Joe and Maria watching the rehearsal, were delighted. ‘You must come on tonight, girl,’ Joe said. ‘Word will soon get around then. We’ll be the best known tavern in all Falmouth.’
And so it was.
Keeping my thoughts firmly away from Rupert or Tregonnis, I was able to put all my conscious capacity for life and enjoyment into dancing. I became, as days passed, a popular feature at the inn, and by degrees even the lingering hope and possibility that Rupert might appear one night, died into a mere shadow.
Then, one evening, at the very end of the performance I felt suddenly faint. No one noticed — not even Maria, who was helping Joe at the bar. I managed to retire after blowing a kiss to the blurred faces crowding the tap room, and somehow made my way upstairs. Once there I lay on my bed and waited for the unpleasant feeling to pass. My face and hands were dripping by then with cold sweat, and there was a sickening pain under the pressure of my corsets. Presently I felt better, but by then a suspicion was growing in my mind that I’d never even considered before.
Suppose I was with child?
Could it possibly be? But of course it could. When two people loved — or had loved as Rupert and I had — any sensible person would know better than to be shocked by the suggestion.
Elation, mingled with fear and a sense of unreality seized me. I couldn’t visualise the future. I didn’t try.
But that night I had a dream.
I was standing on a lonely hill — black as a moonless night under a cold sky. There was no wind, no sound at all; the air was icy cold — the ground hard and lifeless like that of a dead land. I tried to move, but at first my limbs were fixed and motionless; then slowly my head lifted, and the summit of the hill clarified into the shapes of three grotesque hooded figures, who slowly, menacingly, dragged themselves from the earth towards me.
Magnetised by horror, my unwilling feet moved upwards. Black arms, like the wings of great crows reached to the sky, then slowly, rhythmically descended, gaunt clawlike hands gropingly thrust to my neck. I caught a glimpse of hungry ravaged faces with twisted lips — teeth bared, approaching in a strange haunted rhythm. And in a flash recognition swept through me in blinding terror.
Lady Verne! — Lady Verne!
For a second I was rooted again to the foul earth. It seemed as though my feet were sucked into a sickening mire of evil. Then, suddenly, sight failed. I tottered backwards and fell — fell into the well of darkness swirling round me in a suffocating cloud.
I screamed then, screamed and screamed, until no longer even sound registered. I knew no more until I woke up, bathed in perspiration, with my heart pounding heavily against my ribs, and my whole body shaking.
As surroundings of my room at the inn came into focus, the door opened and Maria entered, her face full of concern in the flickering light of the candle.
‘Sakes alive!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whatever’s the matter, girl? Enough to waken the dead it was — that noise! — thought you were being murdered for sure. What was it, girl? What’s the matter?’ She bent down, studying me anxiously.
‘I had a nightmare,’ I answered. ‘A dream. It was awful. I’m so sorry.’
She went to the ewer, poured some water into the basin, and returned with a cloth to wipe my forehead. ‘There, there,’ she murmured soothingly, ‘You’ll be all right presently. Just take it easy. Something you had to eat, maybe?’
I shook my head. ‘It was the Three Maidens and her — her. It was—’ I broke off, knowing the fear was still on me, and that in any case Maria wouldn’t know what I was talking about — I hardly knew myself.
‘Three maidens? Who are they then? Now you tell me what it’s all about. Seems to me you’ve bin seein’ strange sights since you went off with that fine gentleman. I never did approve of it in the first place, and I said so to Joe. Italians!’ she gave a sceptical short laugh. ‘You wasn’ bred for furriners and their carryings on, girl. Now you just rest quiet, and there’ll be no more dancing, and remembering wicked goings on. If you’re no better later I’ll have the apothecary to see you.’
My head ached badly all day, and when night came I had a fever. Dr Prynne, Solomon Prynne, who was not only regarded as a fine medical man, but a clever ‘wizard’ as well, came to examine me and provided some pills and herbal remedies which he said would be of great assistance in easing the pain.
