The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo (10 page)

‘A noblewoman?' Mrs Worrall said. ‘Like a countess?'

‘Yes, yes,' Captain Palmer replied, ‘or maybe a—'

‘Perhaps a princess?' Cassandra gasped.

‘Exactly right, young lady. This young woman, I have no doubt at all, is indeed a princess.'

‘A princess!' Fred said it dismissively, but Caraboo could hear the doubt in his voice. ‘You're quite sure? I mean to say—'

Captain Palmer swivelled to face Frederick Worrall. ‘Young man, I have been around the world and back again. I have seen more of the wonders that it has to offer in my three score years than most men see in a lifetime. I have met royalty from the Guinea coast to Coromandel and all the way to China. Believe me, I know a princess when I find one.' He pointed at Caraboo. ‘And here she is!'

Caraboo looked meekly around the company. She did not blush because she had to pretend that she could not understand a word, but the story about the pirates was an embroidery by Captain Palmer so audacious that she could not believe the Worralls weren't throwing the pair of them out and calling the magistrates. Is that really what he had heard when she had spoken to him? She had to work hard not to smile.

Even if she
had
understood, the fact that she was indeed a princess was something she had known all along, so it was hardly a shock or a revelation. But now the whole household, not least Mr Frederick Worrall, was aware of the fact too.

Knole Park House
May 1819

‘I don't know how much I believe you, you know.' Frederick Worrall had been watching her. He had climbed up onto the roof and was leaning against the tiles in his dressing gown. His chest was bare and his skin was the palest gold in the dawn light.

Princess Caraboo's hand went to her kriss. Another week had run past like water and she was still here. It was her own fault. She moved away. It was his roof, after all. His roof, his house, his life.

The clock on the stable block said six; the air was early morning sparkling.

‘No salute?' Fred said. ‘Don't I even deserve that?'

Caraboo said nothing – he was mocking her. If he came any closer . . .

He put his hands up. ‘I'm not here for you! You don't think—?' He looked faintly disgusted. ‘Look, Caraboo, Princess of wherever, my intentions are honourable. I just came up here because I couldn't sleep, that's all. Came up for some air.' He looked around, surveying the park and the country beyond. ‘This is a grand place up here. No idea why I never bothered before.' He took a deep breath, drinking in the air. ‘You can see so far . . .'

Caraboo remained wary. After all, she could understand only a few of his words.

Fred turned round. ‘I still don't know what game you're playing, but I'll swear you're playing at something – even if that jabber you and the captain spout is a proper language, even if you are a bona fide princess . . . But you know, so long as you don't hurt my family, I'm not sure I can be bothered to care . . .' He looked off into the distance, his arms behind his head, and said nothing more.

Caraboo got up and began to walk back towards the trapdoor. This boy would not know trouble if it jumped up and hit him over the head.

‘Caraboo,' he called. ‘Princess Caraboo.'

She stopped.

‘Sorry.' He said it again, more slowly: ‘Sorry.'

She had never heard Fred Worrall apologize before. Perhaps she had acheieved a little victory. She went back to her altar and sat down.

‘You know what, Caraboo?' Fred said. ‘Perhaps you could help me. Yes, I think you could – after all, you have no idea what I'm saying.'

He looked lost, and Caraboo found herself wondering why. What could trouble a young man like this, with every advantage? He had money, he was strong and healthy; surely he had never had to be anybody but himself.

She turned round.

‘I could tell you all the family secrets,' he was saying, ‘and you'd just nod and smile.'

Caraboo said nothing; just stared into the distance beyond the park. Even though she would have enjoyed pushing him head first off the roof, she had to admit she wanted to hear what he had to say.

‘I don't know quite what's wrong with me,' Fred sighed.

Caraboo kept her face blank.
Where shall I start?
she could have said.
The list is very long
. Instead she had to bite her tongue.

Fred Worrall reminded her of a prize bull, groomed to golden perfection for a country show – and, oh, how he knew it. She resolved not to give him even a sideways glance.

‘I thought . . .' he said. ‘I thought I knew everything about women, about girls.'

