The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo (6 page)

‘Oh, Caraboo! What shall I do?' Cassandra was about to start up about her Will again. Caraboo wanted to think straight, to make plans, to stop the bees of indecision buzzing around inside her head.

Behind the house the park sloped away towards a lake, sparkling blue in the sunlight. In the centre Caraboo could see a small island shaped exactly like a comma. She longed to sit upon that island and think.

She took Cassandra's hand. ‘
Ana!
' she said.

Cassandra smiled. ‘Oh, I know that one! That means “water”, doesn't it?' She mimed drinking. ‘Yes, well, it is rather warm up here.'

Caraboo half nodded and tugged her back to the trapdoor. ‘
Ana!
' she said.

‘
Ana
,' Cassandra said back.

But Caraboo didn't stop when she reached the kitchen: she pulled Cassandra out through the front door and down along the little path to the lake. ‘
Ana!
' she said, pointing at the water.

Cassandra shrugged. ‘You don't want a drink?'

Caraboo laid down her precious bow and arrow. She took the knife she wore at her waist and set it carefully next to them on the grass, then sprang into the water and swam, striking out for the island.

She sat on the island, made a fire, and wrung her dress out to dry by it. She was wondering how to get a dress she could wear on the road home. She cursed in her new language. If only she'd had the foresight to keep the black cotton gown – buried it somewhere instead of allowing Mrs Bridgenorth, the housekeeper, to take it away.

Cassandra had so many: maybe just one would not be stealing? Oh! If only she could be left alone on this island, like a kind of hermit, free to hunt and fish. The water was as good as any high wall . . .

Once it was dark she would make her way back to the house and take one dress, one dress alone, then head quietly across the fields to meet the Bristol road without passing through the village. Perhaps in Bristol she could pick up pennies begging or even find some work and save enough to travel back to Devon from there. Even if Father wouldn't be glad to see her, Peg would, wouldn't she? She blinked away the tears. Peg would be sixteen now. She hoped to God life had been kind to her sister. In her mind's eye she saw the house – two storeys, cob built; Father hard at work at his cobbler's bench. She and Peg would walk along arm in arm, and when she told her tale, her sister's mouth would gape in amazement, her eyes widening like the Worralls' soup dishes, and they would laugh and hug and laugh again.

She sniffed. She was Princess Caraboo. Caraboo did not cry.

For a while she lay on her back in the clearing and wished it was September, when there would be berries to eat. She found a few mushrooms and laid them by the fire to dry. Princesses had no truck with salad, she thought.

Caraboo felt her dress – it was still damp – and noticed that the sun had lowered in the sky. She imagined the professor and Mrs Worrall twiddling their thumbs, but she tried not to feel guilty. She was just putting her dress back on when she heard footsteps, the breaking of twigs – the sound of two people, not one. She felt for her knife and cursed herself for not bringing it with her.

Just then she heard Cassandra's voice, high, excited and relaxed. Whoever was with her made her laugh. Cassandra would not hurt her. Not yet, at least. Perhaps she had brought the professor. Perhaps there was a whole party of visitors.

She didn't have time to climb up a tree and disappear, so she took a deep breath, and tried to look realistically and thoroughly surprised when she noticed Cassandra standing close by with a young man.

But the man who stood next to her, arm in arm, was far too young for a professor. His eyes were the same bright blue as Cassandra's, and although his hair was less glossy, less golden, he was still very fair. She stared at him. Very fair in all ways, in fact.

Caraboo stood up. She was a princess, she reminded herself. She was brave, even without her weapons. The young man looked as if he was about to laugh out loud; then he studied her in the way young men did, pausing over her bare legs.

Caraboo lifted her chin and stared back at him, directly into his bright blue eyes.

So this was Fred Worrall. She could read the arrogance in his face as surely as if it had been printed in letters. Any fairness she had seen was cancelled out by the curl of his lip and the flint-hard edge to his eyes. Caraboo imagined the leopard at her side growling at him.

‘There you are!' Cassandra said. ‘Mama's professor has not arrived, but we have a much more exciting visitor!' She smiled and hugged the young man on her arm.

