too, and the pool full of small boats. The milling crowds were of all conditions, from beggars in bare feet to fops carrying walking sticks and pomanders against the stink. Stalls had been set up, further narrowing the streets. The Town Crier was ringing his bell and shouting something about coal. Pigs rooted everywhere among the refuse and the horse dung.
I fought my way into the centre of the town to High Cross, near the church, where the parade was forming up to move off. There were trumpeters at the front and four men with drums. A single church bell was ringing, hardly to be heard above the shouts and the loud chatter.
I edged myself towards a tall elderly man in a frock coat and a silk hat who was talking to a group and might, I thought, be organizing things. When he paused for breath and two of the others drifted away, I said:
‘I beg your pardon, sir. I wonder if you could help me. I am trying to find Mr Abraham Fox.’
He looked at me, frowned at my face, cupped his ear. I had to repeat the question.
‘Mr Abraham Fox? I’ve no idea. I don’t have his acquaintance. What is his position in these celebrations?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Is there somewhere I can enquire?’
He had been hostile, but perhaps my educated voice made him soften or my face convinced him I could not be a prostitute.
‘If you were to ask at the Town Hall, in Boscawen Street. This way, then down Church Lane. They might know. Ask for Mr Vage.’
I thanked him and went off in the direction he indicated. By now it was raining steadily, a soft damping rain drifting with the breeze. The narrow slit of lane was almost impossible to get down, but once through one came out into the widest street in Truro. What looked like the Town Hall was almost opposite, and I wended a way among the horses, the carriages, the carts, the donkeys, the street sellers and went into the building, squeezing past a crush of men in the doorway. One or two made crude jests as I slid through.
Inside was a large room, tables, a chair, some men arguing over a banner. A tall man in a frock coat with a sash from shoulder to waist.
‘Pardon me, sir, do you know if Mr Vage is here?’
He looked at me with quite a different eye, benevolent, paternal. ‘’Orace Vage, m’dee-ur? He’m down to the Moorfield, nigh to West Bridge. They was proposing a procession of maidens all in white, but he’s thinking to hold it back a while on account of this spiery old weather. You’d best wait a while yourself.’
I smiled at him with the sideways look I had grown accustomed to to make the best of my face. ‘ Thank you, sir. In fact it was Mr Abraham Fox I was seeking. Someone said that Mr Vage might know.’
‘Mr Jonathan Fox?’
‘No. Abraham.’
‘Seems me I’ve ’ eard tell of such a one. But he bain’t known to me. Ye don’t mean Dr Joseph Fox, him as lives at Restronguet? Now there’s a fine man for ’ee …’
I excused myself and went to the door, but saw the heavy shower was not yet over, so I slid round the corner of the room and stood against a cupboard, took out the rest of my pasty and ate it there. The water was dripping off my hair and into the pasty. I was tired and dispirited. It seemed a long way to walk home in this downpour.
A man breathed ale over me and said: ‘What’s amiss with ’ee? Come ’ome along o’ me. Tis dry ’tome and we’ll ’ave a bite t’eat.’
‘Now then, now then,’ said the tall man, coming up. ‘Be off with ’ee, leave the maid alone.’ He peered at me. ‘You bain’t crying, m’dee-ur?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘no, it is the rain.’
‘Well, if so be as you’re set ’pon finding this here character called Abraham Fox, why don’t ’ee go to Lemon Bridge, where Jonathan Fox be acting as marshal for the regatta? You can always rely ’pon it that one Fox’ll know another.’
Chapter Seven
I
AT TWO the regatta began, but Jonathan Fox, if he was the man standing in the anchored boat giving directions, was quite out of reach. (I thought I had seen him before somewhere.) The rain had stopped at last but there was the sort of damp in the air that did not encourage one’s clothes to dry. I was wet and chilled. Must wait until the regatta was over and then start back: with luck I should be home by midnight. There would be the devil to pay, but that could have been borne if the object had been successfully achieved – or at least with some better equanimity if I had found Bram and faced him out. The utter failure of the day brought me to a low ebb. I understood now why Annie, a maid at Place, had thrown herself over a cliff.
The regatta dragged on, as regattas usually do, and another man, standing beside me, began to make remarks. It was unusual, no doubt, that a young woman of any decent class should be unattended in a crowd and on a day like this, and he wanted to test the water to see if I was as unapproachable as I tried to look.
This was a middle-aged man, not as ragged nor as easy to put off as the man in the Town Hall. I walked away and he followed me, took my arm gently, then when I pulled it away, more firmly.
It was a bad part of Truro, by the Town Quay. At normal times respectable folk would probably not be seen here unless on business. Today it was crowded with all kinds watching the regatta.
‘You’re tired, mistress,’ he said. ‘Have a gin. This yon tavern’ll do nicely. I’ll never harm ’ee.’
‘Let me alone!’ I said, wrenching my arm free again.
Two old market women laughed out loud at us, gaping gums where their teeth should have been. The Town Crier now was quite near, a big man with a white beard in a battered blue uniform and a tall hat.
‘If any man have the mind to buy very fine Neath coals, as good as any as can be burned in forge or hearth, let ’em come to Enys Quay to the ship Kingfisher, Cap’n Enoch Beddoes, where they d may have the said good Neath coals at 6 a bushel.’
I shook the man off again, slid past some people and caught the Town Crier’s arm.
‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘But this man is pestering me! Can you please tell him to go away!’
The Town Crier pee
red down at me, through his bushy beard. He had tiny pin-point eyes which expressed surprise, suspicion, irritation and finally responsibility.
‘What man’s that, mistress?’
I pointed to where my oppressor was shaking the rain off his hat.
‘That man! He will not leave me alone!’
The Town Crier stared. ‘Why, Mr Arnold. What be the trouble, eh?’
Arnold put his hat back. ‘Pesterin’ her?’ he said indignantly. ‘Nothing of the sort. She’ve been following me for ten minutes, whispering lewd invitations. Tedn’t right, Joseph, for decent folk in broad daylight to be pursued by light women, in a respectable town. When I were a young man women like she was flogged at the cart-tail. I’ve a good mind to give ’er in charge!’
Joseph hesitated. I’m not sure whether he altogether believed Mr Arnold – they knew each other, it was true – but after some rubbing of his beard he looked at me again. ‘I reckon ’tis best if you was going, miss. ’Tis not proper for you to be on your own. Where d’you live? What business do you have in the town?’
‘My name is Spry,’ I said, knees trembling. ‘I came to see the regatta. Now that it is over I will rejoin my party.’
Arnold gave me a venomous look. ‘Be off with ’ ee! You’ve no right nor business round ’ere!’
There had been a stirring near the steps of the quay, and a tall portly man with a trim grey beard came up them. I knew now why I recognized him: I had last seen him introducing the orchestra and Mr Joseph Emidy at the Falmouth Town Hall on that fateful night. I made a half relieved step towards him before realizing that he would not know me at all.
He was carrying a book and some tickets. My glance flew to the harbour and I saw that, though sails still abounded, the controlling boat was no longer there.
I was past ordinary manners, nerves only just in control of voice and actions.
The Ugly Sister Page 9
