He smiled. He had lost much of his shyness.
‘I have permission for you to travel on the footplate. But before you do I must offer you a cloak, to keep the coal dust off your dress, and a pair of plain glass spectacles to keep any sparks out of your eyes.’
The engine let out two noisy blasts on its whistle. ‘That means we shall be off in five minutes. Do come this way.’
He led me into a small ante-room, where a long black cloak was hanging, and in a drawer was a pair of spectacles. It seemed that he had prepared for my acceptance in advance.
III
A WHILE ago I had enjoyed the strange and exhilarating experience of being propelled at sea by means of paddle wheels activated by a steam engine within the bowels of the ship. But this was more exciting, more dangerous-seeming.
After any amount of hissing and puffing we had backed onto the platform, while about 200 people climbed aboard. Then, with this huge extra load the engine had jerked itself into life and with much shuddering and shaking we had begun to move. Even going down the descent to the valley and moving at, Charles said, about six miles an hour, cautious of getting too much momentum, I was deafened by the noise, blown by the wind and occasionally invisible for the steam. I clung to the rail, watching the engine driver with his levers, the stoker with his shovel, two other engineers travelling in case of breakdown. On the very front of the engine stood a young man clinging to a bar, to open gates and clear off any straying cattle. Charles towered over them all in a railway cap and long overalls.
At Dunmere Bridge we stopped for water. After that we ran through a very narrow leafy valley, across and alongside the winding River Camel. Many trees had had to be felled, but others overhung the line, and as the engine gathered speed, puffing heartily, broken leaves fluttered down upon the train which rattled and rumbled behind us like a snake with seventeen vertebrae. Sparks and smoke and steam flew past as we reached fifteen miles an hour, and the fresh green of the trees and the glint of the wild flowers and the fluttering of startled birds disappeared as quickly as they came.
Twice more we crossed the river on newly built bridges. We stopped again to take in water at Tresarrett, but moved along easily then until the tall masts in Wadebridge Harbour came in sight. So the trip was completed, and completed, what was more, with a woman on the footplate!
‘Well done, Miss Spry!’ Charles said, as he helped me down. ‘I am proud of you.’
My exhilaration was as yet only slightly coloured by the knowledge that the West Briton next week was likely to report my adventure and that the Canon would therefore be sure to come to hear of it.
IV
WHEN I returned the Canon was already peevish. His dinner had been badly overcooked and Florrie had taken to her bed with a headache, we were almost out of cider and his cold was no better. It was unusual to be scolded by my usually benign uncle, and I wondered if that would be a more customary occurrence if we ever married. Or was it possible that he resented my never having answered his proposal and looked on my silence as a contemptuous refusal?
I did not tell him of the journey on the footplate, feeling that a week hence it would not seem so bad.
At Wadebridge I had found myself very dirty in spite of the protecting cloak and spectacles and had done everything possible to clean up for the dinner at the Molesworth Arms, but was a little surprised to find that the rest of the gentry, male and female, had not travelled spotlessly and were constantly apologizing to their neighbours for smuts on their faces or hands or dresses.
I told my uncle about the dinner and how good-tempered and happy everyone had been on the trip, and how well one was looked after, and how I had shared a coach home with Major and Mrs Thurston Collins, Mr Joseph Austen and his mother, and how they had expressed their warmest wishes for his quick recovery. I spoke too with regret for the wild flowers, asphodels, pimpernels, water mint and the rest which had been crushed by the building of the line but were already pushing up again and flowering between the sleepers.
The Canon grunted at all this and sniffed a few times and said he much regretted not being able to go himself. It occurred to me that some of his irritability came from missing such a trip on his beloved railway.
