Portrait of a Girl

by Mary Williams

  ‘Luigi?’

  ‘My friend. He is half Italian, and was once a famous name in Opera — as a tenor in his prime, and later as producer. So of course, his contacts are valuable. If he thinks your talent worth troubling about I’ve no doubt I’ll be able to persuade him to take you on. But you’ll have to obey him and work hard. He can be a difficult tutor, because he is naturally a perfectionist. Do you understand? Have you the first idea of what I’m trying to din into you?’

  The golden slits of his eyes gleamed brilliantly, unswervingly on mine.

  With my chin lifted an inch higher I faced him very directly.

  ‘I think so. I’m trying.’

  ‘Very well. This then is what I propose. You will leave the Golden Bird in the next few days, and travel with me to my home on the North Coast. There is a cottage on the estate where you can live providing you keep an eye on certain things. I have a caretaker there, but she is getting old and not entirely capable of handling special objets d’art. Her eyes are no longer very good, and her hands are shaky, but she can cook still, and do a certain amount of cleaning. If you are willing you will assist her when necessary, for your board and lodging, and of course to help pay for your tuition. Luigi does not give his services for nothing.’

  He paused; and after a moment I asked, ‘Where, if I agree, shall I have my lessons? There? At your cottage?’

  He gave a short laugh.

  ‘My dear girl! no, of course not. Once or twice a week my chaise will take you to Truro. Your lessons can be arranged for suitable premises according to Luigi’s choice. That is — if he agrees.’

  If— if! again the doubt.

  Although exhilarated still, I was bewildered, a little uneasy. Everything had happened so quickly, and I couldn’t help wishing that the future could have been arranged without the necessity of having to be dictated to by the ‘perfectionist’ — the critical and, I was sure, fiery Italian Luigi.

  Apart from that the condition that I’d be expected to help at the cottage in any caretaking business seemed a little strange. I didn’t much like the idea of being confined in a small cottage with a shaky old woman whose faculties were failing. Did it mean that I’d hardly ever see Rupert Verne? I had no right to, of course. I must remember that always. He was married. His interest in me was supposedly because of my voice only. So if I really co-operated with his plan I must severely control all emotional impulses. Only through my singing would my heart be free to express the hunger and joy of living.

  Therefore, I forced myself to appear more calm and dignified, and the result of that propitious interview was that the following week I set off with Mr Rupert Verne in his chaise for Kerrysmoor.

  We travelled cross-country over a high moorland route up and down brown hills, past grey farms and villages, and bleak hamlets of miners’ cottages huddled along the coast. The wild horizon of earth and sky was dotted intermittently by dolmens, standing stones, and the rhythmic movement of tin-mine pumping rods smokily dark in the yellowing autumn evening. Occasionally the winding road curved close to giant cliffs bordering the sea. Through the clip clop of horses’ hooves and rattle of wheels the thunderous pounding of waves could be heard menacingly crashing against jutting rocks hundreds of feet below.

  Mr Verne was silent for most of the way. The coldness of the landscape began to oppress me. For the last few miles we passed no living creature but a few cows and sheep huddled in stone-walled fields, and a pedlar’s cart pulled by a donkey driven by a hunched brown-skinned man. He wore a woollen cap with a feather in it, and touched it as the vehicle passed by. Rupert Verne gave a slight inclination of his head. I glanced at him enquiringly.

  ‘Tammy Vicks the pedlar,’ Rupert said casually, adding with a hint of humour in his voice though no smile touched his lips. ‘A much respected man hereabouts — Tammy.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Heard of pellars?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Pedlars, yes. But pellar—’

  ‘Almost the same thing. Both go about selling things. But a true pellar is also a conjurer said to possess magic powers and cures for healing.’

  I stared at him. ‘Do you believe that, sir?’

  ‘What I believe is of no account,’ he answered shortly.

  ‘I see.’

  I felt snubbed and must have shown it, for he continued after a short pause, ‘I accept what I know to be fact and take the rest with a pinch of salt. You’ll hear many strange stories round here — myths and legends grown from ancient times. Take them as such. Remember the reason you’ve come to Kerrysmoor. Your voice.’

  ‘I hope you won’t be disappointed.’

