‘And how? Where? In the back streets of Falmouth?’ she snorted contemptuously. ‘You’ve been a fool, girl.’
‘Maybe,’ I agreed. ‘In your opinion. Not mine. You see I loved the father. And when you love—’
‘Then where is he? This seducer of young women who cares so much for his own appetite he leaves one like you to bring his bastard into the world without means or a name to face the world. Love! I’m surprised at you — you’d respect from a fine family, and a grand singing career mapped out for you, looks and — yes, I’ll admit it — a certain presence — and yet you throw it all away because some lying, lusting male takes you like any — any—’
‘Stop!’ I cried. ‘I won’t listen. I’ll—’
‘You’ll tell me his name, girl. An’ if it’s anyone known round here I’ll see he pays for it.’
I almost laughed in her face. Anyone that was known! The whole picture was ludicrous. If I said, ‘Well, for your satisfaction, it’s the Master, Mr Rupert Verne’, how would she have reacted? Believed me? Or accused me of lying and sent me packing there and then? Who could say? She might even have had a stroke and died. And anyway what good could have come of bringing Rupert’s name into it when he already remembered nothing of me at all?
From that point I refused point-blank to discuss the matter further, except for immediate domestic plans. In the end the irate housekeeper soothed down, following a glass of a special concoction she kept to calm nerves and ward off an attack of the megrims. The result was that because she needed me just then, I could stay on, provided I managed to keep my condition quiet until necessity demanded otherwise. Then we’d have to have another ‘think’ she said.
There really wouldn’t be any thinking to do, I decided later, when I was on my own. I’d return to the Golden Bird. Joe and Maria would take me in, and the baby could be born in comparative comfort. In the meantime, perhaps there’d be a miracle, and Rupert would remember.
Christmas came and went. I saw very little of Rupert, simply because he kept mostly to his own quarters upstairs, and partly due to my own embarrassment. He could not yet go riding, or even walking more than a quarter of a mile, and it was painful to me to have to witness so pronounced a limp in a man who before had been so active, hardy and athletic.
Whenever we met, by chance in the house or garden, he would regard me with a warm but puzzled look in his eyes. Once he asked, ‘Why do you avoid me, Melissa? You know I still care for you. Another thing — is it wise to leave Tregonnis so often? It could be dangerous for you under the circumstances. I had to do it you know—’ His voice trailed off as he wrinkled his brow trying to remember something I knew could be a vital link in the mystery that separated us.
‘Had to do what, Rupert?’ I asked.
‘Marry Alicia,’ he answered dully.
‘Oh yes, of course,’ I said.
‘If it hadn’t been for that damned war I’d never have left, and you’d have been all right. You wouldn’t have—’ he put his hand to his head. ‘Oh God, what am I saying? Leave me, Melissa, I’m all at sea. But I shall remember in time; heaven help me, I will.’
I tried to think he was right, although his confusion not only worried, but frightened me badly.
The doctor, who called every week, said only time would show how deep the injury to his brain was. There might be nothing permanent at all. His physical condition was remarkable considering what he’d been through — although again, the fractured leg might never completely recover.
When I asked Mrs Treen about Rupert’s references to the war, she replied, ‘Oh yes, the Master had served in the Crimea and been a very brave soldier. He’d been away a year, and during that time his elder brother, Lucas, had died, after playing ducks and drakes with the estate.’
Although such information didn’t explain Melissa, it did give a possible clue for his reason in marrying Lady Alicia — provided of course she had means for assisting him in getting the estate into order again. I didn’t like seeing him in any mercenary fight, but then Rupert was the kind of man who once he had set his mind on a thing there was little he wouldn’t do to achieve it. If only he could have wanted me that much. Oh, if only something would happen to bring us together. Even now, though insisting he cared for me, he didn’t see me as I was — but as Melissa, the girl in the portrait. And I didn’t look like her — not a bit. No wonder he was confused and moody, looking at me lovingly one moment, the next suspiciously, as though resentful of my presence.
One day, when I was dusting and tidying the library, he limped in unexpectedly, and said, ‘I like you in that dress, it suits you — the colour of your eyes.’
