As it went by a face stared at me from the window. In a shaft of pale sunlight the features were comparatively clear — hard and set, thin-lipped, with brilliant black eyes emphasised by the extreme deep-whiteness of her complexion. A regal figure, wearing something dark, either purple or black. For some reason I felt discomforted, but it was not until the carriage had passed that I realised why.
The countenance affecting me so unpleasantly was the same I had noticed watching me from the stairs on my arrival at Kerrysmoor.
She didn’t like me. There had been resentment, even contempt and a kind of hatred in that concentrated gaze.
Rupert’s wife. Yes, I knew intuitively without doubt it was she. Well, I had done nothing to deserve it, and if possible would avoid doing so.
But I recognised for the first time there could be dangerous obstacles confronting me in my new life.
Chapter Three
The day was chill when Mr Verne and I set off in the chaise for Truro and my auspicious meeting with Signor Luigi. No sunlight swept the landscape; under the grey skies, the scattered grey hamlets appeared sombre as the smoky mine stacks standing back against the moorland hills. A thin wind blew through the almost naked branches of bushes and trees. A few gulls drifted overhead, and an occasional dead leaf brushed the window as we clattered along. I drew my cloak close under my chin, and tidied a stray, straggling curl from my cheek under the frivolous headgear, feeling suddenly out of place and uncharacteristically self-conscious.
Mr Verne was so quiet. Any slight movement from him, any contact at all would have lifted my spirits, but he gave no indication at all of any pleasure in my company, and I wondered if I could have offended him in some way the day before, or if the ‘chatelaine’ — that is how I now thought of his lady wife — ‘the Chatelaine of Kerrysmoor’ — had somehow contrived to put a barrier between us. I couldn’t help remembering the cold contempt of that icy stare as she passed in the carriage the previous afternoon. It was probable, I thought, that she violently disagreed with her husband sponsoring me. She might even have some knowledge of the stage, and had made up her mind already I would be a failure and the venture a waste of money.
Well, I would have to show her how wrong she was. The challenge gradually lifted depression to determination and a burst of anger. After all, I wasn’t just a nobody. Pierre, my father, had taught me from an early age how to have pride in myself, and when the occasion arose behave as his Princess. Because of this I’d gathered what education was possible during my colourful ‘vagabondish’ days in Falmouth, learning much from listening to conversation of all types of people, and secretly mastering the art of reading in both English and French.
So I had nothing to fear from her ladyship, I told myself stubbornly, and for the rest of the journey felt better and in a more courageous mood to meet Signor Luigi.
By the time we reached Truro the skies had slightly brightened, though no trace of sunlight caught rooftops or the imposing shape of the Cathedral. I was surprised when we left the town centre behind and travelled towards the outskirts.
‘My friend owns a property that was once a small playhouse,’ Rupert told me. ‘It’s now only used on rare occasions and for individual cultural performances. Mostly it’s empty — but to Luigi it holds memories — his own dwelling is nearby — and the acoustics are good, especially for vocal requirements and rehearsing sometimes. You may find the interior somewhat gloomy and neglected, but I can assure you, you won’t have time to be depressed.’
This proved to be true.
The granite building was square and bleak-looking, of no particular period, looking more like an abandoned chapel than an ex-theatre. Except for a house huddled in trees a short distance away, and a few cottages, the landscape appeared curiously without life or activity. The house I guessed was Luigi’s home, and was probably more attractive from the other side because the glint of water showed through the interlaced branches of woodland, which could have been the river winding below.
‘So here we are,’ I heard Mr Verne saying, as the chaise came to a halt. He took my gloved hand and helped me from the vehicle, adding a second later, ‘You’re very quiet. Nervous?’
‘No,’ I told him, ‘well, a little perhaps. I was just thinking how deserted everything seems—’ My voice trailed off vaguely.
‘Oh, Luigi likes solitude, except for opera and good music.’
‘Is there an organ inside?’ I asked thoughtlessly.
