Portrait of a Girl

by Mary Williams

  His mood suddenly changed. He laughed. ‘You’ll make an admirable Lucy Lockett, I’m sure. So enough of your moods, Miss Lebrun. On Thursday you’ll be driven to Truro. I shall accompany you, and we’ll see what arrangement Signor Luigi intends to make regarding the performance.’

  ‘He may not think I’m good enough when he hears me singing again,’ I pointed out, ‘and if I move like a horse—’

  ‘You won’t,’ he stated firmly. ‘You’ll be your natural graceful self with your voice and fiery tongue under equal control.’

  ‘And if I don’t wish to appear at Exeter?’ I persisted stubbornly.

  He paused before saying significantly, ‘I think you will, because I wish it.’

  And in that he was right.

  The interview ended shortly after arrangements for the following Thursday had been concluded. At the door Rupert took my hand briefly and raised it to his lips — a polite gentlemanly gesture of farewell, no more. It was as though he was determined to erase any former show of sentiment, subduing passion under a mask of wellbred formality. I waited hopefully for his eyes once more to rest on mine, but they did not.

  Dame Jenny appeared in the hall, holding out his stove hat and cane. He took them murmuring a quiet thank you. The last I saw of him that day was his taped figure walking smartly down the path to the lane where the chaise waited.

  Seconds later he had gone.

  Chapter Four

  On the evening before my visit to Signor Luigi, I received a note from Rupert delivered by a Kerrysmoor servant, saying that he would not after all be able to accompany me to Truro owing to an unexpected matter of business arising. He apologised, but sent his best wishes, adding that he was sure everything would go well, that ‘the maestro’ would confirm my suitability to play the role of Lucy, and that when next we met I should have good news for him. The brief epistle ended on a formal note — ‘Yours with every encouragement, Rupert Verne.’

  I stared blankly at the sheet for some moments, heavy with disappointment. What possible business could he have, I thought unreasonably, that should have to be dealt with just at the time I was depending on him for support? And why couldn’t he have fixed whatever it was at another hour or day? I’d looked forward so much to sitting beside him in the chaise with no one to disturb our proximity, imagined the touch of his hand on mine, savoured in advance the exciting closeness of his body, the pressure of an arm as the coach jolted or lurched over a rough piece of roadway.

  The warmth of his breath would mingle with mine — his lips brush my cheek; and when in delight and confusion I looked up into those strange golden eyes they would be hot with desire, and I would be close against him, my whole body alight with flowering love. However short the contact, he’d recognise the futility of denial. What happened in the future would be of his choice, which I would abide by, because he was the man, and considerably older than I. I was in no position to make plans. All I could do was to submit, given the chance.

  The chance?

  But apparently either other things came first, or he was not prepared to endanger one iota of his status and good name in society.

  Utterly depressed I tore the piece of paper into shreds and threw them into the parlour fire, watching them gradually curl, blaze, then disintegrate into smoke.

  After a time I forced myself to a more philosophical mood. Whether I was successful or not in persuading Signor Luigi that I was sufficiently competent for the role in The Beggar’s Opera I was bound to come face to face with Rupert on some future occasion. So the important thing was to be a success, and make him proud of me.

  Before retiring that evening I tried out my voice in my bedroom, choosing a song that had been one of my mother’s favourites. There was no hoarseness or flaw in my vocal chords, no quiver of hesitancy or lack of control. I stood at the window giving full range to any talent I possessed, singing — singing — and realising at the same time how much I had learned under the strict tuition of the fierce little Italian.

  When it was over I waited motionless for a short time, with my eyes fixed on the moonlit landscape. The window faced from the side of Tregonnis, overlooking Rosecarrion and part of the area where I’d wandered before Christmas. There was a wind, and the scene was one of purple and blue shadows lit by fleeting splashes of gold. The Three Maidens were nowhere in view, being cut off to the left, but if I strained my head and gazed to the other side a glimmer of sea could be glimpsed in the far distance.