I went towards him and he pulled me to him for a second, kissed me, then inexplicably pushed me away.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, ‘Why did you — why don’t you — don’t you like me any more?’
His golden eyes narrowed and darkened, became slits of condemnation. ‘Like? What a word to use. Don’t dare make such a tom-fool remark again.’
‘Rupert — I—’
‘And don’t argue, for God’s sake. You know we can never marry. But there’s no point in rubbing it in. And another thing—’
‘Yes?’
‘Apart from the rest — the barrier — I’m a cripple.’
‘I don’t care what you are,’ I told him recklessly. ‘You say you love me, well I love you. And where’s the barrier now? She’s dead. Alicia’s dead.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
The tone of his voice, set of his jaw and obvious dislike of talking with me at all, brought a lump to my throat.
‘All right, Rupert — Mr Verne,’ I said. ‘I can see I’m annoying you. So I’ll — I’ll go—’
And I did.
I left him standing in angry posture, with his hands behind his back, morosely facing the fire. Depression weighed heavily on me. Just then I could see little hope for a happy outcome.
January followed into early February, sprinkling the earth with snowdrops. Christmas roses bloomed behind the house, and even signs of green pushed bravely through the ground where such destruction had been only a month or two ago. Most of the land had been levelled, though the gardens had been obliterated and would have to be replanned and made later, if Rupert wished. Workmen were still about, rebuilding the large wing under the moor, although on a smaller scale.
The man I’d loved so passionately and who before had appeared so dedicated to his estate now showed only a desultory interest, giving orders and directions when asked for, but in a bored way as though Kerrysmoor no longer vitally concerned him. I sympathised deeply with his concern and the shock he’d suffered, but his attitude of giving way so obviously to frustration, frequently irritated and almost goaded me into crying:
‘Why don’t you at least try? — why don’t you fight and live again? You’re alive and strong, and in time your leg will be normal — if it isn’t, you’ll still be able to get about and ride, and love me — love, Rupert! have you forgotten what it’s like to hold me in your arms and kiss me, to take me in passion as you once did? I’m going to have a child — yours. Do you hear? — do you—?’
Yes, often I was near to the outburst, but the words never left my lips. He wouldn’t know what I was talking about, and I was gradually beginning to think that if he did, he wouldn’t care.
If it hadn’t been for the child day by day developing healthily within me, I’d have been unbearably lonely. The dark flame in Rupert’s eyes sometimes — a haunted, brooding look on his haggard face — almost savage — made me believe his personality must be dual and that two beings lived beneath his forbidding exterior. One the man, stern but warm and kindly whom I knew so well, the other cold and aggressive, akin to the wild elements of moors and raging winds and sea that tore the coasts.
One afternoon when I was not needed at the house I decided to take a walk to Tregonnis. I needed fresh air and a change from the smothering doom-like atmosphere of Kerrysmoor.
The weather was fresh, but not cold. I thought longingly of the spring that should soon come, trying to ignore the knowledge that it would probably mean my parting from Rupert and that part of my life forever.
As I walked down the lane to the road curving beneath Rosecarrion I had a queer feeling I was on a farewell visit — a goodbye to the many pleasant and exciting days I’d spent at the cottage, where my true involvement with Rupert had had its beginnings. And to Dame Jenny, the quaint old lady who’d once been such a vital part of my existence, but who now, since her stroke and the holocaust at Kerrysmoor had lain lifeless in her room, and did not often recognise me. There was also something else in my mind — a sense of Nemesis — of being drawn to the cottage by a purpose hidden from me, but of vital importance. When I rounded the bend of the hill, my pace quickened, I hurried on, light-footed, almost running, until I reached the place where once the gate had been, and where the charred remains of Tregonnis were still humped in a darkened lump.
