Mrs Worrall had arranged to borrow the Edgecombes’ cook, who was expected to prepare the mountain of fancies necessary for such an enterprise. Mrs Bridgenorth was in a huff on account of it, and consequently the breakfast eggs were cold.
‘Bridgenorth!’ Mrs Worrall complained. ‘Bring up some of the fruit preserves. I simply cannot abide cold boiled eggs!’
Fred smiled. ‘I’ll have yours, Mama.’
‘And, Fred, you will be sure to meet us at lunch time, at your father’s office?’
‘Of course, Mama.’ He did not tell her that he planned to spend the morning in the Admiralty office or round the docks, hoping to dish up some dirt on Captain Palmer.
‘And if you are there before your sister and me, be polite – remember he only thinks of your future.’
‘Of course, Mama . . . but you know, I was thinking . . . I might do as Edmund plans, and take time for a tour. I am not sure about university.’
‘For Heaven’s sake, Fred, do not mention such foolishness to Mr Worrall! A tour is out of the question! You have a place at Oxford waiting for you in the autumn. I will hear no more about it.’
Cassandra made a face at him across the table.
‘And, Cassandra, remember Edmund Gresham will be here tonight. I expect you to behave like a lady, not a street urchin.’
Captain Palmer stirred close to a dozen spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. ‘Ah, now, Mrs Worrall,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Lads Mr Fred’s age – they have a natural sort of hankering after the world. I have seen it before, many times.’
‘Not in this family, Captain Palmer.’ She smiled a tight smile and sipped her tea. ‘Fred is off to Oxford and that is that.’
Fred couldn’t bear to look at Captain Palmer’s smug face any longer and went up to his room to dress. It would always be the same. His life had been mapped out: school, university, the bank. He looked out of the window and saw that Vaughan was readying the coach in the stable yard. He felt trapped.
Cassandra kept Vaughan waiting while she changed her tippet twice. Caraboo, Fred noticed, was very quiet; she was dressed in her hunting outfit and turban and was still barefoot, even though Mrs Worrall had suggested sandals might be advisable for the city. She refused to take the kriss, but carried one of the kitchen knives tucked into her belt. Only Captain Palmer, who filled a hipflask full of rum in lieu of any food, seemed calm, Fred thought.
He waited until the coach had left the drive before he got the stable boy to saddle his bay mare. He could reach Bristol with hours to spare before lunch and he didn’t have to rely on the road, rutted and hard as it was bound to be. He was bound to find something or other on Captain Palmer, and if he could get shot of the man, Fred thought, kicking the mare into a brisk trot, then Caraboo would see that he meant well. Since he couldn’t talk to her, his actions would have to speak for themselves.
Princess Caraboo was grateful for the fact that the captain had no option but to sit outside with the driver. The thought of spending an hour pressed close to the man, as the carriage rocked and jolted into town, had kept her awake all night.
No, she told herself, it was not simply that. She had been planning how to take her leave – thinking of a million and one ways in which she might escape from under the captain’s nose and lose herself in the city. She had no change of dress or shoes, her reasoning being that the captain might be less on his guard if she seemed entirely artless.
As they approached Bristol, Caraboo found her spirits lifting. She had been at Knole Park for two months and had quite forgotten about the world outside. They passed people on the road – pedlars, knife-sharpeners, fruit-sellers, then shops and workshops, wheelwrights and smiths, the smells of smoke and work and real life.
Mrs Worrall and Cassandra got out first: Mrs Worrall had a list as long as her arm of things she needed to buy for the party before she visited the milliner’s. Caraboo sat up straight as Captain Palmer tipped his hat to the ladies and slid into the seat next to her. He leaned close – Caraboo reckoned if she’d had a light she could have ignited his breath, it was so completely and utterly malodorous.
‘We must make plans,’ the captain said evenly. Caraboo said nothing; she tried to move away but he sat so close that she was pressed against the side of the carriage.
