There was no answer, except that I knew without any doubt at all that no man — ever — could take his place in my heart, just as I recognised that however much he tried to deny it, he felt the same. Facing the truth released certain tensions and restraint placed on me during my weeks of tuition under Signor Luigi. As Christmas drew close, I sang about the cottage, and put more and more energy into helping Dame Jenny, running up and down stairs, lifting, cleaning, dusting, only properly containing myself when I was confined, under the enigmatic gaze of the girl in the portrait, in the treasure room.
‘Don’t know what’s got into you,’ the old lady said speculatively on one occasion. ‘Like lightning you are these days — a real wild one. Still, you’re a help I must say, even though your voice shakes these old walls sometimes.’
‘Yes,’ I thought, ‘I am wild. Wild with happiness, and just because I’m going to spend a few hours in Rupert Verne’s company.’
I sighed to myself, knowing I was stupid, but revelling in my stupidity.
The day came.
Fine sleet was blown on a wind from the sea on Christmas morning when the chaise arrived to take us to Kerrysmoor. I had been successful in hiding the flower and ribbons in my hair under the hood of the cape, and Dame Jenny was too concerned with her own fripperies of jewels — brooches, necklaces, bracelets and glittering embellishments placed at every possible angle, to take undue notice of me. However, when the time came to have my cape removed with the assistance of a servant in the hall of the great house she was at first speechless to see me standing there, shawl already half fallen, leaving my skin feeling deliciously cool and soft.
Then she said in shocked tones from almost under her breath:
‘Cover theeself. ’Tisn’t decent—’
One old hand came up to assist me in obeying, but she was defeated by the unexpected appearance of Rupert through a door on the left. He was elegantly attired in a dark olive green-coloured velvet suit, with a satin waistcoat and white frilled shirt. Such details registered only vaguely after the first startled impact of us seeing each other. For a second he was taken off his guard. His strange amber eyes glowed with a warmer fire — their narrow long lids widened and he actually smiled. In a daze, with my heart quickening painfully I allowed him to touch my hand, then heard him order the servant to show Dame Jenny and myself to the ladies’ retiring room where my cloak was removed and hung on a peg.
The decor was pink and gold — unexpectedly bright and frivolous looking compared with the sombre hall we’d just left. Through a long mirror I adjusted the flower at my corsage, tidied my hair and saw the artificial bloom was still secure in my curls. Then I placed the lace shawl over my arm and turned to face an outraged Dame Jenny.
‘’Tisn’ decent,’ she said in a dark undertone, almost a whisper. ‘Remember who you are—’
I smiled defiantly. ‘That’s just what I’m doing. I’m sorry if it offends you.’ She said something else and attempted to push the lace to my neck, but she was too short, and I was too quick for her. The next moment I was at the door of the ante-room and out again in the big hall, followed by the old lady making clucking sounds like an ancient ruffled hen.
I shall never forget the midday meal, which was taken in the great dining room; Rupert sat at the head of the table, Lady Verne at the other end. Dame Jenny and myself faced each other on either side, and I was grateful for the large bowl of holly and greenery interlaced with scarlet satin ribbon and tiny silver bells which prevented her having a direct look at me. The fare was lavish and sumptuous, including roasted pig’s head, turkey, numerous entrées and Christmas pudding heavily laced with brandy sauce.
In spite of my spinning head made dizzy with wine, I was aware at brief ecstatic moments of Mr Verne’s eyes on me. I think his wife must have noticed. At one point when I glanced at her, her lips were tightly set, her black eyes smouldering with dislike. I knew very well how much she resented me.
If she’d shown one gesture of welcome or friendliness, the future might have been very different, although I don’t think anything in the world could have changed my feelings for Rupert. As it was, an equal cold hostility rose in me. It was clear to me that there was little warmth between her and her husband. So I put any feelings of remorse or guilt behind me, knowing that if Rupert ever needed or wanted me I would go to him, oh so willingly.
The day passed, under a veneer of goodwill, including the usual revelry, dancing and wassailing.
