‘Bram, it’s not as bad as that, I’m sure!’
‘I might come with you, but how should I return? I only have evening clothes … But where are yours? You cannot have sailed over in a billowing skirt.’
‘I changed – partly changed – at Blundstone’s.’
‘Then spend the night there. I will ferry you home in the morning.’
‘I could not! They will not know where I am!’
I set off down the main street, Bram following. Now you could see in the twilight, through the slits and alleys, the white lips of the little waves and the boats at anchor lurching and tugging at their moorings. The occasional lit lanterns over house doors dipped and danced out of unison.
‘Where is your boat?’
‘At the main quay.’
‘Is it likely to break free?’
‘I don’t think so. It is in a sheltered corner.’
‘I’ll go and look. But first you must go to Blundstone’s.’
The scarf over my hair was getting sodden and cold drops were trickling down my neck. He held onto my arm with one hand and kept his hat on his head with the other. There were more people than you would have expected about, most of them hurrying for shelter. As we came up to the hotel I said:
‘It will not take me more than five minutes to change. But please do not wait. I can look after myself.’
‘That is precisely what you are not able to do! I will come with you and then …’
We pushed open the door, and light and welcome warmth met us. As it happened Mr Blundstone himself was crossing the hall, and he came towards us.
‘Good evening, Mr Fox. Good evening, miss. What a change in the weather! Can I get you some refreshment?’
‘Thank you,’ I said before Bram could speak. ‘I left a change of clothing in the ladies’ room upstairs, and I would be glad to use the room to change back again.’
‘Of course, miss. May I get—’
‘Blundstone,’ Bram interrupted. ‘This young lady, Miss Spry of Place House, St Anthony, came over for the concert tonight and has been overtaken by the weather. Have you, if necessary, accommodation for her so that she may spend the night here and return home in the morning?’
‘Bram!’ I said, forgetting etiquette in the stress of the moment. ‘You know very well I could not stay here tonight! My family would be very anxious and very angry. And—’ I hesitated, not wanting to say too much in front of the innkeeper; ‘And if I stayed it would – jeopardize Fetch’s position. My maid will be in greater trouble even than I. I do not wish to go into detail, but it is absolutely necessarythat I should return tonight, and very soon!’ I pulled my arm away from his and turned to the innkeeper. ‘ Mr Blundstone, if you would call a maid …’
Bram took my arm again. It was not gentle this time and it led me to a window. The curtains were not yet drawn and one could look out at the foam-flecked harbour.
‘Observe, Emma. Observe the storm. Mr Blundstone!’
‘Sir?’
‘Miss Spry is anxious, as you see, to return home. Can you supply her with a suitably manned ferry or schooner or cutter to take her over to St Anthony at once?’
‘Er – well. I – er …’ Blundstone peered out of the window from under shaggy brows. ‘I do not think there will be any – er – public or private transport while this storm lasts. Of course, it will abate. Perhaps by midnight the sea will go down – you know how quick these things can change and it is low tide then. But I do not think I could hire a private waterman just at present. I do not suppose even if it were a medical emergency that the apothecary would not consider a few hours’ delay …’
‘Miss Spry,’ said Bram, ‘ came over on her own. She is a good sailor. But now she wishes to return on her own.’
‘On her own! My dear sir, ma’am. Forgive me, ma’am. That would be madness. A lady like you …’
‘Oh, I have lived at Place all my life. I am used to boats. One has to use them regularly …’
‘No, my sweetheart,’ said Bram. ‘On an evening like this you cannot and you shall not. Do you suppose I could call on your mother tomorrow and say, “ I’m sorry, your daughter has been drowned; it was all because I did not trouble sufficiently to persuade her to wait until the morning. It is too bad, and very sad, but there we are, she was headstrong and I was too weak to prevent her going.” ’
‘We have one very nice room,’ said Mr Blundstone. ‘ Let for tomorrow but free for tonight. It overlooks the harbour and is warm and dry. If you would care to see it, Miss Spry.’
