Portrait of a Girl (3 page)

I
wanted to retort indignantly that I did not come from the gutter, and knew how to behave in the presence of gentry, but was wise enough to keep the words back. After all, entertaining well-bred pleasure seekers in respectable hostelries like the Golden Bird had demanded quite a different code of behaviour than bowing to her ladyship. No curtseying or minding one’s words — just smiling and dancing, and singing for the joy of it. Depression enfolded me in a grey cloud. For the first time I doubted the wisdom of having left Falmouth for the grim atmosphere of Kerrysmoor.

In
the morning, though, optimism had returned. When I jumped out of bed and pulled the window curtains wide, pearly sunlight touched distant cliffs to gold. The sea beyond was calm under a lifting cloudless sky. Immediately below the wall of the house, terraced gardens sloped to an expanse of moor where gorse flamed between clumps of purple heather and burnished undergrowth. Any memory of the steep hill behind surmounted by the gloomy Three Maidens was dispelled.

‘
I shall like it here,’ I thought, forgetting for a moment that in an hour or two, perhaps less, I should be leaving for the unknown destination of Tregonnis.

I
had breakfast on my own in a small back parlour off the kitchen, consisting of gruel and a slice of thick ham. The master, I was told, had already eaten and her ladyship never rose until noon, taking little refreshment before the midday meal for which she was usually joined by Mr Verne in the dining room.

‘
The mistress isn’t well today,’ Mrs Treen told me, a little smugly, I thought, ‘so ‘tisn’t likely you’ll meet before you leave.’

I
was slightly disappointed — not by missing any direct encounter with the haughty creature glimpsed on the stairs the previous night, but by the silence of the house and apparent shortage of staff. I had expected to see footmen and servants about, but except for a kitchen maid and a boy in shabby livery carrying boots from the scullery, no one appeared. In daylight the interior of Kerrysmoor had a dingy appearance. Walls needed re-decorating and there were gaps in tiled floors showing damp in places. The rugs in the back hall were partially threadbare.

From
Joe Burns’ description of a wealthy household I had expected spic and span elegance, even in servants’ quarters. But sunlight streaming across floors and corners emphasised years of long neglect.

The
housekeeper must have sensed my unspoken criticism. ‘This place is old and takes a deal of keepin’ in order,’ she said. ‘And large. You haven’t seen anything of the proper dwelling quarters, or the West Wing where Lady Alicia has her apartments. Really elegant it is there. Every year sees it done up and something new added. But of course that’s only right, seeing who she is.’

‘
I see,’ I replied ineffectually.

She
shook her head. ‘No, my girl, you don’t. ‘Tisn’t to be expected. Not with your background.’

‘
What do you mean? You don’t know a thing about me.’

‘
Now, now, don’t get all hoity toity! No harm meant. I was only going by your appearance.’

‘
And what’s wrong with it?’

She
smiled — not pleasantly — as her small eyes regarded me shrewdly.

‘
You’ve a bit of a wild look on you, to me. That black hair and those eyes! And the way you walk and swing your hips! Oh, attractive in a way I s’pose — enough to charm the master. Gipsyish. But—’

Discretion
deserted me. ‘Do you mind holding your tongue? My father was a sea-captain, Breton. And my mother was Welsh. That’s why I’m here — I’ve inherited it — her voice. Mr Verne heard me perform and has offered to give me training.’

My
sudden haughty tone had the effect of quietening her manner — or perhaps it was the unexpected appearance of Rupert Verne — quite unknown to me — in the doorway.

‘
I meant no offence,’ she said. ‘You took my words wrongly—’

‘
I should hope so,’ Rupert’s voice interrupted cuttingly.

Startled,
both of us turned. He was standing motionless there, with the light from the window striking sideways across his lean face, emphasising the stern, tight-lipped set of his mouth and cold fire of his eyes.

