‘Excuse me. Pray excuse me, but are you Mr Jonathan Fox?’
He stopped at the top of the steps to get his breath. ‘I am.’
‘Oh …’ Now that I had come close to one quarry, my tongue and mind hesitated to put the next question. ‘Pray, I wonder, I am … I am – was looking for Mr Abraham Fox. I wonder if you know where I could find him?’
He frowned, and took out a handkerchief to dab his lips. ‘ Mr Abraham Fox? Mr Bram Fox?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He looked me over. I must have been a pretty sight, with disfigured face, hair sodden, the sleeve of my dress torn where the man had grasped it, still the distress in my eyes.
‘May I ask what business you have with him?’
‘No – no business, sir. I – know him, and he – he wrote and asked me to meet him. I understood – I thought – he would be – be here.’
Mr Fox hesitated. ‘The rain is coming on again. I think you should take shelter. Penrose, will you take this book, in which I have recorded the results. Keep good care of it. I shall not be long.’ He turned and looked at me more sympathetically. ‘ There is a coffee house down this ope.’
It was the first really friendly voice, and I nearly burst into tears. I choked them back and followed him down an alley and up stairs to a low-raftered room, where men in green aprons were waiting on a few tables. I nodded indistinctly when he suggested hot chocolate and presently I was sipping it and staring out of the rain-mottled window while he looked me over.
‘It’s good to have a moment’s peace myself,’ he said. ‘When you have rested perhaps you can tell me what you want with Abraham Fox.’
Obviously I could not do that, but I told him my name and where I lived and how I came to meet his cousin when he called at Place, and how I had met him again at the orchestral concert last month, to which he had invited me …
Mr Fox interrupted. ‘But I remember now. I saw you there. You were in the fourth or fifth row. But you were on your own, weren’t you? I think—’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Bram was organizing things.’
‘I remember. But did you come on your own? You’re a very self-reliant young woman. Did you come here alone today?’
‘It was not from choice, sir. I could not find a companion, so I came by myself.’
‘To see my cousin?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Or second cousin, to be exact. Well, Miss Spry, I have to tell you that Bram is not here, nor are you likely to see him for some time to come.’
We looked at each other. ‘ M – may I ask …’
‘Of course. Bram is in gaol.’
II
MR JONATHAN Fox said: ‘ Let me get you a drink of water. The chocolate perhaps was too rich. No? I expect it is the damp and the chill – who would think it still summer … No, I cannot tell you how long he will be in prison for he has been gaoled for debt, so his term will depend upon how long it takes him to discharge his liabilities. My father and I have often said it is an inequitable sentence for such an offence. Many a good man has failed in a legitimate business and been cast into prison for his sins, where he has no means whatever of recovering himself by hard work or new enterprise, and therefore languishes behind bars while perhaps his wife and family are in want.’
I picked up the cup which still had some chocolate in it, but I could not bring it to my lips.
‘And Bram?’
‘Ah, that is rather different. He was a great favourite of my aunt, Mrs Elizabeth Fox. Bram has great gifts but makes too little of them – no commercial use whatever. He lived too high for his means, which were slender, and relied upon her to help him out of one scrape after another. But it happened just once too often and Elizabeth at length listened to the advice of her family and called a halt. I should not be surprised if Mr Abraham Fox finds his sentence salutary. Although some people will never learn.’
Mr Jonathan Fox had a puffy face and seemed at times to have difficulty with his breathing.
‘Where,’ I said, ‘where is he? In prison, I mean.’
‘The case was heard in Truro, but I think he will have gone to Bodmin. Mind you, once his aunt has vented her wrath, I have no doubt she will grant him enough to discharge his debts. The other night she was mentioning the time of three months as a likely and suitable duration. In the meantime one or other of his family will see that he does not lack all the creature comforts. As indeed I believe there is to be some provision made to ensure that his wife does not fall into want. The Foxes, my dear, are a close family, and we have some regard even for our black sheep.’
‘His … Did you say? …’
‘His wife, yes. Meliora. Perhaps you did not know that he was married? He tends not to talk of it in the company of other ladies.’
‘I see. Thank you.’ I half got up, but he went on talking, and I forced myself to listen. Now that he was launched, Mr Fox seemed to want to go on.
‘Abraham is the son of my cousin by his second marriage. His mother was a Trejago. He was the only child of this marriage, though he has two half-sisters. From infancy he seems to have been a nonconformist, using that word in the wrong sense. His father was a devout Christian, and they quarrelled often. Corrective treatment, which normally is necessary in the disobedient young, was repeatedly opposed and prevented by his mother, who thought him the most beautiful of boys – as indeed he was – so he grew up wild, adored by his sisters who thought he could do no wrong. Both his parents died young. His father cut Abraham out of his will, but his mother left him all her money which he went through in about three years. Fortunately there are two small trusts left him by his grandfather, and these he cannot break; but his income from them is small. He first went into the wine business with a friend in Plymouth, but it did not prosper. Then when he came into his mother’s money he set himself up as a country gentleman. And so it has gone on.’
I waited for what I had to hear. He had stopped and was staring out at the rain.