As a result of sharing that coach trip back from Wadebridge, I came to know Mrs Joseph Austen and her son who lived in that other Place House, a castellated Tudor mansion on the very edge of the town of Fowey. It had been the ancient home of the Treffrys for more than 400 years. At one time much more important than the Sprys had ever been, the family had fallen on hard times, but recently had been revitalized by Mrs Austen’s son, Mr Joseph Austen, who was now a successful shipowner and mine owner and was spreading his interests county wide. Mrs Austen – herself a Treffry – was in her seventies and rather a severe-looking woman, but we talked on the coach, and two weeks later I was surprised to receive an invitation to spend a few days with her. I had to refuse, for the Canon could not spare me, but her friendship was to be of great value to me later on.
Sure enough my adventure did reach the newspapers, though not by way of a headline. ‘One lady, greatly daring, contrived to travel on the footplate of the engine, and, the journey completed, seemed none the worse for her experiences. The young lady in question is Miss Emma Spry, the niece of Canon Francis de Vere Robartes; she is distantly related to the Agar-Robartes of Lanhydrock. Questioned by our reporter, she said that she would be happy to travel on the footplate again.’
I had said no such thing, as Charles had made sure that no reporter approached me. But I awaited the Canon’s response with some apprehension, knowing that he would read the report from end to end.
The afternoon that the newspaper arrived tea was taken in to him as usual – only now there was no need of lamps – and he looked up at me as I came in, and smiled a little acidly as he pointed to the paper.
‘Your mother warned me you were a rebel! Isn’t it fortunate that you haven’t married me! “Canon’s wife on footplate”, that would have caused quite a stir!’
I said: ‘I should not have dared to do it.’
‘Wouldn’t you? That is a comfort. “ Canon’s wife dances down church aisle!” Would there have been no danger of that?’
‘No, sir.’
‘For I could not then have discharged you, could I?’
‘Do you intend to now?’
‘Come here, Emma,’ he said.
I put the tray down and went slowly up to his chair. He took my hand.
‘Dear girl, human beings are animals, aren’t they? And young human beings have animal spirits. I had almost forgot. You are here to remind me.’
I smiled at him. ‘Thank you.’
‘Husband and wife, uncle and niece, canon and housekeeper – whatever the roles we choose to play, I hope we shall continue in companionable friendship and live a Christian life together.’
‘I think so,’ I said, feeling warm and singularly pleased.
Chapter Two
I
AFTER LONG and persuasive pressure from the Canon I agreed to take part in a concert in Bodmin in aid of church repairs. I sang two songs. Mixing with strangers was still a strain and an embarrassment, and there was no hiding my ugliness from my fellow performers. But when I went on the platform I wore my hair in such a way that most of the disfigurement was hidden by curls which fell across the side of my face. Then, by singing with my head turned slightly to the left, I felt it likely that there would be little or no notice taken. My hair is not naturally curly and it was Mrs Thurston Collins, who played the piano accompaniments, who suggested both the hairstyle and the curling tongs.
The Collinses lived in the big Tudor house not far from the village; Caroline Collins, though quite a lot older than I, seemed to have taken a fancy to me, and to this I responded gratefully. I have a mezzo-soprano (‘the commonest of all women’s voices’, my sister had read out to me once when I was trying it out); the Canon said he preferred to call it a ‘lyric soprano’; in the event two years’ singing in the choir
had helped. It was still lighter than my mother’s, but now just as clear and unwavering. In the first half I sang a sacred song, but in the second, at the Canon’s insistence, I sang one of the comic songs I had learned from my mother; and whereas the first song had been met with agreeable applause, the second was rather a triumph. Fortunately the concert was not being held in the church, and the audience applauded so long that Caroline dragged me in again and I sang another – less comic – song that I had learned from my mother.
We spent the night in ecclesiastical lodgings in Bodmin, and I went to sleep wrapped in the sort of satisfaction I thought only ordinary people had the right to feel.
Thereafter came a succession of requests that I should repeat the songs at this or that village concert, for this charity or that. I went to some, but then my uncle went down with bronchitis again and I felt unwilling to take on commitments without him.
A letter from my mother.
