Portrait of a Girl

by Mary Williams

  Rupert shook his head slowly, a look of disbelief and pity on his face.

  ‘My dear girl, what you lack in stage-discipline, you certainly make up for in imagination. The whole idea is quite ridiculous. No, please don’t try such absurd excuses on me—’

  ‘Excuses?’ I echoed hotly. ‘I’m not trying to excuse myself. Why should I? I was a failure and that’s all that matters. I’m sorry you should have wasted time and money on me, but I’ll repay you somehow. There’s no point in talking about it any more. I said you wouldn’t believe me. So please—’ I swallowed painfully.

  ‘Yes, Josephine? Please what?’

  His voice had softened. He put both hands on my shoulders. I turned my face away, and tried to free myself before I weakened and flung myself into his arms. I longed to — God knows I did. But pride and fear he’d despise me, made me fight.

  ‘Let me go,’ I said brokenly. ‘That’s all. Let me go!’

  He did so immediately.

  ‘Certainly. I’ve no taste for your dramatics.’

  I walked away from him, brushed a lock of hair from my forehead, made a pretence of tidying a ribbon at my bodice, then turned, cheeks flaming, and regarded him with what I hoped was a touch of dignity.

  His expression was stony except for a small line of hurt bewilderment creasing from his forehead to the high bridge of his nose.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I blurted out. ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘No need to apologise. I should be the one to do that for daring to touch you.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts, either, Miss Lebrun. You’ve made your position perfectly clear, it will take only a few minutes to explain mine. Do sit down again, it discomforts me seeing you stand so accusingly before me.’

  Weakly I obeyed.

  ‘Now!—’ He walked to the window, hands behind his back, then turned sharply, and continued in remote cool tones as though addressing a stranger or business acquaintance, ‘I shall, of course, apologise to Signor Luigi on your behalf, and offer compensation to him for what may be taken by the public as a serious misjudgement of talent on his part. Whether he will accept it or not I can’t say. In your favour, I shall point out how rushed arrangements were for you to play Lucy at such short notice, and that we all knowingly took the risk. Your youth and inexperience will be taken into account, I’m sure. He is a fair man, but under the circumstances I doubt he’ll accept you as a protégée any longer. In fact, I’m sure of it, which means no more lessons are forthcoming—’

  ‘I realise that,’ I interrupted, ‘of course. I shall return as soon as possible to Falmouth, and—’

  ‘You will do nothing of the sort.’

  The peremptory statement startled me. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘You don’t understand?’ His brows lifted in mock astonishment, or was he merely play-acting? I couldn’t tell. ‘Then accept it as fact, Miss Lebrun. I think you’ll agree when I point out that one of the conditions of my sponsorship and your tuition under Signor Luigi was that you also helped Dame Jenny in her duties at the cottage. I can’t physically imprison you here, of course, but I hardly think under the circumstances you’d be so thoughtless as to walk out leaving her to shoulder all the responsibilities of Tregonnis. It was a bargain we made, and I expect you to keep to your side of it.’

  I tried to speak, but he stopped me with a wave of his hand. ‘No, wait until I’ve finished.’

  Mortified, I pressed my lips firmly together and waited.

  ‘You’d expect payment, naturally. I’m prepared to give it — and more I’m sure than you received at the various hostelries where you worked—’

  I could stand no more. Ignoring his command to remain silent, I cried, ‘I expect nothing. I don’t want your money or your help. About Dame Jenny — yes! I see it wouldn’t be fair to leave her in the lurch, and I’ll be able to do more for her without those wretched singing lessons, but only until you find someone more suitable.’

  ‘That may take quite a time,’ he stated practically, ‘in the meantime, whether you like it or not you’ll receive a weekly sum to provide any feminine fal-als and frippery necessary.’

  ‘I see. A servant.’

  ‘Do you find the word offensive?’

  ‘Of course not. But—’

  ‘Shall we say “help”?’ he suggested. ‘Do you find that more agreeable?’