‘She is fierce, Cass, I grant you that,' he said.

‘Oh yes! And a great shot, Fred. She bagged a pigeon yesterday, right through the heart!'

Cassandra was speaking but Caraboo didn't hear her. This young man would not look away, and she was damned if she would be the first one to blink!

‘Caraboo,' Cassandra said solemnly, then placed her hand over his heart. ‘Fred-er-ick. My brother.'

Caraboo was still staring as imperiously as before. This man would not best her.

Cassandra nudged him and he turned to look at her. Caraboo had won; she allowed herself a smile.

‘Oh, Cass!' Fred said, and he was smiling now. ‘Do you honestly believe this girl's not playing!'

Cassandra looked piqued. ‘She speaks no English, Fred. Look at her! She's not from here at all. Mama reckons she's nobility.'

‘Nobility!' He snorted. ‘She is nothing but a party turn, a show, she's a – a flatty catcher, we call 'em in town. A beggar, a mort, one step down from a tart, I'll warrant!'

‘Fred! No!' At least Cassandra was standing up for her.

‘I've seen a dozen girls tricked out better than this dancing in—' He stopped himself and quickly changed the subject. ‘Honestly, Cass! Did she not hide herself away from the professor?'

‘How could she? She didn't understand that he was coming.'

‘She's a trickster! A coney catcher and nothing more.'

‘Fred! Don't say that!'

‘You said she didn't understand the lingo.'

‘Yes, but your tone speaks volumes!' Cassandra hissed.

‘Look at her! Mama said she is from the Indies or some such . . . She's from nowhere further than London or Bristol, I'd put money on it! And as to noble . . . She's just some girl from the street! One whose father or grandfather was an African off some boat! An
octaroon
, the word is. If her blood is blue, then I'm a Dutchman!' He looked at Caraboo as if she were a piece of dirt.

Cassandra looked upset, but Caraboo kept her face blank; she simply stamped out what was left of the fire.
He was despicable!
she thought.
A coney catcher from the street! London or Bristol! He was so wrong!
She looked back at him arguing with his sister, a good foot taller than her. How dare he think she was anything other than a princess?! She scattered the half-dried mushrooms that were to have been her supper and walked away.

Caraboo strode into the lake, the water cooling and shaping her anger into something solid. As she struck out for the lawn, she could hear Cassandra shouting that they had a boat. Ha! Caraboo would never get into a boat with that man in a thousand years.

She knew exactly what she would do. She would show this city braggart; she would make him believe her. She would go back to the house, and as soon as that professor liked, she would find a way to make him tell them the truth about Princess Caraboo.

Knole Park House
April 1819

Fred woke, sharply, from a dream. He had been at school, in a Latin class, but that wild brown girl Mama had taken as a pet was whispering in his ear. And although he could not understand one word, he could feel the warmth of her breath, and sometimes, perhaps, the tip of her tongue on his skin.

‘Master Frederick!' The door swung open and Fred turned sideways so as not to alarm whichever of the housemaids it might be.

Then, just for a second, he remembered Letty wailing and cursing, and felt something that might have been a prickle of guilt – but that vanished as soon as he opened his eyes.

‘Good morning, Master Frederick!' It was the housekeeper, Mrs Bridgenorth, coming in with a tray of coffee and pastries which she set down on the table close to his bed. She drew back the curtains and clapped her hands together, her eyes creasing into crow's feet as she smiled at him. ‘It is lovely to have you home, young sir. And oh, my,' she looked him up and down with an almost motherly pride, ‘you
have
grown!'

‘Fred, darling!' Cassandra breezed in behind Mrs Bridgenorth and sat down on the bed. ‘You must come and see!'

‘See? What? Cass, this feels like the middle of the night. And anyway, I am not dressed.'

‘It is eight already!'

‘Eight!' Fred pulled a face.

‘She's on her way up to the roof!'

‘She?'

‘Caraboo!' Cassandra tried to tug the blankets off. ‘Come on, Fred! You
have
to see her welcome the sun – it's wonderful!'

‘Oh Lord!' He sat up. ‘Caraboo. Your new pet will make patsies and fools out of the lot of us.'

