That evening I went to the front door, stepped out into the porch and wondered at all this good fortune. Not so many years ago I had walked to the celebrations in Truro, almost penniless, possibly pregnant, enslaved by the fascination of one man, had walked through the rain to try to find him. Now I was fancy-free, a rich young woman, no longer totally disfigured, and in possession of a fine house. The house belonged to the Sprys; my name was Spry.
Killiganoon was on high ground, and not far over the horizon, though miles away, lay the sea. I was a person of consequence. All this thanks to Uncle Francis. The sky this evening was illimitable, immensely remote, as if one were catching a glimpse of Heaven. As the sun sank a few ribbed clouds flushed high above and the sky around them blanched to a pellucid green. A gentle breeze carried a smell of honeysuckle.
So I should be thoroughly content. In a sense I was content. But although I was rich, was I fancy-free? Behind me in Bristol Charles ate his heart out and Effie hated me because she knew she was second best. And ahead of me was the meeting with Tamsin and beside her the shadowy but ever formidable figure of Bram Fox. Much had to be resolved, much developed; life, if infinitely more agreeable, was not a bit less complex.
And looking at myself in the mirror I was not altogether convinced that the facial surgery had been the success that had been hoped.
I had not yet written to Tamsin. I was shirking it, and all that the meeting entailed. I went into Truro to make arrangements about the transfer of my London funds. Mr Meadows, manager of the Cornish Bank, was welcoming, and indeed obsequious. I had heard that some shares in the Bodmin–Wadebridge railway were for sale at a bargain price. This was true, said Mr Meadows. The value of the shares had fallen because activity in the local mines and quarries was at a low ebb, neither was the transport of sand as profitable as it had previously been.
I had called to see Mr Preston Wallis in Bodmin while I was staying with the Collinses, and he had painted a bleak picture. The line, he said, was showing a working loss of £200 a half year: his own salary had been reduced from £50 a year to £37.18.0, the engineers’ from £104 to £94, and so on down the scale. Unless they could extend the railway to tap new sources of revenue, or arrange and plan some linkage with one of the other lines which were now projected, he could not recommend my investment in the enterprise.
Yet in spite of this, and the doubts of Mr Meadows, I bought the shares that were for sale, paying £850 for them, a parcel that made me one of the largest shareholders. Exquisite pleasure. I did not care whether I lost money or made it, I was employing it as I wanted to.
Next I wrote to Mr Joseph Emidy, inviting him to call. A rather ill-written note came from his wife to say that Mr Emidy had passed away last year and was buried in Kenwyn churchyard. Added was a note in another hand to say that a Mr Charles William Hempel, the organist at St Mary’s Church, had taken over Mr Emidy’s pupils, and it was suggested I should write to him.
I did not write to him, but grieved for the little black man I had once so wanted to meet and now never should. His spirited vivacious music had lived with me for a long time, in spite of what followed it, and I had looked forward to continuing the tuition begun in Zurich. Unlike Professor Elbruz, Mr Emidy had had no academic musical upbringing, but I felt we could have got on so well. Now, as for some church organist …
However the church organist took it upon himself to write to me, and presently he came to call: a fat, rosy-cheeked jolly man on an elderly piebald horse. Mr Hempel was not himself young but his manner while very courteous was not obsequious, and I quite took to him. After all, what was there to lose? We talked a while and he produced a tuning fork and asked me to sing a few notes. He raised his eyebrows and nodded approval.
I told him we had no musical instrument in the house but I proposed to buy a pianoforte, if one could be found. His eyes gleamed at this, and he said he thought one could be found. We parted with mutual expressions of esteem.
Now there was nothing more to do to delay the hour. I wrote a note on the Saturday. On the Sunday I went twice to church at St Kea, on the Monday I hired a carriage to take me to Place House.
From Killiganoon the long reaches of the River Fal bar the way, but I was determined not to arrive at my old home by ferry and on foot. So it meant a tedious trip via Truro, Tregony and Gerrans. The weather was fine but with summery showers, and we stopped for a picnic at noon at Portscatho, the journey nearly done.
