The Ugly Sister (11 page)

Time would tell. A little farther afield in the county were many other families, such as the Prideaux-Brunes and the Pole Carews, as yet virtually unknown and therefore unplumbed. But now a decision was on her.

Desmond as a ‘ second son' might never inherit Place House, though he seemed to be the only one of the four children who wanted to live here. Nor since his father died had Desmond seemed short of money, and he already had some men repairing the church. They could live a comfortable life in one of the most delightful situations in the county. Apart from our mother, who was often away, and our aunt muttering in the mad house, she would be the only Mrs Spry. She would certainly be entertained as such. Even if Samuel survived the Navy, Place House was not an ideal position from which to pursue a parliamentary career, and if he suddenly changed his mind and decided to marry and be a country gentleman, there was room aplenty for two families in the house. Samuel had always been fond of his younger brother and would probably be unwilling to displace him.

Of course it all depended on Tamsin. Though much influenced by her mother, she had a decided will of her own and would make her own choice on such an important matter as a husband.

A few weeks passed. My mother was not yet on full speaking terms with me: Tamsin never referred to Desmond's proposal again, so I did not know whether she had accepted him or not; but I thought not. I had my period but concluded that it would stop next time. Desperate for news of Bram, I went over to St Mawes a couple of times, accompanied by a formidable housemaid who had none of Fetch's compliant companionship; but there was no sign of him there, and Falmouth was strictly out of bounds. I didn't even know where he
lived
. He seemed to spend his time in and out of people's houses and have no fixed address. I could, I suppose, write to him care of Mrs Elizabeth Fox, but so far could not summon the courage to do so. I began three times, thanking him formally for the gift of the starfish brooch, but each attempt ended in the kitchen fire.

It was not a time for ordinary fires. The weather had set fair – as often happened after fog; the creek was like a blue plate split once in a while by seine boats leaving or returning. (Pilchards were scarce this year.) Water in the Roads was never wholly still, there being too much traffic plying up and down; but the shallow trembling of its blue depths was broken only by the greater ripples of the shipping. As lack of wind reduced all movement to a crawl, half the town of Falmouth and its farther bank were obscured by the masses of sails raised to catch the slightest breeze.

Desmond came to sit beside me on the edge of the quay. ‘Do you know,' he said, ‘what a shearwater is?'

‘What? Is it a bird?'

‘I spotted a pair near the St Anthony lookout. The first I have ever seen. Quite big birds – wings a foot across. It must be the great shearwater.' Desmond plucked at his lip. ‘ It is a surprise to see them close inland. They usually stay well out to sea.'

‘What colour are they?' I asked.

‘Palish brown – bit mottled, I should think. I only saw them for a few minutes as they whirled about the rocks.'

‘When was this?'

‘Just now. Half an hour ago.' He looked at me quizzically. ‘You are interested?'

‘Of course. Though I know little about the subject.'

‘I'll lend you some books.'

‘Thank you.'

Silence fell. Then he suddenly said: ‘Emma, do you know that I have asked Tamsin to marry me?'

‘I had a feeling … Has she said yes?'

‘Not yet. Not in so many words. But I believe she will.' There was another pause. ‘ Has she said anything to you?'

‘You know I'm rather in disgrace with my family at present.'

‘Oh, you're not in disgrace with me,' he said. ‘You – er – kicked over the traces a little, but it was in a good cause. I'm as starved of music as you are. When – if – we marry, I shall take her once a year to London to all the concerts.'

I forbore to say that Tamsin might not enjoy this.

‘I want you to know,' he said and stopped.

‘Yes?'

‘I want you to know that if we marry, Tamsin and I, her sister need not feel it necessary to leave and find employment elsewhere. She will always be welcome in the house.'

So he had heard something; they had been talking about it; my mother was still considering her threat.

