My happiness; was that what I was still seeking? The meeting with Bram had profoundly shaken me. I had grown, matured, hardened, lived years of my life without a sight of him, but when he came suddenly on me – and when had he not done so? – I became emotionally vulnerable again, pent up, afraid.
Even that visit to see Tamsin had not produced definite results. She looked quite happy. Clearly the ménage with Bram suited her, and to Hell with the gossips. I did not mind this – or would not have minded it had her lover been a stranger. Was I jealous, or only anxious for her future welfare? Bram had only to look at a woman and she was halfway to surrender. How wonderful, how wonderful it would be if one could be, or become, immune! How insufferably conceited the man must be. With what contempt he must view this branch of the Spry family: me, Tamsin, probably my mother. How lovely it would be to hate him! And how impossible!
What was his charm? The charm of a dominant male? Perhaps. But also the charm of the perceptive, sympathetic man; one who cared and needed caring for.
The following week I went to dinner at Tregothnan and there met a young man called the Hon Jonathan Eliot, whose courteous attention seemed to go beyond the degree of politeness expected of a dinner partner. He was tallish and thin, thin-haired though scarcely more than thirty, smiling eyes and with something of Bram’s talent for concentrating his whole personal interest on the person he was talking to. Before the evening was out he had invited me to meet his sister. He would get her to write to ask me to stay a few days. He lived at St Germans, which I only vaguely knew as near Plymouth, and therefore a considerable journey. I replied as politely as I knew how, appreciating his attentions and being flattered by them. I had had little enough admiration in life, and it was new and heady to feel a quality of power, of influence, of control.
At the next meeting with Mr Hempel he told me of a benefit concert which was being organized in Truro on behalf of Mr Emidy’s widow, who was in poor circumstances. This was to take place in a month’s time. Mr Hempel’s own son, who was a talented organist and violinist, was to play several pieces. He, Hempel senior, had composed a special Te Deum for the occasion; two distinguished singers were coming from Falmouth, another from Plymouth: did I think I might contribute two or so of the songs I had been singing for him last Tuesday?
I remembered Professor Elbruz’s comments. ‘The production of your voice must be instinctive before you can interpret. You have of course no need to meet professional standards, but the nearer you get to them the more pleasure you will give and the more pleasure you will find.’
I did not want to sing. It would not have mattered so much in some other part of the country. It had not mattered in North Cornwall where I had appeared among amateurs. Here I was among my own people. No doubt there was some talk already of Emma Spry who had been so disfigured and now was no longer so disfigured, and had come into money and was living on her own at Killiganoon. People would come to see me, not so much to be critical or appreciative of the music, but to see me, to see what my face looked like now. I did not want to be set up like an Aunt Sally to be stared at. Another year.
Yet this concert was for Joseph Emidy’s widow. Would it not be better to give £20 to the concert and sit in the audience?
‘I don’t think, Mr Hempel, that I am quite ready for a public performance. I have really hardly practised enough, let alone anything else.’
‘We have a month, Miss Spry. I feel your voice is quite exceptionally good. We can practise as much as you like. After all, this is not London. And I believe it will give quite a fillip to music in Truro, and to some of my more backward pupils, if you were to sing. If only, say, two songs.’
That week came a letter from Charles:
Dear Emma, I am indeed deeply sorry and sad that our meeting went so badly wrong. Effie should never have spoken to you in the way she did, and I should not have called on you on the following morning to try to explain about what you should never have known. We are all to blame, but you only in the smallest degree because you did not warn me of your coming. I did not even know you were in England!
What can I say that will in any small way undo the damage done? If this really means the end of my letters to you and your letters to me I shall feel I have lost an invaluable part of my life. To whom else can I write with such frankness and confidentiality? From whom else can I expect such thoughtful and sympathetic understanding? If we are nothing more than friends of the pen and the post, yet that is of such value to me that I do not know how I may go on without it.
What has been said between us in the hotel cannot be forgotten. Nor, though I so much regret that it happened, do I want it to be forgotten. I only want it to be forgiven. Is it unforgivable to love a woman to distraction and then to marry elsewhere because the first woman seems far out of one’s reach? Perhaps you always were out of my reach if it is true that you care little or nothing for me. I do not know and probably shall never know now.
If it is possible to forgive this then, to prove it so, I hope and pray in due course you will write to me again. Will you?
Charles
III
I SANG three songs, one as an encore. It was an ordeal. When singing in Bodmin and various villages I had not felt more than ordinarily nervous, but this time I was convinced I would crack on a high note or otherwise break down. Added to the apprehension of being in superior musical company was the knowledge of who was going to be there. Bram Fox (he really did seem to like music); Jonathan Eliot, who was staying again with the Boscawens, and was to bring Lord Falmouth with him; cousin Desmond, back from London, and cousin Mary. The Mayor of Truro, and a fair sprinkling of clergymen. They had all turned up to honour the little black man who had spent his last years, and all his best years, in Cornwall.