Fresh undergrowth was beginning to sprout pale green in haphazard patches. I stood for a few moments staring at the scene where a few birds pecked among the stones. All was clear and very distinct under the pale blue sky. The fresh breeze which had met me on my way from Kerrysmoor, was now still, sheltered by the shape of the great hill. The only sound was the faint trickle of a stream from nearby, and I remembered there had been one curving past the pool. What a strange, fey-like atmosphere there’d been about the pool. I wondered if it was still there, and decided to look.
Holding my cape and skirt above my ankles, I picked my way carefully through stones and rubble to where the back of the cottage had stood and where Dame Jenny’s roses once bloomed so profusely. Ahead of me I saw the silver glint of water through the charred branches of willow and rock. At the time of the fire it would probably have receded into the general rubble, but when I drew close I realised with a start of surprise, the ground had reverted to a semblance of its original shape, forming a shallow dip where once silver and gold fish had darted and lilies spread their fan-like leaves. There was little water left there now, but the frail spring sunlight gave it brilliance, and as I stared a flash of silver light made me suddenly blink and shut my eyes. When I opened them I noticed something lying at one side of the quivering water.
I went forward, and picked it up, gazing in bewilderment. It was a delicate box made of mother-of-pearl, and shaped exquisitely into the form of a heart. One of the lost treasures of Tregonnis? But no. I had never seen it in the locked room. Could it have belonged to her? Melissa?
Trembling slightly I examined it — it wasn’t damaged at all, or even rusted. The lid fitted perfectly; a small quantity of soil clung to it, but that was all. Either it had lain hidden for a period of time, buried perhaps beneath a stone, or it had been impervious to erosion by water or the elements.
I opened the lid carefully. What I saw inside took my breath away. The velvet lining was damp and one corner faintly mildewed. But a perfectly carved profile of a man’s head in ivory — a miniature without a frame — stared up at me — the unmistakable likeness of Rupert, at an earlier age. I fingered the shining surface, took a lawn handkerchief from the pocket of my skirt, and rubbed it free of moisture. Then I turned it over and saw engraved in fine script writing on the back, ‘To Melissa, with love. Rupert.’
An aching sense of nostalgia tinged with — not jealousy — but painful envy, swept over me. So he had loved her. Melissa, indeed, must be beyond doubt, the girl in the portrait — the girl his tortured memory had turned to when he’d begged her to understand why he’d married Alicia. At that moment I didn’t seem to fit in anywhere in his life, except as a means to forgetting, — a sort of passionate compensation for the one he’d either lost or renounced. And now, through the accident, I wasn’t even that.
How long I stood gazing at the memento lying in my palm I never knew. I was about to replace it near the water when I changed my mind, and decided to take it with me to Kerrysmoor. Even if it belonged to the past, it was also Rupert’s property — something that must once have meant a great deal to him. Perhaps in finding and returning it, I might gain a little gratitude and warmth. I would carefully choose what I considered a propitious moment to bring it out, at a time when he appeared free of bitterness and out of pain. Such occasions were rare, but each day now his leg appeared to be easing. He walked more, and seemed on the whole less self-centred. On the other hand I could show it to Mrs Treen and ask her advice. She might, under the circumstances, confide what she knew of Melissa.
I was so deep in thought over the problem that I didn’t hear the tread of heavy footsteps over the uneven ground. The first intimation I had of anyone else’s presence was the crackling of undergrowth and sound of a stone being dislodged.
Startled, I turned my head quickly and to my astonishment saw Rupert standing only a few yards away. He was staring at me intently, with no smile on his lips, no trace of warmth or pleasure at finding me there, only a grim curiosity holding, I fancied, a hint of censure. He was bare-headed, wearing a caped greatcoat. One hand rested on a gold-knobbed walking stick, as support, I supposed, for the maimed leg.
There was a pause of some seconds between us before he spoke.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Me? — I — I’ve been for a walk. I wanted fresh air, and I — I found this—’ I held up the box for him to see. He glanced at it, frowning — a frown that gradually gave place to bewilderment.
‘Where? Where did it come from?’
‘It was on the ground, near the pool,’ I told him. ‘It could have lain in the water, but I’m not sure. It must have been yours once, and you — you gave it, I suppose, to Melissa.’