‘And his wife?’ I said at last.
‘Ah yes. Meliora Webb, as she was. D’you know …’
‘What?’
‘She was a beauty, but she came from a family in the tanning business and was virtually without money. He got her in the family way, and her brothers – both of them in the militia – insisted – not without intimidation – that he do the right thing by her.’
‘They – have a family, then?’
‘No. The child died – or was stillborn, I can’t remember which – and they have had no more. They live in St Austell – or she does. They have a small place there, near where they were both born. Already she has lost some of her looks.’
‘How long – have they been married?’
‘I suppose it would be nearly three years.’
I stirred the remnants of the chocolate. ‘Has she been ill?’
‘No. Not as far as I know. But some women are like that – a quick short flowering. Excuse me, I should not observe this to you.’
I said: ‘ I have had no flowering. I am just as ugly as I have always been.’
‘I should not call it ugly,’ he said. ‘Your face is – is quite like a rose, but with a flaw in it.’
‘The worm in the bud,’ I suggested.
He looked at me in some surprise. ‘No … I wouldn’t say that. It is not my wish to enquire into its causes – if you know them—’
‘It happened at my birth.’
‘I am very sorry. I suppose your parents have consulted surgeons on the matter?’
‘My father died before I was born.’
‘Ah, Aubrey Spry, Admiral Davey’s brother. I do remember him. I met him once in Falmouth when we were both young. Well, I would have thought some treatment, possibly surgery, might help.’
‘That is what Bram said.’
‘Did he indeed? Was that why you wanted to see him?’
‘Not exactly. In fact, no.’
‘And you came all the way from St Anthony? On your own? By river?’
‘I walked.’
‘And you propose to walk back? In this weather? That you cannot do – have you not relatives at Tregolls?’
‘Well, yes. But I could hardly trouble them.’
‘I think you must. Even that is a long walk in the rain … Let me see, there should be chairs for hire in Boscawen Street. Do you know Miss Letitia Spry?’
‘No. Mary, I know well.’
‘She will be there? Good. Then when this heavy shower relents I will take you. This ope runs behind the Mansion House and will afford some shelter.’
III
MARY SAID: ‘I cannot begin to understand you, Emma. Does it mean you have a taking for this awful man? Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know. The Foxes as a family are most highly esteemed – one could not wish for better people – but Abraham … him you must keep at a distance! I’m sorry if you have an accord with him. I thought at one time Thomasine was his target, but that, all that has evaporated, thanks be. I cannot – forgive me – suppose that he transferred his attentions to you, but perhaps you are unduly susceptible. He is, I will admit, a handsome man. But you, if you marry at all, should look for some sober hard-working man who will appreciate your sterling worth and not look for – well … but in any case, Bram is married. Did you know?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course you must spend the night here! Then we must consider what means is the easiest by which you may return home. I think if you are in such trouble with your mother regarding this unpermitted absence, you could say that you had had an arrangement to meet me for this fête and celebration. I do not like to be untruthful or engage in any deceit, but I think it is justified if it enables you to plead a suitable excuse. Your mother will no doubt blame you for not telling her of it, but the fact that it concerns the Sprys will induce her to make more allowances than otherwise. Your mother, forgive me, in spite of her marriage to Uncle Aubrey, has never been quite a Spry in the way you have become. It is very strange but I personally believe it to be so.’
‘Thank you, dear Mary. I am desperately – desperately – depressed – exhausted by the day: the walk, the rain, the crowds, you know … I am happy and relieved to put myself in your hands.’
Mary said: ‘You know, of course, that Desmond has proposed marriage to your sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose she will accept. She is a very handsome young woman, and will make him a beautiful wife. I think she could have done better. It is perhaps disloyal of me, but I think she could have done better. There was Geoff St Aubyn looking at her. And John Treffry – though he has no money. And Henry Le Grice. No doubt your mother felt that Desmond, with the virtual occupancy of Place, and a fair amount of money, was a safer investment. I am not so sure, dear Emma.’
‘Not so sure about what?’
‘I am not sure about Desmond’s stability – though I’m certain I should not say so to anyone else. Oh, no doubt he will be a good husband and a loyal one – which is a great deal to be considered these days. And he will be an amenable one. That too. But … I think he is too inward-looking. Too much like dear Mama. I think it is possible that in a few years he will come to thinking of nothing but his birds.’
Chapter Eight
I
DESMOND AND Thomasine were married quietly in the church at Place House just a year after Admiral Davey Spry had been laid to rest there. Most of our Spry relatives in Cornwall were present, except for Anna Maria who was in London with her husband and about to be brought to bed of her fourth child. Since she did not quite approve of the marriage, I wondered if hers was a diplomatic absence.
Two weeks after the wedding, while they were still on their honeymoon, my mother took me to my new home at Blisland, and then herself caught the London coach at Launceston.
Of course I was not with child. I should have known earlier but in my inexperience did not. Although a single first seduction is commonly supposed to produce a baby I have learned since that it is not unknown for a virgin to escape from her deflowering.