‘I know you understand me, Miss whoever you are – I tried my damnedest to warn you off that writing lark. Even all those professors old Ma Worrall writes to can’t be as cotton-headed as Heyford. Our goose is cooked. Our clock is running down, do you see? I’d give it five days – thank the Lord for the party, then there’ll be enough of those county nobs that one or two choice items going missing won’t matter here or there.’
‘Caraboo no steal!’ The Princess had never intended to take anything from the Worralls. She had only wanted a place to stay.
‘Too late, girlie,’ the captain said. ‘My time is money. Then we can hightail it north and make ourselves a penny or two on the fairgrounds over the summer; they won’t have heard of you up there.’
Caraboo looked daggers. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No fairs! No stealing!’
‘Well, that’s where we part company, lady. And that’s where you’re wrong.’ He looked at her, grinning. ‘See, if you don’t, I’ll pin the thievery on you, and instead of a few months round the fairs you’ll be spending your time locked up in the dark.’
Caraboo shut her eyes. Worse and worse, she thought.
‘Oh, I don’t know why you’re sulking, lady,’ the captain went on. ‘I don’t doubt that being Princess Caraboo is a lot easier than being whoever you really are, having that young gentleman follow you around, gawping at you like some lovesick dog.’
She hid her shock. Was it that obvious? What if someone else at Knole had noticed? Caraboo looked away, humming softly to herself. She didn’t want to listen to Captain Palmer any more, especially when she knew that what he said was true.
‘I know you heard me, so there it is: keep your mouth shut and prattle all that trash for three more days till Mrs Worrall’s guests go, then so will we.’ The captain smiled, showing teeth that were deep brown, like rum; then put his hand upon her thigh.
She slapped it away immediately. He made her feel sick, but she had to keep her wits sharp today. She was trying to keep a map in her mind and work out the lay of the city, but she did not want Palmer to divine from her face that today was the last day on earth for the Princess Caraboo. After today, she prayed, she would never have to see Captain Palmer ever again.
The artist’s studio was in a building adjoining his house, on the west, and more fashionable, side of town. The light coming in from the north-facing skylights was very bright, and the room smelled strongly of linseed oil and turpentine. There were unfinished canvasses propped up against the wall, mostly portraits – men and women in fine clothes, smiling with their mouths shut.
Mr Barker steered Caraboo towards a chair in the centre of the room. ‘And, Captain Palmer,’ he said, ‘can you please direct the Princess to be still today!’
The captain saluted and burbled in Javasu to Caraboo.
She took off her turban while Captain Palmer looked at the painting, and then sat in a corner and opened his flask – not a very responsible chaperone, Caraboo thought. He began telling Mr Barker how much he would love the South Seas; the ruined temples, the captain promised, were most picturesque.
Princess Caraboo took no notice and concentrated on sitting as still as possible. Back home, many homes ago now, in the life before the South Seas, she had seen portraits in the fine houses in Exeter. And then, in London, even richer people, dressed in all their finery, their hair perfect, their faces free of pockmarks or blemishes that troubled them in life. She couldn’t imagine seeing herself like that.
Captain Palmer was still talking. He had been around the world in both directions more than once, he said. Mr Barker said nothing and continued working, only sighing every so often and staring so hard at Caraboo that it was as if he was looking
right through her. But after a while, when the captain got on to his tales of disembodied spirits, the artist exploded, throwing his palette to the floor and swearing with old-fashioned West Country obscenities that Caraboo remembered from long ago, when her father, the village cobbler, had injured himself with a hammer.
‘Captain Palmer!’ Mr Barker said. ‘Can you not keep your own counsel? I am trying to work! Go! Now! Take a turn about the garden, walk out to the river, anything! I cannot abide your prattle one moment more!’
Captain Palmer told him that he was required to stay with the girl; that she was a wild one and could not understand English; that he was honour-bound to watch her. But the artist insisted, and had his valet escort the captain out of the house, telling him not to come back until five.
Caraboo tried to keep a straight face. This was even better than she could have hoped. Mr Barker called for a drink of water and told Caraboo she could rest for a moment. She stood up and stretched, arching her back like a cat.
‘Come along,’ he said. ‘Have a look.’