  ‘Oh—!’ Misery engulfed me because he was managing to put me in such a poor light. ‘— I don’t care, call me what you like.’ I turned my back on him, took a few steps to the door, turned and remarked with forced politeness, ‘Is that all, sir?’

  ‘No.’ His mood changed suddenly. He strode rapidly towards me, and before I could prevent him he’d swept me up into his arms and his lips were on mine — passionate, angry, desirous lips, that left me breathless and bewildered, dizzy with my own longing and reciprocation.

  Then, suddenly, it was all over. He reached for his hat from a chair, made a mock bow and remarked ironically, ‘My apologies. I can promise you there will be no repetition of such a distasteful incident for you in the future. However, dear Miss Lebrun, should you ever have the chance to play Lucy Lockett again I’m sure this little — rehearsal, shall we say — may prove to be a useful experience.’

  The next moment he had gone.

  Chapter Six

  The days following my disastrous debut, though peaceful, were without inspiration or interest for me. I did my best to help Dame Jenny in her domestic routine, but she was obviously averse to my taking any initiative. Her routine was set, and she wished for no alteration. Jan, the farmer’s boy, came twice a week to scrub out the floors and chop wood, and I found myself doing little more than I did when I was having lessons from Signor Luigi. As Rupert had stipulated, a weekly sum was paid to me and delivered by a servant from Kerrysmoor with Dame Jenny’s salary. She counted mine out carefully and handed it to me always with the same words, ‘Be grateful to have such an obliging master. It’s good money for a maid such as thee.’

  What exactly her statement implied I don’t know, but I don’t think she meant it in any derogatory sense. Once, when I was feeling particularly moody and depressed, she remarked with a touch of concern, ‘I’ve not heard thee sing lately. Haven’t you any voice left, or is it a fit of sulks? Sulks do nothing to raise the spirits. And maybe with a little practice you could start trillin’ ’gain like a bird. It’s the time for it — with all the spring flowers pushing through and the sweet air blowin’.’

  Yes, no one knew that more than I. A sight of or one word from Rupert Verne might have brought a burst of music from my throat, but cast off as I felt myself to be, I hadn’t the heart. So I answered, ‘I don’t feel like it. What’s the use?’

  ‘There’s use in everything if you do the best you can with it,’ she told me sharply, and the irritation in her voice caused a quick movement of her head which set the bright rings flashing from her ears, and a quivering glitter of all the jewellery she wore. ‘You’re getting dull, girl — stir yourself up. There’s always a job waiting for useful hands. What about the garden? No touching my roses, of course — I’ve told thee that before. But weeds are springing up as quick as mushrooms. You could lend a hand there. Thee should know a weed from a flower by now.’

  ‘All right,’ I agreed, ‘yes, I can do that.’

  So on a day when no wind stirred the countryside and a faint bluish haze lifted gradually above the earth and rising moors, I took a trowel and fork from the tool shed at the back of the cottage, and set to work pulling and digging carefully where unwanted wild plants threatened to thrive and smother the old lady’s cherished herbs and blooms. The air was sweet and faintly damp, and as the sun brightened, golden rays caught a froth of blossom on an ancient apple tree. Occasionally a bird’s rich twitter broke the silence.

  After a period of bending and kneeling I stood up to ease my back, shaking the soil from my apron, and pushing the tumbled curls from my forehead. I paused, staring across the po
ol to its far side, where daisies starred a patch of lawn. The extreme quiet was almost uncanny. In the distance the Three Maidens — no longer quite so menacing in the morning light, were touched to transient gold flame, and I visualised Kerrysmoor in the dip below hidden by its curve of the hill where Rupert would be up and about, and his lady wife perhaps still lazing in her luxurious boudoir.

  Rupert.

  Something in me stirred and came to life painfully. If I’d thought he’d never really cared about me at all, the ache wouldn’t have hurt so acutely, but in the beginning he had — I was sure of it. Not sufficiently though to want me as a failure, an embarrassment to his friendship with Luigi, and the theatrical world. I was perhaps exaggerating; Exeter was not London, and probably I hadn’t been important enough to cause even a word of criticism or derision anywhere except perhaps in a limited local press. Very well. I had to accept it; I was no use to him, except as assistance to Dame Jenny, and for keeping an eye on his precious treasures, including the mysterious portrait of the lovely girl.