Chapter Five
I
IT WAS a very pretty room. Not at all like the one my mother describes which gave us shelter for my birth. It was panelled, hung with pink-painted calico, and it had a bow window looking out over all the humours of the market place. The hotel was built so close to the harbour that a sizeable schooner projected its bowsprit below my window, so that I could look down on the decks and almost into the lighted cabin where figures moved to and fro against the half-drawn curtains.
I was in very serious trouble. I had thought to be home by ten, and with Fetch’s connivance might have been about the next morning and innocently protesting that a long night’s rest had cured the fever. Of course in the end my mother might have heard from someone who had been at the concert, but the evil day would have been put off for several weeks; and somehow an old misdemeanour is less awful than an immediate one. But now it was impossible that there should be any escape. I earnestly hoped that Fetch would find some way out by protesting ignorance of the deceit and so protect herself from blame. She had done nothing but what she had been told to do and could well have been deceived by the sleeping bolster.
I did not know if my mother cared for me very much, but clearly she would have been full of anxiety, and when she found me returning well and unharmed that anxiety would give way to anger. I would have to lie above all to keep Bram Fox’s name out of it. But here was I, only eighteen, flouting my mother’s orders, travelling to Falmouth without an escort, and spending a whole night, totally unescorted, in a public hotel. If it were generally known it would damage my reputation, indeed create a new one, of unladylike behaviour, wilfulness, brazenness and indiscipline.
It would surely have been better to have risked my life. Was this storm not exaggerated, by Bram, out of mischief, by Blundstone, to let an empty room? Perhaps even now, now that Bram was out of the way, I could steal down and let myself out and take the boat across. Men had such a patronizing view of a woman’s ability to be practical and handle a small boat.
I stared out. The sound of violins and cellos was still in my ears, in my head, possibly in my heart. I felt enlightened, uplifted, capable of anything.
Two gulls tumbled past my window screaming after some scraps that had been thrown. The sky was slightly lighter; a moon was probably rising; but a piece of awning on the schooner below me was flapping and straining as fiercely as ever. And the puddles on the cobbles were still stirred by driving rain. I had not brought a watch with me in case the sea spray got in it, but the time could hardly yet be ten o’clock.
Because of the flapping of the awning I mistook the first tap on the door, but the second was more distinct.
‘Yes? What is it?’
No one answered. I went to the door and lifted the latch. A familiar figure stood there, hatless, cloak still damp about the shoulders.
‘I thought,’ said Bram, ‘you would be hungry. You would have nothing at the concert, and I suspect you have not had a bite since dinner.’ He carried a tray, on which was some chicken, a miniature loaf of bread, a square of butter, a half carafe of wine, a pot of mustard, a canister of salt, some salad leaves, an apple and a dish of jam.
I stared at it, my breathing tight again. He was smiling a singularly sweet smile.
‘I thought you had gone home. I thought …’
‘I went to look at your cutter,’ he said. ‘It’s safe enough – you secured it well – but there’s about three inches o
f water in it. You can get a man to bale it out in the morning. May I come in?’
Before I assented he was in and placed the tray on a semicircular table near the bed.
‘Eat this. It will warm you.’ He put his hand on mine. ‘ But you are not cold. Good. This room is over the kitchen.’
I said, trembling inwardly: ‘ You should not be in here! You – you realize it is very improper. I never expected you to come back. I am not hungry, though thank you for the thought. Please go!’
‘No one knows I am up here,’ he said. ‘I ordered the food as if it were for myself. Then I took this pretty tray down from the wall. It is just the right size.’
I said: ‘ Please go!’
‘Must I?’
‘Yes!’
‘Do you not care for me?’
I looked at him through a mist of tears. ‘That is not the point.’