When the time came to leave I said a polite farewell dutifully to her ladyship, with thanks for her hospitality. She did not smile or take my hand, merely bowed her proud head, features cold and enigmatic, under the jewels winking in her black piled hair, and remarked:
‘The event is a traditional one which Mr Verne chooses to retain.’
I said nothing, but must have glanced briefly at Rupert who was standing at her side. He nodded slightly, and made a point of enclosing my gloved fingers in his palm. Through the fine material I could feel his warm blood pulsing rapidly, and as the pressure momentarily increased knew everything was well between us. During the whole evening no intimate word had been said; personal contact under the severe gaze of her ladyship and watchful beady eyes of Dame Jenny, had been impossible.
But one day, sometime, I told myself, as we walked down the terrace steps to the chaise, it would be different. Awareness of the developing emotional relationship between us could not be stilled forever. Just as snowdrops and primroses pierced the cold earth in their time, so must the strength and beauty of passion come to natural flowering.
I loved him. I was still very young, but what I felt was the oldest, richest human experience in the world. Something would happen eventually that would release tension and longing, bringing natural fulfilment. It must — it was inevitable. How, and when, was impossible even to imagine; but I was impatient, and hoped it would not be too long.
The fine sleet had turned to snow as the chaise left for Tregonnis. Quite large flakes feathered the windows in a ghostly ballet of blurred movement brought to life against the swaying light of the coach’s lamps. Moors, undergrowth, and stunted trees were obscured into fitful nonentity. Dame Jenny was tense and nervous, too nervous to upbraid me then for my rebellious behaviour, though I guessed she would scold me later. One claw-like old hand was clenched on her knee. The rings flashed occasionally on the ivory knuckles when a sudden beam of light caught their brilliance. In the darkness, the jolting of wheels over the cobbles and rough ground seemed accentuated — merely imagination of course, but somehow exciting — an excitement intensified by my own heightened emotions.
Rupert — Rupert! the name was magic! The meaning of his last glance at me before we left — of my hand in his, made me want to sing and cry ridiculous lovely things to the soughing wind and snow-swept sky. He must know, I thought — he might not admit the truth yet, but soon he would, because our recognition had been mutual. In spirit we already belonged.
It was only after we entered Tregonnis and made the usual nightly inspection of the treasure room that my elation faded, subduing me to normality.
The glow of the oil lamp held by Dame Jenny suddenly brought the face of the girl in the portrait into full focus. The silver-gold hair and exquisite features seemed to assume uncanny life, and I remembered, against my will, Rupert Verne’s reluctance to talk of her. Doubt clouded my happiness. I tried to dispel it, but it was no use. There was a mystery somewhere involved concerning his possession of the painting — a mystery from which I was completely excluded. My mind played this way and that in search of a possible explanation until tired from the events and activities of the day, I went to bed and fell soon into a deep sleep.’
When I woke it was to find the frozen weather had turned into a thaw. Grey mist hugged the landscape through which only fading drifts of white still lingered. Enchantment had gone; Dame Jenny also seemed depressed and more uncommunicative than usual. She made no attempt to chide me, as I’d expected, but went about house
hold tasks muttering to herself on a low key. I longed for the spring, and change in the weather, and found myself looking forward to visiting Signor Luigi again early in the New Year. He had gone to Italy for a brief respite before starting once more on my tuition.
During the first few days following my jaunt to Kerrysmoor I hoped desperately for a sight of Rupert, wondering if he would make a call at the cottage. But he did not. I made excuses to myself for his absence. He had matters on the estate to attend to — duty calls to make on families working at the Verne coppermine still active, Wheal Glory, or perhaps his wife was making extra demands on his attention.
Somehow, though, no contrived explanations rang true. If he’d really wanted to see me surely he could have found a means to do so. There were several horses in the stables, and her ladyship could not have kept watch on him all the time. In any case he wasn’t a weakling to be ordered about by any woman. No. Search as I would I could find no plausible reason for his apparent neglect unless it was that on thinking things over he’d decided any relationship or commitment to me would be completely impracticable and therefore to be avoided at any cost.
