The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo

by Catherine Johnson

  ‘Well, there you are! The man is a marvel,’ she said. ‘I had nightmares for three whole nights after hearing that story. Well, then, if he is not here, I will at least tell you, Professor . . .’ She paused and Caraboo listened. Perhaps she might hear something useful.

  ‘See!’ Mrs Worrall went on excitedly. ‘I have a letter from Mr Gutch at the Bristol Advertiser. He has heard of Caraboo and he wants to visit our princess here at Knole! This weekend! Marvellous, isn’t it? Caraboo is so exciting, Mr Gutch says he would like to write about her, fancy that! And I have had a wonderful idea! I have already sent out some other invitations, after all. I wonder – are there perhaps any of your fellow academics who would like to meet an authentic Javan princess?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Professor Heyford sounded enthusiastic. ‘I do have an acquantaince in London who is measuring native people’s brains—’

  ‘Surely Princess Caraboo’s brain is currently in use, sir.’

  Professor Heyford laughed. ‘Of course, madam, of course, but if – when – she dies, he would be first in line to explore that organ. Did you know, Mrs Worrall, that the English brain is always twice the weight and quality of any native one?’

  ‘Is that so, Professor?’

  ‘Oh yes. It is on account of the amount of roast beef consumed in these islands. And naturally, a male brain is larger and more complex than a woman’s . . .’

  Mrs Worrall harrumphed at that.

  ‘One cannot argue with fact,’ the professor said.

  A party. Acadmics and newspapermen gawking and clucking at her. Princess Caraboo felt her heart sink. She was like a butterfly pinned behind glass. This should never have happened. Caraboo was a dream, a marsh light, something that almost existed but not quite. A story, a legend – not a truth to be dissected and picked over.

  She opened the window and slipped away into the park. She looked up at the house, the rows of windows reflecting the afternoon sun. If that man was there in the house, drunk, then he could not come after her. She looked again, hand shading her eyes to see better. Was there some movement behind a window on the second floor? Perhaps he was there, watching her, this very moment. Perhaps his drunkenness was just assumed.

  Caraboo was relieved to find Cassandra down by the lake, looking at the sparkling light on the water. She was uncharacteristically quiet, even thoughtful.

  Caraboo sat down beside her; she felt safer in company.

  ‘Caraboo?’ Cassandra plucked a long blade of grass and twisted it in her fingers. ‘I know you must have been through some scrapes. I cannot imagine pirates!’ She paused. ‘I was wondering . . . do you know what it is like to be poor?’

  The Princess looked perplexed. Even if she could understand every word – and of course Caraboo’s English was supposed to be getting better – how would a princess understand poverty? True, when she had been on the road she’d had nothing. But that was different – until that moment when she had fallen down in a faint on the road outside Almondsbury, she had been somebody else entirely.

  ‘I do not think I would mind so very much,’ Cassandra said. ‘Being poor, I mean. Especially if one is discovering new landscapes and so on.’

  Caraboo babbled back in Javasu, saying that she did not think that one could eat or wear new landscapes. She warned Cassandra that new landscapes might contain most unpleasant people.

  ‘I so wish I could understand you, Princess,’ Cassandra sighed. ‘He loves me, I know it, and sometimes I am sure that I love him . . .’

  Caraboo set her face in what she hoped was an expression of mild concern. This was one of the things she enjoyed most about being Caraboo: listening. Perhaps Cassandra’s worries could help her forget her own, for the time being.

  ‘He talks only of America.’ Cassandra paused, frowning. ‘Darling Will, he wants to go alone all the way across the world to make his fortune, and come back for me when it is done. But I will not sit alone in Knole Park for years until he returns. I wanted to go with him, but not there. Why can’t he make his fortune in Italy or Greece? Somewhere beautiful, classical. I used to think we were so alike, so perfectly matched. Oh, I know he works hard, but I do too, in my own way – at my needlework, for one thing.’

  Caraboo kept quiet. She had never seen Cassandra work at anything except her own delight.

  ‘And I know what love is – I have read so many novels. Those feelings that sweep you off your feet . . . The electricity – I feel it with him . . .’

  At the word ‘electricity’ Caraboo began an angry babble.

