The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo (2 page)

‘Cassandra,' Miss Marchbanks told her, ‘you may take your leave. But if you intend to go out, make sure that silly grin is off your face or you will surely be mistaken for an idiot.'

Cassandra was out of the schoolroom and across the landing before the governess had finished her sentence. She lifted up her skirts and took the steps at a run; past the painting of her mother's family in Philadelphia in America, past the marble bust of her father that the bank had given him, past the dainty Chinese drawing room, Mama's pride and joy, pale pink and blue in the not-quite-latest fashion, past the library where Father's books on finance and Mama's books on all the countries of the world lined the walls – then across the black and white marble-tiled hall and out into the sun.

Cassandra turned Zephyr up the hill, urged him on into a canter and let her mind wander.

Every night she thought about Edmund, imagining all sorts of contrivances whereby Fred invited her and Mama to London – no, not Mama, just her; they would travel together and she would stay at the house of some aunt, or perhaps a relation from America who was just off the boat. This imagined aunt would have a house in one of the smarter new streets in St James's, and would be younger than Mama. Fred and Edmund would call round and take her out for a walk, and she would be wearing . . . This part of the reverie was always the most difficult. Her cream muslin with a new sash, cornflower blue to match her eyes? Or the new Indian print with the neckline Mama thought too daring? Or better still, a dress entirely of her own devising, in lilac with some satin trim. Oh, and she would have some new slippers too . . .

Once she had decided on her gown and her hair, there was merely the matter of getting Fred out of the picture. She had imagined several scenarios in which Fred had to assist a passer-by whose horse had cast a shoe, or perhaps a stray dog needed to be caught – in any case, exit Fred, and there she was, alone with Edmund, in the best possible gown, in London.

He would look at her the way he had done at the ball – his eyes intense, almost desperate. And she would feel that power over a man experienced by the heroines she read about. She thought of him kissing her, his lips on hers, his body pressing into hers, and she was so involved she did not realize that her eyes were shut and Zephyr was about to jump a hurdle gate that lay across the track to the village.

‘Oh!' The landing unseated her for a moment and Cassandra clung on for dear life, while Zephyr, true to his name, galloped like the wind down towards the village. She sat back and pulled hard on the reins, hoping to slow him down. Zephyr tossed his head – he was cantering now, slowing a little. Just when Cassandra thought she had him under control, he stumbled, and the reins were tugged out of her hand. Then Zephyr knew he had his head, and he tossed his mane and was off again at full pelt. Unable to reach the reins, Cassandra bent low, took a handful of mane in her hand and threw her other arm around his neck. She resisted the urge to scream or yell – she was after all a more than competent rider – and said to him, ‘There, there, Zeph!' in what she hoped was a calming way.

Zephyr had flattened out into a long thin streak of iron grey, and Cassandra, seeing the track hurtle past under his feet, imagined that perhaps this near-death experience – maybe a broken ankle or wrist, nothing serious or scarring – might necessitate Fred coming home early from school, and Edmund too. Then the thought of some real harm – a blow to the head rendering her insensible, a cut to the face which might spoil her features – sent her giddy with fear. Mud flew up and spattered all over her as the horse careered towards the village.

‘Zephy! Stop!' Cassandra knew she sounded pathetic, and naturally Zephyr took no notice. She realized it was merely a matter of time before she fell off. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. At least she would die knowing that a young man had held her; had held her so—

Zephyr's hooves clattered and splashed to a halt. Cassandra opened her eyes. This was not heaven. This was the village pond. Thank goodness she was still in her seat. She sat up. Then Zephyr gave a snort and shivered, making every bone and hair on his body twitch and ripple, and Cassandra, having stayed on while he flew down the muddy track, fell off into the filthy water, surrounded by a knot of small children laughing louder than thunder.

She got up. ‘Stop it!' she yelled at them. ‘Stop it at once!' She recognized the taller of the children. ‘Robert Shaston, and you, Jonathan, the smith's boy! I will tell my—' She was about to add ‘father' when her foot slipped on something indescribably slimy and she fell down again.