I bet you did.

He said nothing for a long while. And Caraboo was about to get up and take the strawberries she'd collected and go inside, when he sighed again. A long desperate sigh that sounded as if it came from the heart. She looked at him for a second.
He has no heart
, she reminded herself.

‘Someone said something to me. It was nothing, really; she was nothing.'

Princess Caraboo felt the anger rising up. She swallowed, calmed herself. ‘No-thing?' she said, as if it was the first time she had ever said the word.

He smiled. ‘No, not nothing. She was a tart.'

What did she expect from someone like him?

‘A tart. And I can't stop thinking about it. She said that nobody would ever love me, and I know it's ridiculous, but it felt like a curse.'

Caraboo cocked her head as if she knew nothing. Inside, Mary Willcox smiled.

‘Then I thought – How will I know if anyone loves me, if all I have ever known is a love I have bought?' He laughed. ‘Even saying that aloud is ridiculous, isn't it? I mean love! But what if those looks and sighs are all pretend? How will I ever know when I am really loved?' He made a face, turned away. ‘I'm an idiot.'

Yes. Yes, you are.
Caraboo popped a strawberry into her mouth and watched a trio of swallows trace a series of perfect arcs in the sky. She lay back on the tiles, and thought,
How do any of us know?
She remembered Robert Lloyd, Solomon's father, laughing at her. He had promised her so much, professed love all the while, and she had believed him, never once guessing that it wasn't so; never imagining that her Robert could return to London married to another. Even when she saw the proof. She was nothing to him. No-thing.

How could anyone know if love was true or false?

‘I am an idiot,' Fred said again, sitting up.

‘Id-i-ot?' Caraboo said aloud.
How right you are, sir.

He shook his head and smiled. ‘Forget it. I think love is for air-headed girls like my sister, who swoon over young men.' He gestured dismissively. ‘That's all.'

Caraboo looked at him. She was enjoying this. ‘Love?' she said. He was vulnerable after all. Somewhere under all that bluster and bragging he was afraid.
Good
, she thought.

Fred Worrall pushed his hair out of his eyes and looked at her. Caraboo reminded herself that you could not trust surface appearances at all.

‘Love . . .' He put his hand upon his chest and she mirrored the action.

Perhaps she could hurt him the way she'd been hurt; the way he had, no doubt, hurt others. Perhaps Caraboo had a purpose here after all. Fred was not just a young man, he was the very worst of every young man on this earth. From Solomon's father, who reckoned himself the Romeo of Clerkenwell, to those animals on the road . . .

Her eyes met Fred's for a fraction of a second, then he coughed and turned away. ‘I have been thinking too much. So help me, there's nothing else to do out here!' He laughed to himself. ‘You are too damnably pretty to be real, do you know that?' he told her.

Yes
, she thought,
I could make you sorry
. She smiled at him. Just a little.

‘I bet you know that,' he went on. ‘Most girls know how they look, how they stand. I've seen it in Cassandra: she turns her face in order that Edmund can see the light fall on her cheek just so. Girls can't pass any mirror – any shiny cousin of a mirror – without a good look at themselves. To make sure their outward appearance is appealing, even when their hearts . . .' He waved a hand. ‘Girls are all liars.'

Caraboo reminded herself that she did not understand. ‘Li-ars?' she asked.

‘Cheats. They feign love, whether for money or marriage—'

‘Caraboo no cheat!' She was so indignant that Fred couldn't help smiling.

‘No. Maybe Caraboo no cheat . . . but she'd be the only woman in the world who wasn't!' He shook his head and laughed, and she couldn't be cross with him because he was right. Caraboo didn't cheat and she didn't lie – because she didn't exist.

Anyway, she wanted to say that it wasn't just girls, it was everyone. Everybody told lies – to each other, to themselves – all the time: lies soften the blows of life, everyone knew that. Perhaps Frederick Worrall was an even bigger fool than he looked. This could be –
would
be – easy.

Caraboo took a handful of tiny wild strawberries from her altar and put one down near his feet.