‘Melissa?’ The way he spoke her name told me nothing.
‘Yes.’ I opened the box and pushed it towards him. ‘Read it,’ I continued. ‘Look at the back.’
As though in a daze he propped his stick against the withered trunk of a willow, and accepted the memento with both hands. I watched his face anxiously, as he studied it, trying to follow any changing expression betraying inner emotion. There was none. Then, slowly he raised his head, and stared hard into my eyes, as though searching my very soul.
‘I thought you were Melissa,’ he said at last. ‘I thought — oh God in heaven! What’s happening to me? And who are you? Tell me, for the sake of any sanity I have left.’
‘You don’t remember what happened, do you?’ I said, keeping my voice as gentle as possible. ‘Nothing except that you once loved someone very much—’
‘I know I had a fall,’ he said, ‘from my horse. It was when I returned from the Crimea — the war. Yes, I remember that, but afterwards — You’re right of course, everything’s a jumble. Even Melissa — if she ever existed.’
‘I’m sure she did exist, Rupert,’ I told him calmly. ‘She was the girl in the portrait — the one that used to hang in your treasure room here, at the cottage, Tregonnis, before it was burned down.’
He eased himself on to a tumbled granite slab and sat there with his head in his hands, the bad leg stretched out straight before him. For that brief interim all the desire and longing in me for him turned to compassion — a deep need to comfort, and reassure. I suppose love has many sides to it, and I’d never quite experienced this overwhelming forgetfulness of self before.
I stretched out a hand. ‘Rupert—’ I said.
He looked up enquiringly. ‘Yes? What else have you to explain? You call me Rupert instead of Mr Verne or the Master. What am I to you? All these weeks — I recall it now — you’ve been Melissa. Now, suddenly, I’m confronted by a lie, some fantastic story, about Melissa dying.’
‘No,’ I corrected him firmly. ‘I never said Melissa died. You did. At least that’s what you believe, obviously. You must have known her — loved her, a long time ago. Look at the miniature again, your head. You were a young man, Rupert, and Melissa must have been young too. Doesn’t that tell you anything?’
He got to his feet,
and reached for his stick. ‘No. And this conversation leads nowhere, proves nothing, except I’ve lost my mind.’ He regarded me closely, with a rising angry despair on his face, and when I said nothing, he continued, ‘So shall we end this ridiculous conversation? I’ve no heart for play-acting. Here—’ he thrust the box at me — ‘take this thing. It’s of no use to me. Put it back where you found it or wear it close to your heart. I don’t care. I care for nothing at all. You understand?’
The cruel words inflamed and hurt me. As he turned in an effort to find his way back to the lane, I rushed after him and clutched his coat. ‘No, I don’t understand,’ I shouted, ‘I know it’s miserable for you losing your memory and being in pain, but what about me?’ I broke off breathlessly for a moment. ‘As you don’t recall anything about me I’ll tell you. I’m Josephine. Josephine Lebrun, and before this awful landslide we were lovers. It was after you heard me singing at the Golden Bird in Falmouth, you brought me here and sent me to have lessons from Signor Luigi in Truro. Then we fell in love. And — and I’m going to have your baby. Can you take that in? It’s true. A child. Yours.’
He spun round. His eyes were blazing. I noticed that his hand trembled on the stick. Whether he believed me or not I couldn’t tell. The expression on his grim face told me nothing.
Fear, the sudden knowledge that my speech might have shocked and in some way harmed him, made me draw away, step backwards, and as I did so one of my feet, the heel of a boot, caught something — some projection entangled in the furze. I lost my balance, tried to retrieve it, but failed and pitched to the ground, tumbling over the broken prone statue that had once overlooked the pool, and rolled.
As I hit the water I heard Rupert’s cry of, ‘No, oh no. Melissa?’ then — ‘Josie —Josie—’
I clutched through the strangling weeds and water, struggling blindly for support as muddy slime clouded my eyes. There was no danger of drowning once I could get a foothold. The pool was shallow. But it seemed some dark deadly power was sucking all energy from my heavy body.
Portrait of a Girl Page 17