The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo

by Catherine Johnson

  ‘You are not getting away’ – his voice was firm and even – ‘Miss Whoever-you-are. You are coming back to Knole Park with me. You will be Caraboo.’ She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her. ‘I say you will! You will keep your mouth shut. You will do your ridiculous dances and talk in your ridiculous cant – at least until Mama’s party is over. Then you will disappear and it will be as if you never existed, ever. Do you understand?’

  She rode back to Knole Park sitting up in front of him on the mare, his left arm clamped tight about her waist, as if she might float away. She had wriggled at first, but that made him clutch her even more tightly. Her bare legs chafed against the horse, but she knew there was no merit in complaining.

  ‘I had thought to make you walk behind me,’ he said, ‘but that way we would have taken all afternoon.’

  ‘I shall run away,’ she said. ‘I ran from the captain, I shall run from you. You cannot force me to be something against my will!’

  ‘Watch me,’ he said, talking to the back of her head. ‘If you bolt, I shall say that you have stolen something precious – jewellery, silver. No one would believe you, a lying, worthless milkmaid, over me. I shall drop you in it so deep that hanging will seem like a mercy.’

  ‘I have been to hell, sir, more than once.’

  ‘Then I shall make certain the gates are shut tight for good, the next time.’

  11

  A PRINCESS RETURNS

  Knole Park House

  June 1819

  On her return to Knole Park, Cassandra was not in an agreeable mood. The trip to the milliner’s had not yielded anything close to her idea of the perfect summer bonnet, and then something had happened to Fred, and Mama threw over all their shopping plans to hurry back home without a detour to the better draper’s to buy some new ribbon for her dress.

  Diana would be arriving tomorrow, and she was bound to have a brand-new dress for the summer; Cassandra had only the dress from the New Year’s Ball, which she could not possibly wear again, and her good summer Indian cotton, which without some new blue ribbon – she had imagined the ensemble, and the ribbon would have been just the thing – would be merely tired.

  Then, on returning home, she found that Will Jenkins had left a note – a note! – for her at the house. It might look innocent enough to the untrained eye, but if Mama had not been so taken up with the party and with Fred’s accident and with Princess Caraboo, she would surely have noticed. Cassandra thanked heaven that she did not – she merely said it was from Diana and tucked it away as quick as a flash.

  Cassandra cursed under her breath. She had told him never to leave notes! He really was too forward. How on earth could she ever have imagined running away with him? She blushed at the thought. For several nights she had really entertained the idea of being an innkeeper’s wife. Thank God she had never told Diana! She shuddered.

  Oh, he was handsome, but far too earnest – he thought of work and money more than was necessary. She sighed. Edmund Gresham would be here tonight, and he was entertaining, witty, and never mentioned anything half so boring as earnings or income.

  She cast an eye over the note. It said that she should come to the lakeside: he wanted to meet her today, before the visitors arrived. Cassandra sighed. She would have to go, in case he caused some scene in front of Mama’s guests; it would be unbearable. Why could Will Jenkins not take a hint? It was unfair! She did not want to be cruel, to cast him off. He must know that!

  She would have to go and tell him not to bother her any more. That she had made a mistake; that Will was certain to find someone more suitable to his station – no, she would not say that. Someone who could love him better than she – yes, that was it. And then that would be that.

  She was about to change out of her town dress when Phoebe came in bearing some of Cook’s home-made lemonade.

  ‘Miss Cassandra!’ she whispered.

  ‘It is all right, Phoebe,’ Cassandra said. ‘No one is listening. Did you finish the dress for Princess Caraboo?’

  ‘Yes, miss, but it’s your brother, Miss Cassandra. Something terrible—’

  ‘Mama told me he was robbed in the street! In broad daylight! Bristol is not safe.’

  ‘But he was covered in blood!’

  ‘Covered? Mama said he was attacked, knocked down, but that he was all right, thank goodness.’

  ‘Well, perhaps not covered. He’s all right, miss, but his jacket is quite ruined. And do you know, miss – Caraboo was covered in blood too?’ Phoebe gave Cassandra a look. ‘I reckon she was with him.’