Sally Fetch was almost as reluctant as I to return to her old home, though I reassured her that the staff had completely changed and that Slade was no longer there.
The big wooden gate at the entrance to the drive was, rather surprisingly, shut. The driver climbed down to open it, and the carriage crunched up the drive and stopped with a squeaking of brakes, a snort from the horse and a rattle of reins.
As I got out my sister appeared on the threshold of the door.
‘Emma! I was about to pick some fruit and I heard the carriage.’
She was in a white muslin dress with flat-pleated sleeves. A dainty apple-green pinafore was the only indication that she had been intending to do the most genteel of work.
‘I’ve brought Sally Fetch. She has been my maid for nearly two years. You’ll remember her.’
‘Of course. Pray come in.’
‘If you please, miss,’ said Fetch. ‘I’ll stay with the coach.’
I went in. The house looked brighter again and better kept. Tamsin too looked brighter than when I saw her last. She’d put on weight, but it suited her. We made polite conversation. She examined my face and expressed surprise that it was so much improved. ‘ You might even marry now!’
‘I suppose it’s possible.’
‘Mother wrote and told me what you’d had done. Quite a change. And how fortunate that Uncle Francis left you money! When you wrote me after his death you were at your wit’s end to know what to do.’
‘… I hadn’t heard then.’
‘I wasn’t able to help you at the time but my marriage was just going wrong and I hardly knew which way to turn myself.’
‘And do you now?’
The look in her eyes changed slightly. ‘ The same blunt Emma. Come help me pick some plums. Cook wants to make jam.’
I followed her through the house, all so full of bittersweet reminiscence, out at the back and into the walled garden.
‘Have you seen our new lighthouse?’ she said brightly, making conversation.
‘No, I didn’t notice.’
‘You would at night. Built just below the old signal station. Somehow I feel safer here for having this little beacon.’
‘How is Celestine?’
‘In very good health. She is picnicking in Cellars and should be home within the hour.’
The espalier plums were laden. She had brought two baskets and another apron. Trivial talk passed between us as we began to gather the plums. Then she said:
‘Desmond is a pleasant young man, but we should never have married. Mother pushed me into it. It never really worked as a marriage should work. We are better separated.’
‘And you are living alone here?’
‘… Most of the time.’ She licked her finger where a spot of plum juice had stained it. ‘ You will I’m sure have heard the rumours that Bram Fox frequently visits me. So there is scandal. Well, it’s true. His wife has died. He needs company and companionship and these I give him. And more, of course. And more. He is – a bit of a wild man, but so exciting. I am not the first woman in the world to break her marriage vows.’ She put down her basket. ‘But you know Bram. You were obsessed with him yourself at one time.’
Still am, did I ask myself? What rubbish! All that belonged to a nightmare adolescence, no longer extant in the world in which I now lived. As I had said to myself the other night on the porch of the new house, I was fancy-free. Long might it last. A companionate marriage such as Uncle Francis had proposed was now the only one I could contemplate. The night, the memory of the night in Bl
undstone’s Hotel confirmed me, perversely, in spinsterhood.
‘I am glad that Slade has gone.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you discharge him?’
‘No. He just decided to go.’
‘So all that – all those things have stopped now?’
‘What d’you mean by all those things?’
‘What I surprised in the night. The running of contraband.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said casually. ‘The building of the lighthouse has made it more difficult. And anyway, Bram would not allow it.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘Why?’ There was a sharpness in her voice.
‘Oh, just I suppose that I can’t see him as a law enforcement officer.’
‘He’s been that for years. You’re behind the times, Emma.’
‘I haven’t seen him since that meeting at the St Aubyns … Where did Slade go to?’
‘What? Oh, Slade. I’ve no idea. I think he went to Falmouth. You must ask Bram. He may know.’
We picked in silence.
‘I saw Samuel in London.’
‘Did you? … Shall we go in? My basket is full.’
I followed her into the house. A new cook came to receive the baskets from us at the kitchen door.
