The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo

by Catherine Johnson

  ‘Will – William Jenkins from the Golden Bowl.’ He ran his hand along Zephyr’s neck and the horse greeted him like an old friend. ‘You don’t remember me, do you, Miss Worrall?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Cassandra lied. She swept the wet hair away from her face and realized, too late, that she had merely transferred the black mud of the village pond from her hand to her cheek.

  She waded out of the pond, attempting to pull Zephyr along behind her. Zephyr didn’t move.

  William Jenkins gave the horse a firm thwack across his hind quarters and he obediently stepped out after her.

  ‘I could have managed!’ Cassandra snapped.

  ‘I am sure of it, miss.’ Will was looking straight at her with his cool blue eyes, as if he were her equal.

  ‘Thank you. I will go home now.’

  ‘If you’d like, miss,’ he said, ‘you could clean yourself up at the Bowl – well, not in the inn, naturally, but I could let you in the kitchen. There’s no one around the back – just myself, miss. Father’s away in the city.’

  Now she remembered who he was. Will Jenkins, the innkeeper’s son. Hadn’t he gone to London years ago? Hadn’t Fred knocked this savage down more than once when, as little boys, they used to play in the churchyard?

  Cassandra hesitated. She must look an absolute sight. It couldn’t hurt to try and clean up a little . . .

  ‘Very well, my man,’ she said, and followed him with all the dignity she could muster round the back of the village inn.

  He was shorter than Edmund and Fred, but his shoulders were broader for sure, and the linen of his shirt was pale against his sun-browned skin.

  He looked back at her over his shoulder. He was smirking, she was certain of it, trying his hardest not to laugh as hard as any of those scruffy children. Cassandra scowled back at him. She thought she would have liked Fred to be here so he could have knocked him down all over again and wiped that smile clear off his face.

  The inn was dark inside, and the kitchen, although not unlike the kitchen at Knole Park, in that there was a fire and a large scrubbed table, was a good deal smaller and more cluttered. Herbs hung from the ceiling and the fire glowed red in the grate.

  Will Jenkins took a poker and riddled the embers, then put on a couple of logs. ‘There, sit yourself down by the fire and dry off, Miss Worrall,’ he said. ‘If you need some clothes, you could wear mine.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, William Jenkins! Some water, please, so I can wash my face, and then I will be off.’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’ he began, but Cassandra glared at him. ‘As you wish.’ And he left her alone in the kitchen.

  She stood by the fire, unbuttoned her coat and opened it out. The dress underneath was damp, and no doubt she stank of pond weed. She noticed her reflection in the bottom of a copper pan: her golden curls were dishevelled and her face smeared with mud, not unlike the war paint of the Pequot or the Mohican. Edmund would think her ridiculous.

  She sighed.

  ‘You are not hurt?’

  Cassandra spun round. How long had Will Jenkins been standing there?

  ‘No, I am not.’

  ‘And neither is Zephyr.’

  ‘How do you know my horse’s name?’

  ‘Stephen, the lad who works in your stables with Vaughan – he’s brought him down to be shod more than once. The animal’s a stunner.’ Will put a basin of water and a bar of home-made soap down on the table. ‘I only ever saw one as fine as him, and that was in London.’

  ‘Really?’ Cassandra sat down by the bowl and began to wash.

  ‘A mare – Arab, I’m certain, a blue roan; it was on its way to Paris to race.’ He crossed his arms and stared into space. ‘I wouldn’t have minded going with it – on that boat to Paris, I mean. Although saying that, I’d rather America.’

  Cassandra stopped and sat up; she wiped her face and looked at him. Will was in a kind of reverie. She had never imagined that people like him might think of travel; not in the way that she or Edmund would.

  ‘You?’

  ‘Don’t mock me, Miss Worrall! I would’ve done too if Father hadn’t called me back. Would be there right now, riding west . . .’

  ‘I wasn’t mocking.’ She checked the cloth he’d given her to dry her face.

  ‘It is clean, miss.’