‘
I didn’t mean—’ Mrs Treen began, but was silenced by a wave of his hand. He came towards us and addressing the housekeeper continued, ‘You should know by now that any guest in my household must be treated with respect, Mrs Treen. I’m most displeased; however, this time the incident will be overlooked providing nothing of the kind ever happens again. Josephine — Miss Lebrun—’ He glanced at me sharply —

‘
Yes, sir?’

‘
It
would
perhaps be more suitable to the occasion now if you changed into quieter attire. In half an hour’s time we’re setting off for the cottage, and my caretaker there will probably expect her new companion to appear less flamboyant.’

I
should have felt snubbed if it had not been for the unexpected glint of amusement in his glance.

‘
Very well,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

He
shrugged. ‘No need to be. I’m sure Signor Luigi will appreciate a taste of colour providing your voice also charms his artistic heart.’

So
I left him with Mrs Treen and went upstairs to the bedroom where I had a black shawl and skirt, and a dark cape to cover everything. I took the rings from my ears, and tied my hair back before pinning it to the top of my head. Over this I placed a small bonnet trimmed only by two flat velvet flowers. It had ribbons to tie under the chin, and the whole effect, when I was dressed, made me suddenly want to giggle. I could have been some young Breton housewife attired primly for a shopping expedition to market.

However,
Mr Verne made no comment when I went down later carrying my small valise, ready for the journey. No glance from his eyes even denoted approval or the reverse. I was disappointed, but determined not to show it. If he wished now to have things on an entirely impersonal and business-like basis then I’d prove I was quite capable of obliging.

We
spoke little during the journey. The lane curved round the base of a high moorland hill on one side, with a narrow thread of river on the other. The morning air was pungent with the damp smell of mist, fallen leaves and blackberries, and decaying vegetation. Far to the west silvered sunlight lit the distant sea. But the glimpse was soon lost as the chaise turned abruptly inland to the left. The trees bordering the lane thickened; dew diamonded their lean dark branches, giving an air of mystery and enchantment. Everything was very still — the hollow sound of hooves and wheels reverberated weirdly through the windless air. I lifted my hand once to clear the smudged glass of a window.

‘
There’s not much to see yet,’ Mr Verne said. ‘By mid-day when the fog’s lifted you’ll find the view more hospitable. I must see some of these trees are cut down.’

‘
Are we still on your estate then, sir?’ I asked.

Not
really. The cottage is on Kerrysmoor land. As the crow flies — if we had wings—’ he continued, ‘we could be there in next to no time at all. This hill is Rosecarrion; we’re bending back now towards the area from where we started.’

‘
Oh.’ I tried to get an accurate picture in my mind of the locality. ‘Then isn’t it possible to go the other way, or over the hill?’

‘
There’s no road fit for a carriage of any kind on the other side,’ he answered, ‘and crossing the hill would be not only difficult, but quite dangerous.’

‘
Dangerous?’

‘
Bog, and mine shafts — also adders,’ I was told. ‘I don’t advise you to take any future rambles directly up Rosecarrion.’ He glanced in the opposite direction where a humped bridge crossed the river. ‘If you go that way you’ll discover pleasant paths leading to Tharne. Tharne, though only a small village, is comparatively civilised, and even has stores where I’m sure you’d find pleasing varieties and most things women want.’

I
didn’t answer. The mere fact that he’d done his best to put me off wandering about the wild hill had stimulated a wish in me to do so. I was used to going my own way; I suppose it was an instinct born in me through my Celtic and Breton ancestry. To be referred to in the category of ‘most women’ was mildly irritating. Freedom was in my very blood. I bit my lip momentarily, then relaxed, realising that in the future I would most certainly have to discipline myself to certain rules and regulations.

Round
a sudden corner of the hill the lane branched off to the left into what was little more than a track. Long shadows now showed only a thread-like glimmer of light. The coach took the bend, carefully at a slow speed under drooping trees. Evening had deepened so swiftly it could have been almost night. Then as the trunks of oak, sycamore, larch and willow thinned, a shaft of light zig-zagged down the path, revealing a cottage tucked behind a square of garden, with a mellow glow streaming from a half open door.