‘Then, later, we shall have to see,’ he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, and I started to laugh, thinking how much like a goat he looked, with his wispy beard and tufts of hair sticking upwards on either side of his wide forehead.
Maria looked at me aghast. ‘It isn’t funny, Josie,’ she said. ‘Dr Prynne’s doing his best to help you. What the joke is I cannot for the life of me see.’
‘No — no,’ I apologised weakly. ‘I’m sorry.’
The ‘goat’ patted my hand reassuringly, took a small glass from his case, poured something into it from a bottle, and bid me take it. I swallowed it chokingly, not caring at the moment what it did to me — whether I lived or died seemed suddenly quite unimportant.
Minutes later the two of them walked quietly from the room, Dr Prynne’s boots making a squeaky creaking sound, just like the whinnying of the goat he so resembled.
On such a thought my senses began to relax, taking fear with it, until I drifted into peaceful slumber.
How long I slept I didn’t realise. At times I roused, and recalled being fed from a spoon and given more of the pills and draught. Days must have passed in this semi-conscious state, or maybe weeks, I had no manner of judging. But one morning, magically, I felt better.
I remembered everything. Not all at once, but piece by piece, putting facts together like the pieces of a puzzle.
‘How long have I been ill?’ I asked Maria when she came in with my morning gruel.
‘A week or two, but you’re better now. Oh how pleased Joe will be too. It’s been worrying for us, girl. But Dr Prynne — he said you’d be all right in the end. Some sort of shock, he said, and then that strange fever following! Later you’ll have to tell us properly what’s been happening. It’s only fair, love.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know. But—’
‘Not yet. Oh, there’s no hurry. You just take things easy and do a bit each day not much mind you, but—’
‘I’ve got money,’ I said, as I’d told her before. ‘Not a lot, I suppose, perhaps not sufficient to repay what you’ve done for me. But I can work, can’t I? — I could help in the tap-room perhaps — the bar; if I don’t—’
‘Tut-tut!’ she exclaimed, ‘no more silly talk. You’re our nightingale — our own Golden Bird whether you c’n sing or not. Tomorrow’s tomorrow, remember, and today’s today. So we’ll remember that shall we, and just get on with the present.’
And that is just what we did. By the time I’d recovered sufficiently to take proper walks about the harbour and help Joe and Maria run the inn, autumn was already turning the leaves of the trees to yellow, and evenings closed in bringing salty grey mists from the sea. I neither saw nor heard anything of Rupert, but one day, overcome by the sudden nauseous feeling for no reason whatever — or so I thought — a very tangible fact registered that was bound to affect my whole life.
What I’d guessed before was true.
I was going to have a child.
*
For two months I waited, saying nothing to anyone about my condition, being careful to hide any fits of nausea I felt, and not worrying unduly about the future; indeed, a strange kind of placidity enveloped me. Whatever trials, challenges, and maybe disappointment in life awaited me, at least my love for Rupert had not been entirely in vain; something of him already thrived within me — something no one could take away. Even my sleep became comparatively peaceful. Following the horror of the dreadful nightmare the scene changed. In my dreams I wandered through an unreal but generally pleasant vista of meadowlands and ethereal waving grasses, with a young boy, a child, holding my hand. When I woke I never recalled his face
clearly, and seldom felt any fear or real anxiety, although just occasionally a sadness lingered, like the sadness of trying to recapture an old forgotten tune.
‘That rich Mr Verne you used to know—’ Joe said to me one day, ‘they say he’s not there any more—’
My heart jerked for a second, stood still, and then raced on again. ‘Gone away, do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Not exactly. But I’ve heard tell he goes up country a lot. Funny though — he called the other day—’
‘Here? At the Golden Bird?’ I gasped.
‘That’s right,’ Joe answered, polishing a glass and not looking at me.
‘But why didn’t you say?’
‘I wasn’t here,’ Joe told me with a shrug. ‘Neither was Maria — she’d gone out to the market. It was that new boy we have who took the message.’