  ‘Are you certain, Phoebe? I thought she was at the artist’s with the captain?’ She stared at Phoebe, who was grinning.

  ‘That’s it, miss – the captain, miss, he’s not returned! Mrs Worrall is all of a flutter, in case he’s not coming back. I wager the man’s had too many spirits, or is in some inn between here and Bristol telling his tales.’

  ‘Well, that’s no surprise – but Fred and Caraboo? Together?’

  ‘I know, Miss Cassandra,’ Phoebe said. ‘And they are both in such low spirits. Heaven knows what happened!’

  ‘I shall make it my mission to discover all, Phoebe. In fact, I will call on Caraboo now. She can accompany me to the lake.’

  Cassandra knew that Caraboo might not be able to tell her what happened in so many words, but she was sure she would be able to discover some information. They were both young women, after all, albeit from different continents. And it would make all the difference if she could see Will with Caraboo present. It would put some distance between them; he would not be able to press his suit and she would be much more able to resist.

  She walked down to the lake with Cassandra. She was wearing one of Cassandra’s cast-offs, cut short for ease of movement. She had Caraboo’s old black turban on her head, her knife at her belt, and a bow and arrows slung around her shoulder, but she was not sure if she felt like Caraboo at all. Cassandra ran on ahead and she closed her eyes, feeling the sunlight on her face and the soft grass under her feet. This was, she told herself, a mess entirely of her own making.

  ‘Phoebe tells me that you and Fred returned together! What happened? Was he your brave protector?’ Cassandra put her fists up. ‘And the captain? Did he fall out with Mr Barker? I can’t imagine the two got on.’

  Caraboo shrugged.

  ‘Oh, I do so wish you could tell me everything!’ said Cassandra. ‘Wait till this evening – I have something to show you that will raise your spirits, Princess.’

  Caraboo nodded politely, although she thought the one thing she could do without was any kind of surprise.

  Then Cassandra forgot about her brother and proceeded to babble on about Will and Ed – which of them was fairest, which was tallest.

  The Princess Caraboo ran her hand along the tops of the rushes that bordered the lake.

  ‘I will own that Will is broader about the shoulder, but he has become so tiresome! I had a puppy once – oh, I loved him straight away . . . I think I was nine or ten.’ Cassandra pulled a face, remembering. ‘I put my Sunday ribbon about his neck and he followed me everywhere. Then he grew up, and his disposition, I swear, changed from one day to the next. From waiting happily for titbits, now he barked and snapped, and snapped some more. Papa was all for drowning the poor animal, but I put my foot down and gave him to the gamekeeper’s boy. Never did see the animal again . . .’

  The Princess said nothing. She remembered how Fred had spoken to her. That would only be the start, she thought. She would not be interesting, she would be like that puppy; there would be only blows and curses.

  Cassandra sighed. ‘Your face is so long, Princess, it will sweep the floor. What was it that happened in Bristol?’ She cocked her head to one side, in order to express sympathy, and leaned close, expecting some kind of answer.

  Caraboo was grateful for the sound of twigs snapping as Will Jenkins, waiting by the lake, stood up sharp when he saw them coming.

  ‘Miss Cassandra!’ h
e said, already sad. ‘I thought you would be alone!’

  Does he not know, Caraboo thought, that she no longer wants him? She looked from one to the other: Cassandra, perfect, smiling, golden; Will Jenkins, his good looks soured by desperation.

  Cassandra flapped a hand dismissively. ‘Oh, do not worry, we can talk.’ She smiled at him. ‘She will not know what we are saying. She knows only yes and no and please and thank you.’

  It was an education, Caraboo thought, watching the two of them: Cassandra not saying what she needed to say, Will not wanting to recognize it.

  He spoke of a passage to America, of savings, and of marriage; Cassandra kept her distance, talking only of how busy she would be, and how she regretted not buying any blue ribbon.

  The Princess thought that if she had been Will Jenkins she would have walked away a thousand times; but he wanted her so much – it was written in his every movement. Caraboo looked away. She reminded herself that this was what she had planned for Fred, this devotion, so that she could cast him off and he would know hurt and pain.