  ‘So do I, for your own sake.’

  His stiffwords sent a wave of resentment through me.

  ‘I could always return to Falmouth. Mr Burns was satisfied. I brought him good custom,’ I said sharply.

  ‘Did you indeed?’ Conscious that he had turned his head quickly to look at me, I kept my chin up, and eyes fixed straight ahead.

  ‘Yes,’ I heard him continue, still in the same abrupt stilted tones, ‘I can well believe it. You have a piquant air.’

  That was not what I’d wished him to say. Not the type of compliment I’d expected when I recalled the intense interest of those strange amber eyes as they’d first rested on me in the taproom of the Golden Bird. Sudden chill filled me; not only because of my deflated mood, but because freshened with the fading of daylight, drifts of cool air penetrated the interior of the chaise in damp waves of rising mist.

  I pulled my cloak more tightly to my chin, and then, as the vehicle rounded a corner of the lane I saw the house hunched square and dark against the shape of a rising hill. Through the uncertain light no details of style or architecture were visible. To one side a copse of trees blew in a thin wind. The rest of the valley was in shadow, but the rim of moor above was starkly clear against the greenish glow of fading twilight, topped by three tall standing stones. My heart, for a second, seemed to miss a beat, because it seemed to me that as the chaise drew nearer to the drive, they appeared to lurch forward of their own volition.

  Mr Verne must have noticed. He gave a short laugh. ‘The Three Maidens,’ he said. ‘Quite dramatic at certain times of day. Not that you’ll have time to go wandering that way. Tonight you’ll stay at Kerrysmoor, but tomorrow you’ll be driven to the cottage — Tregonnis, and quite soon I shall arrange a meeting for you with your tutor.’

  Such was my introduction to a whole new phase of my life which was to hold such disaster, tragedy, and periods of overwhelming joy.

  *

  The interior of the house depressed me on that first evening. The lighting from various lamps was insufficient to penetrate the gloom of winding corridors and dark recesses where shadows flickered eerily over black-framed, ancient portraits, giving a curious impression of life.

  An elderly woman wearing a mob cap and apron over a starched, dark dress greeted me grudgingly, and was introduced by Mr Verne as Mrs Treen, the housekeeper. She nodded curtly, saying, ‘Follow me. Your room’s this way.’

  I glanced at Mr Verne; his face was expressionless. He was waiting obviously for me to obey, which I did. The hall was flagged, covered at intervals by rugs. Half way down we passed a wide staircase leading up from the right. It curved sharply in a bend beneath a Gothic-style stained-glass window, and for a moment a brilliant shaft of lighting from above threw a static figure into vivid clarity. The form was that of a woman — elegantly thin and wearing a purple wrap. Her face was deadly pale under the intensely black piled-up hair. She held a lamp in one hand, and stood so still and watchful I was discomforted, sensing no welcome or warmth from her — only critical resentment.

  ‘Come along, girl,’ I heard Mrs Treen say. ‘We haven’t all the time in the world.’ Rupert Verne moved away, and at the same time the woman turned and retreated round the bend into the shadows. A faint soughing of wind and tree tapping against the window merged into the rustle of silk skirts and softly dying footsteps
.

  ‘Who was that?’ I had the temerity to ask. ‘On the stairs.’

  ‘It isn’t really your business,’ came the reply tartly. ‘But as you’re leaving tomorrow, and there’s no mystery about Madam’s presence I’ll tell you — for your own good. The lady on the stairs was Mr Rupert’s wife, Lady Alicia. She’s the daughter of a very noble house, and much respected. So if you happen to meet before your departure you’d better remember your manners.’

  I wanted to retort indignantly that I did not come from the gutter, and knew how to behave in the presence of gentry, but was wise enough to keep the words back. After all, entertaining well-bred pleasure seekers in respectable hostelries like the Golden Bird had demanded quite a different code of behaviour than bowing to her ladyship. No curtseying or minding one’s words — just smiling and dancing, and singing for the joy of it. Depression enfolded me in a grey cloud. For the first time I doubted the wisdom of having left Falmouth for the grim atmosphere of Kerrysmoor.

