The Ugly Sister (30 page)

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 Blundstone'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.

H
E 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, face, 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.'

I
T 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.'

My happiness; was that what I was still seeking? The meeting with Bram had profoundly shaken me. I had grown, matured, hardened, lived years of my life without a sight of him, but when he came suddenly on me – and when had he not done so? – I became emotionally vulnerable again, pent up, afraid.

Even that visit to see Tamsin had not produced definite results. She looked quite happy. Clearly the ménage with Bram suited her, and to Hell with the gossips. I did not mind this – or would not have minded it had her lover been a stranger. Was I jealous, or only anxious for her future welfare? Bram had only to look at a woman and she was halfway to surrender. How wonderful, how wonderful it would be if one could be, or become, immune! How insufferably conceited the man must be. With what contempt he must view this branch of the Spry family: me, Tamsin, probably my mother. How lovely it would be to hate him! And how impossible!

What was his charm? The charm of a dominant male? Perhaps. But also the charm of the perceptive, sympathetic man; one who cared and needed caring for.

The following week I went to dinner at Tregothnan and there met a young man called the Hon Jonathan Eliot, whose courteous attention seemed to go beyond the degree of politeness expected of a dinner partner. He was tallish and thin, thin-haired though scarcely more than thirty, smiling eyes and with something of Bram's talent for concentrating his whole personal interest on the person he was talking to. Before the evening was out he had invited me to meet his sister. He would get her to write to ask me to stay a few days. He lived at St Germans, which I only vaguely knew as near Plymouth, and therefore a considerable journey. I replied as politely as I knew how, appreciating his attentions and being flattered by them. I had had little enough admiration in life, and it was new and heady to feel a quality of power, of influence, of control.

At the next meeting with Mr Hempel he told me of a benefit concert which was being organized in Truro on behalf of Mr Emidy's widow, who was in poor circumstances. This was to take place in a month's time. Mr Hempel's own son, who was a talented organist and violinist, was to play several pieces. He, Hempel senior, had composed a special
Te Deum
for the occasion; two distinguished singers were coming from Falmouth, another from Plymouth: did I think I might contribute two or so of the songs I had been singing for him last Tuesday?

I remembered Professor Elbruz's comments. ‘The production of your voice must be instinctive before you can interpret. You have of course no need to meet professional standards, but the nearer you get to them the more pleasure you will give and the more pleasure you will find.'

I did not want to sing. It would not have mattered so much in some other part of the country. It had not mattered in North Cornwall where I had appeared among amateurs. Here I was among my own people. No doubt there was some talk already of Emma Spry who had been so disfigured and now was no longer so disfigured, and had come into money and was living on her own at Killiganoon. People would come to see me, not so much to be critical or appreciative of the music, but to see
me
, to see what my face looked like now. I did
not
want to be set up like an Aunt Sally to be stared at. Another year.