  I was staring in that direction when I saw something else — something not shadow or stunted tree waving in the wind — a crouched moving shape that I took at first to be that of some large animal on night prowl. Then as the form partly disintegrated, or rather split up, I realised it was a group. Small dots of figures took an upward course towards what I imagined must be the ruined building — cottage or mineworks — that I’d seen on my forbidden exploration weeks before.

  In the constantly changing vista of light and sudden shadow it was difficult to be sure or even guess what they were about. Poachers probably I told myself, as I had before, or could they be fishermen plodding to their homes after a hard day at sea? Perhaps the track provided a short cut to outlying cottages over the ridge of moor.

  Whatever the explanation, I had an uneasy feeling that something strange was going on, and determined to question Dame Jenny about it in the morning.

  When daylight came, however, I was far too busy and excited to bother. I had only a light breakfast, and at eight o’clock as arranged the chaise arrived to take me to Truro. I wore my best attire and most frivolous headgear, and had even applied a touch of rose lipsalve to my mouth, purloined wickedly in a hasty moment from a tiny jar that Dame Jenny had left carelessly on a mantelshelf. My cheeks were already over-bright from excitement and for this I used a film of rice powder. The result gave me confidence and an elated sense of sophistication. There was a hint of suspicion in the old lady’s eyes as she bid me farewell, with affection, yet admonishment as well in her voice.

  ‘Good luck, child,’ she said, ‘and remember to be modest and careful how ye do address the great music-man. Talent you must have, or the master wouldn’ be doin’ all this for thee. But good manners count always, remember that.’

  I glanced back, smiling at her over my shoulder. ‘I’ll do my best,’ I said, and meant it.

  The day was fine, and pale winter sunlight spread its gold over the city, and all around giving added enchantment to the occasion which wasn’t however entirely without trepidation on my part. But I needn’t have worried.

  Signor Luigi instead of appearing fierce and over-critical that day as he usually was, acted in an entirely different manner, being quite flattering and warm in encouragement following my tryout of Lucy Lockett’s first ditty in the opera.

  ‘That is good,’ he said. ‘There are points here and there needing strict attention, and you still have much to study of stagecraft. We have three weeks of intensive training before us, during which, in your spare time you must learn — learn, until words come automatically without thought. I shall scold you maybe sometimes, perhaps very often, and you must expect my friend, the producer, will do more of it during the two days in Exeter before the opening performance. Well?’ He cocked his head sideways like an inquisitive robin, ‘do you wish to become Lucy Lockett for a time, Miss Josephine? And if so — can you promise solemnly to obey instructions without argument or show of your fiery temper? It is a great chance you have before you. Do not forget it.’

  I agreed with alacrity. ‘Oh yes — yes. If you think I’m good enough, of course—’ I cried.

  ‘I do not think you are yet good,’ he told me with a whimsical smile. ‘But you have grace and talent. See that you apply both to the best of your ability and I’m sure no one will have cause to complain.’

  So it was that I returned to Tregonnis that evening able to tell Dame Jenny of my success, wishing at the same time that Rupert was there to hear the news.

  During the following
weeks most of my time was spent in Truro. It was a period of conflicting moods — of expectancy, exhilaration, optimism and disappointments combined with physical exertion that left me too tired at the end of each day to brood on other matters. Luigi, anxious that I should not over-strain my voice, included hours of concentrated dramatic tuition that occasionally so irritated and frustrated me, I could have screamed. However, I miraculously managed to keep any nervous reaction under control — outwardly, though Dame Jenny commented frequently that I was touchy and on edge at Tregonnis.

  ‘I must say you do speak over-sharp to me these days,’ she commented once. ‘I hope when the master calls you’ll remember to be more polite.’

  ‘I don’t think the master’s much interested in me or what I’m doing,’ I replied shortly, and I had really begun to believe this was true, since he’d looked in at the cottage only once during the first fortnight of rehearsing, and had then appeared remote and withdrawn as though he had other more important affairs on his mind.

  ‘That’s a wicked thing to say,’ the old lady retorted irately, ‘’specially when he’s paying a little fortune to get you where you want to be.’

