The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo

by Catherine Johnson

  She turned round.

  ‘I could tell you all the family secrets,’ he was saying, ‘and you’d just nod and smile.’

  Caraboo said nothing; just stared into the distance beyond the park. Even though she would have enjoyed pushing him head first off the roof, she had to admit she wanted to hear what he had to say.

  ‘I don’t know quite what’s wrong with me,’ Fred sighed.

  Caraboo kept her face blank. Where shall I start? she could have said. The list is very long. Instead she had to bite her tongue.

  Fred Worrall reminded her of a prize bull, groomed to golden perfection for a country show – and, oh, how he knew it. She resolved not to give him even a sideways glance.

  ‘I thought . . .’ he said. ‘I thought I knew everything about women, about girls.’

  I bet you did.

  He said nothing for a long while. And Caraboo was about to get up and take the strawberries she’d collected and go inside, when he sighed again. A long desperate sigh that sounded as if it came from the heart. She looked at him for a second. He has no heart, she reminded herself.

  ‘Someone said something to me. It was nothing, really; she was nothing.’

  Princess Caraboo felt the anger rising up. She swallowed, calmed herself. ‘No-thing?’ she said, as if it was the first time she had ever said the word.

  He smiled. ‘No, not nothing. She was a tart.’

  What did she expect from someone like him?

  ‘A tart. And I can’t stop thinking about it. She said that nobody would ever love me, and I know it’s ridiculous, but it felt like a curse.’

  Caraboo cocked her head as if she knew nothing. Inside, Mary Willcox smiled.

  ‘Then I thought – How will I know if anyone loves me, if all I have ever known is a love I have bought?’ He laughed. ‘Even saying that aloud is ridiculous, isn’t it? I mean love! But what if those looks and sighs are all pretend? How will I ever know when I am really loved?’ He made a face, turned away. ‘I’m an idiot.’

  Yes. Yes, you are. Caraboo popped a strawberry into her mouth and watched a trio of swallows trace a series of perfect arcs in the sky. She lay back on the tiles, and thought, How do any of us know? She remembered Robert Lloyd, Solomon’s father, laughing at her. He had promised her so much, professed love all the while, and she had believed him, never once guessing that it wasn’t so; never imagining that her Robert could return to London married to another. Even when she saw the proof. She was nothing to him. No-thing.

  How could anyone know if love was true or false?

  ‘I am an idiot,’ Fred said again, sitting up.

  ‘Id-i-ot?’ Caraboo said aloud. How right you are, sir.

  He shook his head and smiled. ‘Forget it. I think love is for air-headed girls like my sister, who swoon over young men.’ He gestured dismissively. ‘That’s all.’

  Caraboo looked at him. She was enjoying this. ‘Love?’ she said. He was vulnerable after all. Somewhere under all that bluster and bragging he was afraid. Good, she thought.

  Fred Worrall pushed his hair out of his eyes and looked at her. Caraboo reminded herself that you could not trust surface appearances at all.

  ‘Love . . .’ He put his hand upon his chest and she mirrored the action.

  Perhaps she could hurt him the way she’d been hurt; the way he had, no doubt, hurt others. Perhaps Caraboo had a purpose here after all. Fred was not just a young man, he was the very worst of every young man on this earth. From Solomon’s father, who reckoned himself the Romeo of Clerkenwell, to those animals on the road . . .

  Her eyes met Fred’s for a fraction of a second, then he coughed and turned away. ‘I have been thinking too much. So help me, there’s nothing else to do out here!’ He laughed to himself. ‘You are too damnably pretty to be real, do you know that?’ he told her.

  Yes, she thought, I could make you sorry. She smiled at him. Just a little.

  ‘I bet you know that,’ he went on. ‘Most girls know how they look, how they stand. I’ve seen it in Cassandra: she turns her face in order that Edmund can see the light fall on her cheek just so. Girls can’t pass any mirror – any shiny cousin of a mirror – without a good look at themselves. To make sure their outward appearance is appealing, even when their hearts . . .’ He waved a hand. ‘Girls are all liars.’

  Caraboo reminded herself that she did not understand. ‘Li-ars?’ she asked.

