The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo (21 page)

She stopped and faced him, one hand over her eyes, as the sun was already strong. ‘I am not Caraboo, sir, as well you know,' she said. ‘I am Mary Willcox.'

He looked down at her, and cursed. ‘Then, Mary, stop this at once. You promised me Caraboo.'

‘I cannot do it, sir.' She shook her head. ‘Won't the truth be better?'

‘For heaven's sake, what is this longing for the truth? The truth, as you know full well, is never better; it is nastier, it is uglier, rarely better. You had no need of it before, and if you—'

‘I am truly sorry.'

‘Are you?'

She nodded.

‘Then come back to Knole now, if you want to redeem yourself.'

‘Sir, whatever you think, when I played Caraboo before, I
believed
it, I wanted desperately to be her. Last night I thought, sometimes, I was myself. It is over. I am done with it.'

‘You had them all last night. I cannot let you go.'

‘You will force me then, sir?'

‘If you look to your conscience, you know that I am right.' He spoke firmly. ‘One more day.'

She nodded. What could she do?

Fred jumped down off his horse and made to take her arm; she flinched and moved away.

‘I will not run,' she said.

‘You promised me that once already.' He grabbed hold of her arm.

‘Did I? Did I say “I promise”, sir?'

‘Does that make the difference?'

‘I don't know,' she said.

‘I am not used to your voice. It is alien – it does not match your face.'

‘My voice! I assure you, sir, it is genuine. My face, though, could belong to anyone.'

‘Are you an octaroon, then, as Edmund suggested?'

Mary Willcox shrugged. ‘Who knows? My mother did not live long. I remember vaguely that she was no darker than I – although memory, like truth, changes, does it not?'

‘I thought you were as good as you had ever been, last night,' he told her.

‘I was so nervous I thought I was sick.'

‘Did you really believe you were her, then?' he asked. ‘Is that how it was?'

She nodded. ‘I was not playing, sir. I was everything I wanted to be,' she said. ‘I was escaping, I think, being someone strong. She has no worries, Caraboo. I have too many. She was who I would wish to be if dreams were true.'

They had reached the lake. The mare put her head down to drink and Fred patted her neck.

‘You are not so angry with me, then?' Mary said.

‘I do believe it is hard to keep that fever pitch of anger inside without grinding your teeth down to stumps.'

‘I am sorry—'

‘Do stop that!' he said, looking away. ‘Caraboo never said sorry, did she?'

‘No.'

‘I liked that about her. Too many girls I know are always sorry for everything, even when it is not their fault.'

‘But, sir, doesn't the Bible say we are to blame? For everything?'

‘Of course you are. The South Sea Bubble and the French Revolution. Napoleon Bonaparte and our useless king. It is your fault, everything.' He looked at her. ‘See, you are smiling at me now.'

‘I had no wish to hurt—'

‘We have said all this.'

The mare whickered and swished her tail.

‘I wanted Caraboo to be everything I wasn't.' Mary looked at him. ‘Brave, mostly. Not afraid of anything. I wanted her to be a person who didn't look down when someone came into the room, who was haughty and bold and true.'

‘True? Hah!'

‘Perhaps that is the wrong word. But she was true for me, sir.' She sighed. ‘I wanted to be her so much that sometimes I really
was
her.'

‘But she didn't exist!'

‘She was a dream. A good dream that never meant to hurt anyone.'

‘You could have hurt Mama . . .' Fred looked away.

‘It is the truth that hurts,' she said. ‘That always hurts. Give me pretty lies.'

He smiled. ‘You may have something there, whoever you are.'

They said nothing for a long time, simply staring back at the house, which seemed a long way off, a shadow on the horizon.

‘You know,' Fred said eventually, ‘last night I was thinking many things: that we are all liars, in one way or another; that we would all rather be somebody else.'

Mary looked at him, but he was gazing out across the lake, towards the island, his expression unreadable.

‘I thought,' he said, ‘that if anyone asked me in a week, or a month, or a year, if I would rather a world in which I had never met the Princess Caraboo . . . I am sure I would say no.'

