Looking back too intensely can bring its worries, and at that moment, as I recalled Pierre, I wondered what his advice would have been at this exact point in my life — to follow love where I knew it lay, and grasp it with both hands and all the will and strength I had? — Or to cut adrift and seek fulfilment somewhere else in some other fashion? I still had my voice. There was nothing in the world now to stop me walking out, and wandering the wild sweet lanes of summer where blossom foamed about the hedges and lush bluebells grew.
Rupert, after all, was a married man with a stately home and a noble wife. He was bound by ties which would not easily be broken. I was an intruder into his heart — as he was in mine. But I was mistress of my own destiny, whereas he was not of his, and unless his love was as strong and all-consuming as mine, any future between us would be ignoble and wrong. Yes, I knew I was right in my judgement there, and that Pierre would have said the same. Of this I was certain, and with the certainty something in me that had been reckless and immature grew up and brought me to a calmer mood.
I would stay at Tregonnis for the time being, I decided; this was only fair considering the arrangements that were being made concerning the dog, and there being no one else to guard Rupert’s treasure room. But later — I sighed. How futile it was to make plans when I’d no idea exactly of what others were being made for me. Already my thoughts were becoming too involved to view rationally. So I cleared my mind of all problems, and decided to have a breath of air in the garden. As I passed down the short hall I noticed that the door of the treasure room was slightly ajar; Dame Jenny must have been looking round before she collapsed.
I fetched the key and was about to close and lock it, when I thought I heard a sound. I stepped inside and had a glance round. No one was there; the faint creaking could have been of old wood, a floor board, or draught of air playing about the figurines. A slanting beam of sunlight quivered over glass, giving life to the delicate miniatures in their black velvet mounts and gold frames. Shadows made a fine tracery over rugs and up walls; the slightest movement of cloud or drifting light from outside lit the crystal and glass to momentary shivering brilliance. It was as though for a few brief moments the interior came alive and I stood in a world of fantasy and bygone luxury.
I glanced towards the fireplace. The girl in the portrait stared down at me with a serene sweet-sad half-smile on her lips.
‘I wish I knew all about you,’ I thought, ‘I wish I knew who you were, and what part you played in Rupert’s life.’
It did not occur to me as strange just then, that I should think of her in the past tense, or connect her so personally with Rupert. Was I jealous? Perhaps. Jealous because her place there was obviously of great importance, and cherished above all the other contents of that secret domain. I had sensed it from my first day at Tregonnis, a feeling that had been endorsed by Rupert’s refusal to talk of her, and Dame Jenny’s irate snub when I’d asked for information.
As I turned and went out, locking the door behind me, I realised fully, for the first time, what a world of mystery and adventure, I’d become involved in since leaving Falmouth. Rupert! — the smuggling — Signor Luigi — the terrible theatrical experience — even Lady Verne’s peculiar animosity towards me, and the secret room dominated by the picture of the beautiful unknown girl.
The pistol also. I hadn’t been quite honest with Rupert when I’d told him I knew how to use it. It was just that during my life at the inn I’d seen firearms threateningly wielded and had once even witnessed a duel, unknown to my stepmother. I was a little surprised that Mr Verne should have trusted me with such a weapon — I’d no idea that the dangerous looking object was loaded with blank bullets only and was merely for a means of frightening off any offender, and ensuring my own self-confidence.
Still, burglaries, shootings, and smuggling, seemed remote and very far away that day, as I wandered round the garden, thinking sadly of Dame Jenny. She would be cared for, yes, at Kerrysmoor, but I doubted that even if she recovered sufficiently to walk about again on her own two feet, she would ever be happy living as a dependent without her own small precious domain to reign over. And why had she been left on her own for so long, considering the responsibilities entailed as ‘keeper of Tregonnis’? — Perhaps because in the eyes of many country folk and natives of Tharne she had the reputation of being some sort of a witch — a white witch, it was emphasised, although in the tiny village post office one day I’d heard two local women agreeing in an undertone that there was no such thing as the white kind. ‘Any witch is bound to have a bit o’ dark power in her.’