As usual, whenever I became too elated or distressed over any situation, my capacity to keep imagination under controlled suffered. I was so frustrated and tormented by longing, I took every opportunity during that short period, of slipping out of the house and taking short wanders in my thickest cloak, about the countryside, and it was in such a mood that I made my way one evening round the forbidden track curving to the left and upwards towards the wild slope of Rosecarrion, leaving Dame Jenny sleeping in her rocking chair over her needlework.
Twilight would soon fall, but when I set off, except for a thin veil of rising mist hugging the high ridge, everything was comparatively clear. The area held a brooding atmosphere of primeval menace, as though something of ancient history still lingered as guardian of the past. A narrow path wound intricately between furze and great boulders entangled by bramble and spiky gorse. In spite of my boots I kept my eyes alert for any snake-like shape slithering from a stone or root of stunted tree. Although the air was so still, hidden life seemed everywhere. I was fascinated — a little keyed-up and on edge, but through curiousity impelled to go on.
Not realising I had climbed quite so far, I paused a quarter of the way up the hill, and searched the land in every direction. Daylight had almost faded leaving a queer greenish glow behind the misted summit. It was when I turned to the west that I saw with surprise the ribbon of lane below cutting abruptly inwards above and around a gully filled by a gently lapping tide. I hadn’t known how near the coast the path had led me. At times in rough weather the locality would be dangerous — a fall over the high cliffs only too easy for the unwary. Was that why Rupert had forbidden me to go that way?
For some moments I stood motionless watching, and as a frail belt of cloud lifted there was movement where the slope of land met sky; a man’s shape emerged from the tumbled ruins of what could once have been the relics of a cottage or old mine workings, and made his way round a further bend away from me, until he was lost to sight. His figure had been humped at a curious angle, and I wondered if he’d been carrying something; a poacher perhaps?
If I’d not been away from Tregonnis for so long or afraid that Dame Jenny might already be angrily waiting for me I’d have cut round to the right to find out where the path led. There were so many bewildering tracks winding from the point where I was standing. One leading directly down towards the creek was wider and appeared to have been well-trodden recently. It was all very bewildering; a torn piece of material — probably from a neckscarf or kerchief hung on a jagged briar nearby. So someone had walked or ridden that area not long ago. Tinkers, or gypsies?
I was still ruminating when a bird rose screeching from behind a boulder on my left. I turned my head, then glanced upwards at the dark winged shape soaring to the sky. At that very moment a shaft of light zig-zagged down the hill, through the quickly fading half light, wavered, and circled round the moor, missing my form by only a few feet.
Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the light swung upwards and disappeared, but not before my startled eyes had recognised in a brief lifting of cloud, the stark shapes of the Three Maidens outlined for an instance on the horizon. Even seen at a different angle from my first glimpse of them, the gaunt stones held the same quality of menace and impending doom. Drawing my cloak close I turned quickly and made my way towards the valley. Unfortunately I chose the wrong path and had to make a detour guided only by the distant outline of the mine, Wheal Glory, against the moor.
By the time I reached the cottage it was quite dark. The old lady was standing at the gate huddled into her shawl with a lantern in one hand.
‘You’ve had me frightened,’ she exclaimed, almost in a high-pitched scream. ‘Where’ve ’ee been? The Master called earlier, soon after thee’d gone out. There came a rap on th’ door. I was dozin’ and it set my heart all of a flutter. But that wasn’t the point. The point was you should say when you’re taking off for a stroll, and tell me where. He didn’t like it when I couldn’t say, and rode off very put out—’ She broke off breathlessly.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said lamely, and I was. Not only on account of Dame Jenny’s distress, but because I’d missed Rupert.
I wondered what he wanted me for.
The next day I knew.