‘Good heavens, no. There might have been once of course. Before it was a theatre, in early Methodist times the place was a chapel.’
So I’d been right. ‘I thought so.’
‘Did you now?’
‘Yes. I kind of felt it.’
‘Well, bring your thoughts to what is important at the moment and think of how to make a good impression on my friend,’ Mr Verne said almost sternly.
I could feel myself flush, resentful that he should address me like that, as though I was a child.
‘I shall do my best,’ I said stiffly. ‘I’m not entirely an ignoramus.’
His hand involuntarily tightened on my arm.
‘Calm yourself,’ he said, as we mounted the few steps to the door. ‘There’s no need to snap. I’m more concerned for your welfare than my own. Just be your natural self and put on no airs then everything will be all right.’ There was a pause before he touched the bell-pull. ‘You look — quite adorable,’ he added encouragingly after a hurried glance at my profile.
The compliment startled me, sending a rush of exhilaration through my veins. I raised my head proudly in anticipation of the meeting, and as the heavy bell clanged, reverberating with a hollow sound through the silence, I smoothed my gloves and then lifted my cloak a few inches so the hem was saved from dust or catching the toes of my pointed boots.
There was a rattle of a bolt being drawn, and we went in. My instant impression was of emptiness and tall narrow windows in recesses where lamps had been lighted. At the far end was a raised platform, presumably a one-time stage. The whole effect was gloomy rather than inspiring. I could imagine in the past, before the building had been a theatre, dark-clad preachers issuing dire forebodings to congregations of sombre religious converts. The singing would be of doleful psalms and hymns.
I felt suddenly trapped, with a wild instinctive desire to turn and rush out into the fresh air. Just as quickly I came to myself again. The nerve-crisis was over, and I was aware of Mr Verne presenting another shorter figure — Signor Luigi. I lifted my right hand instinctively, and as dutifully the rather portly little man raised it to his lips brushing the tips of my fingers briefly, before straightening up to his full height so the light fell directly on his face.
His brow was wide under thick crisply curling white hair; his complexion, though olive, was flushed at the high cheek bones, and this somehow added to the intense piercing quality of curiously light grey eyes under beetling brows. A carefully clipped grey beard added to an air of almost regal distinction which was emphasised by a maroon-coloured waisted velvet jacket and carefully cut black fitting trousers. He wore a white silk neckcloth. In spite of his somewhat florid appearance, there was still an aura of theatre about him, and I guessed he had a temper and could be irascible.
My deduction proved to be correct.
Following the first introductions Rupert Verne left, saying he would return in an hour to collect me.
After that my testing period — more of an interrogation, I felt — began.
First of all, under his frightening gaze, and from the platform, he put me through my scales, not once but time after time. Then I was allowed to sing one of the faraway Celtic melodies taught to me by my father. He gave no word of criticism or encouragement — simply stared, looking, I thought, more contemptuously critical than pleased.
It’s difficult now to recall exactly what further endless exercises I was put through, but at last he said flatly, ‘Not too bad. You have a good range. Your voice has possibilities. But ig
norant — no control — no instinctive knowledge at all of discipline or of what the opera demands. Have you ever heard of Wagner, Miss Lebrun? Or Offenbach? Verdi? — But no. Of course not.’ He shrugged. ‘You are simply raw and very doubtful material.’
My temper flared.
‘You must have known that,’ I said hotly. ‘Rupert — Mr Verne — surely told you, or I wouldn’t be here. But as a matter of fact, I have heard of your great composers and some singers — but I can assure you I never aspired to such — such great heights. I didn’t even ask to meet you. It was him. Rupert—’ Unconsciously the Christian name slipped out. Before he could interrupt I continued. ‘Obviously you have no use for me, so I’d rather you just said so, instead of scolding and deriding.’
I broke off breathlessly.
There was a pause, then the great man — or once great man — said, almost appeasingly, ‘My dear child, you astonish me. Famous singers in the past would have been gratified to earn even a word of criticism from Arnoldo Luigi. If I thought you had no promise do you imagine I would trouble one jot about you—’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Eh?’