I heard nothing more of Bram, and made no further attempt to communicate with him. The whole infatuation had gone sour. Instead of being in love with him, nearly all my feelings had turned to hate. The heady experience of that night, which even at the time had been part mind-consuming passion, part revulsion, part a reaching for new unimaginable sensations, part a shrinking away from losing my own identity as until then I knew it, part a wild relish for an overflowing rebellion, part a heartbreaking shame at what was happening to me – all these conflicting emotions had turned ultimately to ash. I felt I never wanted to see a man again, nor ever to be touched by one. Despite what a consoling friend – if I ever had one – might say, that I had been betrayed by a scoundrel and was certainly not the first woman so to suffer, my utter conviction was that I had betrayed myself. My disfigurement made it ten times as bad. No doubt it was conceit that persuaded some innocent unsophisticated girl of eighteen to suppose that a good-looking depraved man of thirty-odd wanted anything more of her than a night in her bed before he passed on. Girls who can look in the mirror and see a pretty face are capable of any sort of silly self-deception. But I had no such excuse. I had been blind, fascinated, like a bird by a snake, and there was no excuse. I had been betrayed and had willingly, sensually but senselessly, connived at my own betrayal. It was a feeling almost impossible to live with.
There was always the possibility that I might not choose to live with it. For some weeks, especially after arriving at Blisland, that loomed as a way out. Had I been carrying Bram’s child this step would have been almost certain. But with only burning hatred and humiliation to press this course I hesitated over the means which, short of a rope and a hook in the stables, were not easy to find.
But presently there was a change, though for a while I was not conscious of it. In the cold monotonous religious routine of this new life there seemed little extra reason to relish being alive, but the Canon may have been responsible by facing me with new challenges which, domestic though they were, allowed me less time to brood.
Blisland is a moorland village on the edges of Bodmin Moor. Though there are pleasant woodlands nearby, its position is essentially bleak. It is on a plateau on the lower slopes of Brown Willy, one of the twin mountains that mark the highest peaks of the moors. It is nine or ten miles from the sea and, except for a belt of trees around the village, totally exposed to all the wild and vigorous winds that Heaven sends. Although the village is only a couple of hundred feet above the sea, all the land west of it is lower, with level fields that do nothing to break the power of the wind.
The hamlet was pretty: thatched and slated cottages clustered round a green sentinelled with tall trees, and the beautiful, ornate church on a corner. It was old – the list of rectors in the porch beginning in 1510, but the Canon said it was much older than that. The rectory was fairly recent, having been put up at the beginning of the century, but in a short time it had come to look nearly as ancient as the church. Much of the moorstone of which it was built had been weathered by the elements before it was put to its present use, and inside it seemed full of big rooms with big furniture, and was echoing and gloomy.
The change from the windowed sunny Place House reflected the change in the neighbourhood, and the two locations were as extreme as any Cornwall could achieve. The first had all the gentle lushness of the southern coast, the second the wildness of the deserted moors. A year or two later, when Uncle Francis and I were on good terms, he showed me an ancient document which stated that the parish of Blisland comprised 6,300 acres, of which over 2,000 was arable, 1,000 pasture, forty woodland, thirty meadow and 2,500 common moorland. That speaks for itself.
Yet the distance between the two houses was not more than thirty-five miles. That day in early November when I went, we took the coach from Falmouth to Bodmin and then a gig over the muddy lane for the last few miles. I had asked that I might take Parish with me, but Desmond said he wanted him to stay at Place just in c
ase his mother improved in health and was able to return. So after I parted from my mother I was quite alone.
There were three servants and I had to learn new names: Clarice, Florrie and Tom. It soon became clear that I had been engaged to take over the house. The cook had suddenly died, and Uncle Francis’s housekeeper had left for a better post in Devon. So the Canon had been left without his two main servants. It looked as if he was now calculating that one strong, willing, educated girl could be expected to replace the two. He explained all this to me on the first evening. Clarice had helped with the cooking, Florrie had helped with the housework, Tom had helped in the garden. But they all needed a guiding hand, a strong animating force behind them. Because of the rising cost of living and some misfortunes in his small investments it was necessary to exercise the utmost stringency in all matters.
It seemed to me that a high degree of stringency had been exercised for some time. Outside, the stucco had fallen off the front porch in big patches, and paint was peeling or absent from most of the window frames. The pebble drive was overgrown with grass, and weeds flourished in the garden. Inside, carpets were threadbare, and wallpapers hung loose to a degree far worse than anything to be seen at Place. Upstairs there were no mats on the landings, and the floorboards creaked so that no silent movement could be taken. The paintings, mostly of ancestors of Canon Robartes, were mildewed and faded. Heavy furniture stood about in the living rooms as if not sure of a permanency; the Canon’s study was swamped with books, all so far as I could see religious, not only filling the shelves but planted in haphazard pyramids about the floor. A huge desk was scattered with his writings – some, it seemed, the drafts for sermons, some articles by him printed in religious journals; but some were household accounts, from which it appeared Uncle Francis kept an unremitting eye on what he and others spent, down to the last penny.
The Ugly Sister Page 10