  Cassandra smiled. ‘No, not like that, Princess!’ She paused, threw a stalk of grass out into the water and watched it float away. ‘But if I loved him, wouldn’t I want everything he wants? Wouldn’t I want to be in America with him, an innkeeper’s wife?’

  Caraboo looked away. This place was almost perfect, she thought, yet both Cassandra and Fred longed for somewhere else, to live like someone else.

  ‘When he is here with me’ – Cassandra took Caraboo’s hands in hers – ‘I believe it, I truly do. I think – and I read this in a novel once – he touches my soul!’ Her eyes were round with wonder. ‘But when he is gone and I think of us together, in Boston, or New York, or any of those dreary, fountainless American cities, I only imagine the smell that was in the Golden Bowl; if I breathe in deeply when my arms are around his neck I can smell it: old beer and tobacco and slops.’

  Her shoulders drooped and she shook her head. ‘I do not want that, Princess. I know that I do not . . . even’ – she lowered her voice – ‘even with Will.’ She sighed again. ‘Love shouldn’t be a bore, should it?’

  Caraboo said nothing. Poor Will; Cassandra would break his heart without art or guile, only by believing – sometimes – that she did love him. Perhaps she herself should be taking lessons from Cassandra.

  She looked across the fields towards the village and felt guilty. Why had she encouraged their affair? Will was a good man . . . well, what she knew of him was good, but hadn’t Captain Palmer proved there was no trusting anybody?

  Cassandra had got up, brushing the grass off her dress. Caraboo wondered whether she had brushed away Will Jenkins almost as quickly.

  Oh, Caraboo knew that Will would get over Cassandra. It might take him longer than it had taken Cassandra, but he was good looking enough. And he was an innkeeper’s son – he had more backing than a Cambridge fortune . . . which was, after all, the only fortune Caraboo had. And that, as anyone fluent in London cant knew, was no fortune at all.

  The Princess watched Cassandra walk ahead of her with that carefree step that only money could buy. If she had money, she could be away from Knole in the blink of an eye. She could be in America, a land so big no one was certain where the end of it lay. Captain Palmer would not follow, surely, if she was on a ship a thousand miles from here. Perhaps that was the answer for her. Get herself to Bristol and . . . and what? Caraboo cursed under her breath: to raise the passage to America would take much more than anything she could trade . . .

  Cassandra turned round. ‘Princess, I fear I have infected you with my low spirits! Forgive my mood. I should count my blessings, and be light-hearted, and not mope over Will Jenkins, who has, sadly, no idea of novels at all. He may kiss me like a gentleman, but I cannot wait in hope while he gets himself to and from America, can I?’

  Caraboo merely smiled. What else could she do?

  Cassandra gasped as she recollected something. ‘I almost forgot to pass on the good news! Mama has agreed to a party! Well, she doesn’t call it a party herself but that is what it amounts to! We shall all be excused any boredom for at least one night! A party!’ She danced around in a circle to illustrate the word, then pulled Caraboo after her. ‘There will be music and dancing – I told her you can’t simply have a deal of dry old lectures without the sweetener that is music. And what’s more, she has promised to invite Diana – I have told you all about her – and the Greshams will be coming too. You will have a chance to meet Edmund, who is very,
very handsome. You know, if I call up Edmund’s face, I cannot say which is the fairer, him or Will . . . If Edmund looks too long at you, I know I shall be jealous!’ Cassandra looked away. ‘Dear, dear Princess Caraboo! What must you think of me?!’ She frowned. ‘I do care for Will, you know. He has made my life more bearable in so many ways.’ She turned and began to run back up the slope to the house. ‘And we will make you a special outfit for the party – Mama has promised. It will be such fun!’

  Caraboo followed Cassandra slowly towards the house. She thought of staying out, but the sun was low and she didn’t want to be outside on her own. Her leopard seemed to have left her side for good. The world was conspiring against the Princess, boxing her into a corner like a sheep in a pen ready for the shearer. As she neared the terrace in front of the house she spotted Captain Palmer, Professor Heyford and Frederick Worrall. Were they waiting for her? The captain would not try anything with witnesses around, would he? She straightened up. She would do her best not to let any of them see how scared she was.