So her quaint eccentricities — jewels, fineries, diminutive stature and her herbs had probably been her protection. Even her roses might have added to the superstition; they were certainly extremely lush, over-large, and beautiful, and that morning their scent hung sweetly and particularly powerfully in the summer air. Their velvet petalled colour — flame, yellow, and deep dark crimson filled the whole of one wide border at the side of the pool; a few petals drifted on the shining water. It was indeed as though a magical hand had brushed the terrain. Or were such thoughts merely crowding my mind because I was so completely alone, and shocked by the niggling thought that the old lady might never see her beloved blossoms again?
I was looking forward to meeting Brutus, and hoped very much that the following day when Jan called for him at Kerrysmoor Rupert also might decide to come along. I spent a little time in the garden, reluctant somehow to go immediately back into the cottage which would be an empty place without the old lady. In a strange way I’d grown fond of her — the thought of the quaint interior — silent except for the ticking of the old clock and occasional tinkle from the treasure room when a waft of air drifted against mobile crystal, was melancholy. So I wandered first to the very end of Tregonnis land, which looked over a small buttercup field before rising to the rough patch of moor.
‘You needn’t bother trying to weed over there,’ Dame Jenny had told me more than once. ‘No proper flowers grow in that thick scrub. All brambles and holes and stones it is. A real rubbish dump of its kind. One day I’ll have Jan clear it and cut some of the thorns down. You could get all kinds of wild animal critters sneakin’ there. Once there was a fox had its hole nearby. Things used to disappear from the pantry — cheese, eggs — anything eatable there was and I just couldn’t understand how — until one mornin’ I saw the fox streakin’ across the field. Then I knew. Must get rid of that, I said to myself. And I did. That very evening.’
‘Do you mean you had it shot or something?’ I’d questioned her.
She’d looked shocked.
‘My dear life, I wouldn’t do such a thing to a livin’ critter however wicked it might be. Oh no, my dear.’ She’d paused and added, ‘I have other means of getting rid of unwelcome visitors.’
‘How?’
‘That’s my secret,’ she’d said smugly, with a little nod of the head that had sent the bright earbobs shaking beneath her mob cap. I’d known then why the natives were suspicious of the old lady.
I was recalling the incident, when I pushed the briars away that morning following her collapse and departure. The smothering undergrowth, indeed, could provide effective coverage for many small wild creatures. I found a sturdy stick — part of a branch torn from a tree — and started beating the thorny barrier down. It wasn’t easy, and perhaps I was stupid to bother; my hand and wrist got badly scratched, and an end of my pinafore was ripped. However, as I neared what remained of a half-tumbled fence, my curiosity was roused by a roundish dark patch covered by trailing weeds and thorn indicating there might be a hole or vacuum below.
I bent forward for a closer look, and poked the stick through the tangle of smothering intertwined branches. The ground beneath was hollow. It took me sometime to manipulate sufficient space to peer down, and what I saw sent a shiver of excitement through me. At first glimpse I thought it was a shaft of an old mine, then I realised it was not quite wide enough. It could only have bee
n a well then, at some time. But if so — why was there no water in it now? All I could see was blackness vanishing into the dark earth, and obviously it had been originally man-made. On one side near the surface, granite bricks jutted out almost like steps.
I screwed my eyes up trying to get a more accurate view, but it was impossible. So presently I straightened up, dusted small twigs and leaves from my hair, shook my skirt and damaged apron, and after lightly replacing some of the weedy tendrils and branches, turned to go back into the cottage. Why I’d bothered to cover the hole again I didn’t know; it had probably been as it was for years, and was of no real significance any more. I suppose I was simply trying to divert my mind from poor Dame Jenny’s plight, by filling my imagination with other problems — making a mystery of something that in reality was no mystery at all.
The cottage seemed a solitary place when I went in.