He put his hand on mine again and laughed silently. ‘ The point, little Emma, is that I care for you. I want to look after you. See, this is a lovely capon, take a little bite. Allow me to butter the bread. And a sip of wine … I’ll taste it first myself. We once shared a boat. No one gossiped. No one complained. So why should it be wrong to share a glass of wine?’
‘You are perverse, Bram. How can you compare the two? In one case—’
‘I do not compare the two. When we first met you were a dumpy child, now you are an attractive, delightful woman—’
‘With half a ruined face! You’re lying to me! You’re pretending – just pretending! It’s unfair! Why do you not leave me alone?’
‘Because I cannot bear to. I have a very great taking for you. Tell me you have half a ruined face and I will say look at that whole of you which is not at all ruined but glorious with youth and elegance. I love you, little Emma, and I want you very much. Do not cry, now, do not cry. I have not come to hurt you. I have come to feed you, and wine you, and perhaps just to help me a little bit to show how much I care.’
II
THOSE WHO would condemn me cannot ever have felt as I felt then. People have different tempers, different temptations. Perhaps I was not born to have the character of a restrained spinster, as no doubt should have been dictated by my disfigurement.
I have never thought of myself as a ‘fallen woman’, as no doubt the moralists of the day would dub me.
I found myself sitting on the edge of the bed, sipping wine, eating chicken and new-baked bread thickly spread with butter, at first a little tearful but presently drying up and staring at him cold-eyed as at a serpent. But presently we drank canary wine from the same glass, and a newly relaxed warmth came over me that took away some of the electric tension but none of the desire. What am I saying, that at eighteen and a repressed virgin I should have been capable of experiencing such an overwhelming emotion?
He began to unbutton my blouse, and I made a feeble effort to restrain him.
‘My little starfish,’ he said. ‘I am going to turn you into a starfish.’
‘I’d rather be a crab,’ I said.
He laughed soundlessly. ‘That’s what I love about you,’ he said. ‘You have – a ready – wit.’
With each hesitation of his voice he tugged at my blouse and then it was off. He began to kiss the soft part of my upper breasts, then, tiring of such trivialities, he pulled the inner garment down and cupped me in his two hands. It’s no good pretending I expected the sensations that came on me.
Presently he stopped and insisted that I should share the last of the wine with him. A piece of chicken and crumbs from the bread were scattered on the rug. The rain was still pattering on the window, though it seemed more lightly.
‘I think,’ I began, the wine on my lips, warming as it chilled them.
‘What do you think, Starfish?’
‘I think the storm is – is nearly over.’
‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘it is just about to begin.’
III
I WAS home by half an hour after nine. I did not know if I was too old for a beating, but I was prepared to endure anything that was meted out.
My mother said: ‘ You have demeaned yourself and disgraced yourself. I have always known you as wilful and disobedient, but this is a new chapter in your life. There is some doubt in my mind as to whether I shall continue to accept you as my daughter.’
‘I – am very sorry, Mama.’
‘Sorry! Do you realize the anxiety we felt? I am only glad that your uncle, who has done so much for us – for you – is no longer alive to witness in what coin you have repaid his kindnesses!’
‘I had no idea,’ I said. ‘I did not suppose … That storm. It came so suddenly. Would you rather I had drowned?’
‘You had every idea of disobeying my decision that you should not go. And you embroiled Fetch in your deceit, which only shows she is no fit companion for you. She shall leave at the end of the week, and without a reference.’
This was what I had been fearing most of all. ‘Mama,’ I said. ‘ I am to blame. Utterly and without question! Myself only. Fetch was only obeying instructions. She did nothing of her own free will! I pray that you punish me in any way you think fit, but please, please, do not punish someone who is without blame—’
My mother said: ‘I am of the opinion that part of your punishment is that you shall be deprived of a lady’s maid – for in all but name that is what Fetch has become. Apart from that I shall reserve my judgment – for the time being. For some time I have felt that it was not suitable that you should spend the rest of your life here in idleness and comfort. Why, even when your aunt was in the house and bedridden, I do not remember your helping her or helping Mary or Mrs Whattle to care for her—’
‘I did offer! Many, many times! Mary always refused!’
