Portrait of a Girl

by Mary Williams

  The coachman was dubious at first, but when I asked if Mr Verne was back at Kerrysmoor, if so I was sure he would give permission, I was told no, the Master was still away, having had to take a trip to Plymouth.

  ‘And her ladyship?’ I questioned, although the girl had already informed me she was in a mood.

  He shook his head. ‘She still isn’t well, Miss.’

  ‘Then please — my voice is so rough, and I can hardly swallow—’

  Eventually the man agreed.

  When the sound of horses’ hooves and wheels rattling down the road had died away, I went back into the house, miserably wondering if the Plymouth business had anything to do with Rupert’s contraband interests. Even with the girl and Brutus for company I was miserable and on edge, and still very shocked. At night I locked and bolted the doors early, and left Brutus free to roam the cottage — except for the Treasure Room, for fear his animal presence might dislodge any precious relic.

  I slept badly; but one evening, about five days following the attack at the pool I was so exhausted I went upstairs early, and immediately on getting into bed fell into a heavy sleep.

  It must have been about two o’clock when I woke suddenly, disturbed by a sound below — a crashing noise followed by a tinkle and several short bangs. I felt my whole body go rigid except for the wild thumping of my heart. For some moments I lay unmoving, waiting for Brutus’s heavy snarl and growling.

  There was nothing.

  Everything, after a matter of only minutes, was completely deadly quiet. Had I been dreaming, I asked myself, and woken from some nightmare? Or was I perhaps no longer completely sane and balanced following my frightening experience? I knew somehow I had to pull myself together and venture downstairs to find out what had happened, and if Brutus was all right. So I pulled on a wrap and slippers, crept out of the bedroom and tip-toed to the top of the stairs. I paused, then, listening.

  ‘Brutus,’ I called in a croaky whisper, ‘— Brutus, Brutus—’

  There was no response.

  Cautiously I went down.

  The dog was lying completely still, as though unconscious or dead, near the front door; there was blood and a small amount of red meat lying nearby, and the pane of a small side window had been carefully cut away. I caught my breath with horror and rushed to the dog’s side. He was still breathing, and appeared not to have been hurt, but a curious smell came from the meat. Obviously he had been poisoned in some way, or drugged.

  Jan, I thought, I must get Jan. But at such an hour it would mean walking a distance to the farm and then rousing the whole household. In the meantime further vandalism might occur. I was still wondering what to do, when the animal stirred; one eye opened, then another. There was a feeble wag of the tail, and with relief I realised the dog was recovering. It was then I noticed the door of the Treasure Room. The lock had been somehow forced, and it was half open. Holding my candle shakily, I went in.

  Glass lay shattered everywhere about the floor, with one or two figurines; but that was all. Torn from its frame and ripped into several pieces was the portrait of the girl. The lovely limpid eyes stared up at me through the wan flickering light. Her head was severed from the body at the throat, and by it was a piece of cardboard on which, scrawled in wild zig-zaggy writing, were the words: ‘THE THREE MAIDENS. Now there are Four’.

  A fit of trembling shook me from head to foot. Whoever had committed the destruction could be no other, I was sure, than the mad creature who’d assaulted me in the garden. But why? And how had Brutus been kept quiet then drugged, while the break-in was made? He was a trained guard, only obeying a well-known voice. Then it must be someone at Kerrysmoor. And that someone must be Lady Verne! Was it possible? She disliked me, yes. But she was ill, bedridden, and the malicious damage had been directed more towards the portrait than myself — except for the garden episode, and I certainly had not recognised her ladyship in the attacker.

  Somehow I got through the morning. The loneliness was frightening — intense, and Jan did not call at the usual hour to take the dog for his walk. No one came — no one, until early in the afternoon when a handy-man from Kerrysmoor arrived on a horse with a message to say the girl who usually helped at Tregonnis on certain days was unavailable, and that under the circumstances, Master Verne thought it better for me to go to Truro for a few days. A room had been booked for me at The Crown coaching house, he’d be in touch with me sometime, there. The chaise would pick me up at four o’clock.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said in my rusty voice. ‘I have a cold in my throat, and — and why must I leave here so quickly? — Who’ll look after the cottage?’ My objection of course was quite stupid. I should have been grateful for the chance of avoiding another night alone at Tregonnis.

