Portrait of a Girl (2 page)

Beneath
the shawl I could feel my flesh burn, and felt a warm glow flood my cheeks. Words came from my lips mechanically. ‘Of course not. Why should you?’

His
whole body relaxed. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘We may as well be comfortable. I have a proposition to put to you.’

I
obeyed, waiting for him to take a seat, but he didn’t, he just perched himself on the edge of the table and continued, ‘Don’t you want to know what it is?’

Already
aware of the designs of most men, I managed to answer a little haughtily, ‘I’m not sure, sir. I may be young but I’ve had propositions before.’

His
voice hardened. ‘Not of this kind. I’m not lusting after your luscious pretty body or any feminine favours. In other words, child, I’m a married man with no taste for affairs on the sly—’

‘I
—’

He
raised a hand from which an emerald flashed its green fire. ‘Now don’t argue, if you please. You have a voice. Looks, too, of course, of a wild kind, but it is your voice I — covet.’

‘
Why? What for?’

‘
Ah. That’s better. What for? To have trained — to bring it to its full potential. Do you understand?’

When
I shook my head mutely, he resumed. ‘You should have wider audiences than those in hostelries and taverns. I can make no promises of course — but I’m pretty certain that after a period of tuition you would be welcome on the best concert stages of Cornwall and the West — later perhaps through the whole land. You’d have to work hard and accept strict discipline, naturally, but luckily I happen to have friends in the theatre world — and the man I have in mind lives now not too far away — retired — near Truro. I’m quite sure he’d be delighted to undertake your tuition, if you’re willing and agree to my plans—’ His voice broke off.

I
simply stared. Although I’d long dreamed of the opportunity offered, I hadn’t really expected it to materialise. I could feel my heart bumping wildly, then miss a beat or two as the blood rushed to my face before receding to leave me trembling. Damp curls clung to my forehead. This was all I had longed for, and more, much more — simply because Rupert Verne himself was concerned. That he was older than me — nearer forty than thirty, married, with a wife and owner of a large estate — that he had wealth and position, didn’t in those first ecstatic moments register. A bond, a promise, had already been forged between us. Whatever happened in the future I knew that in some strange way we were already bound, for good or ill.

‘
Well?’ I heard him say, through the dizzy whirl of excitement. ‘Are you dumb, child? Or just not interested?’

‘
Of course I’m interested,’ I heard myself reply, almost in a whisper. ‘Of course. Of course —’

He
smiled, and touched my shoulder lightly. It could have been a fatherly touch; but it wasn’t — quite. For a second or two the years between us were dispelled. The whole world seemed to brighten and sing. We stood — woman and man facing each other on an enchanted shore while knowledge flowered and I knew life would never be quite the same again. Then, suddenly, it was over. Facts came into focus. I was merely Josephine Lebrun, a girl possessing a voice good enough to stir the interest of a would-be wealthy sponsor. So I steeled myself to appear dignified, even a little aloof, and continued, though still breathlessly, ‘Who is he? This theatre person? And how do you know I’d please him?’

‘
I don’t. We shall have to find out.’

The
sudden abrupt tone of voice and manner chilled me. It was as though in a few short words he deliberately intended to cast me down.

Perhaps
I’d been stupid and taken too much for granted. Perhaps after all, this idea of his was a mere whim — a rich man’s passing game to provide stimulus and amusement for a time. Or perhaps he really was genuine, but cautious of disappointing me. The uncertainty must have shown in my expression. I felt my shoulders droop as I got up and turned towards the door. In a second he was there before me.

‘
Now don’t you run away,’ I heard him saying, as though talking to a child. ‘You must learn not to show moods or tempers. And don’t expect praise all the time. You have a nice voice, yes. But Signor Luigi will expect more than that—’

‘
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.’