Mr Hempel had persuaded me to sing two very simple songs; there would be no need to strain for the high notes. He said I had a sweet middle register; make the most of that until I gained in experience and confidence.
Even so, I nearly broke down. Hands were trembling so much that voice tried to do the same. The first bars were awful but then instead of gulping and stopping short and running for the wings, a desperate pride surged up from somewhere and I went on. Thereafter it was all right. The second song was better than the first. Mr Hempel rushed at me and I sang my encore. More applause – a lot of applause, and I had to return to the stage and bow – and then it was over. My eye and my face were stinging as if they had been hurt all over again.
At the end of the concert – tea and cakes. It was what I had missed at that first Emidy concert; now I was participating in it as an artiste. Lord Falmouth congratulated me and asked about my father whom he had known as a young man. Jonathan Eliot was very kind; his face glowed and one could come to believe that he really meant it. Others were complimentary. But I did not see Bram.
‘My sister has been unwell, otherwise she would have written you before this,’ said Jonathan Eliot; ‘and my father is in London. But in the course of the next two weeks I hope you will come and spend a few days with us. It would give me the greatest pleasure, Miss Spry.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That would be delightful.’
‘You could come by sea to Plymouth, that would perhaps be the simplest course; are you a good sailor?’
‘Thank you,’ I said again. ‘Yes, I am not seasick; but if it were agreeable to you, I have been invited to the Treffrys next month, and perhaps I could break the journey by coach.’
He looked disappointed. ‘ Of course. Please come before Christmas. Promise that.’
I smiled at him. ‘I willingly promise that.’
Desmond and Mary took their leave shortly after. It had not struck me before how much they were alike, not perhaps in feature but in character. Desmond asked politely about Killiganoon and how long I had leased it for. I invited them to come to sup and spend the night, and they accepted. This time in front of Desmond, there was no mention of Tamsin.
Just as I was myself about to leav
e Bram sidled up to me.
‘At last,’ he said. ‘The blow flies have departed. I like that dress. Is it Parisian?’
‘Yes.’
‘It shows your figure.’
‘It is just the fashion.’
‘I’m sure.’
He looked round. The hall was almost empty. Fetch had gone to call my hired coach.
He said: ‘You can sing better than that.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I heard you practising at Place when you were a girl.’
‘I expect I am getting a little past it.’
‘Actually you have a fine voice when you think no one is listening.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I would like to call and see you, Emma.’
‘What for?’
‘To renew old acquaintanceship. We have much to say to each other.’
‘Have we?’
‘I think so. You might even think I have some explaining to do.’
‘It’s a little late in the day for that.’
‘I’m not sure. You have come back to this district when you might have settled up country somewhere.’
‘My family is Cornish, you know.’
‘Yes. But who in your family brings you back? Do you care much for your sister? She does not seem to care much for you.’
I saw Fetch in the doorway.
‘I must go. Good night, Bram.’
He considered me; his eyes humorous, admiring.
‘I’ll call next week. Would Wednesday be convenient?’
‘I’m sorry. I am engaged that day.’
He said: ‘ I’ll come on Wednesday.’
Chapter Six
I
I HAD no appointments on the Wednesday but decided to walk across and visit the Vicar of St Kea, to discuss the repairs to the chancel roof which I had offered to finance. It rained all day, but though the walk was not specially agreeable – it could well have been put off until Thursday – the weather could hardly have been more helpful in demonstrating how badly the roof was in need of repair. Compared to the elegance and magnificence of Blisland, this was a dull uninspired rectangular little building with not much to commend it except its lovely site and the woods around it.
The vicar was tiny, to match his church, and highly obsequious, which was embarrassing. Would one ever slip easily into the persona of a figure of consequence when at heart one was still insignificant?
This attempt to avoid Mr Fox was abortive; he did not call until after dinner; so I kept him waiting half an hour. When I eventually went down he was standing looking out of the window, riding crop behind his back held by both hands.
He turned. ‘Ah, Miss Emmie. The elusive Miss Emmie.’ He laughed, as usual, as if he had made some joke. The ends of his hair had been wet and were curling up as they dried. His riding boots were muddy but had been clean when he set out.
He moved to kiss me but I turned my face away.
‘No longer friends?’
‘Is that not also a little out of date?’ I said.
He had not stood back, was only a foot from me.
‘Squisito!’ he said.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s Italian for something or other. You must guess.’
‘Thanks. I don’t want to. If you—’
‘I am glad you are wearing a dress with short sleeves. D’you know I believe I first fell in love with your elbow—’
‘Bram, if you are going to talk absurdities—’
‘What better when they are true? When I picked you up that first day and took you sailing it was purely an impulse to be pleasant to a plump unhappy little girl, as one would pick up and stroke a stray cat. But this unhappy little girl, I soon recognized, was one of the younger Sprys and sister to the lady I was interested in. It was not until you got in the boat and we sailed away and I saw your bare arm on the tiller, that I saw it in all its perfection. Shape, form, colour. All right, you may laugh: I am not even an artist. Many women have beautiful arms. But something about yours—’
‘Have you told Tamsin?’