  ‘That’ll be all looked after, Miss,’ the man said. ‘There’s a note here from Mr Verne. He’s got back not long since. Perhaps you’d better read it.’

  I took the envelope from him and tore it open:

  Josephine, please do what I wish — pack a few things and be ready for the chaise to pick you up by four. Things are happening here which are exceedingly unpleasant. I have sent instructions to The Crown to see that you are comfortably accommodated. I shall see you as soon as possible. When that will be I cannot say. Until then, yours as ever, Rupert.

  I looked up at the man, bewildered, shocked, and taken aback by the brevity of the note which seemed to imply great anxiety on his part to get me out of the way — or was it out of his life?

  ‘Why didn’t Mr Verne come himself?’ I asked. ‘And does he — do any of you up at Kerrysmoor know what’s been happening here? But of course not. How could you—?’ I broke off coughing.

  We were standing at the gate of the garden. The man was holding his horse by the bridle, and the animal whinnied shrilly, as though sensing my distress.

  ‘Is something wrong, Miss?’

  I gave the semblance of a laugh, a derisive gruff sound. ‘You’d better come and have a look.’

  He tethered his mount to a sycamore, and followed me up the path into the house.

  ‘Sakes almighty,’ he exclaimed, ‘how did this happen?’

  ‘Last night — about two o’clock,’ I explained. ‘I was in bed and was woken up by a sound. No — not Brutus. He was — he must have been drugged. I came downstairs and found — this.’

  The man simply gaped, patting the dog’s head idly, as it gazed up at him mournfully, wagging his tail in a lazy way. ‘He seems all right now,’ he said at length. ‘And that’s something.’

  ‘Oh yes, Brutus will soon be his old self I’m sure. But don’t you think you should inform your Master what has occurred as soon as possible and have investigations started? The vet too. The vet should have a look at Brutus.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. I’ll begone, and you may be sure someone’ll be around — the police most likely to take charge of things. I can tell Master Verne you’ll be ready then to go to Truro as he said?’

  I nodded bleakly, and without further ado the man left kicking his mount to a swift pace down the lane, towards the main road.

  In a daze I went upstairs to my bedroom and began mechanically to pack my small valise, feeling in an unreal dream that had the quality of an unending nightmare. I put a cape and bonnet ready on the bed, and when I looked at the clock saw I had an hour and a half to wait. But before then, I told myself, someone would arrive — Rupert? Oh surely, Rupert himself must come when he learned what a terrifying experience I’d been through.

  Waiting can be agonising. From time to time I wandered through the cottage aimlessly, tidying this and that, talking to Brutus who seemed content to rest in the hall — thinking as each quarter of an hour passed, ‘Why doesn’t he come, or at least send someone? A fast horse has had plenty of time—? Suppose some lurking madman or murderer appears again suddenly? All I have is Brutus who’s still shocked, and the gun — the pistol. Where is it?’ I searched my mind wildly for a moment, then remembered it was in
a drawer in my bedroom. I went upstairs again, found it, and put it in a pocket of my gown. Then I returned to the parlour.

  When, at half past three still no one had arrived, nervous exhaustion drove me to a quick decision. I would wait no longer. I couldn’t. If Rupert cared for me at all — and I’d believed in him so deeply, so truly — he’d somehow have contrived to rescue me before this from Tregonnis, which had now become no more than a sinister prison. But he didn’t love me. He never had — not sufficiently anyway. Whatever it was that was keeping us apart at such a dangerous time — whether some smuggling business, or her ladyship’s ‘megrims’ (what a word, I thought contemptuously) any feeling he had for me was of merely secondary consideration to him. And I knew I could no longer bear it. I didn’t want his charity, his help, or being pushed about from one place to another without any explanation, just because it suited him. I didn’t want any drive to Truro in his rich chaise just to be closeted in some stuffy hostelry at his command. If I hadn’t a real place in his heart, I wanted nothing of him at all. For a time he’d desired me — and managed to win me. But now it seemed it was over; he was being devious and polite, and maybe in his way trying to fit me into some kind of mutual future. On the other hand, perhaps not.