  ‘Cheats. They feign love, whether for money or marriage—’

  ‘Caraboo no cheat!’ She was so indignant that Fred couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘No. Maybe Caraboo no cheat . . . but she’d be the only woman in the world who wasn’t!’ He shook his head and laughed, and she couldn’t be cross with him because he was right. Caraboo didn’t cheat and she didn’t lie – because she didn’t exist.

  Anyway, she wanted to say that it wasn’t just girls, it was everyone. Everybody told lies – to each other, to themselves – all the time: lies soften the blows of life, everyone knew that. Perhaps Frederick Worrall was an even bigger fool than he looked. This could be – would be – easy.

  Caraboo took a handful of tiny wild strawberries from her altar and put one down near his feet.

  Fred reached forward and picked one up. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He smelled of clean linen and something deeper, something musky. It might even be enjoyable, Caraboo thought, and moved closer.

  He gazed into her eyes for a little too long, and Caraboo looked away. She was a princess, after all; she would make him work hard. She would make him regret that he had ever set eyes on her; she would break his gilt-edged, feather-bedded heart.

  A formation of geese honked overhead, heading west, and Caraboo followed them with her eyes. She would head home too, she thought. Home? Her own life, her real life, was poor and mean and sad compared to Caraboo’s. Father wouldn’t be pleased to see her, not really. She shut her eyes. Where else on earth could she go? Who wanted or cared for Mary Willcox of Devon?

  Princess Caraboo sat up and blinked Mary Willcox away. Fred Worrall was beautiful – like a painting or a sculpture brought to life. She smiled, showing her very good teeth, divided up the remaining strawberries into two piles and pushed one towards him.

  This is not real, only a story come to life.

  ‘You shouldn’t be kind to me, Princess.’ Fred sighed and pushed his hair away from his face. ‘I know I do not deserve it.’

  No, she would have liked to say, you do not.

  ‘I have done too many reprehensible things. Selfish things.’ He shook his head. ‘I have been mean about you as well, though I don’t expect you’ve noticed.’

  He was so short-sighted!

  ‘But you know,’ he said, ‘I have never made a friend of a girl. Never. Not even once.’ He ate a strawberry and the juice ran down his chin. ‘I think you would make a most excellent friend.’

  Caraboo cocked her head. If he knew who she really was, he would never speak to her again. Even less want to listen to her.

  But he was never going to know. He was going to love her. She bit into a strawberry as artlessly as she could. He would no doubt think it natural for her to smile so. Caraboo lay back on the tiles. How long to break a man’s heart? She didn’t know. She knew hers had snapped in two in moments. She had found Robert in the arms of Jenny Pierce the day after she’d told him she was pregnant. Up until that second she had been planning their wedding – a small one, admittedly – well, the cheaper the better, with a baby on the way. But he would be hers. She had loved him and he had thrown her affection away like so much dust.

  She blinked. That was a different life.

  Princess Caraboo looked at Fred. Could she do it in a week? It would be far too dangerous to stay any longer. Yes, she said to herself, another week and then Caraboo would vanish, never to be seen again, and Mr Frederick Worrall’s world would come crashing down around his ears. One man to suffer in the place of all men.

  Their hands touched over the strawberries and Princess
Caraboo looked away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him smile.

  Perhaps it would take less than one week . . .

  Suddenly Cassandra, still in her nightgown, burst through the trapdoor. ‘There you both are! I almost had Bridgenorth send out a search party!’

  ‘I am quite safe,’ Fred said. ‘We’ve had breakfast.’

  Cassandra sat down next to her brother and leaned against his shoulder. They were both so expensive looking, Caraboo thought; fair and gold and perfect.

  She stood up.

  ‘No, Caraboo! Stay. It’s so lovely up here!’ Cassandra took the last strawberry. ‘And, Fred, you never want to be with me, to talk to me, any more. All you do is tease.’

  ‘That is not true!’ Fred said, hurt. ‘You’re always busy. Either Miss Marchbanks has you tied to a chair in the schoolroom or you’re off on that pony of yours.’

  ‘He is not a pony, he’s a horse. And I might be busy . . .’ she said.

  Fred looked at her, one eyebrow raised. ‘I would swear you are up to something, little sister.’