The laughter grew even louder. The whole village would be here soon. Zephyr had his head lowered to drink, swishing his tail at the flies, only pausing to give a little snort every so often, as if joining in with the village rabble.

Cassandra picked up the reins. She was aware that she was drenched from head to foot and splattered with mud, she felt she might burst into tears at any second. She knew she must get back on the horse and ride home. Her riding coat, pale blue and of the finest wool, was filthy. However would Mrs Bridgenorth restore it? She would hurry home as fast as she could, slip into the house through the stables, and hope to God, and all that was fair and just, that Mama's ladies would be so taken up with engravings of semi-naked American Indians that they wouldn't notice.

‘Get off with you!' she shouted at the children, but they stood their ground, pointing and laughing.

‘Come on, you lot, ent you got something to do? Here, miss, let me take the horse.'

The children scattered. She looked up. A young man with thick dark hair was shooing the children away.

‘Are you all right, Miss Worrall?'

Cassandra stared at him but couldn't place him. She knew every soul in the village. Her parents were the residents of Knole Park, the biggest and most important house in the district. But this young man, wading towards her through the pond, was a stranger, she was sure of it.

‘Will – William Jenkins from the Golden Bowl.' He ran his hand along Zephyr's neck and the horse greeted him like an old friend. ‘You don't remember me, do you, Miss Worrall?'

‘Of course I do,' Cassandra lied. She swept the wet hair away from her face and realized, too late, that she had merely transferred the black mud of the village pond from her hand to her cheek.

She waded out of the pond, attempting to pull Zephyr along behind her. Zephyr didn't move.

William Jenkins gave the horse a firm thwack across his hind quarters and he obediently stepped out after her.

‘I could have managed!' Cassandra snapped.

‘I am sure of it, miss.' Will was looking straight at her with his cool blue eyes, as if he were her equal.

‘Thank you. I will go home now.'

‘If you'd like, miss,' he said, ‘you could clean yourself up at the Bowl – well, not in the inn, naturally, but I could let you in the kitchen. There's no one around the back – just myself, miss. Father's away in the city.'

Now she remembered who he was. Will Jenkins, the innkeeper's son. Hadn't he gone to London years ago? Hadn't Fred knocked this savage down more than once when, as little boys, they used to play in the churchyard?

Cassandra hesitated. She must look an absolute sight. It couldn't hurt to try and clean up a little . . .

‘Very well, my man,' she said, and followed him with all the dignity she could muster round the back of the village inn.

He was shorter than Edmund and Fred, but his shoulders were broader for sure, and the linen of his shirt was pale against his sun-browned skin.

He looked back at her over his shoulder. He was smirking, she was certain of it, trying his hardest not to laugh as hard as any of those scruffy children. Cassandra scowled back at him. She thought she would have liked Fred to be here so he could have knocked him down all over again and wiped that smile clear off his face.

The inn was dark inside, and the kitchen, although not unlike the kitchen at Knole Park, in that there was a fire and a large scrubbed table, was a good deal smaller and more cluttered. Herbs hung from the ceiling and the fire glowed red in the grate.

Will Jenkins took a poker and riddled the embers, then put on a couple of logs. ‘There, sit yourself down by the fire and dry off, Miss Worrall,' he said. ‘If you need some clothes, you could wear mine.'

‘Oh, I don't think so, William Jenkins! Some water, please, so I can wash my face, and then I will be off.'

‘I didn't mean—' he began, but Cassandra glared at him. ‘As you wish.' And he left her alone in the kitchen.

She stood by the fire, unbuttoned her coat and opened it out. The dress underneath was damp, and no doubt she stank of pond weed. She noticed her reflection in the bottom of a copper pan: her golden curls were dishevelled and her face smeared with mud, not unlike the war paint of the Pequot or the Mohican. Edmund would think her ridiculous.

She sighed.

‘You are not hurt?'

Cassandra spun round. How long had Will Jenkins been standing there?

‘No, I am not.'

‘And neither is Zephyr.'

‘How do you know my horse's name?'