I was confused, even a little ashamed.
‘I — I’m sorry. I didn’t mean. I—’
‘Aha!’ he smiled then, a gesture with a kind of mischief, even wickedness in it, ‘ — you have a temper, temperament. That is good. No one without the flame, the longing, the glory and despair in the blood would have a chance to stir the heart and bring audiences to joy and tears. I can give you no promise, of course. But in time perhaps, with hard work and many, many scoldings from me — well, perhaps — just perhaps — we may, together make something of you.’
So that was the beginning.
The following week my training in voice production and stage craft commenced under the strict tuition of Arnoldo Luigi for, hopefully, a successful debut as a possible future prima donna.
Twice weekly the Vernes’ chaise drove me to Truro for long sessions that were frequently tiring, leaving me chafing at what appeared to be my own inadequacies. Luigi was an irate critic, and sparse in praise, although at points when I was in a sudden too-low an ebb or on the verge of flouncing away in a temper he would unexpectedly produce a compliment and smile to restore confidence. There were also occasions when he allowed me to revert to my own choice of Celtic ballads and give full expression to the sense of romantic drama inherited from my mother. This I discovered later was not merely for my pleasure but to provide a yardstick for judging voice control — of what I’d learned so far in giving subtle but full power to my vocal range.
‘Yes,’ he said once, ‘you have learned something, not much, but a little. In six months’ time maybe — only maybe, you hear me? — we will give you a real test on a real stage. For that you will have to learn to move properly.’
‘But—’
‘Aha!’ he waved a hand disparagingly, ‘do not interrupt. Sometimes you show a minimum of grace, yes; at others you are a calf — a young cow — or a colt galloping in. Discipline, Miss Lebrun. Only discipline can give the essential dignity to any singer of repute. You have yet much to learn in every way.’
Such admonishments frequently depressed me, at other times fired my temper. Surprisingly, he was amused then, and gradually understanding developed between us.
The months passed, bringing a winter of wild gales and high seas lashing the gaunt granite coast. Apart from sessions at Truro I spent most of my time helping Dame Jenny, or attending to my duties dusting the precious treasures and figurines in the locked room. Being there was like entering another world — mostly because the girl’s portrait so dominated the atmosphere. I couldn’t help wondering about her — why Rupert had replied so brusquely when I’d questioned him about it. I was sure the painting meant more to him in some way than that of a mere acquisition hung where it was because it fitted the place. Was it the likeness of some dead relative that his wife objected to? Or was she still alive living perhaps in another country because of a family quarrel?
I brought the subject up more than once to the old lady. She dismissed my queries with a shake of the head and fierce look each time.
‘I know nothing ’bout her,’ she said, ‘neither should you be digging and delving. Too curious you are by half ’bout things not your business. And remember what they say — “curiosity killed the cat”.’
‘But I’m not a cat,’ I replied pertly, sensing she was withholding at least a shred of truth.
‘No. Well — sometimes you do act like one,’ she remarked meaningfully — ‘The way you go prowling of an evening sometimes t’wards Rosecarrion. I saw you yesterday, staring up the path that’s forbidden you. “If she takes one step up”, I said to myself, “I’ll give a shout, and have to tell the master too”.’
I shrugged. ‘It seems so stupid. It’s only a hill, an ordinary moorland hill, and the afternoon was quiet yesterday, I’d have enjoyed a walk in a different direction for a time.’
‘What you enjoy and what’s allowed can be two separate things,’ she told me sharply. ‘You should watch yourself and take care not to anger Mr Verne. You’ve a deal to thank him for, and be grateful. Remember that, girl.’
I did. I remembered all the time, and wished I had more opportunity for telling him so. But I seldom saw him. After the first visit to Truro the chaise called for me and I was driven there alone, then picked up at a certain hour and taken back to Tregonnis in the same manner unaccompanied.