  Either way it didn’t matter. I was weary of fretting, and hoping and fighting the long terrifying hours without him.

  I would make a clean break. I could still do it — I was young and strong, and one day, surely, when the bruises in my neck faded and healed, my voice would return. So I’d leave on my own and somehow make my way back to Falmouth. Taking a route along the coastal lanes below the moors I could be there, walking, in a matter of two days, perhaps even less. Furthermore, if I hurried, I could catch a private waggon that drove part of the way, leaving Tharne each evening at four-thirty. So I’d hurry, and start off immediately for the village before Rupert’s chaise arrived.

  Once my plan was made I allowed no other consideration to change it. The past was over and a new period in my life beginning. I must somehow forget Rupert — or at least blot him from my mind.

  In this hard determined mood it was that some time later I was ensconced in Mr Jago’s private waggon, with five other passengers jolting along the road southwards towards Falmouth. After numerous stopping places I left the vehicle at Penhallow and from there started walking cross country, avoiding Redlake, in the direction of my home town.

  *

  The air was sweet with the tang of heather, thyme, gorse, and a salty mild wind blown from the sea. I wore my lightest boots, and loosened my cape at the neck. Gulls occasionally wheeled overhead, and everywhere were the low rustling sounds of Nature’s creatures about their secret ways.

  Sometimes I left the lanes for farm footpaths, but mostly I kept to narrow roadways used from hamlet to hamlet, and frequented I supposed chiefly by gypsies, pedlars, or wanderers like myself wishing to avoid attention. As I had money in my reticule it was easy enough to call at a wayside tavern or cottage and find temporary resting place and something to eat. Directions of route were willingly provided, ‘always bear left now,’ I was told at one small kiddleywink, ‘keepin’ that theer old mine Wheal Flower on th’ right. An’ kip thy face an’ gold hid, case some lurkin’ vag’bond spies ’ee.’

  I took the advice for some part of the way after leaving, but as the lane climbed upwards and vegetation became more sparse giving a clear view on every side, I removed the hood of my cape from my face, and let the fresh air brush my cheeks and loosen my hair. A pedlar passed driving a cart pulled by an old donkey; pots and pans rattled, together with the sound of creaking cart wheels. The man was a wizened, puckish-looking fellow, with a blue feather in his hat. The vehicle was loaded with a conglomeration of goods — bottles of lotions, ribbons, winking glass beads, cutlery, household goods, and haberdashery of all sorts, mostly secondhand, I guessed. He drew up the cart and introduced himself as Barnaby Goine.

  ‘Give ’ee a lift, missus?’ he asked with a lopsided grin showing a single broken tooth. ‘Or wantin’ a pretty ring are ’ee? — or mebbee a ribbon for thy pretty hair?’

  I declined the offer of a lift, there appeared to be no room anyway, but bought a glass bauble I didn’t want just to show goodwill, and presently with a word in the old nag’s ear he was away again, and I continued walking, keeping always slightly to my left.

  The sky began to fade into twilight and bringing a greenish glow to the landscape. As the stark dark shape of Wheal Flower faded ever further behind me, I began to feel tired. How many miles I’d walked since leaving Mr Jago’s waggon, I didn’t know. But at last, to my relief, from a high point of the lane I saw far ahead of me and below, the darkening silhouettes of buildings against the paler glimmer of sea, and knew I was approaching Falmouth.

  I arrived, heavy-limbed from carrying my valise, about an hour later. Lights dotted the streets and waterside, and a lump of emotion seized me, whether for good or ill, no one could say.

  I had come home.

  Wearily I threaded my way down narrow cobbled byways leading to the harbour. I must have looked a sight indeed, when I reached The Golden Bird. But the landlord, astounded at first, welcomed me.

  ‘So it’s you,’ he said, as I tried vainly to adjust my bonnet, ‘Come in, my dear, come in. This place hasn’t been the same since you left.’ He took my case, and shouted for his wife. ‘She’s back, luv, our nightingale’s back with us.’

  He didn’t know then that I couldn’t sing.

  Chapter Ten

  Joe Burns and his wife, Maria, were heavily disappointed when I had to admit to them then my voice had gone. I invented a story that I’d been involved in a carriage accident, hence the scars on my neck, but that shock as well contributed to my sorry state. News travels quickly, and I didn’t wish Rupert to hear in some roundabout way what had happened, or even, at the moment, of my whereabouts.