We took tea in the smaller of the drawing rooms. The showers had cleared away, and a bright sun shone. I could see the driver of my cab sitting inside the vehicle. Fetch had disappeared. The house was quiet.
‘Do you not feel lonely living here?’
‘Very seldom.’
‘Do you have a manservant at all, now that Slade has gone?’
‘Only a stableman.’
‘I am thinking of getting a stableman myself,’ I said. ‘Mr Meadows has recommended someone called John Cannon.’
‘Indeed.’
She passed me a sandwich and then bit into one with delicate relish.
‘So what did Samuel say to you?’
‘… Well, he was not pleased that you and Desmond had separated.’
‘So he has told me. It’s bad for the family name. He did not explain, I suppose, in what way this was so different from when his father kept a mistress and bought her a house for all to see.’
I was about to speak but she interrupted me. ‘Oh, I can tell you the difference. If Desmond had a mistress and set her up in her own home people would accept it because he is a man. I am a woman and I am living on my own and entertaining another man! It is the way things have turned out – I have not sought it – but at present the way it has turned out suits me, so I shall go on as I am!’
‘Samuel’s view—’
‘I know very well what Samuel’s view is: in two separate letters he has left me in no doubt. He wants me to vacate the house and take Celestine to live with my mother in Richmond. The disgraced wife! Well, I can tell you, Emma, the only way the family is going to get me out of this house is to turn me out – by force if necessary! I have as much right to live here as anyone else! I’ve been here all my life. My grandfather was Samuel’s grandfather. No one else wants to live in the house the way I do. Anna Maria has her own home; Samuel is taken up with his politics; Desmond and Mary both prefer Tregolls. All they want it for is a holiday home; and at present they can’t use it; otherwise it would give family approval to my wicked ways!’
‘Have you had much to do with Anna Maria? You were friendly for a time …’
I never heard what Anna Maria’s opinion was, for at that moment Celestine burst into the room.
‘Mama, I’ve found two cowries! And look who came by sea and brought me home by sea!’
She was a pretty little girl who had grown inches since I saw her last. She had her mother’s blonde curly hair and bright blue eyes, and the way she spoke took me back to memories of Tamsin as a child. But I hardly heard anything she said, and only recalled her appearance in my memory later that night. For, following her into the room, carrying Celestine’s bucket and spade and smiling a half-humorous, half-wolfish smile, was Abraham Fox.
Chapter Five
I
HE WAS wearing a cream linen jacket with brass buttons, a navy open-necked shirt with a loosened purple cravat, tight white naval trousers flared at the ends, bright yellow sandals.
He had changed so little since that first day he arrived at Place and took me, a scarred fat fifteen-year-old, sailing in the Roads. His dark hair was combed back and grown rather long again so that it curled on the collar of his jacket. His face was dark, more lined but as sun-bronzed as ever, his sharp teeth gleamed when he smiled.
‘Well, well, how’s my sweetheart? And Emma! Can it be Emma? What a pleasant surprise!’ He laughed, and as always his infectious laugh went on too long, as if he had said something witty.
‘I didn’t expect you so early,’ Tamsin said, with an edge on her voice. ‘Emma was just going. What—’
‘And now must stay a little while longer,’ said Bram. ‘It is years … Let me look at you.’ He took my hands, which I reluctantly allowed him to do. ‘Yes. Oh, yes. A very great improvement! D’you remember when we first met I told you, something could be done. And at last it has been! Yes. Oh yes. You were always an attractive creature, even with that handicap: now you’re much more so! Isn’t she, Tamsin? Isn’t the difference tremendous?’
‘I have told her so,’ said Tamsin stiffly. ‘Where is Annie? Is she—’
‘She’s walking back,’ said Celestine. ‘Uncle Bram did not think the boat could take another one. It’s just a tiny skiff, you know. We had lots of fun on the way! He pretended he had forgotten how to sail it, and I had to tell him!’
I got my hands free. Bram laughed and poured himself tea in Tamsin’s cup.