‘Well, be that as it may, I have come to the conclusion it is not right that you should spend the rest of your life here in idleness and comfort. Some sort of useful, worthwhile employment would enable you to feel self-sufficient and independent. I do not as yet know what it may be, but this wildcap exploit has convinced me that such a solution is right for you. Then you will be out of my hands, and it will be for you to obey your employer – or lose the employment.’
As I walked up to my room I did not know what to feel for two moments together. I was deeply upset, deeply sorry, deeply ashamed. But behind that as the waves dwarf the little ships sailing the sea – as the waves in the harbour had still been big enough at times almost to swamp my cutter this morning – were all the memories of last night. First there was music, the reedy sob of violins, the deeper moans of the cellos; this new music speaking to me and asking me to unfold my heart. But after that came the experience which carried everything before it. In the cold light of a July morning I was already half-disbelieving what memory told me had happened. It was at once a wonderful exotic dream and a terrifying nightmare. I was not so ignorant as not to know the likely outcome. That was the nightmare. And somehow in the middle of all the sensations, one drowning another in the heady experience of pleasure, had come the feeling of pain, of wrongdoing, of excess, of the utterly forbidden.
Perhaps it was just me, brought up in a not very strict Christian family but a family in which right and wrong were clearly defined. Perhaps it was Bram, exquisitely teaching me too much in a single night. I had a leaden ton of apprehension as to the consequences, but a youthful hope that Bram would somehow be able to ‘make it all right’. Even if he offered to marry me there would be the objections of my family, all sorts of obstacles to overcome. Perhaps he was just playing with my feelings and would want to continue in some way with secret notes and clandestine meetings.
And at the back of it all was the hideous knowledge that I would never be an attractive wife. Yet he had wanted me. Skilfully he had taken me. Seduced was the word, and like a broken leaf I had crumbled in his hands.
God in Heaven, I thought. What happened to me last night? ‘My little starfish’ he had called me. I understood now very well what he meant. My kn
ees trembled at the thought of it all. I felt physically sick and bitterly humiliated. I felt half contempt for him and half love. I felt half contempt for myself and half love. Nothing, nothing, nothing could ever be the same again – I was irretrievably damaged, morally and psychologically, as I was irretrievably damaged of feature.
When I got in I sat for a long time in my bedroom, taking nothing to eat or drink. The house was quiet, but that was not unnatural since Uncle Davey had died. I thought: somehow I must go on living – at least for the time being – and somehow I must face my cousins and my sister with the disgrace. But to them my sin was only one of outrageous disobedience – as it was to my mother. She had not mentioned Bram Fox by name, but I had denied meeting anybody special at the concert. My far greater sin was not known – not yet. That I alone had to live with. If Bram came here and claimed me, then more would come out. (But it would not quite so much matter then.) If he did not, then more would still only too probably come out, even if that was in the future, weeks, months ahead. For the moment if I could only learn to live with myself and the surging frightening knowledge of what had happened, then I could face them for the time being, be dutifully humble but no more.
Did my mother mean her threat that I should be sent away somewhere to earn a living as a governess or a seamstress at sixpence a day? I was fit for nothing better. There are few occupations for a woman. In other circumstances I might have tried with her influence to get on the stage. That clearly was not a prospect. Perhaps, in view of what had happened at Blundstone’s Hotel, I might make a living on the streets of Falmouth. (Bram had praised my body, said it was perfect, adorable, beautiful; but those were love terms expressed in the excesses of the moment and not to be taken seriously or considered in the light of day.) I could certainly earn more on the streets than looking after someone’s children. Falmouth had a constantly changing population of seamen who had money in their pockets and would not be too particular about a girl’s face.
The Ugly Sister Page 7