  ‘I didn’t expect or ask him to launch me,’ I replied, ‘or for his money either. This Beggar’s Opera business and the lessons with Signor Luigi were forced on me — in a way.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ The one word came out explosively, like a pistol shot. ‘I do recall very well the day at Christmas when you flaunted yourself before his eyes with your shoulders bare, and that wicked gypsy look in your eyes. Oh you were all out to make an impression, girl, so no trying to pull the wool over my eyes.’

  I flushed, bit my lip, and was silent. It was true, I had wished Rupert to notice me, and contrived to make myself as spectacular as possible. And I had not entirely failed; the memory of his warm glances on me and the mutual interest between us — the understanding that had so fiercely flamed for those few revealing moments, returned painfully, stirring me with sudden longing.

  When I didn’t speak, Dame Jenny said in more conciliatory tones, ‘Now, now! There’s no need to be cast down. Just take heed of a bit of advice, that’s all, and remember what the master’ve told you; if what you said was true, get as much fresh air in your spare time to relax thee and keep the breath sweet in your lungs. I won’t be bothering asking so much where you’ve been so long as you’re back to time. “Don’t chain her too hard,” Mr Verne said the other afternoon when he was passing, “she’s a free spirit,” he said, “let her roam a bit, t’will do her no harm.”’

  ‘I didn’t know he’d called, you didn’t tell me.’

  ‘I don’t report on every small happening of the day, girl. ’Tisn’t my duty to do so. I’m only tellin’ thee now for your own encouragement. You were a bit later back from Truro than usual or you’d have seen him for thyself.’

  I recalled that on one occasion the signor had pressed me into staying at rehearsal for an extra half an hour to get my words better perfected. What a nuisance, I thought, that Rupert had chosen the very time to visit Tregonnis.

  Still, I was slightly uplifted by the knowledge he’d taken the trouble to call at all, and decided his advice to Dame Jenny was right. I needed fresh air and exercise.

  It was a fine afternoon. Clouds of the morning had cleared, leaving the countryside splashed with pale golden sunshine. Quite soon it would start to sink lower in the sky, sending long shadows snaking down the moors, but if I started immediately — it was only four o’clock — I would have almost an hour for an enjoyable stroll.

  So I set off wearing boots and a loose grey cloak to cover my gown, taking the lane round the base of Rosecarrion. I didn’t venture to climb the hill — the air was sweet enough in the valley, heady with the scents of early spring, and I had an urge to follow the roadway in the direction of the sea where the moor cut so sharply and surprisingly inwards to the gully. With my eyes averted from glancing upwards at the Three Maidens sloping slightly sideways at a peculiar angle, their menace for me had abated a little during the hectic period of intense rehearsals, and when a fleeting memory of them had occurred I’d told myself reasoningly that their unpleasant impact had only lingered because the rigid starkness of the ancient stones reminded me in a childish way of the rigid coldness of Rupert’s lady wife.

  It was pleasant walking. As I neared the gully — it was really a very narrow creek — the smell of brine mingled with that of heather, damp sweet earth, and all the other odours of thrusting young life and herbage. The narrow river on the opposite side of the lane had curved abruptly in another direction, away from the coast, but the gaunt cliffs loomed precipitously close to the road, and the shadowed cut in the lane appeared as though giants’ teeth had taken a savage bite leaving a cruel void of darkness and death for the unwary.

  I paused, held by the wild fascination of the scene. It was then that I glimpsed movement, and after a moment’s astonishment was able to distinguish close against the far side of the inlet a vessel at anchor. Details or name of the ship were impossible to discern. In the slowly fading light and shadows of overhanging cliffs boat and rocks were almost blended into one.

  At first I’d thought I could be mistaken, but I wasn’t. When I moved forward a human shape appeared on deck, followed by another. Their appearance was only brief. In a few seconds they’d disappeared — moved below. But my heart jerked. In that fleeting space of time something about the first figure had been curiously familiar — the build and way of moving in the taped coat — his bold erect stance and sudden manner of turning and striding away bore an uncanny resemblance to Rupert. I was puzzled; what could Rupert Verne be doing at such at hour aboard a strange vessel in such an unlikely, dangerous, and remote harbour?