  It served her right. She should have left weeks ago, after the first night in clean linen. The Worralls did not deserve what she had done to them, even if she had never meant any harm.

  She looked away, across the water. Her colour was up – she could feel it in her face – and her head thumped. She was aware of every blood vessel, she thought, as they carried the blood this way and that around her body. Her father would say it was shame she felt, and should feel; barrels of the stuff. Then she remembered the letters. She had to go back to the house, tell Fred at once that his plan was bound to fail, given that in some professor’s study in Oxford or Edinburgh, her handwriting was being pored over. Real professors, not fairground showmen with letters after their name, like Heyford. They were bound to see the truth – and who knew, perhaps there were replies on their way to Knole Park at this moment—

  ‘Miss Cassandra, please, when we met before—’

  Cassandra looked away.

  ‘When we . . .’ Will looked at Caraboo as if embarrassed, and although she willed him not to say any more, he went on, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘We – you – we spoke of running away, of being together, of America. I need to know now, I need to know if you meant it.’

  ‘Oh, Will!’ Cassandra smiled at him. ‘I cannot speak of this, Caraboo is here!’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘I know.’ She could not meet his gaze. ‘But she might get the wrong shape of things.’ She touched his arm. ‘Will, do not be so tiresome. We have all our lives . . .’

  ‘You promised me,’ Will said.

  And then the Princess Caraboo was sick in the rushes at the side of the lake. Cassandra, most grateful for the interruption, immediately hurried her away to the house.

  The Greshams’ coach had just pulled up on the drive. Fred watched his mother from the hall and wished she wouldn’t fawn so over Lady Gresham. It was more of a relief than he had imagined, seeing Edmund, though.

  ‘My word, Fred, what happened to your face? Have you found a calling as a prize fighter?’

  ‘Alas, no. It is a long story.’

  ‘Well, there’ll be plenty of time for the telling, and I shall have no competition for the ladies. Hah!’

  ‘No, Edmund, I am in no position to be sensational like this.’

  ‘Oh! I need a drink. The roads are so hard I thought I might die in there with Mother for three whole hours. Oh God, the countryside is dull! And months before any decent hunting! With any luck I shall be on a boat bound for the Mediterranean before I die of boredom.’

  ‘Think of me, brother, with only dry Classics, and drier old men, to look forward to.’

  ‘I promise I will not. When I set foot in Italy I will think of nothing but my own pleasure!’ Edmund said. ‘And do you know, you look like a man who has forgotten how to have fun? Is that possible? I had heard this princess of yours was quite fascinating. My mother has spoken of little else since she received the invitation.’

  ‘I suppose she has turned the household upside down.’ Fred wasn’t sure if he could tell Edmund the truth about the Princess just yet.

  ‘And your lovely sister, the beautiful Cassandra – is she still carrying a torch for me?’

  ‘Ed, I have warned you about Cassandra. Just because she throws herself at you . . . You would do well to remember that she is my sister.’

  ‘And I am your friend.’

  ‘And I bested you in three fights at school.’

  ‘She is safe with me! Unless I marry her, of course, but that is a century away at least.’

  ‘Don’t let her – or Mama – hear you dangle marriage like that, Ed. She will surely faint with delight.’

  Edmund laughed. ‘The ladies of Leghorn and Tuscany and Venice are waiting. I don’t know if your sister can compete.’

  ‘I will knock you down, Edmund.’

  ‘I cower before you, Frederick.’

  Fred rolled his eyes. But at least he was smiling.

  ‘And there will be dancing?’ Edmund asked.

  ‘Mama has booked musicians from Bath.’

  ‘Thank God! And I have heard’ – Edmund lowered his voice as they went inside – ‘that your princess is a regular smasher.’

  ‘I assure you she is not my princess at all. She’s down by the lake, I think – at least, I saw her heading off there with Cass.’

  ‘Then let us kill two birds with one stone. My refreshment can wait,’ Edmund said, marching Fred out onto the terrace and down across the park.