  ‘I’m not up to anything,’ she said. ‘But you . . . is something the matter, Fred?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Have you a girl in London sweet on you?’

  Caraboo saw Fred look away.

  ‘Of course. They fall at my feet in the streets,’ he said coolly.

  Cassandra looked serious. ‘Have you ever been in love?’ she asked. ‘Really in love? Has there ever been anyone you would wish to marry?’

  ‘My God, Cassandra, have you been talking to Mama? I am not marrying. I am grown cynical already. Girls are all liars and marriage is flatty catching by another name.’

  Cassandra hit him playfully. ‘You are no fun at all. Diana Edgecombe is sweet on you.’

  ‘I did rather know that, yes.’

  ‘So why don’t you marry her? She is fair, and a good match.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I am eighteen.’ He looked at his sister. ‘I say! It’s you, isn’t it? That’s where all this talk of love comes from. It’s you! So Edmund will have to fight for you, then?’

  Cassandra blushed to match the strawberries.

  ‘I’m right! I am! Who is it, Cass? I will make you tell me!’

  She dashed over to the trapdoor and down the ladder, with Fred hard on her heels.

  Caraboo was left on her own. She would do it, she thought. He would love someone who did not even exist.

  She turned her face towards the sun. Caraboo could do it – after all, she was a princess, the world bent to her will. And Caraboo was a wonderful invention; everyone loved her. It would make a fine and most worthwhile diversion.

  She looked down over the estate and began to plan Caraboo’s first move. Of course, it would look as though she gave not one fig for him. She would hunt and swim and climb. She would not simper or play the doxy, like every other girl he’d known. She would play the Tom Rig all the while, and reel him in.

  Men, all men, were simple, stupid things to Princess Caraboo.

  She skipped down the steps, two at a time, picturing, in her mind’s eye, Frederick Worrall reduced to tears and eaten up with despair. She would head straight for the island, and would lay a decent bet, had she any coin, on him arriving before lunch time, looking for her.

  Caraboo changed into what she called her hunting dress – a confection she had made with the help of Cassandra, knee-length, light brown Indian cotton. She tied a belt around her waist and tucked her knife in, and ran towards the open doors that led to the park.

  She saw Mrs Worrall, the professor and Captain Palmer deep in discussion in the library, and even though Mrs Worrall beckoned her over, Caraboo smiled and shouted back that she was off to the island. Of course, they didn’t understand her.

  ‘What was that?’ Mrs Worrall asked the captain.

  He answered something about prayer, which Caraboo thought was foolish given that the household knew she prayed on the roof. But it was, she had to agree, a safe bet. The captain had saluted, though, so she had no choice but to stop. For the first time she felt annoyed with him, whereas before she had only felt grateful. She saluted back. ‘Manjitoo’ – to the captain – ‘Manjitoo’ – the professor – ‘Lazor’ – to Mrs Worrall.

  ‘Ana,’ she said, pointing outside.

  ‘Oh, I know that one: ana, wa-ter!’ Mrs Worrall smiled.

  ‘Wa-ter, yes.’ Caraboo nodded.

  ‘Oh, she will soon be fluent in English, I have no doubt, Captain Palmer.’

  ‘No doubt,’ he agreed.

  ‘Oh, Princess, we are making such plans!’ Mrs Worrall beamed. ‘And, Captain, could you ask Caraboo if we could possibly have some samples of her handwriting to send to Edinburgh and Oxford?’

  Captain Palmer frowned, and Caraboo thought he looked for a moment like he might be about to argue – but Professor Heyford cut in, ‘A most excellent idea, I am personally acquainted with several of the finest graphologists in the country . . .’

  Mrs Worrall clapped her hands. ‘How wonderfully fortunate, don’t you think, Captain?’

  Captain Palmer shot Heyford a look sharp as knives, but he nodded politely at Mrs Worrall and babbled a suitably Javanese request. Caraboo nodded regally. There could be no harm in it. She would be long gone by the time any professors had deigned to reply. And if they were like Heyford, she thought, there was a good chance she could fool them too.

  ‘The whole county is so interested in you – not to mention the Bath Institute and the newspapers . . . I was thinking of a party, to introduce you to society.’