  ‘I shall recover in time, I’m sure,’ I told them, with more optimism than I felt. ‘In the meantime, if I can stay here for a bit, I’d be very grateful. I have money. I can pay—’

  ‘There’s no need for payment—’ Joe said quickly, but his wife interrupted, ‘Now wait a bit, Joe. If Josie’s got it to spare — only a very little mind you, just a token as they say — she’d probably rather. She was always the independent sort, weren’t you, love?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed honestly. ‘I would rather give something.’

  ‘Only until it’s convenient to you then,’ Joe agreed grudgingly, ‘and when you c’n sing again the boot’ll be on the other foot. There’ll be a good salary coming along.’

  So a minimum weekly sum was arranged. I had sufficient in my pocket to cover at least a month, or two. And when that was gone? If my voice never properly came back again? The thought was frightening. I knew the Burnses would never turn me adrift, but I wanted to feel secure in some way, to depend entirely on no-one — neither Joe, Maria, nor — Rupert.

  Should I ever see him again? If he really wanted to find me would he recall the Golden Bird and walk in one night as he had the first time I ever saw him, tall hat in hand, his yellow eyes searching through the crowds and lamplight for a sight of me? I was pondering the question to myself when Maria put a suggestion to me one evening.

  ‘You haven’t told us the whole story, have you, girl?’ she asked. ‘About your singing, and what happened between you and that fine gentleman, Mr Verne—’

  ‘I—’

  She lifted a hand. ‘No. I don’t want to pry, but it seems to me not natural you should just be staying in the background all the time, or taking a walk round the streets when there’s life here you could enjoy. After all singing isn’t everything. You’ve still got your looks, and your legs is all right, aren’t they?’

  I gave a short laugh.

  ‘My legs? Why — yes, I suppose so. They weren’t broken or anything. But what makes you ask?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘You c’n dance as well as sing. There’s a man, Johnny Bliss,
that comes here every night now. Plays the fiddle real good. A smart one, Johnny. Been on the sea and lost a leg in a shindig with pirates. He’d play for you an’ make a handsome turn of it. Why don’t you try, girl? You’re fretting ’bout something, and that’s no good for the young. Joe’d pay you too, an’ don’t say you carry the wealth o’ the world in your pocket. You dropped your reticule in the bedroom the other afternoon when you went wandering, and it’d spilled over the floor. I picked it up for ’ee. Not much there, Josie — well, you just think about it.’

  I did, and although the prospect didn’t appeal to me at first, after my first negative reaction I began to see possibilities. Perhaps at the back of my mind, too, was the sneaking idea that such a plan might enable Rupert and me to meet again.

  ‘But I’ve no dancing clothes with me now,’ I told Maria when she next broached the matter. ‘I’ve only the clothes I came in, a few undergarments and a spare dress — it’s much too sophisticated.’

  ‘H’m. Yes. You’re certainly quite a young madam to look at these days,’ Maria said thoughtfully. ‘But I’ve a Japanese shawl tucked away upstairs, and when you went there were slippers left behind, and a flowery skirt. They earrings, and a few flash beads — oh, we could fit you up all right.’

  Eventually I agreed, and when I tried the bright garments on the following afternoon a little of the lost magic of former days returned. I longed and longed to sing as well as pirouetting only to Johnny Bliss’s fiddle, but my voice, though clear enough by then for talking, was just a harsh croak when I attempted any melody. I found Johnny amusing. He was a wiry ginger-haired little man, half Cornish, half Irish, with a whimsical one-sided smile, and bright eyes filled with mischievous humour.

  An hour before the bar opened we had, as he called it, ‘a try-out’, and for the first time in months I felt an uplift of spirits. There was no command to move gracefully or with dignity — no sharp reminder that I must control myself as befitting the part I was playing — no — ‘Now return and make your entrance again’ as there’d been time after time at Signor Luigi’s. I was free — free to sway and gesture and kick my heels uninhibited by restrictions or etiquette. With my hair loose, and to Johnny’s winks and elfin manner of playing and half dancing, I could be for however brief a time, myself. And it was invigorating.