‘Why,
thank
you, Desmond. That is – very generous and kind. I really have not considered my future very much since Uncle Davey died. Clearly I shall never marry.' The last sentence came out abruptly, and I thought: it may not be
true
– it still may not be true! But what has happened? Perhaps Bram is disgusted with me. Perhaps even disgusted with himself. Not a sign, not a note. Only a starfish brooch. ‘Has my mother mentioned it to you?'

‘Mentioned? … Well, not in so many words … She did say …'

‘What?'

‘But that was in her moments of worst anger. I am sure that things have cooled down a great deal since then. Don't you feel it?'

‘Desmond, what did she say?'

He made a little gesture of impatience. ‘She and I have, of course, discussed my proposal of marriage to Tamsin; I mean when Tamsin has not been there. And my aunt did say once that if we did marry it would not be suitable if you stayed on here. She wishes to go back to London herself, and she thinks as a young married couple we should be left alone together. I was simply assuring you that it is not my thinking. There is ample room if you wish to stay.'

‘Thank you,' I said, touching his hand. ‘ Thank you, Desmond.'

‘Of course,' he went on, ‘it will not be all plain sailing just yet. I'm not sure about Samuel, and Anna Maria does not favour the match.'

‘Oh? Why?'

‘I think she has taken her opinion from Edward Carlyon who does not approve of the marriage of first cousins.'

‘I had not thought of it.'

‘Also, to be blunt, Anna Maria thinks I could have done better for myself. Oh,' he hurried on as I was about to speak, ‘she has not been as explicit as that. But she appears to feel quite strongly that a younger son should have looked elsewhere.'

‘Samuel is the head of the family. That is if your mother does not come round. But shall you take any notice of what they say?'

‘I have to take notice,' he said gently, ‘we are a close-knit family and care for each other, and I shall not wish to offend. But I believe persuasion may make them think different. If I can only get Samuel on my side …'

‘And Mary?'

‘Mary I think is not well. It is not a complaint of the body. But she looks inward so much and has so few opinions on anything. I have a superstitious fear that she may in a few years go like our mother.'

T
HAT NIGHT
I said to my mother: ‘Is it true that if Tamsin marries Desmond you will go back to London?'

She still had beautiful eyes, and in the dusk the lines scarcely showed. Over the years her mouth had grown tighter, thinner.

‘Not permanently. This is my home. But if they marry they should be left to themselves for a while; it will be better for all concerned. I shall return more often to the stage: there are still plenty of opportunities for the not-so-young, and I have recently had an offer to play the Nurse in
Romeo and Juliet
at Drury Lane in the autumn, and people there remember my name.'

There was a pause. I took the bull by the horns. ‘ So I can stay here?'

‘No,' she said firmly. ‘I believe by your escapade you have forfeited that right. But in any event it would be much preferable that you should move away and earn your living.'

‘I cannot act,' I said. ‘I can sing.'

‘They would not have you. You must know that.'

‘Do you expect me to become some child's governess? No mother would employ me.'

‘They might. It is a disfigurement that makes you quite unsuitable for the stage, but in a house one gets used to it.'

‘Thank you, Mama,' I said.

She looked at me suspiciously. ‘At one time, Emma, you could not find your tongue. Now you frequently use it to ill effect. Being in employment will guide you to its proper use.'

The maid came in with lighted candles. By the flickering new flame I looked at my mother again and thought: I can never, never tell her. But what when my belly begins to swell for all to see? There will be no concealment possible then.

After the maid had gone she said: ‘As a matter of fact, I believe I may have found something for you.' She hesitated in a fashion she had no doubt used to effect in the theatre. ‘Your Uncle Francis.'

‘D'you mean – who took the service at the funeral?'

‘Yes, the Canon.'

‘Who lives on the moors?'

‘At Blisland. On the edge of the moors. He has recently lost his housekeeper companion and wants someone to take her place. He would normally be looking for someone more mature and with more experience, but in a letter to him I have pressed your case. He has the advantage of having met you and knows about your handicap, and you are distantly related. You have had the advantage of seeing how this house is run, and have been trained in simple cooking and domestic affairs. He is, he tells me, very poor, so he cannot afford to pay more than a nominal sum in wages; but you will have two servants, and the run of the house. I only hope he will accept you.'