  Cassandra blushed. ‘Yes, of course, I—’

  He leaned forward and looked straight at her, his voice low and deep and gentle. ‘In America, Miss Worrall, there ent lords and ladies or gentry or nothing. A working man may look at a lady, such as yourself, and—’

  Cassandra realized she couldn’t look away. His eyelashes were so dark and long.

  There was a loud thump from the saloon, and then Cassandra heard several smaller faster ones. Will Jenkins turned and left the room; she watched him go, suddenly realizing that the smaller thuds were her heart beating fast against her ribcage. She swallowed hard.

  How could it be, she wondered, that he had changed so? He could not have been gone long, now that she thought about it, but how had she not noticed him when he first returned? Why had she not seen straight away that he was – there was no other word for it – delicious . . .?

  She had not quite dried off when she realized that there was a commotion in the inn proper, quite jarring her out of her thoughts. Was there some sort of brawl? she wondered with a sudden turn to her stomach. She had not wanted to leave with her dress and hair still wet, but she didn’t want to linger here if something like that was happening on the other side of that door.

  Just then the door burst open again – it was Will, and he looked quite distracted.

  Cassandra gasped. ‘Has there been a fight?’

  He looked at her as if she had spoken to him in Dutch. ‘No, Miss Worrall,’ he said. ‘It’s this foreign girl, come in off the Bristol road.’

  ‘Foreign?’

  ‘Definitely foreign, miss – well, perhaps you’d better see for yourself,’ and he took up the bottle of sherry he had presumably come through for, and left the door open for her to follow.

  She paused. Being a young lady, she had never in all her years set foot inside the inn itself. But she was already in the kitchen, wasn’t she? She took a deep breath and drew herself up, imperious despite her bedraggled hair – she was a Worrall, after all – and stepped across the threshold, into the ale-brown darkness of the inn.

  No one looked her way. All eyes – and more and more people were trickling in – were fixed on the small girl sitting at the long wooden table being questioned by Parson Davies. Her hair seemed to be piled up on her head, but as Cassandra got closer she saw that it was a turban – like the people in India wore in Mama’s books. Her dress was made of some kind of black stuff – not satin or silk, but a plain, dull cloth – though fashionably high waisted. It was certainly an English dress, an everyday sort of dress such as Rachel, the parson’s help, might wear on a Sunday, if she were in mourning. It was cut high at the front and very modest, and the sleeves were short and puffed. The girl’s arms were the same shade as her face, a warm coffee brown – more than the colour that resulted from outdoor work, Cassandra thought – and anyway, the manner in which the girl held herself spoke of something refined.

  There was nothing refined about the parson. He was speaking French very, very loudly.

  ‘Parlez-vous français, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Does she speak no English?’ Cassandra said.

  Parson Davies looked at her witheringly.

  Will came out from behind the counter with a glass of sherry – Cassandra could smell it, sweet and heady. He addressed her, one hand sweeping that thick dark hair up and away from his face.

  ‘She won’t touch a thing, Miss Worrall, and by the looks of her she’s quite parched.’

  Cassandra had to look away quickly in case she blushed. She found the girl studying her, wide-eyed. Her lips, though full, were cracked and dry.

  ‘I think you are right, Mr Jenkins,’ she said, doing he
r best to sound authoritative.

  ‘I don’t think she’s northern European . . .’ The parson took a deep breath. ‘Sprechen Sie Deutsch, Fräulein?’ He reached out and raised her chin so that he could look directly into her eyes, but she was obviously uncomfortable with such intimacy, and shrank from his touch. Then she looked straight at Cassandra, who was struck by her large dark eyes and, as she smiled, her small, even teeth. She was, Cassandra thought, rare pretty.

  Will poured the girl some sherry. She wrinkled her pretty nose and pushed it away.

  ‘She must drink something.’ Cassandra looked at the girl again and mimed drinking. The girl gazed back, smiling and acting the same mime.

  Will shook his head. ‘We’ve tried everything: ale, wine, cider cup.’

  ‘Why don’t you simply fetch her some water?’ Cassandra said, looking up at him. He held her gaze for an instant and she looked away again; she couldn’t help smiling, though – she had felt it as clearly as if it were tangible. There was something between them. She had not conjured it up, or imagined it. It was real. Cassandra nearly gasped with the shock and the pleasure of it. She had not felt like this since the New Year’s Ball, when she’d danced with Edmund Gresham . . .