There seemed to be talk all round then. Everyone spoke and no one listened. To my vexation my colour had risen. Tamsin’s face had tightened round the mouth and eyes, as always happened to her if she was annoyed.
Was she annoyed at this disclosure of the domestic scene? ‘Uncle Bram’ indeed! He was at home in the house. The man of affairs arriving home early, cuddling the little girl and making her squeak, talking to both of the sisters equally, friendly, jocular but slightly sly. I nearly put shy. Was he ever shy?
The talk settled down. Bram was telling us of his day at Penzance, then back to Prussia Cove. Then he asked where I was staying and a moment later switched to a series of intelligently reasoned questions about the operation on my face. No one before had been so specific and, at least outwardly, concerned. He had the terrible habit of concentrating on the person to whom he was speaking, as if that person were the only one in the room, in the world. It flattered women. It probably flattered men.
In a brief pause – the very first – I said: ‘So Slade has left.’
He looked at me and then at Tamsin. ‘I think we got rid of him, didn’t we? He was becoming ever more drunken, and we made it clear we did not like it, so one morning we woke up – or rather Tamsin wakes up, for I was not here – and he is gone. Just like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Extraordinary, really. Clothes and all. Probably got a couple of his old shipmates to come in the night and row him away.’
‘Celestine,’ Tamsin said, ‘ take these lovely shells and ask Annie to find a little box for them. Is she back yet? Go and see if she is back yet.’
‘So you are going to live in Cornwall?’ Bram said to me. ‘Fortunate that your uncle was so generous. Lucky young woman. The world is at your feet.’
‘Some tiny part of it only.’
‘Which I’m sure includes Place House, don’t you think?’
‘You were always the tease,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t he, Tamsin?’
‘Tammy,’ he said. ‘I always call her Tammy. But I do not tease. Your inheritance and your operation have made you into a very different person. We are all influenced by our physiognomy. Tammy has the knowledge of her own beauty: that has influenced the way she thinks. You had no such knowledge, but now you find yourself with a new, or partly new, fa
ce, which you present to the world and which in itself will alter your character.’
‘Not necessarily for the better.’
‘Who can say? It is for you to discover for yourself.’
‘I think Fetch has just gone out to your coach,’ Tamsin said.
‘I am leaving too,’ said Bram, ‘and would cadge a lift, but alas my little skiff has to be returned before my cousin misses it. Now you are in Cornwall, Emma, we must meet frequently. You will be anxious to see more of your niece; she is a charming child.’
‘Is Slade now in Falmouth?’ I said. ‘That’s where he lived after my uncle Davey died and the family did not feel they needed him.’
‘I hope you don’t need him,’ Bram said. ‘You cannot need the luxury of a butler at Killiganoon. Anyway he would not be available for I hear he is dead.’
A maid came in to clear away the tea things. Some conversations continue in front of the servants, but this did not seem appropriate.
‘Dead?’ said Tamsin eventually, tight-faced again. ‘You never told me.’
‘I thought to spare you this sorrow,’ Bram said, and laughed in high amusement. ‘In fact I only heard myself last week. He had an old aunt who lived near Feock, and I believe he died there. A stroke or something of the sort. I do not imagine he will be much regretted.’
II
IT WOULD not be true to say I burst into Cornish society. I wrote to a few old friends, or those whom my mother had chosen to call her friends, and so received invitations to visit them. The Boscawens, the St Aubyns, the Bullers. I was busy with the redecoration of my new home, the re-planning of the garden.
A piano was delivered, courtesy of Mr Charles William Hempel, bought from the Polwheles, who had one to spare. Weekly I took singing lessons, courtesy of Mr Charles William Hempel, and realized I had still much to learn and that it was very agreeable – though difficult to learn it.
From Professor Elbruz I had been told about Bel Canto and long phrasing, and true harmony. ‘Your voice must be like a flute,’ he had said. ‘Until your technique is so natural to you as to be almost subconscious, you cannot really forget it and begin to interpret. Of course you do not need this as a profession, but the nearer professional you can become in your approach, the greater will be your happiness.’