The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo

by Catherine Johnson

  ‘I assure you, Mama’ – Fred’s voice was tight – ‘this won’t take long.’

  Captain Palmer nodded, and Fred waited while he rose unsteadily and made his way over to the door.

  If Mama had not been sitting there, Fred thought, he would have knocked him down there and then.

  Once he was in the hall, Fred took the captain’s arm and led him out onto the dark terrace.

  ‘You can let go of my arm, young man,’ the captain said, trying to pull away.

  ‘Just what are you up to?’ Fred slammed him up against the wall. ‘I saw you! Outside her room. Are you interfering with her – with the Princess? I ought to have you thrown out this instant!’

  The captain said nothing for a moment; then, ‘I see.’

  ‘You see what? You see what exactly?’

  ‘Keep your powder dry, young man,’ he said softly. ‘The Princess was merely missing her home island. The sun, the warmth’ – he paused – ‘her family.’

  ‘It was more than that.’ Fred couldn’t see Caraboo going to the captain for comfort. Of any kind.

  ‘Oh,’ the captain said, looking Fred straight in the eye, ‘I think I see where your thoughts are taking you, a fine-looking buck like yourself.’

  ‘Do not refer to me as a buck.’

  ‘Apologies.’ The captain backed away.

  ‘What about the Princess?! What is your game, sir?’

  ‘Game?’ The captain raised his eyebrows. ‘You think I play a game, young sir?’ He almost smiled. ‘And I would wager you’d play your own game too, is that it?’

  Fred bridled. ‘What do you mean? I am not a ruffian who makes young women cry, sir—’ He checked himself, thinking of Letty and Essie and the others, and looked away.

  The captain smiled. ‘I am a man of the world; I know a young man’s thoughts and how they tack and change. If you would like to see your way to finding me a good silver crown, I’d be more than happy to parley with the Princess on your behalf.’ He leaned closer. ‘She does not take kindly to being forced into anything, if you get my drift,’ he said with a wink.

  ‘Is that what you think?!’ Fred was incandescent – but he was also frozen. How did this salt scum know so much about his thoughts?

  ‘She is a looker.’

  ‘She is not like that!’

  ‘How can you know what she is like? Do you speak Javasu, sir? I think not.’ The captain shrugged. ‘The Princess is just a girl – and, you, if I am not mistaken, like a game girl.’

  Fred tried to punch the man, but his fist only connected with the wall behind his head. The pain shot up his arm.

  ‘I am not a fool, so don’t play the parson with me, lad, or talk of honour or other foolish niceties.’ He lowered his voice and growled, ‘I have seen your sort before: second sons – or eldest ones, for that matter – with too much time, money, and a father who is too busy to notice what is under his nose. Now, one silver crown . . . If you wish to spend the night with her, I could fix it for you, but that would be twice the tariff. Now, either pay up or shut up and let’s hear no more about it.’ The captain started to walk away.

  Fred was left standing alone on the terrace, knuckles grazed, mind racing. Could the Princess be bought so easily? Did she know that this was what the captain was up to? Did she condone it? And why did he care so much?

  All he could do was shout after the captain, like an idiot, ‘I am not a second son!’

  Remembering all this made Fred flush with shame. Why had he not thought of something cutting to say? Why had the Princess not been up on the roof this morning? He had spent the hour before and after the sun had risen waiting for her – in vain. Was there something going on between her and the captain after all? Some plot, some scheme?

  Then Caraboo, Cassandra and the captain were there, just below him in the hall, curtseying and bowing as Mother introduced them to the artist.

  Fred studied the Princess closely: was she not quieter than yesterday? Was there something about the slope of her shoulder that suggested sadness? He noticed that she did not meet the captain’s eye once. She did not care for the man at all, he was sure of it. He must have some knowledge, some secret of hers he was using against her. And her dress – it was short, her shoulders plainly visible. Was she not simply a girl of Letty’s sort, dressed up and playing some kind of long game? Bamboozled by that soak of a captain?

  She was not like that! He would swear it. She was different. He thought of that moment on the island and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she was staring straight at him. He wanted to tell her that he could help, he was on her side. But she had already turned away, and Mama was laughing at something the artist had said, and the party moved away into the Chinese drawing room, out of sight.