  ‘Mama, I’ve looked everywhere – the Princess must be out.’ Fred came into the library. He hadn’t seen Caraboo since the day before and was rather worried. Was she avoiding him?

  ‘Fred – look, there she is, with Cassandra.’ Mrs Worrall opened the doors that led out onto the terrace. Fred saw the girls coming towards the house, Cassandra in front, skipping along, Caraboo walking behind her, slow and stately, as if she owned every inch of the earth under her feet. He could see now that perhaps part of her stangeness, her otherness, was to do with nobility. He closed his eyes for a moment and remembered her doubled up with laughter . . . her warm kiss. Was that the same girl?

  ‘All is ready, Professor, is it not?’ Mrs Worrall bustled over to the writing desk set up by the window.

  Fred watched the girls. They were such a pair of opposites, Cass so English and fair, Caraboo browner than a hazelnut, walking barefoot across the stone flags.

  ‘Mrs Worrall thought it a grand idea to send a sample of the Princess’s handwriting off to Oxford,’ Professor Heyford said. He didn’t sound happy about it.

  ‘Yes, there is a specialist there, in linguistics,’ Mrs Worrall told him.

  Fred thought he could almost hear Professor Heyford grinding his teeth.

  ‘I don’t know if she’ll take to it, madam – you can never be sure with these island people . . .’

  Captain Palmer was sitting in a leather chair in the corner. A full decanter of what Fred guessed was rum rested on a side table at his elbow. He poured himself a glass.

  ‘Cassandra! Princess!’ Mrs Worrall saluted Caraboo, hand to forehead, and she saluted back, then turned to the professor and, finally, Fred. He looked her in the eye; she didn’t look away, and Fred wondered if she was angry. Why couldn’t he read her face? He knew what Cassandra was thinking before she opened her mouth, and any other girl – well, Letty! He turned away. He didn’t want to think about her now.

  ‘Princess! My dear Caraboo.’ Mrs Worrall steered her over to the writing desk.

  ‘Oh, the handwriting!’ Cassandra said. She turned to Caraboo too, and made writing shapes in the air.

  Fred watched and wondered how Caraboo did not laugh – a room full of nominally sane adults describing circles in the air. He himself could not help but smile at the picture. How odd, he thought, to be the Princess, so cut off from everything. To float above a situation, to be the centre of attention yet, at one and the same moment, completely separate.

  Caraboo looked at him for a second and – had he imagined it? – he swore he saw a sadness in her eyes.

  ‘I will demonstrate, my dear.’ Mrs Worrall picked up the pen, dipped it carefully in the inkwell, and then wrote, in curling copperplate letters, Princess Caraboo. ‘There,’ she said, pointing to the words, and then to Caraboo. ‘Prin-cess Cara-boo.’ Then she wrote the letters of the alphabet down the side of the page, making the sound as she went.

  ‘Mrs Worrall, madam’ – the captain drained his glass – ‘I don’t think our princess will take to this at all.’

  ‘We can but try,’ Mrs Worrall replied.

  The captain spoke to Caraboo, and Fred saw the Princess lower her eyes. Was he telling her off? He strained to listen for the slightest inflection, the variation of tone that might tell him something of what was being said. He cursed his lack of interest in Greek or Latin.

  ‘Here, Princess.’ Mrs Worrall pressed the pen into Caraboo’s hand and motioned for her to sit.

  She dipped the pen in the ink, looking not to the captain but to Mrs Worrall for guidance.

  ‘That’s it, dear!’

  Caraboo put pen to paper. The nib split and the ink came out in a blob.

  ‘You see, madam, in the East they write with brushes.’

  ‘You would prefer a brush, Princess?’ Mrs Worrall said slowly.

  Caraboo ignored everyone. Fred watched as she tried again, scratching the paper roughly at first, trying to copy Mrs Worrall’s writing. The concentration made her forehead gather into furrows. She tried her own name first.

  ‘There, that’s as good as you’ll get, no doubt.’

  Why, wondered Fred, was the captain so against this exercise?

  ‘But, Captain, I think our princess shows some aptitude.’ Professor Heyford grinned, happy to be bettering his rival for once. ‘Why don’t you ask the Princess to write something in her own tongue for us?’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ Mrs Worrall clapped her hands.