I found myself eagerly looking forward to the next day, when Jan was to bring the dog to Tregonnis, accompanied — hopefully — by Rupert.
But when morning came only Jan and Brutus arrived. The master, the youth told me had sent a message saying he’d probably call at the end of the week.
My heart sank.
Probably. Sterile comfort indeed considering how passionately I longed to see him. Under a veneer of brightness, however, I covered my disappointment, and enquired about Dame Jenny.
‘She’m a bit better, Miss, so I’ve heard tell,’ Jan replied. ‘In bed o’ course. Well, she would be wouldn’ she, an old wumman like her, after such a turn — you’d’ve thought she’d’ve managed to avoid such things — her with all that grand knowledge she do have—’
I supposed he was referring to her reputed mystic powers, and was about to make some trite reply when the dog, a golden labrador, prevented me by getting up on his hind legs and giving an affectionate lick on my chin.
‘He likes you a’ready. That he do,’ Jan remarked. ‘You’ve got a friend, that’s for sure.’
And I had.
Quite soon he’d fitted into his new routine and seemed to know from the start he was there for my protection. His bark was fearsome to strangers, but few visited Tregonnis, unless it was a pedlar or someone from the farm, and on such occasions a word from me would silence him and bring him to heel. Occasionally, if I went for a stroll, I’d allow him to accompany me, but only for a short time. He was, after all, sole guardian of the cottage and its treasures during my absence, and Rupert would have been annoyed if he’d called and found neither of us there.
But he didn’t call, and I became restless and resentful — tired of being bound to the country through duties I hadn’t willingly undertaken. Mysteries of smuggling, secret rooms, legends, and having long hours alone to ponder and brood on the past and the uncertain future, frequently irritated me to a point almost beyond endurance. I would long then for the colourful steamy excitement of the Golden Bird — to be whirling round in my coloured skirts and shawls, dancing and singing — always singing — with faces transfixed before me, blurred discs of watchfulness through the smoky musty air.
More than once I impetuously packed my valise, ready to disappear leaving a note for Rupert Verne, saying:
I’m sorry, being caretaker doesn’t suit me. Thank you for all you’ve done for me, but as I’ve failed in becoming a great singer like you wanted, I’m going somewhere where I can be myself and let my voice do just what it feels like. I did love you, Mr Verne, but my sort of love isn’t what you need.
Yours respectfully,
Josephine Lebrun.
Once I even went so far as to put on my bonnet and cape, and leave the note on the small table in the hall. Then Brutus’s bark from the scullery where he slept, made me change my mind, and I went inside again. It wasn’t fair to leave the dog alone. Supposing Jan for some reason didn’t call in the morning? The poor thing would be left without food or company for goodness knows how long.
The thought of Rupert himself, too, from a niggle at the back of my mind, came to life again. He must one day call at Tregonnis, and I needed to be there when it happened — to make him realise how his neglect — and surely it was neglect, considering the passion of his kisses and meaningful glances of his eyes, the many many avowals of unspoken love — had hurt me! and angered, too. Oh yes, I was angry. Before perhaps I’d had no rightful cause to show it. But now I had. I would not be treated like any rich man’s cheap little plaything to be flattered one moment, bullied the next, then pushed into oblivion just when he felt like it.
During my period of waiting for Rupert’s possible visit, I rehearsed the scene several times — how I would greet him in a dignified fashion telling him of my decision to leave Tregonnis, of my intention to make my own career — even inventing another vague sponsor anxious to promote my voice. The latter would be a lie, of which Pierre no doubt would have disapproved. But for once I didn’t care. I would be me! my words would be haughty, my gaze cold and remote. I even practised the lift of head and manner of addressing him before my looking glass. And I was careful these days always to appear my best in my most attractive clothes, and do my housework mostly at nights when I would not be caught on my knees in my working calico dress under a long apron.
Oh yes! I made what I imagined were all necessary preparations for the longed-for event. But, of course, when it happened, as is so often the case — everything was completely unexpected.