  Cassandra put on her second-favourite gown. Phoebe pulled the hem straight as Cassandra admired herself in the mirror.

  ‘You are a picture, Miss Cassandra.’

  ‘Maybe I can persuade Mr Barker to paint me too . . .’

  Phoebe smiled. ‘The artist? He would be a fool not to, any man would look twice at you, Miss Cassandra. Any man.’

  Cassandra did not notice Phoebe’s long sigh, and hurried away downstairs. It was her hope that the artist, Mr Barker, whose reputation in the West Country, she knew, was second to none, would set eyes on her and immediately wish to paint her. But Mr. Barker did not even look up to acknowledge her entrance.

  As the morning progressed Cassandra was thoroughly ignored. Caraboo had been posed and posed again. The artist had bought a selection of turbans – golden things adorned with peacock feathers that stood a clear foot above her head.

  Eventually he had settled on no turban at all, which Cassandra thought odd.

  ‘The Princess always wears a turban, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Hmm, well, her own is made of such dull stuff, it merely sucks in all the light. Bring me a better cloth and she may wear that.’ Cassandra frowned, but she sent Phoebe to find something else while Mr Barker stood back, considering her head and shoulders through a frame made from holding his hands in a kind of rectangle shape.

  Cassandra could see that Caraboo was not happy; she was nervous, and Cassandra thought it might be because the room was full of people. Mr Barker was more famous than Mr Bird of Bristol, who had painted Diana’s family last year. According to Mama, as soon as the word had spread to Bath that a real and genuine Javanese princess was staying with the Worralls at Knole, he had been intrigued by Caraboo’s story and wanted to see her.

  Mr Barker arranged a piece of cloth about Caraboo’s shoulders. Cassandra could see her flinching as he came close. ‘Perhaps, sir, you could instruct me as to your wishes? She is nervous of new people.’

  ‘That will not be necessary, miss.’ He stood back and addressed Mrs Worrall and the captain. ‘I would prefer to work alone. I do not find an audience conducive to any kind of creativity.’

  Mrs Worrall looked mildly crushed. ‘We shall be quiet, sir,’ she said, but he waved her and her daughter away.

  Cassandra stalked across the terrace. ‘Fred! You are lurking about so, and sulking, I do believe. Are you yet another infected by low spirits this morning?’

  ‘How so?’ Fred looked up.

  Cassandra leaned close. ‘The Princess is not herself, I believe.’

  ‘You think?’

  She nodded. ‘I had to wake her this morning. It was the first time!’ She looked at Fred. ‘And what is wrong with you? Have you not received a letter from your love?’

  ‘I do not have a love,’ he said, and changed the subject a little too smartly, Cassandra thought. ‘Did the artist send you out?’

  Cassandra sighed. ‘He did. I was hoping to be included in the portrait, The Princess Caraboo and Miss Cassandra Worrall of Knole Park . . .’

  She expected her brother to laugh at her, but when she turned, she saw that he had already gone back into the house.

  Cassandra walked round to the stables, lifting her skirts well clear of any di
rt, and made a fuss of Zephyr.

  ‘Why didn’t he paint me, Zeph?’ she asked. ‘You are the only living creature that understands me.’ She rested her head against his neck.

  ‘I thought I did too . . .’ The whisper was such a shock that Cassandra nearly pitched over into the horse’s bedding.

  ‘Will Jenkins!’ she whispered back. ‘What in heaven’s name brings you here?!’

  ‘I was sent on an errand to the city this morning and thought I would look in on the most beautiful girl in the whole world on the way, and steal a kiss. Or two.’

  ‘We must be careful!’ she said. ‘Vaughan is near! Anyone might see you!’

  ‘It is worth it . . .’ He moved closer.

  ‘Not now!’ Cassandra shrank back. ‘Please, Will! If we are discovered . . .’

  ‘I am leaving, then,’ Will said, stepping away.

  She had upset him, she could read it in his face.

  ‘Will, you know I do not enjoy surprises. Please remember that.’

  ‘But America . . . we have plans to make.’ He moved closer again. ‘I was hoping to depart before the weather turns in the autumn.’