My dear Emma, Thank you for yours of last month. I am very glad that the concert was such a success. I do so wish something professional could be made of this, but we both know the insuperable difficulty. Should you ever wish to leave Blisland – or if anything happened to your uncle – there might be a living to be made in teaching. Should this occur pray let me know and I will sound out my friends for the best opportunity.
Have you heard from Tamsin of late? She is in a little trouble. Desmond went to see his mother last month and found her still much out of her mind but greatly distressed by the treatment she has been receiving at Greenlands. So he has brought her home. This has transformed Place House, for Desmond has had to engage two nurses to make sure that Aunt Anna does no mischief to herself or anyone else in the house. Tamsin is very upset and fearful, she says, for Celestine’s safety. I do not know whether she exaggerates – Aunt Anna was never violent or menacing in the old days – but Tamsin was always a highly-strung person, and it is a situation not to be welcomed.
Now I have some news for you, which will perhaps surprise you but I hope it will not offend. I am to be married again. His name is Captain Gerald Frensham. He is fifty years of age – five years younger than I – a retired naval officer who fought at Trafalgar, and he has been pursuing me for two years, and I am very fond of him. He has a sufficiency of a private income to live in comfort, and, apart from the fondness I have for him, it will be pleasant to contemplate increasing years without financial apprehension. My acting career is petering out and I have accumulated a number of debts.
Once or twice in the past I have thought of marriage but have considered among other things the future of my two girls. Now that you are both settled I can feel freer to remarry.
Captain Frensham has a house on Richmond Green, and I believe I shall be very happy there, though – as always with people who have lived there – I shall long for Cornwall, and hope to return from time to time. Gerald was widowed ten years ago, and has no children, only a niece who at present looks after him. Sybil and I are already firm friends.
I am in fact to be married next week. I would have wanted my children to be at the wedding, but distances are so great, and it will all take place with a minimum of ceremony. I shall hope to bring him down before long, so that you can both meet him.
Your loving
Mother
Now that you are both settled. In what way was I settled, unless I decided to become the Canon’s wife which was a possibility my mother would not have dreamed of?
I began to feel the need to talk to my sister. We had not been close since we were children, and our separation had widened the gap; our letters were sparse and brief. But in one way absence makes the heart grow fonder; causes for discord, irritations, minor or major, tend to be forgotten. I wanted to have a full, frank, friendly interchange about all that had happened to us in the last three years. I wanted to see Celestine again and see how she had grown. I wanted also to see Desmond, for whom I had always had a soft spot. But most particularly it was Tamsin. She was after all, apart from my mother, my closest kin.
I took the letter to show the Canon, but he had heard by the same post. He offered no comment on my mother’s decision to remarry. He saw the point of wanting to see my sister again. He suggested that she should come to stay at Blisland for a few days, but on my assuring him that she would never do that he gave way. The question was how long, and how could he manage without me? In the church I had met an earnest old woman called Mrs Tremewan who adored the Canon, and I suggested, rather than depend on Clarice for her cooking – sure disaster for she would not learn – we should invite Mrs Tremewan to come as cook for the week I was away. In order to sugar the pill I offered to pay her wages out of my own pocket.
While feebly protesting that it was not necessary, he allowed me to do this. On the way to St Anthony I consoled myself with the thought that Mrs T made good cakes and pasties for church meetings, so she should be able to satisfy one absent-minded but epicurean cleric.
It was October and the journey was tedious, not of course by its distance but by the constant change of vehicle. I could have walked it in the time. How good if in a few years we could have one of Charles’s railways to run from Bodmin to Falmouth! By the time I was crossing Carrick Road the sun had sunk behind an ominous black cloud which reached to the horizon, and a cold breeze stirred. Each time I came back something pulled at my heartstrings; possibly it was just coming home, remembering childhood and teens, possibly it was the thought of all that had happened to me here.