  Will returned with a large jug of water. The girl’s face brightened, and before he could pour it, she shooed him away. The company watched as she swilled the cup around carefully, holding it up and examining it, making sure that it was spotless. Then she began what looked like prayers, her mouth moving quickly and in a tongue Cassandra had never heard. She made some odd salute and bowed her head, then poured the water out into her cup and drank and drank and drank.

  She looked from Cassandra to Will and nodded, saying a single word – it could have been nonsense but the meaning was clear: it was a thank you.

  ‘That might be Italian,’ the parson said. ‘I don’t have any Italian myself . . .’

  Cassandra watched as the girl finished the whole pitcher of water, and realized that everyone else was gazing at her too, like visitors staring at a lion or a giraffe in a menagerie.

  When the girl had finished, she took a napkin from a small bag she carried at her waist and dabbed her mouth dry in the daintiest manner imaginable.

  ‘What pretty manners! If she’s a vagrant then I’m a Chinaman!’ a man said – the carter, Cassandra thought; she didn’t know his name. ‘I’m telling you, Parson, there’s something about this girl . . .’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree. Those are not the actions of a beggar.’ The parson shook his head. ‘Fascinating! Quite, quite fascinating! A most interesting maid. The shape of her face! The colour of her skin! Like the best Javan coffee, don’t you think?’

  The girl looked from one man to the other and then back to Cassandra. She pressed her two palms together as though in prayer, and then placed them at the side of her face, inclined her head and shut her eyes, like a child at bed time.

  ‘She’s tired!’ the parson said, as if he had discovered the West Indies. ‘We ought to take her to the Parish Council. They’ll know what to do with her.’

  ‘Parish Council! Pardon, Parson, but you and I know there’ll be talk and talk, and then, after a day and a night of talking they’ll only send the poor mite to the poorhouse in Bristol,’ said the carter. ‘And a girl like this’ll be broken in two in such a place.’

  ‘But we can’t have her here; we’ve the London stagecoach passing through here this afternoon, and they’ll be wanting every bed we have,’ Will said.

  ‘And anyway,’ the parson added, ‘it wouldn’t be proper, what with Mr Jenkins being away and no woman in the house.’ He turned to Cassandra. ‘Your father would know what to do, Miss Worrall.’

  She stood up. Father would have sent the girl to the Bristol poorhouse with a snap of his fingers. He wasn’t one for mysteries – just figures and trade and making money, plain and simple. Mama, however, would be most delighted by this stray.

  Cassandra held herself tall; she was, in her parents’ absence, the lady of the manor. ‘I could take her back to Knole Park. Papa’s steward, Mr Finiefs, speaks Greek and Persian. Do you think she may be Eastern?’

  ‘Well thought, Miss Worrall!’ the parson said. ‘She’s dark enough.’

  The girl yawned – a touch theatrically, Cassandra thought.

  ‘Yes, of course, she is exhausted. You poor, poor thing.’

  The girl’s eyes were wide and dark and fringed by long thick lashes. She blinked and smiled, but there was no flicker of understanding at all.

  ‘I will take her back with me at once – she can wash and dress and rest. And the Parish Council may make their decison later.’

  Cassandra reached out for the girl’s hand. ‘Come with me. Please.’ She tried to speak softly, the way she talked to Zephyr if she didn’t want to spook him, but the girl didn’t understand at all. ‘Come with me, and sleep?’ Cassandra mimed sleep with her head on her hands just like the girl had. ‘Sleep?’

  The girl stood up and took her hand.

  ‘I may need help.’ Cassandra looked around the inn as if the thought had only now sprung into her head. Parson Davies stood up but she ignored him. ‘William?’ She nodded haughtily, suppressing a smile. ‘You may accompany us to Knole Park.’

  2

  EDEN’S RETREAT

  Eden’s Retreat Posture Club

  Strutton Ground

  Westminster

  April 1819

  The girl on the silver tray was utterly naked save for a fish tail, made of papier-mâché, gauze and tinsel. In the flickering glow of yellow candlelight it appeared real enough if anyone looked closely. But of course, given her powdered breasts and rouged nipples, nobody was.