The festive season approached, and Dame Jenny and I were invited up to the big house for Christmas Day. This was the one occasion in the year I was told, when servants, tenants and family joined in a dinner at night, followed by dancing in the large hall.
‘Because you are being trained for life in a larger world,’ the old lady said, unable to check disapproval in her voice, ‘you will be allowed to eat with her ladyship and the master at midday as well. At first the idea seemed odd to me — very odd — Lady Verne is usually so particular ‘bout who’s allowed such intimacy. But thinking it over I saw sense in it. After months of training with the music man you should’ve learned certain manners. You’ll have to watch yourself and show fitting modesty so Master Verne won’t be ashamed of thee.’
‘You can rely on me,’ I said shortly. ‘Will you be there too?’
Colour rose in the old bird-like face. ‘Me? There’s no need to ask that. Who do you think I am, girl? An ordinary servant?’
‘Of course not. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked such a stupid question.’
‘It’s as I said — you’ve still a deal to learn ‘bout what to say and what not. In my opinion the less you speak in the comp’ny of her ladyship the better. Then there’ll be your dress to think of. The brown silk made from the material bought last time we visited Truro should be suitable, providing you wear the lace shoulder shawl to cover you decently.’
‘That dark thing?’ I exclaimed, ‘but it’s so drab — almost black — and black and brown don’t go together. The yellow fringed one would look so much more attractive — and why should I wear the brown dress anyway? There’s that violet velvet. I could —’
‘Tut tut! hold your tongue,’ Dame Jenny said sharply. ‘In her ladyship’s comp’ny taste counts above everything. Remember, too—’ she wagged a finger in admonishment ‘— you’ve no fame yet; just a pupil to do the master’s bidding, and I’m responsible for your behaviour.’
‘I don’t remember Mr Verne saying so,’ I couldn’t help replying coldly.
‘There’s a lot you haven’t heard or know anything about,’ came the tart reply. ‘So have done now and no more arguments, if you please.’
I let the matter drop, resigning myself to the fact I’d have to wear the brown silk to save unpleasantness, but determined to produce a few additions and alterations at the appointed time.
In my own chest of clothes used in the past for my appearances at the Golden Bird I had a number of artificial flowers and lengths of braid in striking colours of the shades that we
re fashionable at that period — royal blue, emerald green, magenta, plum and vivid cerise. Cerise, I thought, would be striking decoration for my hair which I should wear up-coiled for the festive occasion and could be fixed at the last minute so that it would not be noticed under the hood of my cape. I would be tactful in wearing the brown gown and shawl but would arrange it so it could easily slip down after arriving at Kerrysmoor, revealing my shoulders. The effect would be attractive but not immodest. At my breast a velvet blossom would be pinned, and providing I could get down to a stitching session unknown to Dame Jenny, I’d sew stripes of cerise braid at the dress hem, with also a brightening touch to the corsage.
The effect, after I’d removed my cloak at the big house might irritate and shock the guardian of Tregonnis, even bring a glance of distaste from Lady Verne’s cold face. This didn’t worry me at all; the thought of making any impression — whether good or ill, only added stimulus and a mischievous sense of excitement.
Rupert, I knew, wouldn’t wish me to appear drab and dull as a humble sparrow among the Christmas throng. His eyes would be searching for me — hopefully — from the first moment of my arrival. How did I know, or guess this? Intuition, I suppose — that electrical awareness there had been between us when our eyes had first met at the Golden Bird those months ago. Although he’d not appeared at Tregonnis for some time, I couldn’t believe he didn’t think of me. Deep emotion which could so easily become love was not merely a visual thing, but a joy and a pain retained in the mind, and the very air of hills, sea and driven clouds sweeping the winter skies.
There was no sense of guilt in what I felt for him, however excessive and impractical the reality might be. At the moment it would have been senseless to plan. A few hours in his company had to suffice. After all, that marble-cold barrier of a wife stood between us; he had married her, she must mean something, and he was obviously disciplined and a man of principle. If he hadn’t been I wouldn’t have cared for him. So trying to think things out was hopeless.