  ‘Madam—’ the captain began.

  ‘Look, Mama, I think she is!’ Cassandra said. Caraboo was drawing a series of strange and beautiful curlicues.

  ‘I say.’ Professor Heyford took off his glasses and cleaned them, to get a better look. ‘Astounding! It’s almost . . .’

  ‘Almost what, Professor?’ Fred could see that his mother was thrilled.

  ‘Somewhere between Arabic and Chinese,’ the professor said.

  The captain got up, and suddenly the Princess stopped writing. Palmer walked over to the writing desk and Fred swore he saw Caraboo tense, just a little. For a second he thought the captain might even spill his drink over the writing as he looked at it.

  ‘Ah well, the Arab traders, they came through the South Seas, you know, Ibn Battuta . . .’

  ‘Pardon?’ Mrs Worrall said.

  The captain returned to his high-backed leather chair, drained his second glass of rum and began a tale of some Arabian explorer.

  The Princess got up to leave. Fred wanted to follow her, but she caught his eye and shook her head. He had definitely done something to offend her. The kiss . . . But she had started it, not him.

  ‘Princess flown the coop?’ The captain pushed himself up off the chair and went out too.

  Mama, Cass and Professor Heyford were all marvelling over the Princess’s handwriting, with the professor nodding and smiling. ‘Most definitely the Javasu dialect.’

  Fred left the room, taking his glass onto the terrace as the sun dipped golden over the lake. There was the island, just as it had been yesterday. Knole too was exactly the same.

  Fred felt the rum burn the back of his throat. It was him that was different. The boy he’d been when he left London seemed like someone else now . . . He shook his head. Edmund would have laughed at him.

  He turned and looked up at the great house. He could stay here his whole life if he wished – go up to university for a couple of years, follow Father into the bank. He sighed. He knew there was so much more to life than this. He walked round to the front door, his feet crunching on the gravel, and it was then that he saw something, up on the first floor. In Caraboo’s room, the one next to his sister’s, Captain Palmer was shutting the curtain, the look on his face thunderous. Fred ducked behind the beech tree so he wouldn’t be seen. He ran into the house and up the stairs, but by the time he reached the first floor he saw the captain coming back along the corridor, nodding to him as if everything were normal. Fred felt the relief wash over him. What had he been th
inking? How stupid.

  He went up to the Princess’s door and raised his hand as if to knock. But then he thought he heard something . . . He pressed his ear against the panel, strained to listen. There. He could hear something, he was sure.

  Tiny muffled sobs.

  8

  CAPTURED IN OILS

  Knole Park House

  May 1819

  Fred did not go down for breakfast the next morning. For the very first time in his eighteen years he was at a loss as to what to do next. Edmund, if he knew – and Fred thanked the Lord he did not – would laugh enough to shake his bones. Fred leaned over the banister at the top of the stairs and saw Finiefs let in Mr Barker, the artist. He could not bear to go down and join his Mother in glad-handing and smiling.

  He sighed. He knew Ed would suggest having it out with the fellow, fists up in the corridor. Or even better, let Finiefs deal with him and throw him out. And that had been his instinct, after hearing Caraboo sobbing like that, so quietly, so sadly. The thought of what he had done afterwards made him flush, and he turned away, trying to block it out . . .

  Fred had hared after the captain, who, after a shaky few days, now moved as nimbly on land as anyone half his age, and found him at last, relaxed as you like, finishing off another decanter of Father’s rum and about to tell another tale of the South Seas to Mama.

  ‘The Penanggalan,’ the captain said as he refilled his glass, ‘is a most terrible thing, madam.’

  Mrs Worrall frowned. ‘Surely, Captain,’ she said, ‘such fancies are but native superstitions and folk tales, like our ogres or the Black Dog of legend.’

  ‘Ah, but don’t some folk swear blind they’ve seen them? Didn’t I hear of an old man, when I was a boy down in Rye on the coast, whose heart stopped dead after he’d seen that dog? Chased him to his grave, they say . . .’

  ‘Captain Palmer?’ Fred said coolly.

  The captain drained his glass.

  ‘I wonder if I could speak to you?’ Fred paused. ‘In private.’

  ‘Fred, darling, the captain was about to begin a tale.’