The
chaise drew up nearby; there was the whinnying of horses, and Rupert Verne’s voice saying, ‘Here we are. Tregonnis.’

He
got up, and as he helped me from the vehicle the figure of an old lady appeared coming towards us down the path. She was thin, small, a little bent at the shoulders, but agile in movement, and strangely dressed in old-fashioned attire, wearing a frilled lace cap and apron, a hooped black silk dress spattered with sparkling jewels and brooches. Under the glow of an oil lamp already lighted in the hall I saw the tips of red satin slippers peeping beneath her skirts. She had red ribbons also at her wrists and decorating her hemline in tiny rosettes. Rings glittered from fingers of both hands. Her face was thin and pale with a pointed chin and high-bridged nose.

Mr
Verne introduced her as Dame Jenny Trenoweth, ‘keeper of Tregonnis’, and I as his temporary ward who would be for the time being in her charge, and to give help when necessary. Obviously, she had been well primed concerning my stay at the cottage and the true purpose of it. She expressed no surprise, but nodded all the time he was speaking, her small bright eyes regarding me shrewdly and unblinkingly.

Having
expected to find someone more of Mrs Treen’s type, I was bewildered by this first glimpse of the quaint creature who appeared more suited to be a character in a play than in real life. Her voice, too, was light and high, but I guessed could be sharp if she felt like it.

Conversation
between the three of us was short. Indeed after the first introduction and intimating of my expected behaviour and duties, Rupert Verne appeared anxious to leave.

‘
The horses will be getting restless,’ he said. ‘The light’s bad, and my wife likes dinner to be punctual. First, though, I would like to show you my — collection. Dame Jenny has been its previous guardian for many years. In future you will share the duty. Dame Trenoweth—’ he indicated the parlour door with a wave of his hand, ‘you first please, and we’ll follow.’

The
red slippers made a tapping noise, the necklaces and silk dress tinkled and rustled as the tiny figure led us through the hall to a door on the right, further down. The surround was arched, and the wood, of light oak, was panelled and carved in a symbolic and intricate design. From a pochette hanging at her wrist Dame Jenny took a bunch of keys, she inserted one in the lock, and we went into the room. It was larger than I’d expected, and at some time in the past, obviously, had been converted from perhaps two smaller ones of plain architecture into an interior of intriguing nooks and alcoves.

Candles
had already been lighted, throwing fantastic shadows about the treasures stored there — French figurines, music boxes, ivory miniatures in velvet frames, and paintings of exquisite beauty; the walls were silver grey, the ceiling blue and one wall comprised entirely of a large white marble fireplace with settles round it for seating.

It
was not possible at first glance to absorb details. The rosy glow of burning logs and candles emphasised the air of mystery and days long ago — countless years in which the treasures must have been collected. There were paintings — mostly water-colours of landscapes that seemed to quiver with life as transient shadows crossed their surface. The delicate poised figure of a glass dancing piper flashed with rainbow movement when I took a step forward, disturbing the quiet air. Then it was stilled again into shadow. I stared round wonderingly, then glanced back again to the fireplace because above it was the focal point of the whole room.

A
portrait.

The
painting of a girl with upswept silver-pale gold hair tied high with a green ribbon. Her face was heart-shaped from which hazel eyes stared with the translucent quality of moorland pools lit briefly by sunlight. The mouth appeared on the verge of laughter but the whole effect was of longing — the longing and sadness of beauty unfulfilled. I was fascinated, briefly magnetised, sensing that the surroundings were merely a background, perhaps a dedication, to her personality. Above a froth of lace her slim neck held an opalescent glow, ivory pale, yet changeful in the flickering candlelight with all the glowing radiance of waves breaking gently on a cool shore.