  I managed presently to convince myself I’d been wrong, and had concocted unconsciously an image of the man who was always so deep in my mind. Even then doubts lingered. I waited a little longer wondering if the forms would return. But they did not. A single dot of light flickered for a moment then disappeared. All was dark. The sky, too, had quickly faded, merging the horizon of sea and land into one.

  Hoping Dame Jenny would be unaware of my over-long absence from the house, I turned and took the thread of curving lane as quickly as possible back to Tregonnis.

  *

  The day for travelling to Exeter for the opening performance at the Regal Opera House at last arrived. I was given a sleeping potion the evening before to enable me to face the journey calmly, in the company of Mr Verne and his lady wife, who, unfortunately for me, insisted upon being present herself at my debut. We journeyed by luxury four horse omnibus from Truro to Plymouth, where we stayed the night. In the morning we set off by rail for Exeter, arriving at the city by four-thirty in the afternoon. Signor Luigi accompanied us for which I was grateful. He had a stabilising influence on my growing excitement and nervous tension, and although being quite tired conversation was intermittent, his presence kept me less conscious of Lady Verne’s cold stare than otherwise I would have been.

  She was looking quite regal in a plain-coloured wild crimson silk gown, under a silver grey paletot with a shoulder cape. Bands of velvet braid and plum covered buttons completed an elegant effect, and her bonnet of the same shades was worn at a fashionable angle, revealing glossy glimpses of shining black hair in contrast to the extreme magnolia pallor of her finely set features.

  I wore a new cape which her ladyship had insisted on choosing herself. It was of good quality, but as usual, brown, and rather severe, giving no glamour to my looks. My bonnet-hat, too, was ordinary. However, I contrived to add a length of green ribbon and a spray of shining leaves to brighten the effect, and from the look on my lady’s face when she noticed, I knew I’d succeeded in my objective.

  When I think back now on the next few days, no words can express the conflict of emotions — confusion, excitement, and daze of events following one upon the other at such speed my head still whirls. It was like living in a dream. I was both bewildered an
d exhilarated by the luxury of the hotel overlooking gardens, the delicious meals, impeccable service, the rose and gold furnishings, rich carpeting and soundless approach of servants and footmen to fulfil our slightest wish. My bedroom was huge, ornately furnished with an elegance I’d imagined existed only for royalty or in fairy tales. If I had not been so physically tired I wouldn’t have slept at all that night. But the great bed was so soft and comfortable, I drifted almost at once into dreamless slumber, waking up only when a maid servant arrived with morning tea.

  After breakfast I was taken on a shopping expedition to equip me more suitably to meet the manager in the afternoon at the theatre. He was a tall, thin man with an eagle gaze and brusque manner. He wore an eye-glass and seldom stood still, but walked to and fro unsmilingly, taking, I thought, only cursory glances at me. He made me sing a scale, move, turn, bow and curtsey, all the time frowning a little, then nodding. Eventually he said:

  ‘All right, all right. That’s enough. I hope you know your words. There’ll be a rehearsal in half an hour; Elise—’ He turned his head towards the wings from where a small woman in black silk appeared as though she’d been waiting for a cue ‘— Take Miss — Miss—?’ He glanced at me enquiringly.

  ‘Lebrun. Josephine Lebrun,’ Signor Luigi interposed for me.

  ‘Take Miss Lebrun to the dressing room,’ the manager continued, ‘and see she’s attired appropriately as Lucy.’ He scrutinised me closely then added, ‘Green I think. The emerald green. Red is more usual for the role but would be atrocious with this girl’s colouring.’

  Trying not to feel mildly squashed, I did as I was bid and followed the little woman to the back of the stage, and along a maze of narrow dark passages and doors. The room we entered was small and stuffy, smelling mustily of dust, perspiration and makeup. There were several mirrors and tables placed about, and obviously I was not to be the only occupant. I had thought such places — anything to do with the stage — would be glamorous. But there was no glamour here, although gowns of different shades hung from pegs and an open wardrobe, and an array of gaudy glittering jewellery lay displayed giving an impression of brightness. Various pots of paint and cream cluttered shelves, and a young woman with brassy yellow hair was already seated at a dressing table cleaning her face with a cloth.