Some smaller purply-pink clouds high in the paling sky reflected light onto the battlemented tower of St Mawes Castle as I stepped ashore on the quay. Then down through the town to the Polvarth Ferry. The tide was in, but Tregundle saw me and recognized me from the other side, and got into his boat and rowed across.
‘Evenin’, miss. ’ Tis time ’nough since ye’ve been ’ere. I ’ ope you’re well.’
‘Thank you, I am. Yes it is quite a time.’ I did not suppose he had ever guessed who borrowed his ferry when she was a naive girl, betrayed, and going to Truro in search of her lost and faithless lover. Although I was only three years older I felt ten. Nothing special had happened to me since, no great formative character shock (except what was happening at that time). Living a solitary life in a rectory on the moors should in no way have helped me to a greater sophistication. But I had grown up.
‘How is Mrs Tregundle?’
‘Nicely, thank ’ee. We got a grandson since you left. To Millie. Jonathan, they d’call him.’
I murmured polite congratulations and resisted a temptation to trail my hand in the water.
‘Goin’ up to Place, I s’pose. Like me to carry your bag?’
‘Oh, thank you, no. It has no weight. How is my sister?’
He lifted his oar and pulled on the other. Water scintillated. A moorhen fluttered out of his path.
He said: ‘She’s from ’ome, miss.’
‘From – home? D’you mean she’s away?’
‘Yes, miss. She and Mr Desmond and the baby, they all left this morning.’
‘Where have they gone? D’you know? Is it just for a day or—’
‘Dunno, miss. They never telled me. They left by coach for St Austell, I b’lave.’
We reached the other side and he helped me step ashore.
‘I wrote a week ago,’ I said. ‘Perhaps the letter has gone astray.’
‘Yes, mebbe that’s so. Sure you wouldn’t like for me to come up to the ’ouse with you? Should be happy to do so. It’s quite a climb wi’ that bag.’
I hesitated. ‘Thank you, Mr Tregundle. But no. My aunt will be there and maybe she will be well enough to see me.’
‘Mebbe,’ he said and pocketed the coin I gave him. ‘Thank ’ee, miss. And good eve to ’ ee.’
II
THE LONG twilight was more than half gone before I came in sight of the house. Nothing, it seemed, had changed. The long facade glimmered white in the encroaching dusk. Then I saw the church spire. It had been rebuilt, the b
roken stained-glass window had been repaired, though with plain glass. There were two lights in the house, one in the west bedroom, one at the door.
I changed hands with my bag, took a deep breath of the familiar air, looked across the creek to St Mawes, where a sprinkling of lights tinselled the quiet water. A solitary fishing boat with a chocolate-coloured sail was creeping into harbour. In the wider bay which I had just crossed from Falmouth a half-dozen larger vessels were showing lights. I turned and pulled at the bell.
No answer. Night birds swooped in the sky.
I tried the door and it opened. I went in. Slade was standing there.
‘Miss Emma.’
‘Good evening, Slade.’
I walked past him and put down the bag. ‘You were expecting me?’
‘No, miss. I was just coming to see who was a pulling of the bell.’
‘I wrote to my sister saying I was coming.’
‘Yes, miss. She wrote back, she says, telling you not to come.’
‘Why?’
‘She was just going away.’
‘Where to?’
‘Miss Anna Maria’s ’usband’s place, Tregrehan …’
The house was very quiet. I wondered how many servants were left.
‘Her letter did not reach me. How is my aunt?’
He had been looking me over.
‘Adrift. Needs taking into dry dock and refitting.’
I realized that if everything else had changed in nearly two decades, he had not. A bigger belly, and a heavier jowl. But the hair, aided by its dye, was as unnaturally black as ever. Even across the hall I smelt brandy.
‘Well, I am here,’ I said, ‘and do not propose to leave tonight. Perhaps you could arrange for me to have my old bedroom.’
‘That isn’t rightly possible, miss.’ A malicious glint.
‘Why not?’
‘That wing have been left to go since your mother went. There’s slates missin’. Water have got in.’