Caraboo went round to the other side of the canvas and could not help gasping.
The portrait was beautiful, in a way she had never thought possible for Mary Willcox, but had always imagined for Caraboo. The girl in the picture, regal in her turban, looked as if she had been painted on the distant shore of some kingdom she ruled, only now brought back to England – so far removed from the girl she had once been, the other girl; the one who had lost a baby, and—No, she would not think of it.
Caraboo smiled. She could walk away from Knole Park and the Worralls now; she could do so knowing that she had not lied, she had entirely become the Princess they all desired her to be. The soul of the Princess was there, in this painting of the odd girl with the dark skin and the strange hair curling out from under her turban. Princess Caraboo. Mrs Worrall would have her proof that the Princess had existed, and suffer no misfortune from any kind of hurtful or uncomfortable gossip. She would not have her possessions stolen by Captain Palmer, or her family’s name dragged through the mud. All her memories would be preserved in this picture.
Looking at it, Princess Caraboo knew that she was now free to be someone else. She could have danced there and then.
Outside, through the door that led out into the artist’s garden, she could see that the sun was shining. The artist’s pocket watch told her it was nearly twelve. She climbed back into her chair. The man was bound to break for lunch, wasn’t he? By that time the captain would have found a local hostelry and would be working his way to the bottom of a glass, and she would be making her way into the centre of town. She would take the fabric the artist had draped around her shoulders as a cloak, leaving him her turban in exchange. She would dance out of Bristol, and if she could earn a little money, maybe there was an alternative to taking the stage to Exeter. This was Bristol. The harbour was crammed with ships going everywhere, anywhere, all across the world. Anywhere.
She felt sure the painting was some kind of sign. She would miss Mrs Worrall’s kindnesses, and Cassandra too, and, though she would have laughed at the thought only a week ago, she would miss Fred. But they would not be interested in her any more – Caraboo was there, in the picture, for them to keep for ever.
She felt brave again.
It was neither Princess Caraboo nor Mary Willcox who left Mr Barker’s studio on the premise of relieving herself in the privy. It was a girl without a name – she’d find one soon enough – wrapped in what could have been a kind of toga, her hair stuffed into a boy’s flat cap which she’d found in the hall.
A few boys playing on the road called out as she passed, but she paid them no mind at all. She ran, her bare feet slapping hard on the flat road, all the way back into town, past the great open earthworks that were the new docks, heading for the quayside, where the huge ships packed the river’s edge like a wooden city. There were so many people – none, admittedly, as outlandishly dressed as herself, but several not far off. There was the smell of tobacco and spices, and things she didn’t even have names for.
She breathed in deep and tasted the salt, and carried on down the hill. She made it all the way to a vantage point on a street than ran above the dockside, where she leaned on a rail and watched the ships, ignoring the shouts, stares and whoops of passers-by and stevedores. There were all sorts of people: lascars, even browner than Caraboo, white-turbaned, lugging sacks off a huge four-master; another boat was crewed by Greeks or Turks, she thought. And Africans, Americans, and some West Country men – she could tell by their speech. So much activity!
The sun shone down on her as if blessing her new enterprise, and she decided that she would choose a new name better than Mary, which was two or three a penny. The ships all had grand names – Enterprise and Venturer – she’d had enough of that sort of name. The family next door in London, the Silvers, had all had beautiful names; that was why she had chosen Solomon for her baby. The girls were called Esther and Ruth. Good names both, but she decided on Ruth: it sounded like a soft breath out, and it rhymed with truth. That’s who she would be, hard-working, honest Ruth. Ruth would need clothes – a plain skirt, dark material preferably, not too showy, and a white apron. If she could knock on a few doors, offer to clean – anything – just enough for a pair of boots and a second-hand dress, then perhaps she could find a passenger ship that was taking settlers somewhere new – America . . .
All at once, even without the modest clothes she knew Ruth would favour, the world seemed all possibilities, all new. She hadn’t felt so happy in a long time.