The morning had been windless but damp, with fine rain turning to fitful mist by afternoon. Twilight, later, hung a grey shroud over the horizon of moors and sky. Steamy rivulets of moisture hugged the windows of Tregonnis; every slight sound there was from outside seemed intensified — the drip, drip of wet leaves from bushes, crying of a gull and flap of wings as it rose into the air, the scuttering rustle of some wild creatures through the undergrowth — and something else — something sensed rather than heard, an uneasiness that seemed itself an entity, chilling my blood. A more practical person would have called it imagination, but Brutus was aware of it, and several times lifted his head as though alerted to danger. Twice a low growl came from his throat. He left the rug by the hearth and went to the door, then returned and lay down again, stretched out, head on paws, but with eyes watchful, tense.
I laid my needlwork aside, lit the oil lamp and went to the window to draw the sittingroom curtains. Intuitively I glanced out towards the west. It was almost dark, but as I paused there briefly a dot of light flashed for a second, then was gone. It could have been a shepherd’s lantern perhaps, I told myself reasoningly, although it had appeared over-brilliant for that, and would not so quickly have been snuffed out. It was about to move when I saw it again, only a pinpoint on the moor, somewhere to my far right in the direction of my walks around Rosecarrion. The second flash was quickly followed by a sharp crack of sound like that of a shot being fired. Brutus sprang to his feet and came towards me.
‘It’s all right, down boy! down!’ I said, and pulled the blinds together with a rattle. Then I returned to my chair. For a time the dog was restless, but when no further noise followed, he eventually settled. I crossed once or twice to the window again; everything was dark, muted grey, showing no sign of life or movement. Yet in my bones still I felt something was astir; and when I went to bed made sure that the pistol was beside me on the small table by my side.
I closed my eyes, hoping to get to sleep early and that no troubled dreams would disturb my rest. It was no use. Brutus, who slept in the hall, was uneasy, and at one point gave a mournful howl followed by a low growl and bark. I went to the top of the stairs and gave the command used by Jan to quieten him. For a time it seemed to work. All was silent except for the thickening steady drip of rain that had intensified during the past hour.
Then, suddenly, there was a wild yelling and barking from the animal, together with a frantic pounding of paws against the wooden door.
I jumped out of bed, flung a wrap round my shoulders, and ran downstairs.
‘Quiet!’ I called to the do
g, ‘What’s the matter? Whatever’s got into you—?’
He was standing on his hind legs, paws against the wooden surface, and didn’t obey me when I told him to, ‘Come back and be a good boy’. He gave a further yelp, turned his head towards me, and I saw then his excitement was partly pleasure. The limpid eyes were alight, his tail was wagging wildly; his whole attitude was of supplication.
No animal could have begged more obviously, ‘Open it, open the door’.
I paused for a moment, uncertain, apprehensive.
And then I heard it — a man’s voice and a hammering against the wood — ‘For God’s sake let me in — it’s me — Rupert.’
With my heart quickening and thumping painfully, I rushed to both bolts, drew them, and turned the key in the lock, and pulled the door wide.
Half staggering and breathing heavily, Rupert Verne plunged into the hall. He was wet and hatless. Rain from his dark hair ran down his face, mingling with the trickle of blood from one temple. I tried to steady him, but he waved me aside, and with the dog nosing about his legs and feet, blundered into the parlour. In the glow of the lamp his face appeared drawn and haggard, and I saw also that one arm had been wounded near the shoulder. When he tried to lift it, he winced in pain.
‘Sit down,’ I said, although I didn’t need to; before the words were out he’d slumped on to the sofa. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’
Knowing where the old lady kept her special toddy, I went to her secret cupboard in the kitchen, filled a wine glass full of the liquid and took it through to him. His breathing had eased; he gulped it down eagerly, sat for a moment without speaking, then laughed ruefully, and said, ‘I must look a sorry sight.’
Portrait of a Girl Page 10