‘Stephen, the lad who works in your stables with Vaughan – he's brought him down to be shod more than once. The animal's a stunner.' Will put a basin of water and a bar of home-made soap down on the table. ‘I only ever saw one as fine as him, and that was in London.'

‘Really?' Cassandra sat down by the bowl and began to wash.

‘A mare – Arab, I'm certain, a blue roan; it was on its way to Paris to race.' He crossed his arms and stared into space. ‘I wouldn't have minded going with it – on that boat to Paris, I mean. Although saying that, I'd rather America.'

Cassandra stopped and sat up; she wiped her face and looked at him. Will was in a kind of reverie. She had never imagined that people like him might think of travel; not in the way that she or Edmund would.

‘You?'

‘Don't mock me, Miss Worrall! I would've done too if Father hadn't called me back. Would be there right now, riding west . . .'

‘I wasn't mocking.' She checked the cloth he'd given her to dry her face.

‘It is clean, miss.'

Cassandra blushed. ‘Yes, of course, I—'

He leaned forward and looked straight at her, his voice low and deep and gentle. ‘In America, Miss Worrall, there ent lords and ladies or gentry or nothing. A working man may look at a lady, such as yourself, and—'

Cassandra realized she couldn't look away. His eyelashes were so dark and long.

There was a loud thump from the saloon, and then Cassandra heard several smaller faster ones. Will Jenkins turned and left the room; she watched him go, suddenly realizing that the smaller thuds were her heart beating fast against her ribcage. She swallowed hard.

How could it be, she wondered, that he had changed so? He could not have been gone long, now that she thought about it, but how had she not noticed him when he first returned? Why had she not seen straight away that he was – there was no other word for it –
delicious
 . . .?

She had not quite dried off when she realized that there was a commotion in the inn proper, quite jarring her out of her thoughts. Was there some sort of brawl? she wondered with a sudden turn to her stomach. She had not wanted to leave with her dress and hair still wet, but she didn't want to linger here if something like that was happening on the other side of that door.

Just then the door burst open again – it was Will, and he looked quite distracted.

Cassandra gasped. ‘Has there been a fight?'

He looked at her as if she had spoken to him in Dutch. ‘No, Miss Worrall,' he said. ‘It's this foreign girl, come in off the Bristol road.'

‘Foreign?'

‘Definitely foreign, miss – well, perhaps you'd better see for yourself,' and he took up the bottle of sherry he had presumably come through for, and left the door open for her to follow.

She paused. Being a young lady, she had never in all her years set foot inside the inn itself. But she was already in the kitchen, wasn't she? She took a deep breath and drew herself up, imperious despite her bedraggled hair – she was a Worrall, after all – and stepped across the threshold, into the ale-brown darkness of the inn.

No one looked her way. All eyes – and more and more people were trickling in – were fixed on the small girl sitting at the long wooden table being questioned by Parson Davies. Her hair seemed to be piled up on her head, but as Cassandra got closer she saw that it was a turban – like the people in India wore in Mama's books. Her dress was made of some kind of black stuff – not satin or silk, but a plain, dull cloth – though fashionably high waisted. It was certainly an English dress, an everyday sort of dress such as Rachel, the parson's help, might wear on a Sunday, if she were in mourning. It was cut high at the front and very modest, and the sleeves were short and puffed. The girl's arms were the same shade as her face, a warm coffee brown – more than the colour that resulted from outdoor work, Cassandra thought – and anyway, the manner in which the girl held herself spoke of something refined.

There was nothing refined about the parson. He was speaking French very, very loudly.

‘
Parlez-vous français, mademoiselle?
'

‘Does she speak no English?' Cassandra said.

Parson Davies looked at her witheringly.

Will came out from behind the counter with a glass of sherry – Cassandra could smell it, sweet and heady. He addressed her, one hand sweeping that thick dark hair up and away from his face.

‘She won't touch a thing, Miss Worrall, and by the looks of her she's quite parched.'

Cassandra had to look away quickly in case she blushed. She found the girl studying her, wide-eyed. Her lips, though full, were cracked and dry.