Fred reached forward and picked one up. ‘Thank you,' he said. He smelled of clean linen and something deeper, something musky.
It might even be enjoyable
, Caraboo thought, and moved closer.

He gazed into her eyes for a little too long, and Caraboo looked away. She was a princess, after all; she would make him work hard. She would make him regret that he had ever set eyes on her; she would break his gilt-edged, feather-bedded heart.

A formation of geese honked overhead, heading west, and Caraboo followed them with her eyes. She would head home too, she thought. Home? Her own life, her real life, was poor and mean and sad compared to Caraboo's. Father wouldn't be pleased to see her, not really. She shut her eyes. Where else on earth could she go? Who wanted or cared for Mary Willcox of Devon?

Princess Caraboo sat up and blinked Mary Willcox away. Fred Worrall was beautiful – like a painting or a sculpture brought to life. She smiled, showing her very good teeth, divided up the remaining strawberries into two piles and pushed one towards him.

This is not real, only a story come to life.

‘You shouldn't be kind to me, Princess.' Fred sighed and pushed his hair away from his face. ‘I know I do not deserve it.'

No
, she would have liked to say,
you do not.

‘I have done too many reprehensible things. Selfish things.' He shook his head. ‘I have been mean about you as well, though I don't expect you've noticed.'

He was so short-sighted!

‘But you know,' he said, ‘I have never made a friend of a girl. Never. Not even once.' He ate a strawberry and the juice ran down his chin. ‘I think you would make a most excellent friend.'

Caraboo cocked her head. If he knew who she really was, he would never speak to her again. Even less want to listen to her.

But he was never going to know. He was going to love her. She bit into a strawberry as artlessly as she could. He would no doubt think it natural for her to smile so. Caraboo lay back on the tiles. How long to break a man's heart? She didn't know. She knew hers had snapped in two in moments. She had found Robert in the arms of Jenny Pierce the day after she'd told him she was pregnant. Up until that second she had been planning their wedding – a small one, admittedly – well, the cheaper the better, with a baby on the way. But he would be hers. She had loved him and he had thrown her affection away like so much dust.

She blinked. That was a different life.

Princess Caraboo looked at Fred. Could she do it in a week? It would be far too dangerous to stay any longer. Yes, she said to herself, another week and then Caraboo would vanish, never to be seen again, and Mr Frederick Worrall's world would come crashing down around his ears. One man to suffer in the place of all men.

Their hands touched over the strawberries and Princess Caraboo looked away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him smile.

Perhaps it would take less than one week . . .

Suddenly Cassandra, still in her nightgown, burst through the trapdoor. ‘There you both are! I almost had Bridgenorth send out a search party!'

‘I am quite safe,' Fred said. ‘We've had breakfast.'

Cassandra sat down next to her brother and leaned against his shoulder. They were both so expensive looking, Caraboo thought; fair and gold and perfect.

She stood up.

‘No, Caraboo! Stay. It's so lovely up here!' Cassandra took the last strawberry. ‘And, Fred, you never want to be with me, to talk to me, any more. All you do is tease.'

‘That is not true!' Fred said, hurt. ‘You're always busy. Either Miss Marchbanks has you tied to a chair in the schoolroom or you're off on that pony of yours.'

‘He is not a pony, he's a horse. And I might be busy . . .' she said.

Fred looked at her, one eyebrow raised. ‘I would swear you are up to something, little sister.'

‘I'm not up to anything,' she said. ‘But you . . . is something the matter, Fred?'

‘Hmm?'

‘Have you a girl in London sweet on you?'

Caraboo saw Fred look away.

‘Of course. They fall at my feet in the streets,' he said coolly.

Cassandra looked serious. ‘Have you ever been in love?' she asked. ‘
Really
in love? Has there ever been anyone you would wish to marry?'

‘My God, Cassandra, have you been talking to Mama? I am not marrying. I am grown cynical already. Girls are all liars and marriage is flatty catching by another name.'

Cassandra hit him playfully. ‘You are no fun at all. Diana Edgecombe is sweet on you.'