  ‘Will, you must keep your voice low,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he sighed. ‘I do love you, Miss Cassandra.’ He was looking at her with so much longing it hurt to look back.

  ‘I know you do, Will,’ she said.

  ‘Can you keep still please, miss – um, your highness!’

  Princess Caraboo could hear the exasperation in the artist’s voice. She was doing her best. But her whole body ached from being still these last hours. She thought her short hair must look exceedingly untidy. She was grateful he had not made her wear any of the costumes he had brought with him, but staying still, especially with a piece of fabric draped over her usual hunting dress, was, she thought, close to torture.

  The worst of it was that she had nothing to do but think. And all she could think about was Captain Palmer. Why had she allowed that man to shape her story, to speak her language – to gain any hold over her at all? She sighed and the artist swore.

  She had never meant any harm to Mrs Worrall or the family – Fred excluded. And even he could not be blamed for being a product of his class, a person who thought the world existed merely to fulfil his every need. And perhaps he was not like that after all . . .

  But Captain Palmer . . . He would keep her as a man keeps a dog, to bark and walk and show its paces, or be beaten by a strap. When the handwriting was returned, she was bound to be found out, and then that would be an end to it – but perhaps that end might mean prison! Her heart raced. She had no choice but to run while she had a scrap of freedom left. If she could only get as far as Bristol . . . She shivered.

  The artist threw down his brushes. ‘That’s it! I do believe there is some devil in you that makes you wriggle so!’ His tone was unkind, and Caraboo allowed herself to look upset. Then she remembered that she was royalty and drew herself up, throwing the fabric to the floor, snatching up her black turban and mumbling Javasu curses at him as she left.

  Caraboo soon regretted this last action, as she was fairly dying to see how the portrait looked. It was a vanity, but she could not imagine any living soul, now or in the future, wanting to paint Mary Willcox of Witheridge, Devon.

  And in any case she longed to stretch her legs and get out of the house, even if only for a moment. So she ran across the lawn and down to the lake. She turned for a moment to glance back at the house: Captain Palmer was looking out of the window, plain as day, a ship’s glass trained upon her and following her each and every step.

  At least if he was in the house he could not be on the island. She made her way to the lakeside and pushed the rowing boat away from the shore. He could not follow her now. She reminded herself that Caraboo was still a princess – she had known it all along, well before he came along with his overblown story of kidnap and pirates. He might have her cornered, but she had to maintain her dignity. At least Captain Palmer didn’t know about Mary Willcox, had never so much as heard of her. She held that truth close as she struck out through the water.

  But when she stepped onto the island, she knew she was not alone. The path through to her fireplace and altar had been trodden down. Cassandra? No, Caraboo didn’t think she could swim. Fred, then? Of course.

  She wished she had the kriss on her, but settled for a sharp stick, then made her way as stealthily as she could towards the clearing. Caraboo had wanted to be alone – this was her island, her place . . . except that of course it wasn’t. She calmed down. Nothing real belonged to Princess Caraboo.

  She shinned up a tree and watched him for a while: he was only half dressed, his wet shirt hanging over a branch as he desperately tried to light a fire. How did the ruling class get to rule when they were all, to a man and woman, so inept?

  He cursed, and she had to stifle a laugh. Then he got up and threw his tinderbox on the ground with enough curses to turn the air blue.

  Caraboo jumped down, stick raised like a spear, yelling all kinds of Javasu oaths, and Fred Worrall, shocked and stunned, stumbled back into the ashes of the fire, and fell on his backside.

  Good, she thought, and stood over him with her spear. He shouldn’t be here.

  He shuffled backwards. ‘Princess! Caraboo, listen! I’m not here to intimidate you.’

  Caraboo did not understand ‘intimidate’.

  ‘I know about the captain – I know he’s put you up to something and I just don’t know what it is. Believe me, I want to help.’

  Caraboo was wrong-footed. Her heart thumped. What did he know? What had the captain said? She turned away, put down her stick and lit the fire in moments. She sat in front of it, trying to think.

  ‘I heard you last night, crying,’ Fred told her.

  She ignored him.

  ‘Then I saw you again this morning, and you avoided his eyes. Something happened.’