When she woke up, Cassandra felt completely refreshed. She had done the right thing and she would think no more about Will. It was a beautiful morning, Diana would be here before lunch, and outside across the park the swallows were diving and soaring. She would wear the blue cotton with the puffed sleeves, and Edmund would admire her very much. She was imagining a boat – a gondola – on a canal in Venice: she was so close to Edmund she could feel his heart beating; but when she looked up, she saw that it was Will Jenkins. She stared at herself in the mirror and pouted. Then, through her window, she caught sight of her brother leading his mare towards the house. He was walking with a girl she didn't recognize, in a very poor black stuff gown. She turned away – it was probably more help from the village for the party tonight.

‘Mrs Worrall, your princess is most uncommonly fascinating in every way!' Lady Gresham said at breakfast.

Mrs Worrall blushed. ‘You are too kind.'

Lady Gresham acknowledged the reply with a tight smile. ‘I have always cultivated an interest in anthropology, a little like yourself. I hope Captain Palmer is quite well,' she said. ‘I would so like to talk to him about marriage customs in the islands. Marriage customs are quite my speciality. I have heard tell of a region high in the mountains of the eastern frontiers of India where a woman may have as many husbands as she pleases! Think of that!'

Mrs Worrall nodded. ‘I have heard that too.'

Lady Gresham went on, determined to show off her knowledge, ‘And I read of a tribe – Africa, India, I cannot recall – where a widow wears her dead husband's head around her neck.'

‘Mother, please.' Edmund put down his fork. ‘Some of us are eating.' His kedgeree did not look very appetizing any more.

‘I wish I could recall the details,' his mother said. ‘Perhaps Captain Palmer may elucidate when he is ready to join us. I did so enjoy the tales of . . . what were they called?'

‘Penanggalan, Lady Gresham.' Mrs Worrall turned to Fred. ‘Fred, darling. Captain Palmer? Have you seen him this morning?'

Edmund nudged him into attention. ‘Fred.'

‘What? Captain Palmer? No,' he said.

Edmund leaned close and said low, ‘I doubt if the man'll be upright anytime before the afternoon, the amount of liquor he downed last night.'

Fred whispered back, ‘If that was a bet, you would lose. The man can drink the West Indies dry, and still caper up and down the stairs as if it were nothing!'

‘I think it a shame Papa should have to go to work on a Saturday,' Cassandra said.

‘Your father has responsibilities, dear,' Mrs Worrall said. ‘Although sometimes I do believe he would rather be married to the bank, for all the attention and fuss. But he agrees that you and I – and Fred, if he wishes – may accompany the Princess to Bath, and Mr Hutchinson, of the Scientific and Literary Society – he is travelling here with the Edgecombes – will host an educational evening in the Pump Rooms.'

Lady Gresham nodded approvingly.

Mrs Worrall finished her tea. ‘If you will excuse me, Lady Gresham, there is much to be done. Mr Gutch from the
Bristol Advertiser
will be arriving with Mr Barker, the artist, from town. They are bringing the finished portrait. I cannot wait to see it, and Mr Gutch wishes to write a story about the Princess for his paper.'

‘Don't you think, Mama,' Fred said, ‘it would be as well to ask the girl what she would like?'

Mrs Worrall waved her hand dismissively. ‘She will love Bath! Everyone loves Bath!'

‘Oh yes, Mama, Bath,' Cassandra said excitedly. ‘There is an excellent dressmaker in Bath, Diana says . . .'

Mrs Worrall shook her head. ‘Diana says! Dressmakers! You would do well to think of other things!'

Lady Gresham smiled benignly. ‘I was much the same at Cassandra's age, and she does carry the fashion well, your daughter.'

Mrs Worrall smiled; Casandra beamed.

‘I am certain Caraboo will want to come to Bath, Fred,' Cassandra said. ‘Only dull people do not.'

‘Does she not join you for breakfast?' asked Lady Gresham.

‘Oh no – she catches most of her own food, and cooks it herself,' Mrs Worrall told her. ‘I do not doubt that she is at this moment on the roof or up a tree looking for her quarry!'

Edmund sipped his coffee and whispered to Fred, ‘That Caraboo – I should like to see her up a tree! As brown as a bloody monkey, your princess!'

Fred got up. ‘If you'll excuse me.' As he pushed his chair back, he heard approaching hoofbeats – a messenger, he thought – but was glad to leave the table in any case.