‘You are such a cynic, Fred.' Cassandra was pouting.

The housekeeper poured out two cups of coffee and put them on the bedside table.

‘Bridgenorth?' Fred said as he pulled his dressing gown from the end of the bed and wriggled his arms into the sleeves. ‘You are always so sensible. What do you make of Mama's new fancy? This Caraboo – is she all that she seems?'

The housekeeper shook her head and tutted, looking almost amused. ‘Cassandra told me you didn't like her, Master Frederick. Well, I think her lovely. In all ways.'

Fred humphed. ‘I think the whole household has gone mad. Surely you can see she's playing us all for a load of fools! I worry Mama has the wool pulled down firmly over her eyes. The Worrall name will be mud across the county if we're not careful.'

‘But that's why the professor is here!' Cassandra said. ‘And Mama has engaged a naval captain too – a gentleman who knows the East Indies better than you know the West End. They will arrive soon, she said.'

‘Indeed, Master Frederick, your sister is right.'

‘Bridgenorth, please. It is
Mister
Fred. You may have noticed that I am no longer a ten-year-old boy.'

Mrs Bridgenorth bobbed a curtsey. ‘Indeed I have,
Mister
Frederick.' Fred frowned a little – he got the impression she was patronising him.

‘See!' Cassandra said. ‘Bridgenorth agrees with me. Now bring your coffee and come up to the roof. I'll warrant you've never seen anything like this in all your years in London!'

Fred put on his dressing gown and followed Cassandra up past the schoolroom towards the attics. He hadn't been up here for such a long time.

At the end of a long corridor a ladder had been let down, and the morning sun slanted in through the open trapdoor.

‘There!' Cassandra said. ‘You go up first. Go quietly, for she may have started.'

Frederick shook his head and climbed up the ladder.

He didn't see Caraboo straight away, in amongst the sloping roofs and chimney pots. He climbed through the trapdoor and looked around. There was a most excellent view all the way down to the Bristol Channel, and even the docks – he could just see a small forest of masts, so far away they could have been toothpicks – and the blue of the water stretching away to the west, the sky arching up overhead. It was breathtaking.

‘Can you see her?' Cassandra shouted up.

‘No.'

There was a scrabbling noise. A couple of pigeons flew up and Fred inched round the roof to where a flat space opened up towards the back of the house, overlooking the stables. There she was – Caraboo, arms outstretched, sitting on the parapet, legs dangling over the edge. Her hair was unpinned and she was wearing what looked like one of Cassandra's cast-off nightdresses.

The hair and dress billowed, and Fred saw her throw her arms out wide and put her head on one side.

Not three months ago he had seen Polly Marsden jump from the second floor of Eden's Retreat. A crowd had gathered and he had, to his shame, been stupid and drunk enough to laugh and shout at her as she teetered, weeping, on the window ledge. Mrs Ingrams had been calling her in, Polly wailing all the while that her heart was broken – although how a woman like that could have a heart, Fred could not fathom. But she had jumped, heart or no, and the sound and the sight of the twisted body hitting the roadway had made him sick to his stomach with both horror and shame.

He called to Caraboo, ‘Miss! Miss?'

She didn't turn round.

Cassandra, coming up behind him, must have heard the tone of his voice. ‘Fred, what is it?'

‘Miss, please! Come away now!'

In her right hand Caraboo held a small bunch of pink willow herb. She held one hand out at right angles and let the flowers fall.

‘Miss!'

Fred ran forward and grabbed the girl by the shoulders, dragging her away from the edge. For a second he felt his own centre of gravity sway perilously into the wind, and his heart swooped and his stomach tightened. ‘There!' he said, as calmly as he could.

Caraboo wasn't in the least grateful, though. Instead, she pulled away from him and started up a stream of angry babble, half directed at Fred, half at Cassandra.

Fred looked at his sister. ‘What in the devil's name is she saying! I thought she was going to jump!'

Cassandra was trying to calm Caraboo, making soft shushing sounds and patting her shoulder. Fred looked at the flat roof where the girl had chalked strange symbols; in front of a kind of home-made altar, she had set out a bowl of water, her bow and arrows, and her knife.