  I glanced down into the pool where small silver and gold fish darted through the glossy leaves of water lilies and pale spreading fern-like plants. A frail breath of air shivered over the surface causing circles of light to ebb and flow in a myriad of reflected shapes including my own face, which for an instant appeared to be that of another — of the girl who could be alive or dead, but who still haunted my imagination every time I glimpsed her limpid eyes staring at me from the heavy frame.

  Nothing, for the moment, seemed quite real. Everything around me held a secret other-world atmosphere that for the first time since the disastrous Beggar’s Opera episode, took my mind from that wretched business to different channels. I recalled the day I’d climbed the area round Rosecarrion and seen the vessel in the shadows of the narrow creek, then the other occasion — twice — when dots of human forms in the far distance, had appeared momentarily and disappeared again. Perhaps I’d been mistaken in thinking I’d recognised Rupert on the boat. But if I’d been right, was the ‘matter of business’ he’d more than once referred to concerning his apparent avoidance of Tregonnis, something to do with contraband? And could the latter be the true cause for making the moor there forbidden territory?

  During my time at Falmouth, contact with sailors and merchants had taught me much about smuggling. As a child I’d learned to accept it almost as a way of life for some — a trade frequently indulged in by the rich, and conveniently ignored by certain members of the Preventative. Agreements were often made in taverns, and taprooms of inns and kiddleywinks. Following my father’s death I’d listened avidly to plots being hatched with knowing looks and snide remarks passed both in French and English. Tragedies — stories of shootings resulting in death were not uncommon. Mostly the Preventative men were loyal to their calling, but bribery often played a large part in the success or failure of an illegal operation.

  Swift as lightning the question flashed through my brain. Was Rupert Verne entirely the conventional well-bred gentleman he appeared to be? Or was that merely a daytime front, a facade to hide a more dangerous daring side of his character. This could be. If so it would explain much — the adventurous gleam in his strange amber eyes — the quick flash of desire and challenge roused unexpectedly through a chance word or incident. He could be a man to whom fresh challenge was the breath of life. And I had been a part of it. He’d thought to create a legend of me — through my voice and looks expand his own dream of self-expression. Likewise in outwitting the law, he would be proving master of circumstance and other men.

  Freedom! Beneath the elegant front surely was a rebellious spirit, equal to my own — as wild as the gales and storm-swept granite shores — as live and unquenchable as the impulse in me that all my life until so very recently had stirred me to joy and tears and the sweet fulfilment of song.

  ‘Oh Rupert, Rupert,’ I thought, as I turned my gaze from the pool towards the moorland ridge, ‘why did you have to marry that proud iceberg of a woman? Why couldn’t I have lain in your arms at night feeling our bodies close in passion — abandoned and rich in love?’

  With the tangy sweet air soft and sensuous against my cheeks, I could imagine the touch of his flesh against mine — the oneness of giving and taking — a throbbing unity bred from the very heart of Nature itself. Even as I stood there my senses thrilled in wild anticipation; I released my wealth of dark curls, and loosened my bodice at the neck. Just for a brief interim the whole world seemed to sing, and a treble of music broke briefly from my throat.

  Then, suddenly, I remembered.

  The moments of ecstasy passed. Sober commonsense replaced the dream. I was Josephine Lebrun, servant to Dame Jenny, employed by the Master of Kerrysmoor who insisted on paying me for my services, although most of what he gave was put away in a drawer, so that when the appropriate time came and other help could be found for the old lady I would be able to return the money, either by Messenger or in person, with the words, ‘Thank you so much, sir, your ladyship, — for the charity so kindly offered. I’m glad to have been of use, but I really do not need your gold.’

  Yes; the latter method of repayment would give me the greater satisfaction — to lift my chin arrogantly at Lady Verne’s cold countenance, savour the amazed astonishment in her narrowed eyes and on her thin lips. During the brief occasions we’d met so far she’d used every subtle means to insult me, but one day, I told myself, my pride alone would defeat her.