He’d heard from Signor Luigi that he was returning earlier than expected from Italy, having learned of an opportunity to launch me as Lucy Lockett in John Gay’s Beggars’ Opera scheduled to open at an Exeter theatre in three weeks’ time. The actress Linda Dewhurst who had rehearsed for the role had been suddenly taken ill which had left the part open for anyone with the looks, and capacity to learn quickly, who also possessed the necessary vocal qualities and acting ability. There was no understudy, owing to the young lady having been dismissed two days previously through a serious quarrel with the manager.
Hence my chance.
All this was explained to me the next morning by Rupert seated opposite to me in the front parlour of Tregonnis. ‘You’re very lucky,’ he said. ‘If Signor Luigi had not been an intimate friend of Frederick Allen and able to contact him so quickly some other actress might have been found. As it is—’ He smiled and for a few seconds the years fell away. His whole face changed, became younger, warm with pride, affection, and ambition for me. Then he continued more seriously, ‘Aren’t you pleased? Surely it’s what you wanted — to appear on a real stage before an audience fully qualified to appreciate your voice and — you?’
In a whirl of conflicting emotions — delight, excitement, mingled with doubt, apprehension and awe, I answered, ‘Oh, yes. Of course. But—’ I swallowed painfully ‘— my voice isn’t properly trained yet. After my last lesson Signor Luigi told me I bellowed like a barmaid, and moved like a — like a horse or something.’ I shook my head ‘I don’t think I’d be right for this — this Lucy person really.’
‘You may not think so,’ I heard Rupert remarking, quite unperturbed, ‘but I’ve complete faith in my friend’s judgement. If he’s willing to back you I’m sure I am. As for his criticism—’ he shrugged, displaying the palms of both hands in a dismissive gesture ‘— Luigi wouldn’t waste one breath on you if he didn’t recognise your talent. He can be more than forthright — even offensive to some when he feels like it — but only when he considered the material is worthwhile. It’s his way of getting the best out of a pupil.’
‘A rather odd way,’ I remarked pertly. ‘Not usual, surely?’
‘But then neither are you.’
He got up, came towards me, and drew me to my feet. I was wearing a violet-coloured daydress I remember, made by my own hand with the help of the old lady, from a piece of material Pierre had brought me on his last visit to Falmouth, and which I’d kept hoarded away in my small chest with a few other treasures. It had a white lace collar and cuffs, and fell in soft folds, drawn gently to the back from a nipped-in waist. Da
me Jenny had told me when I came downstairs that day that it was too elegant for normal use. I had agreed with her and promised to change as soon as possible into something more suitable.
I was pleased now that I hadn’t. Those passionate enigmatic eyes of the man who so desperately fascinated me, were for once alight in obvious fiery admiration. His hands released mine suddenly, and were on my shoulders.
Automatically I raised my head. A few curls fell from their combs and brushed my neck softly.
‘You’re very — beautiful, Josephine,’ he said in low, slightly husky tones. ‘And your eyes — you’re a subtle creature to wear blue—’
‘Violet,’ I corrected him.
‘Violet, then. Dammit what does it matter? You know well enough how lovely you are—’
Through my wild excitement a thought struck me. On impulse I spoke. ‘Am I? Am I really? As lovely as — as that girl in the painting? The one hanging in the treasure room?’
I shouldn’t have said it. It was a grave mistake, and in a moment I knew. He drew away from me abruptly. His gaze was hard when he faced me again. Dull with disappointment, because I’d known he’d been about to kiss me, furious with myself for the stupid blunder, I heard him remark in remote tones, ‘Comparisons are odious. If I pay a compliment it should be taken for that and no more. I’m afraid you have still a few things to learn about tact and etiquette.’
‘Of course I have,’ I said hotly. ‘I’m not gently bred like your lady wife, and—’
‘Leave my wife out of it, if you please,’ he said curtly, ‘and curb that wild temper of yours. Do you understand?’
‘Certainly,’ I retorted, feeling the warm blood rush to my cheeks. ‘In future I’ll curtsey to you when you address me, if you choose, and remember to say “sir” on every occasion we speak.’
Portrait of a Girl Page 5