  The mermaid stared somewhere off into the distance and kept supremely and completely still. Her hair was as flatly yellow as laburnum flowers. The tray she reclined on was carried at shoulder height by two heavies who negotiated the space around the tables in the back room of the tavern with ease.

  The place was full to bursting: a couple of old gentlemen who had forgotten that wigs had gone out of fashion sat in the corner, but it was mostly young bucks with more cash than sense. Behind the bar, Mrs Ingrams, the owner of the establishment, lit a pipe and smiled as she thought of her takings.

  At a table near the stage, three scholars, soon to finish at Westminster School, drank brandy as if it were water.

  ‘Do you think they’ll have places like this in Oxford?’ George Farringdon could barely keep still. It was his first visit, and in all his seventeen years the only time he had ever set eyes on a girl, a real flesh-and-blood girl, naked. His eyes were practically popping out of their sockets.

  Edmund Gresham and Frederick Worrall, regular visitors, exchanged vaguely amused looks.

  ‘I should say so, George,’ Edmund said. ‘There are places like this everywhere – if one knows where to look.’

  ‘So which one’s your Letty?’ asked George.

  ‘She’s hardly my Letty.’ Frederick drained his brandy glass. ‘Ed’s had her as often as I have. In fact, it was Ed who had her first, wasn’t it?’

  Edmund Gresham ground what remained of one of his father’s best Havana cigars into the floor. ‘First, I grant you, but you’ve had her more than me, Fred; many times more! You must have lost count. And anyway, she is your Letty. The girl doesn’t just carry a torch for you, it’s more like a bloody brazier!’ He leaned closer to George and said in a kind of stage whisper, ‘She does it with Fred for nothing!’

  Frederick Worrall lent back in his chair and blew a perfect circle of smoke up into the air. ‘It’s a gift. The ladies love me – what can I do?’

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ Edmund said as a second girl was brought in, long red hair curling down over her naked shoulders, nipples rouged, a kind of gauzy silver scarf around her waist. She was all pink and white curves.

  ‘That’s her? What a smasher!’ George’s eyes were huge; he was practically drooling.

  ‘Well, George, my friend, you
can have her. She is all yours – at least while you’ve cash in your pocket. A couple of shillings and she’ll do anything you like,’ Fred said.

  ‘Anything?’

  Edmund nodded. ‘It’s in their nature. They’re a breed apart.’

  ‘She is looking at you!’ George nudged Fred so hard he nearly spilled his brandy.

  Fred sighed. ‘I wish she wouldn’t.’

  Edmund explained. ‘What he means, George, is that she’s in love with him. Arse over tit.’

  ‘And that is a problem?’ George made a face and looked from Edmund to Fred. ‘How exactly is that a problem?’

  ‘She wants me to buy her out of here. She doesn’t want to be a tart any more. She expects me to buy her off Mrs Ingrams, then find her rooms, pay for her clothes, set her up as a respectable young lady – hah! Even – in her rose-tinted daydreams – marry her! Which of course I’d never do, even if my allowance did stretch to my very own trollop. Thank God term’s nearly over – very soon I’ll never have to see the little minx again.’

  ‘You two aren’t coming back after Easter, then?’ George said, not taking his eyes from the girl.

  Edmund shook his head. ‘School is done. No masters for me. I shall traverse the globe like a Titan.’

  Fred made a face. ‘I won’t be returning. Election term without Edmund? I shall have to suffer several weeks with my people, though. Which will be dull as hell.’

  ‘Surely not!’ Edmund said. He turned to George. ‘I do believe our Fred is making much of nothing. Knole Park is a riot. There is the beautiful Cassandra – most diverting – and your mother, Fred – she always has some wild scheme. Last Christmas she had us all dress up in Chinese clothes to celebrate the new drawing room! You had a pigtail, as I remember! Why, I do believe your mother is one of a kind. I say, George, if you want some free entertainment you should hear Fred’s mother talk!’ Edmund put on an approximation of an American accent: ‘Nice to meet yeeewww!’

  ‘Your ma’s American?’ George asked.