I listened almost indifferently for I could not see myself taking employment in a rectory carrying an illegitimate child. I thought I knew enough about the Anglican church to be sure it would not want to give shelter to a fallen woman. Perhaps if I were to strangle the child when it was born, or contrive an abortion …

Hope was ebbing. I knew no one to speak to, no one to confide in.

‘Mama,' I said.

‘Yes?'

‘No matter.'

‘It will be a different household from this,' she said, ‘more devout, more spartan. That sort of discipline will be good for you.'

I stared at the cupid on the wallpaper, which was still peeling, in the state it had been ten years ago.

‘Desmond is going to spend more money on the church here. I heard him discussing it with the Canon at the funeral. He could well spend some on this house too.'

She looked at me sourly. ‘I wrote to the Canon ten days ago. I heard he was looking for a housekeeper. I am hoping to hear any day.'

C
ELEBRATIONS WERE
to take place that summer to mark the Coronation of William IV. A
West Briton
was delivered to us, and I read the details with attention.

King William had now reigned a year, and had expressed the wish that his coronation, which was due to take place in two weeks' time, should be an altogether quieter and less expensive occasion than when his brother had been crowned. Nevertheless this did not deter his loyal subjects from celebrating the occasion, and, as often happened in Cornwall nowadays, Truro had been made the centre of the rejoicing. On the Sunday there was to be a solemn service in St Mary's Church, to which all the distinguished people of the county were invited; but on the day before there was to take place an outdoor fête, a regatta timed for full tide, a banquet in the streets, a ball in the Assembly Rooms, fireworks. Now if there was one man I could name who couldn't fail to be in the swim of such an occasion it was Mr Fox. He was drawn to ‘events', celebrations, balls, concerts. In some capacity he would be in Truro a week on Saturday. It was now or never for me. How could I get there? Clearly I would receive no permission from my mother. But if I again took French leave, how could I physically
reach
the town? Falmouth was just across the bay. Truro was ten miles inland at the last important navigable point of the River Fal. The distance from St Anthony might well be fifteen miles. I could walk that.

It would mean crossing creeks like Percuil, and eventually the river at King Harry. But it could be done. Of course the simplest way would be to hire a cutter at St Mawes and take it all the way. But with life ahead of me looking very bleak I was not anxious to go to the added expense. I had a substantial amount of Uncle Davey's legacy still, but who knew what privations I might have to face if Bram continued to ignore me?

It had been the habit of Desmond and Mary when they were in their teens to walk to Truro sometimes and spend a night with the Boscawen children at Tregothnan on the way, but I had never gone with them and I shrank from arriving at the Falmouths' great house as an unannounced guest.

I thought of enlisting Desmond's help on this second adventure, but I could not trust him not to tell Tamsin if some crisis arose. After all, his first loyalty was to her.

Leaving Place House was no problem if one were prepared to be brazen about it – even Aunt Anna had several times got as far as the quay in her nightdress – but it would be too humiliating to be brought back. So a degree of contrivance was worthwhile.

Dawn was breaking late now, but if I left at six in the morning there would be plenty of light in the Cornish sky. Six hours, seven hours it might take. Celebrations were due to begin at eleven with a parade, but the day was to be a full one, ending with fireworks at midnight. That should be time enough. Provided I could find him. What was he most likely to be interested in? The regatta, which began at two?

What would I take? Something to eat and drink. Strong shoes. A cloak against a shower – a light dress so that one did not become too hot walking. A comb; three guineas to be on the safe side. Small change. A silk scarf to hide the disagreeable side of my face. Did I intend to walk back the same day? I would be too late to catch Joey Dixon's market boat back from Falmouth to St Mawes. If I absented myself for another night my mother would be beside herself. But had I anything to lose?

The weather was changing. Clouds were drifting up from the south-west. By the Friday the sun was fitful, and now and then a cloud let drop a few speckles of rain. So be it.