  Caraboo blew at the embers, and the flames burned brighter. She looked at Fred, sitting across from her. He wanted to help. And didn’t Caraboo need all the help she could get?

  ‘Captain no good,’ she said.

  ‘Exactly!’ Fred said. ‘That’s it exactly, Caraboo. I believe you – I know he’s crooked.’

  ‘Caraboo no crooked,’ she said firmly.

  ‘No, I don’t believe you are.’

  She felt a wave of relief wash over her, and smiled at him. There was a twinge, a pang of something else – guilt, perhaps – but she was doing everyone a favour by leaving. And wouldn’t she have left days ago now, if she’d had her way?

  Fred had brought two fish wrapped in cloth, and she took them and cooked them in the ashes – enveloped in leaves, the way Mary Willcox had seen her father do one summer a long time ago in Devon.

  ‘Caraboo go,’ she said as she turned them over. ‘Caraboo need go.’

  Fred looked at her. ‘Perhaps. But wouldn’t it be better if the captain went?’

  Caraboo looked blank.

  ‘Captain go,’ Fred said.

  Caraboo looked scared. She stood up and backed away from the fire.

  ‘No, Princess, not with you!’ Fred shook his head. ‘What I mean is, Caraboo stay, Captain go!’

  ‘Captain stay, Caraboo go,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps I can get the captain so completely drunk . . .’ He mimed drinking and then falling over.

  Caraboo shook her head. Rum was water to the captain. She made her fingers into a little person, called it Caraboo and made the finger-person climb onto a horse and gallop away. ‘Caraboo go – far.’

  ‘I wish you could talk to me, Caraboo,’ Fred said. ‘I wish you wanted to stay.’

  She turned away. Fred sighed. She didn’t understand at all, he thought.

  ‘Fred help,’ he said at last, leaning so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. She looked at him, then bent down until her lips brushed his. The Princess felt herself melt into him. Thought of nothing but his touch, his fingertip
s tracing circles on her neck, his mouth on hers—

  Up in the trees a magpie rasped out a call and the Princess Caraboo remembered who she was and leaped away.

  She studied Fred: he was completely and utterly lost. She had done it! Her heart was galloping against her ribs – the Princess told herself that it meant nothing. No doubt Fred’s beat all the faster.

  She smiled.

  When Caraboo returned to the house, Mr Barker, the artist, had gone. In the library, Mrs Worrall was reading, while Cassandra sewed and Captain Palmer nursed a glass of rum and looked daggers at her.

  ‘Oh, Princess, if you had seen your portrait!’ Mrs Worrall beamed. ‘Mr Barker says he will work on it and you are to visit his studio in Bristol on Friday. Fancy that – a real artist’s studio!’

  Caraboo knew she was dripping on the marble floor, but this was almost too good to be true. Bristol, she thought. The city – this was her chance, served up to her on a plate. However, she kept her face blank. Mrs Worrall mimed an artist, and she smiled.

  ‘Yes, and we shall make a day of it,’ Cassandra said. ‘Mama and I will visit the milliner’s, and Captain Palmer says he will come along and translate!’

  Mrs Worrall took Caraboo’s hand. ‘Oh, you are so cold and wet, Princess; do warm yourself or you’ll catch a chill.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mama, poor Caraboo – but we shall have such fun in the city! Perhaps Fred could come with us and we might show Caraboo some of the sights after Mr Barker has finished his work?’

  ‘A wonderful idea!’

  Caraboo saluted and went upstairs to change. So the captain would be coming too. No matter. She could lose him in the city a thousand times over. She would only need a change of clothes, ordinary clothes, and she could vanish into the stew in a flash. And if any kind of diversion was needed, Fred would help. Hadn’t he said so?

  She lay back on her bed and took a deep breath. It would be all right after all.

  9

  THE LIBERTY OF THE CITY

  Mr Barker’s Studio

  Bristol

  May 1819

  On the morning of the trip to Bristol, Fred had still not found a moment to talk to Caraboo. The whole household was up early. Mrs Worrall was in a flap about the lectures and dinner party this coming weekend, to which it seemed she had invited half the county. Lady Gresham and Edmund would be arriving for supper this evening, so they had to be back at Knole for six.