Suddenly, from a tavern down below on the dockside, she heard a shout. It was only men fighting. Ruth pulled her cap lower over her face. She must go away from here, perhaps find a church or a synagogue. She reminded herself that just because she felt brave, she was not necessarily safe.
She had turned to climb back up to town when she heard a loud crack, bone against stone. She looked back at the fight and realized that it wasn’t a fight at all. Three sailors – two as tall as they were wide, a third smaller – were setting about one well-dressed unfortunate. When they were certain that he was insensible, they pulled off his jacket, his boots and his pocket watch. Ruth saw that he was fair-haired, and even from this distance noticed the dark red blood spreading from a cut on his head.
When Fred walked into the Maiden’s Farewell he knew that he might well be on the right track. At the Admiralty there had been no record of a Captain Palmer of the right age. He’d been directed to the Maiden’s Farewell because, the clerk assured him, the landlord, Mr Hurst, had been a sailor, and knew everything there was to know about the South Seas, having spent his life on East Indiamen sailing as far east as Peking.
It had not occurred to Fred to feel afraid until he walked through the door. In London he had entered many such low dives, but always mob handed – Edmund and fellows from school; they would drink the low beer and laugh at the poor sort, and return to their school and their warm beds and their money.
Fred thought it best to show no fear. If he did, no doubt this pack of press gang rejects – which is what at a glance the drinkers looked like – would fall upon him.
It was dark and his head almost brushed the low ceiling; he smelled stale beer, wood smoke, tobacco and sweat. He kept walking until he reached the bar counter, aware of three men hunched over a table playing dominoes, another knot playing cards. Fred knew he must not, on any account, look indecisive or weak. He was aware that every eye was on him; he was also aware that the value of his jacket alone was probably equal to the combined cost of every scrap and thread of clothing in the whole place.
Fred ordered a beer and attempted to pay using the smallest coin he could lay his hand on. He cursed under his breath – why hadn’t he thought first and then acted!
The man behind the bar did not look as old as Captain Palmer, but his face was weather-beaten and leathery like his. His arms were covered in dark blue tattoos, the like of which Fred had never seen, not even in London
– not the usual sailors’ mottoes, or anchors or flowers, but strange whorls and curlicues.
‘South Seas,’ the man said. ‘Put your eyeballs back in your head, lad.’
‘Oh, yes, right.’
As Fred took the tankard of dubious, cloudy ale, he knew that the whole bar was listening. He looked at the innkeeper: this was the man he needed to talk to. ‘Mr Hurst?’
‘Mebbe. Who’s asking?’
Fred took a sip of the sour beer. Perhaps he would have done better to stick to spirits, he reflected. He lowered his voice. ‘My name is Worrall.’ He tried to sound firm. ‘I’m looking for Captain Palmer. Served in Malay, Indian Ocean.’
Mr Hurst looked at him. Fred noticed that where one eye was blue, the other was milky white and clouded. ‘Palmer?’ He spat onto the floor.
Fred took another sip. ‘Did you sail with him? Know of him? In Java? Sumatra? Tells a lot of tales – Penanggalan, bloodsuckers . . .’
One of the company laughed. ‘The only bloodsuckers round here are the rich!’
The innkeeper stared at Fred with his good eye. ‘What’s it worth to you?’
‘Two guineas.’ Fred hoped his face was stony as he set the money down on the bar.
Mr Hurst raised his eyebrows and, apparently satisfied, leaned forward. ‘Aye, I know a Palmer,’ he said. ‘Been in here more’n once, collecting stories. I tell you what, though. I’ve spent the past twenty years crisscrossing the Indian Ocean like it was the Corn Market, and I never heard nor seen nothing of any Captain Palmer until he walked through the door of my inn.’
‘You’re sure? He said he was in Sumatra – for five years, round about the turn of the century . . . did a lot of business . . .’
The innkeeper shook his head. ‘I tell you, lad, I know your man, and he likes to spin tales all right, but mark me, that cove’s seen more rum in his life than seawater, and I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. I could tell you things about that man . . .’ He shook his head, and spat on the floor again.
The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo Page 12