  In the morning, though, optimism had returned. When I jumped out of bed and pulled the window curtains wide, pearly sunlight touched distant cliffs to gold. The sea beyond was calm under a lifting cloudless sky. Immediately below the wall of the house, terraced gardens sloped to an expanse of moor where gorse flamed between clumps of purple heather and burnished undergrowth. Any memory of the steep hill behind surmounted by the gloomy Three Maidens was dispelled.

  ‘I shall like it here,’ I thought, forgetting for a moment that in an hour or two, perhaps less, I should be leaving for the unknown destination of Tregonnis.

  I had breakfast on my own in a small back parlour off the kitchen, consisting of gruel and a slice of thick ham. The master, I was told, had already eaten and her ladyship never rose until noon, taking little refreshment before the midday meal for which she was usually joined by Mr Verne in the dining room.

  ‘The mistress isn’t well today,’ Mrs Treen told me, a little smugly, I thought, ‘so ‘tisn’t likely you’ll meet before you leave.’

  I was slightly disappointed — not by missing any direct encounter with the haughty creature glimpsed on the stairs the previous night, but by the silence of the house and apparent shortage of staff. I had expected to see footmen and servants about, but except for a kitchen maid and a boy in shabby livery carrying boots from the scullery, no one appeared. In daylight the interior of Kerrysmoor had a dingy appearance. Walls needed re-decorating and there were gaps in tiled floors showing damp in places. The rugs in the back hall were partially threadbare.

  From Joe Burns’ description of a wealthy household I had expected spic and span elegance, even in servants’ quarters. But sunlight streaming across floors and corners emphasised years of long neglect.

  The housekeeper must have sensed my unspoken criticism. ‘This place is old and takes a deal of keepin’ in order,’ she said. ‘And large. You haven’t seen anything of the proper dwelling quarters, or the West Wing where Lady Alicia has her apartments. Really elegant it is there. Every year sees it done up and something new added. But of course that’s only right, seeing who she is.’

  ‘I see,’ I replied ineffectually.

  She shook her head. ‘No, my girl, you don’t. ‘Tisn’t to be expected. Not with your background.’

  ‘What do you mean? You don’t know a thing about me.’

  ‘Now, now, don’t get all hoity toity! No harm meant. I was only going by your appearance.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with it?’

  She smiled — not pleasantly — as her small eyes regarded me shrewdly.

  ‘You’ve a bit of a wild look on you, to me. That black hair and those eyes! And the way you walk and swing your hips! Oh, attractive in a way I s’pose — enough to charm the master. Gipsyish. But—’

  Discretion deserted me. ‘Do you mind holding your tongue? My father was a sea-captain, Breton. And my mother was Welsh. That’s why I’m here — I’ve inherited it — her voice. Mr Verne heard me perform and has offered to give me training.’

  My sudden haughty tone had the effect of quietening her manner — or perhaps it was the unexpected appearance of Rupert Verne — quite unknown to me — in the doorway.

  ‘I meant no offence,’ she said. ‘You took my words wrongly—’

  ‘I should hope so,’ Rupert’s voice interrupted cuttingly.

  Startled, both of us turned. He was standing motionless there, with the light from the window striking sideways across his lean face, emphasising the stern, tight-lipped set of his mouth and cold fire of his eyes.

  ‘I didn’t mean—’ Mrs Treen began, but was silenced by a wave of his hand. He came towards us and addressing the housekeeper continued, ‘You should know by now that any guest in my household must be treated with respect, Mrs Treen. I’m most displeased; however, this time the incident will be overlooked providing nothing of the kind ever happens again. Josephine — Miss Lebrun—’ He glanced at me sharply —

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘It would perhaps be more suitable to the occasion now if you changed into quieter attire. In half an hour’s time we’re setting off for the cottage, and my caretaker there will probably expect her new companion to appear less flamboyant.’

  I should have felt snubbed if it had not been for the unexpected glint of amusement in his glance.

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He shrugged. ‘No need to be. I’m sure Signor Luigi will appreciate a taste of colour providing your voice also charms his artistic heart.’

  So I left him with Mrs Treen and went upstairs to the bedroom where I had a black shawl and skirt, and a dark cape to cover everything. I took the rings from my ears, and tied my hair back before pinning it to the top of my head. Over this I placed a small bonnet trimmed only by two flat velvet flowers. It had ribbons to tie under the chin, and the whole effect, when I was dressed, made me suddenly want to giggle. I could have been some young Breton housewife attired primly for a shopping expedition to market.

