The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo (14 page)

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 thinking? 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.

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.'

‘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 dirt, 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.