‘What?’
‘How beautiful you think my arms are.’
He moved away, brushing damp from the frilled sleeves of his shirt where they showed beneath his velvet jacket. ‘Tammy is beautiful in other ways. I am not claiming that all these years I have been exclusively interested in you, but—’
‘What a confession! How you do succeed in sweeping girls off their feet!’
‘Emma, you will have your sarcasm. Tamsin is a sweet woman. But sweetness is not all. You are not a sweet woman; you are bitter still. It is not I you hate so much as the accident of your disfigurement. Even now, although you are largely cured, you have an incubus on your shoulder, and you cannot forget it.’
‘I cannot forget all that happened to me when I was eighteen. And I don’t intend to forget it or forgive it.’
He laughed, but this time sobered suddenly.
‘I tell you it’s life you can’t forgive. I was just an incident in that life; still am—’
‘No longer. No longer, believe me.’
‘Well, if I am no longer important in your life, why do you still care what happened? Forget it. It is long past. I was only the first. There must have been others since then—’
‘At least a dozen.’
‘And it has done you no harm! You have become more beautiful as a consequence. It is not just the operation.’
‘I underwent that chiefly for the amusement.’
‘D’you know,’ he said, ‘ you really have the most lovely underarms. D’you remember that night how I repeatedly kissed them?’
‘What? Oh, that night. I think you were drunk, were you not?’
‘Drunk with a special desire that it seems only you can raise in me.’
‘This conversation is childish,’ I said. ‘ Can you not grow up, Bram?’
Neither of us came well out of this interchange, and we were both getting angry. He because he could not get his own way, I because I was frightened of myself. His temper was widely known but I had never witnessed it and certainly it had never been directed towards me.
‘Get out!’ I said, and then in a much gentler tone, ‘Please.’
I think it was this last word that stopped him in midstream. He swallowed. The muscles seemed to ripple around his throat.
‘I’ll go then. I’ll go now. But don’t think this is the end of it, Emma. I feel – I have the strongest feeling – that you belong to me.’
‘And my sister? And my mother?’
He smiled. ‘I’m not prepared to talk about that – about them. I can only tell you that you are the only person I have ever really loved.’
II
SUMMER BECAME autumn and autumn winter, and I was twenty-six. The young queen became engaged to be married to Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. I had not written to Charles. I visited the home of the Eliots in St Germans. Jonathan was very charming, as was his sister. The house was big and beautiful and my stay a pleasant one. I broke my journey on the way there at the Treffrys, and on the way home stayed a couple of days with the Collinses.
While in Blisland I had a wreath made and took it to Uncle Francis’s grave, and knelt there for a while trying to thank him for all he had done for me. Now and then I fancied I could hear his voice, but perhaps it was only the light breeze murmuring among the bare trees.
The following day I went into Bodmin to attend a meeting of the railway adventurers. Naturally Charles was not there, but I had had a sneaking anticipation that he might be, and I tried to come to terms with an equally sneaking sensation of disappointment. Under consideration at the meeting was a letter from Mr Brunel, recommending that they should set aside the Camel and the Elephant for casual and relief work, and purchase a new engine designed by the brilliant engineer, Mr Gooch, exactly to the design of the Bacchus and the Vulcan which were now rendering sterling and trouble-free service on the Wootton Bassett line.
&nb
sp; Sir John Molesworth and myself and the Chief Superintendent, Mr Dunstan, were for taking up the idea, but there were too many doubts and objections from the others, so our answer was postponed until the next meeting and a resolution passed to explore new outlets for the line. With the mines in the district closed or on the verge of closing, the trucks often ran empty down line. Buying a faster and more reliable engine was not much use if the freight traffic was not there.
Somehow the atmosphere, the feeling in East Cornwall was lighter. One could be oneself, the new Emma Spry, monied, young, with more laughter in her than there had ever been before, less touched by the events of childhood, and with no special regard for what would happen next. Perhaps it would be better to live there. Coming west, to Truro, to Killiganoon, the picture closed in. I was not just returning to my home and all the old memories. I was returning to an indeterminate future, a series of ominous problems that would not go away. I had to face a resolution of these problems, which might be out of my hands. Then, if not resolved, I might have to live with them. That was the direst prospect of all.
III
WE HAD not been living in the house long when Sally Fetch discovered a stray kitten starving to death in the long grass behind the stables. When she brought it in it was too feeble to stand and flopped over on its weak legs, its mouth opening and shutting in inaudible miaows. One of its hind legs had an open wound, and the fur was matted with dried blood. Either it had been caught in a gin or it had been attacked by one of the farm dogs.
We carried it into the kitchen, put a blanket in a basket and tried to feed it with milk. The kitten’s startling green eyes glazed over now and then, but presently by squirting drops of milk into its mouth with a tube designed for ear drops, we began to bring it round.
The Ugly Sister Page 24