  The girls were walking towards them, arm in arm. Fred saw that his sister was talking animatedly about something. The other girl was beside her, her shoulders slumped, her attitude listless; even from a distance she looked sad. Fred would have liked to shake her. What right did she have to be sad? She had promised to play the Princess, and he wanted the running, dancing, fighting one, not a sulky girl. How would Mama feel if the stupid girl let everyone down?

  ‘Edmund, Fred!’ Cassandra waved, and as they drew closer Fred saw that Caraboo was quite pale.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Caraboo has been sick, just now, by the lake! Oh, Edmund’ – Cassandra blushed – ‘you have arrived.’

  ‘Indeed I have.’

  ‘Fred’ – she turned to her brother – ‘I am taking Caraboo up to the house, to Bridgenorth. I think she is not well. It’s such a shame for you, Edmund, to see her like this. I’m afraid she is not herself at all! Come, I am sure you need some refreshments after your long journey.’

  Fred stared at Caraboo. The girl was a liar; she could be faking this as surely as she had faked everything else.

  ‘Hello – Princess.’ Edmund spoke to her slowly and loudly as if she were a small deaf idiot.

  ‘Edmund, don’t be silly – she’s no fool,’ Cassandra said. She turned to the Princess. ‘This is Edmund Gresham.’

  ‘Esquire,’ Edmund added, bowing slightly.

  The Princess returned a salute – although it was lacklustre, Fred thought, and definitely half-hearted. He bit his tongue.

  ‘I say, Princess,’ Edmund said, reaching out to touch her face as if she were a small child, or a dog.

  She stepped back.

  ‘She doesn’t like being touched. By men,’ Cassandra explained.

  Edmund looked at Fred and snorted. ‘What a poor show! What does she like, then!’

  ‘Don’t be so mean, Edmund.’ But Cassandra was smiling as she spoke. ‘I will take her to her room. I will see you gentlemen at dinner.’ And she led the Princess away.

  Edmund put his hands in his pockets and turned to Fred. ‘I say, did you know that! The touching, I mean?’ He cursed. ‘And she is a corker. A bit peaky now – vomiting’s never a plus in a girl – but a definite looker. I’d have a crack at her! Fred, I was banking on you having broken the girl in by now! I mean, sir, you are, are you not, Mr Frederick Worrall, a man capable of charming any girl in Westminster into bed . . .’
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  Fred glared at his friend. It was as if he was looking in a mirror – only somehow time had shifted in the weeks he had been down from school and he knew that wasn’t his reflection any more. He turned away. Edmund was talking about something else now, and he was grateful for it. All those girls, all those Lettys and Hettys . . . He had bought those girls’ compliance with money, and even then some wept. The society girls who flirted with him didn’t know him at all, wanted only a pretty face and some silly soft-soap flattery.

  He thought of Caraboo, by the fire on the island. She was the only girl who knew him at all, he thought. And she didn’t even exist.

  ‘There!’ Cassandra and Phoebe stood back to admire their work. ‘I am so glad you recovered, Princess. Mama, as usual, has plans for this evening and tomorrow, and I thought you would need something a little more elegant.’

  Caraboo could not help smiling. She had never worn anything that felt so delicious in all her life. It was cream satin that shimmered almost golden as she turned this way and that, looking at herself in the mirror, wishing she truly was a princess who could do as she pleased.

  ‘Oh! You are a picture!’ Cassandra said. ‘Phoebe, your needle does you credit.’

  Phoebe bobbed a curtsey. ‘Thank you, miss. I made it from the mistress’s old chemise.’

  Caraboo saluted her, then kissed her on the cheek. If she could have spoken English she would have thanked them both. The dress came down just below her knees – modest for Caraboo – and was cut square about the neck, like her hunting dress. The sleeves and hem were crenellated, and swished when she moved. Caraboo felt the Princess return a little, and danced around the room; Cassandra joined her.

  ‘Come along, Phoebe!’ she said, and the three of them made a wonderful picture. Until Cassandra, out of breath, stopped and leaned against the window.

  ‘There, look! The captain is returned on some kind of wagon!’