  ‘A princess,’ Pierre had told me so often. ‘You are my princess. Never forget that, ma chère.’ Remembering now, urged me into a gentler mood. It was as though a soothing hand and voice from the past were resurrected momentarily lulling conflicting emotions to reason and renewed confidence.

  Presently I went back into the cottage. The sky had darkened slightly, bringing a train of cloud from the west. A faint breeze stirred the stillness taking the frail hazed sunlight behind a veil of grey.

  ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if we had a storm later,’ Dame Jenny said when I walked into the kitchen. ‘There was the smell of rain about in the early hours.’

  ‘That will be good for your garden, won’t it?’

  ‘S’long as it doesn’t beat my roses down,’ she replied guardedly.

  She needn’t have feared. When evening came only misted rain fell, clearing sufficiently to give at intervals a glimmer of blurred moonlight. A strange, nostalgic kind of night, reminding me again of times long ago, when as a child I’d waited by Falmouth harbour searching the waters for the sight of a ship emerging from a grey horizon with my father at the helm. Perhaps it was the atmosphere that made me restless, but I had an impulse to go wandering — to climb Rosecarrion and explore the territory above the creek — to find out for myself if the boat had left, or was still there. Commonsense told me that it would hardly have remained inactive since my first glimpse of it. Instinct, though, was stranger than commonsense. I just knew something was going on that concerned Rupert Verne; moreover the misty scene moon-washed one moment, the next darkened by cloud, was exactly right for a successful smuggling operation — yet could bewilder the Preventative men with its constantly changing shadowed shapes — of rocks, twisted trees and bushes crouching towards the water above jagged thrusting cliffs.

  I took a close look at Dame Jenny, who was busy with her needle by the fire. Although springtime, the nights could still be chilly, and that morning Jan had brought logs, so a cheerful blaze enabled her to concentrate comfortably, with the aid of an oil lamp on the table. I knew though that she was getting sleepy, and was not surprised when she said, ‘I’ll be going to my bed early tonight, girl, and I advise you to do the same. There’ll be baking to do tomorrow, and ironing of the aprons and caps.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I’m quite capable of baking bread and buns now, and the ironing’s nothing. Still, I’ll do as you say. There’s the garden too.’

  She scrutinised me sharply from her small bright eyes.

  ‘Tired thee, did it? �
� The weedin’ and diggin’?’

  Not really,’ I said. ‘I just feel comfortably lazy.’

  I didn’t like lying to her, but I knew very well that if she’d the least inkling of my plan when she was safely asleep, she’d put a stop to it, and it would be very difficult to get a second chance. So I put on an air of placidity which beguiled her into retiring early, while I made my way to my own bedroom.

  I waited for over an hour before opening my door and tip-toeing along the short landing to her room which overlooked the lane. Pressing my ear to the keyhole I was reassured by the distinct rhythmical sound of her snoring, which indicated she had taken her dose of hot toddy, and would probably sleep innocently through the night.

  The rest, though tricky, was not really difficult. Wearing a cape over my clothes, and with my boots in one hand I crept softly downstairs, unlatched the kitchen window which was down to the ground, and climbed cautiously out. I waited a moment, listening. There was no sound from above, no flicker of light or indication that the old lady had heard. I knew I was safe for an hour or two, and after a minute or so moved cautiously along the side of the cottage to the garden gate leading into the lane.

  From there, with the hood covering my hair, head forward, I hurried, half-running, to the hill’s curve where a track wound upwards, then to my right in the direction of the creek. I followed it. But finding the exact path I’d taken before was impossible in the shrouded shadows, drifting mist, and intermittent glimpses of rain-washed moonlight. Briar and thorn, twisted clumps of heather and gorse hunched by tumbled granite boulders made progress slow. But at last through a brief sudden clearance of cloud, a glimmer of sea glittered ahead, only to be taken the next moment into darkness again. I was more certain then of the exact locality, and decided to climb higher, and wend my way round the top end of the ravine — or creek, so a view —however blurred — might be possible of anything going on below.