‘For me?’
‘He asked for you. According to the lad — what he said was — did a young lady called Miss Brown or something or other live here — one who sang and danced at nights?’ and the boy said no, he hadn’t heard o’ one, there was only a guest, he said, a rich lookin’ lady with a deep voice; not a singin’ one at all. An’ he doubted she could dance. She was kind o’ proud, an’ a bit buxom-like. He’d not heard her name, he said. Well, it was true, wasn’t it?’ Joe looked up and eyed me quizzically. ‘You never do sing now, and you don’t converse much either, and the lad’d only bin here two days.’
‘I can’t sing,’ I said. ‘My throat’s still a bit raw. But I wish you’d told me before, Joe. How long ago was it?’
‘A week or so,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think it was that important. Is it?’
‘It could be,’ I replied evasively. ‘It could be something to do with Signor Luigi, I suppose.’
‘Oh. That Italiano. But he don’t matter to you any more does he?’
‘If — when — when I do recover properly,’ I said, ‘and I shall, I’m sure I shall—’
‘Then you’ll be here with us, won’t you? Isn’t that what was arranged? Once you was better you said, you’d be part of the Golden Bird like ‘twas in the past.’
‘Yes,’ I said, feeling suddenly miserable. ‘Of course.’
The matter was dropped there outwardly, but I knew the time was coming for a change. Either I had to tell Maria about the baby, or find a future somewhere else. But where? And what would I do? Somehow I had to make a living. ‘Oh Rupert,’ I thought, ‘why didn’t you stay here longer? Why didn’t you wait to see Joe or Maria? And where are you? Why did you have to go away?’
The string of questions rang through my brain ceaselessly. But it was not until a week later that I found courage to face Maria with the truth.
‘I have to leave; Maria dear,’ I told her one evening before the taproom opened. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I know I can never properly repay you for all you’ve done for me, but — I have to find Mr Verne.’
She stared at me for seconds before making any comment. I could feel her gaze searching my face. Then she said, ‘I see. So it’s him.’
‘Him? What do you mean?’
‘You know very well. Part of you’s been with us since you landed here those months’ ago, but not your heart, girl. Oh, you’re fond of us, but being fond’s a different kind o’ thing to loving. And I reckon you love that rich gentleman, for all he’s left you wantin’ and longin’.’
‘No, he didn’t leave me. I left him,’ I stated flatly. ‘Because he didn’t need me enough, and because of his wife. She hated me, and things happened that weren’t — good. Strange, dreadful things. I think she was at the back of them all.’
Maria sighed.
‘Then for heaven’s sake why d’you want to return? ’Specially when he probably isn’t there. I’ve told you what the lad said, how he was always taking off up country. What’s the sense of going back then? You tell me that.’
‘There isn’t always sense in loving, I suppose,’ I admitted, feeling the old knot of pain at my heart. ‘It just happens and once it’s there, there’s no way of stopping it. You go on, and on, and try to think the world’s the same place, but it isn’t — it never could be. These few months I’ve tried to harden myself against it, I have tried. But, Maria, what’s the point when — when—’
I stumbled over my words, hesitated, while she questioned, ‘Go on, when what, girl?’
‘When I’m going to have a baby,’ I blurted out.
There was a long pause; my heart steadied gradually, relief at telling her made me suddenly more relaxed and content. When I looked at her face she was shaking her head, astonishment slowly giving place to acceptance of news that was distasteful to her.
‘So that’s it,’ she said at last. ‘The reason for it all — your silences and dizzy spells. I might’ve known.’
‘No, how could you? You didn’t expect it of me. Neither did I — I was always so — well, prim with the men, wasn’t I, during the time I sang for you? But this is different, Maria,’ I touched her hand tentatively. ‘It’s true, and real, and I couldn’t fight against it — I wouldn’t have anyway. From the first moment I saw him it started. How can I explain? I just can’t. It was just—’
‘A middle-aged man with gold in his pocket putting a spell on an innocent girl,’ Maria interrupted tartly. ‘Oh, I know the sort. But I wouldn’t have expected it of him — not of Mr Verne.’