  However, Mr Verne made no comment when I went down later carrying my small valise, ready for the journey. No glance from his eyes even denoted approval or the reverse. I was disappointed, but determined not to show it. If he wished now to have things on an entirely impersonal and business-like basis then I’d prove I was quite capable of obliging.

  We spoke little during the journey. The lane curved round the base of a high moorland hill on one side, with a narrow thread of river on the other. The morning air was pungent with the damp smell of mist, fallen leaves and blackberries, and decaying vegetation. Far to the west silvered sunlight lit the distant sea. But the glimpse was soon lost as the chaise turned abruptly inland to the left. The trees bordering the lane thickened; dew diamonded their lean dark branches, giving an air of mystery and enchantment. Everything was very still — the hollow sound of hooves and wheels reverberated weirdly through the windless air. I lifted my hand once to clear the smudged glass of a window.

  ‘There’s not much to see yet,’ Mr Verne said. ‘By mid-day when the fog’s lifted you’ll find the view more hospitable. I must see some of these trees are cut down.’

  ‘Are we still on your estate then, sir?’ I asked.

  Not really. The cottage is on Kerrysmoor land. As the crow flies — if we had wings—’ he continued, ‘we could be there in next to no time at all. This hill is Rosecarrion; we’re bending back now towards the area from where we started.’

  ‘Oh.’ I tried to get an accurate picture in my mind of the locality. ‘Then isn’t it possible to go the other way, or over the hill?’

  ‘There’s no road fit for a carriage of any kind on the other side,’ he answered, ‘and crossing the hill would be not only difficult, but quite dangerous.’

  ‘Dangerous?’

  ‘Bog, and mine shafts — also adders,’ I was told. ‘I don’t advise you to take any future rambles directly up Rosecarrion.’ He glanced in the opposite direction where a humped bridge crossed the river. ‘If you go that way you’ll d
iscover pleasant paths leading to Tharne. Tharne, though only a small village, is comparatively civilised, and even has stores where I’m sure you’d find pleasing varieties and most things women want.’

  I didn’t answer. The mere fact that he’d done his best to put me off wandering about the wild hill had stimulated a wish in me to do so. I was used to going my own way; I suppose it was an instinct born in me through my Celtic and Breton ancestry. To be referred to in the category of ‘most women’ was mildly irritating. Freedom was in my very blood. I bit my lip momentarily, then relaxed, realising that in the future I would most certainly have to discipline myself to certain rules and regulations.

  Round a sudden corner of the hill the lane branched off to the left into what was little more than a track. Long shadows now showed only a thread-like glimmer of light. The coach took the bend, carefully at a slow speed under drooping trees. Evening had deepened so swiftly it could have been almost night. Then as the trunks of oak, sycamore, larch and willow thinned, a shaft of light zig-zagged down the path, revealing a cottage tucked behind a square of garden, with a mellow glow streaming from a half open door.

  The chaise drew up nearby; there was the whinnying of horses, and Rupert Verne’s voice saying, ‘Here we are. Tregonnis.’

  He got up, and as he helped me from the vehicle the figure of an old lady appeared coming towards us down the path. She was thin, small, a little bent at the shoulders, but agile in movement, and strangely dressed in old-fashioned attire, wearing a frilled lace cap and apron, a hooped black silk dress spattered with sparkling jewels and brooches. Under the glow of an oil lamp already lighted in the hall I saw the tips of red satin slippers peeping beneath her skirts. She had red ribbons also at her wrists and decorating her hemline in tiny rosettes. Rings glittered from fingers of both hands. Her face was thin and pale with a pointed chin and high-bridged nose.

  Mr Verne introduced her as Dame Jenny Trenoweth, ‘keeper of Tregonnis’, and I as his temporary ward who would be for the time being in her charge, and to give help when necessary. Obviously, she had been well primed concerning my stay at the cottage and the true purpose of it. She expressed no surprise, but nodded all the time he was speaking, her small bright eyes regarding me shrewdly and unblinkingly.