In the yard he found Vaughan and the stable boy trying to catch Zephyr, wild-eyed and in a lather, as if the horse had run all night.

‘Catch him!'

‘Yes, sir,' Vaughan said, grabbing hold of the bridle, muttering calming, soothing words and stroking the horse's neck. His soft voice worked its magic on the animal, which was soon drinking the fresh water Stephen had brought.

‘There, there,' Vaughan cooed. ‘What happened to you, eh?'

The horse snorted and shook himself, relaxing under Vaughan's touch.

‘What in heaven's name
did
happen, Vaughan?' Fred asked.

‘Sorry, sir, we don't know.' He looked at Stephen, who shrugged. ‘I thought Miss Cassandra had taken him out for a ride before breakfast, like she used to.'

‘Is he all right?'

Vaughan ran his hands down Zephyr's legs and across his back. ‘Right as rain, sir, once he's quietened down – just needs some kind words and a soft bed, much like ourselves.'

Fred looked up. Caraboo, or Mary, was watching from the roof. For a moment he caught her eye, then she stepped back, and was gone. Vanished.

The Edgecombes arrived at exactly eleven, by which time Princess Caraboo was in her hunting outfit on the roof, bow and arrow aimed at a particularly plump wood pigeon; Cassandra and Edmund were watching her from the trapdoor. Cassandra waved to her friend and the pigeon took flight. Caraboo was relieved – now that she was so plainly only pretending to be the Princess, her skill with bow and arrow seemed to have diminished.

‘Oh, Princess, I am sorry, was that your breakfast?' Cassandra turned and headed for the stairs. ‘Diana is here and I must greet her!'

Caraboo saluted. She had hoped Edmund would follow Cassandra, but he leaned casually against the tiles. She ignored him, and busied herself arranging the handful of rose bay willow herb she had picked upon her makeshift altar.

‘Cassandra says you speak no English,' he said. She didn't turn round. ‘Princess! Princess Caraboo!'

She knew she should look him in the eye as an equal, just as the Princess would have done. But it was hard. How long before Cassandra came back . . .?

‘Oi! Princess, I am talking to you!'

‘Caraboo pray,' she said solemnly, turning her back on him. She began her outlandish prayer ceremony, but it felt horribly contrived. She tried to think of Caraboo's god, Allah Tallah, but he was only pretend too; if she turned round, Edmund Gresham would surely read the truth on her face.

‘What are you doing up here?' Fred's voice.

Thank God, she thought – she was no longer alone with Edmund. She carried on praying, feeling the knot of muscles in her stomach relax.

‘Watching,' Edmund said. ‘Although it is a poor show. Mama would love it, but she cannot make the stairs, so I promised I would report back. Perhaps I should make it a little more interesting when I tell her – adding some animal sacrifice, with the reading of entrails.'

Fred laughed, and she could hear that he was relieved too.

After a while Edmund went on, ‘Remember that boy at school, the sultan's son, who worshipped a blue elephant?'

Fred nodded, and felt a little ashamed. ‘We made that poor boy's life a misery.'

‘He deserved it!'

‘Did he?'

‘Have you forgotten how he got his manservant to threaten me with expulsion?'

Fred shook his head. ‘Come down – there is coffee, and Diana Edgecombe's dress is truly a thing of wonder.'

‘It's not that confection she wore at the New Year, is it? It was the colour of pea soup, I recall, and after a dance or two with you she coloured up so that she resembled nothing more than salmon mousse upon a bed of lettuce!'

Their voices tailed away and Caraboo was alone again. She got up and brushed the dust off her hunting dress. One more day, that's all – but the days were getting longer and longer . . .

One more evening performance, one more session with Professor Heyford talking about of skulls, believing he could divine character from the shape of a head. She smiled as she thought of it. But perhaps, she told herself, it was no more outrageous than people in the South Seas believing in bloodsucking spirits, or a girl from Devon believing she was a princess.

She could hear noisy preparations for the party going on below her, and resolved that Princess Caraboo would spend the best part of the day upon the island. She would push the rowing boat away from the shore – that way, no one would follow her.

Tucking the kriss into her belt, she made her way down the stairs, carefully, quietly . . . If she was lucky, she could make her way through the house by the back stairs, unseen.