‘You don’t know him. And it wasn’t like that at all. Rather the other way round. I don’t expect you to understand. But please try.’
Maria clasped her hands over her ample breasts. ‘I don’t know what Joe’ll say. He’ll be shocked, ’specially as he has a weak spot for you and expected you’d carry on here later as you did before.’
‘Perhaps I will — later, when everything’s over, the baby, I mean,’ I told her. ‘If you’ll have me, that is. It all depends on Rupert. But you see now, don’t you, why I have to go?’
‘No. You could have the child here. This is a decent tavern. The child’d have a good home. There’d be no stintin’ or scrapin’. — Whether you sang or not, you’d be good for the Golden Bird; you could help—’
‘Not if Rupert wants me,’ I said firmly.
‘But, Josie, just get things straight in that muddle head o’ yours. As you said yourself, he’s married. His wife’s sick and difficult — what d’you think your appearing in your state is going to do for him? Tell me that. Expect a welcome, do you? Then it’s high time you had another think.’
But I was beyond thinking.
‘I must go to Rupert,’ I said. ‘There are things I have to find out, and explain. I have to know what’s been happening to him. I have to.’
‘And where will you go? That there cottage of his? Or Kerrysmoor itself?’ Her voice had become hard, bitter.
‘No, I shall go to Truro first, The Crown where Rupert meant me to be when I left Tregonnis. They’ll help me there, I’m sure they will, and I shall at least have news. There’s Signor Luigi, too. He’s sure to have knowledge of Rupert’s affairs and whereabouts.’
At last, after further argument and protestations, Maria had to accept my decision. When Joe heard later, he was saddened rather than shocked; his attitude was more reasonable than Maria’s, perhaps because men in certain circumstances have the aptitude for seeing things in a different light.
It was arranged, therefore, that I should take the postchaise from Falmouth for Truro the following week, on the understanding that if matters were unsatisfactory and didn’t work out for me I would return immediately to the Golden Bird. Oh, they were good folk, and insisted on returning most of the payment I’d forced on them to help pay for my board at the inn.
‘You take it,’ Joe said, forcing a wallet into my hand when I was about to start off for the square where the chaise waited. ‘You’ll need it sure enough, in that fancy place. Put it in your valise now, an’ don’t let any pryin’ Johnny know you’ve got it. Funny folk travels about nowadays.’
Gratitude almost brought tears to my eyes.
I felt momentarily guilty at abandoning the two people who’d grown to care for me almost as a daughter during the time I was with them.
Was I doing the wise thing? I didn’t know, or really care. Ten minutes’ later, to the clatter of wheels and hollow sound of horses’ hooves, only one thought registered in my mind. I had started on the journey that in one way or another must bring me news of Rupert Verne.
Chapter Eleven
Although quite a time had passed since Rupert had written the note ensuring his responsibility for me at the inn, the landlord received me politely, and I was given a pleasant but old-fashioned bedroom, looking over a kind of courtyard bordered by a granite wall and a few almost leafless trees. There was a framed oleograph of General Gordon hanging on one wall, and a picture depicting Queen Victoria’s coronation on another. Two angels escorting a little child in a nightgown to Heaven hung immediately over the heavy oak four-poster bed. The furniture was dark mahogony, and a smell of camphor mingled with the faint tang of malt permeated the air. The china ewer and basin on the washstand were patterned with pink roses, and the curtains were heavy crimson plush, on each side of a blind that rattled when pulled by a cord.
A framed religious text stood on the chest of drawers; I had no doubt that it was considered a privilege to occupy such a room, but a weary sense of depression fell on me. I felt smothered at first, with an almost hysterical urge to escape and somehow find transport to Tregonnis immediately.
But I managed to curb my impatience and to eat the ample evening meal provided of roast beef, vegetables, and apple pie.