  Caraboo smiled placidly at her hostess, then saluted again and made to leave. The captain shouted after her – some senseless babble. She turned and nodded, and saw that he was staring after her in a most unpleasant fashion. Probably the result of too much rum and his unconscionably early start, she thought, and finally escaped out into the sun.

  The island was perfect. Princess Caraboo knew that wherever she had come from, this small island was her true home, her Javasu. She lit a fire – no doubt the smoke would work in much the same way as a royal standard flying from the tower of a palace: the Princess is in residence. She sat down and laid her hunting dress out on some branches to dry. There was no point in starting to hunt before Fred arrived. So after she had retrieved the bow she had left on her last visit and made a few more arrows, she cleared a space on the ground and began to practise her handwriting in order that dear Mrs Worrall should not be disappointed. Using a twig, she traced curls and arabesques like she’d seen in another of Mrs Worrall’s books.

  ‘Bravo, Princess, Bravo!’ Fred was here already. He had been watching her.

  Princess Caraboo shinned up the nearest tree, grabbing her hunting gown as she went. She yelled the best Javasu insults she could think of; then, once she was sitting fully clothed in the crook of the small chestnut tree, she realized that she could not have played it better if she had tried.

  Except that her kriss was down by the fire.

  ‘Are you after this, Princess?’ Fred passed it up. ‘Look, I mean no harm.’ He raised his hands. ‘No harm,’ he repeated, more slowly.

  But Caraboo wasn’t ready to forgive him yet.

  ‘I’m sorry, but you looked so . . . You were writing, weren’t you?’ He had managed to stamp all over it, but she nodded.

  ‘Mama will be fascinated,’ he said.

  That’s the idea, she said to herself, and took a deep breath. She reminded herself that she was supposed to be beguiling this self-important beau. She shinned back down the tree, saluted and bowed, and he bowed a clumsy reponse, his blond hair flopping over his face. ‘Sor-ry,’ he said. ‘Fred – is – sor-ry.’

  Two apologies in one day. She wanted to smile.

  ‘Caraboo hunt,’ she said, picking up her bow and arrows, and darted into the trees ahead of him. She was small and nimble, but he struggled to keep up with her. It was like having a stupid, clumsy older brother, Caraboo thought. Twice she lost a pigeon because of an �
��I say’ or a ‘Wouldn’t fishing be simpler, Princess?’

  But he did call her ‘Princess’, and when she brought down the first bird he seemed genuinely impressed.

  ‘Good shot, Princess. I never thought those arrows could do any damage at all.’

  She gave him her best withering look as she picked up the pigeon and removed the arrow, its sharpened tip red with blood.

  He looked away first. Princess Caraboo was enjoying herself.

  She tracked another bird, and made him crouch down close beside her, her finger to her lips for quiet, a good deal of her skin pressed against his fashionably tight, pale breeches. She passed him the bow and arrow and told him, with actions, that he should shoot. Caraboo was looking forward to seeing him fail.

  Fred took the hand-made bow and took aim. He hit the bird cleanly and lethally with his first shot, and she had to hide her disappointment.

  ‘I hit it!’ His smile lit up his face. ‘Wait till I tell Ed about this – doesn’t half knock potting ducks into a cocked hat and no mistake.’

  Caraboo stood, clapping her hands and saluting him. She spoke to him in her language, telling him that he was an excellent shot, and also a prime strutting cockscomb.

  He bowed and said, ‘Princess, whoever you are, you are a marvel. Shall we take these back to the house?’

  Caraboo simply picked up the pigeon and walked back to where the little fire had almost burned itself out. With gestures and signs she directed him to pluck the birds while she built up the fire.

  ‘Plucking! Surely you should deal with the birds, and I the fire? Isn’t that a more natural division of labour?’

  Caraboo made a face that said she didn’t understand. With mime and action she directed him to the birds again and strode off. She heard him curse but didn’t turn round.

  ‘As the Princess wishes . . .’ He was mocking her, but she took no notice.

  When she returned with an armful of twigs, Fred was sitting on a fallen tree with a still mostly feathered bird in his lap.

  ‘This is interminable!’ he said, looking at her.