The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo (3 page)

‘I think you are right, Mr Jenkins,' she said, doing her best to sound authoritative.

‘I don't think she's northern European . . .' The parson took a deep breath. ‘
Sprechen Sie Deutsch, Fräulein?
' He reached out and raised her chin so that he could look directly into her eyes, but she was obviously uncomfortable with such intimacy, and shrank from his touch. Then she looked straight at Cassandra, who was struck by her large dark eyes and, as she smiled, her small, even teeth. She was, Cassandra thought, rare pretty.

Will poured the girl some sherry. She wrinkled her pretty nose and pushed it away.

‘She must drink something.' Cassandra looked at the girl again and mimed drinking. The girl gazed back, smiling and acting the same mime.

Will shook his head. ‘We've tried everything: ale, wine, cider cup.'

‘Why don't you simply fetch her some water?' Cassandra said, looking up at him. He held her gaze for an instant and she looked away again; she couldn't help smiling, though – she had felt it as clearly as if it were tangible. There was something between them. She had not conjured it up, or imagined it. It was real. Cassandra nearly gasped with the shock and the pleasure of it. She had not felt like this since the New Year's Ball, when she'd danced with Edmund Gresham . . .

Will returned with a large jug of water. The girl's face brightened, and before he could pour it, she shooed him away. The company watched as she swilled the cup around carefully, holding it up and examining it, making sure that it was spotless. Then she began what looked like prayers, her mouth moving quickly and in a tongue Cassandra had never heard. She made some odd salute and bowed her head, then poured the water out into her cup and drank and drank and drank.

She looked from Cassandra to Will and nodded, saying a single word – it could have been nonsense but the meaning was clear: it was a thank you.

‘That might be Italian,' the parson said. ‘I don't have any Italian myself . . .'

Cassandra watched as the girl finished the whole pitcher of water, and realized that everyone else was gazing at her too, like visitors staring at a lion or a giraffe in a menagerie.

When the girl had finished, she took a napkin from a small bag she carried at her waist and dabbed her mouth dry in the daintiest manner imaginable.

‘What pretty manners! If she's a vagrant then I'm a Chinaman!' a man said – the carter, Cassandra thought; she didn't know his name. ‘I'm telling you, Parson, there's something about this girl . . .'

‘I'm inclined to agree. Those are not the actions of a beggar.' The parson shook his head. ‘Fascinating! Quite, quite fascinating! A most
interesting
maid. The shape of her face! The colour of her skin! Like the best Javan coffee, don't you think?'

The girl looked from one man to the other and then back to Cassandra. She pressed her two palms together as though in prayer, and then placed them at the side of her face, inclined her head and shut her eyes, like a child at bed time.

‘She's tired!' the parson said, as if he had discovered the West Indies. ‘We ought to take her to the Parish Council. They'll know what to do with her.'

‘Parish Council! Pardon, Parson, but you and I know there'll be talk and talk, and then, after a day and a night of talking they'll only send the poor mite to the poorhouse in Bristol,' said the carter. ‘And a girl like this'll be broken in two in such a place.'

‘But we can't have her here; we've the London stagecoach passing through here this afternoon, and they'll be wanting every bed we have,' Will said.

‘And anyway,' the parson added, ‘it wouldn't be proper, what with Mr Jenkins being away and no woman in the house.' He turned to Cassandra. ‘Your father would know what to do, Miss Worrall.'

She stood up. Father would have sent the girl to the Bristol poorhouse with a snap of his fingers. He wasn't one for mysteries – just figures and trade and making money, plain and simple. Mama, however, would be most delighted by this stray.

Cassandra held herself tall; she was, in her parents' absence, the lady of the manor. ‘I could take her back to Knole Park. Papa's steward, Mr Finiefs, speaks Greek and Persian. Do you think she may be Eastern?'

‘Well thought, Miss Worrall!' the parson said. ‘She's dark enough.'

The girl yawned – a touch theatrically, Cassandra thought.

‘Yes, of course, she is exhausted. You poor, poor thing.'

The girl's eyes were wide and dark and fringed by long thick lashes. She blinked and smiled, but there was no flicker of understanding at all.

‘I will take her back with me at once – she can wash and dress and rest. And the Parish Council may make their decison later.'

Cassandra reached out for the girl's hand. ‘Come with me. Please.' She tried to speak softly, the way she talked to Zephyr if she didn't want to spook him, but the girl didn't understand at all. ‘Come with me, and sleep?' Cassandra mimed sleep with her head on her hands just like the girl had. ‘Sleep?'

The girl stood up and took her hand.

‘I may need help.' Cassandra looked around the inn as if the thought had only now sprung into her head. Parson Davies stood up but she ignored him. ‘William?' She nodded haughtily, suppressing a smile. ‘You may accompany us to Knole Park.'

Eden's Retreat Posture Club
Strutton Ground
Westminster
April 1819

The girl on the silver tray was utterly naked save for a fish tail, made of papier-mâché, gauze and tinsel. In the flickering glow of yellow candlelight it appeared real enough if anyone looked closely. But of course, given her powdered breasts and rouged nipples, nobody was.

The mermaid stared somewhere off into the distance and kept supremely and completely still. Her hair was as flatly yellow as laburnum flowers. The tray she reclined on was carried at shoulder height by two heavies who negotiated the space around the tables in the back room of the tavern with ease.

The place was full to bursting: a couple of old gentlemen who had forgotten that wigs had gone out of fashion sat in the corner, but it was mostly young bucks with more cash than sense. Behind the bar, Mrs Ingrams, the owner of the establishment, lit a pipe and smiled as she thought of her takings.

At a table near the stage, three scholars, soon to finish at Westminster School, drank brandy as if it were water.

‘Do you think they'll have places like this in Oxford?' George Farringdon could barely keep still. It was his first visit, and in all his seventeen years the only time he had ever set eyes on a girl, a real flesh-and-blood girl, naked. His eyes were practically popping out of their sockets.

Edmund Gresham and Frederick Worrall, regular visitors, exchanged vaguely amused looks.

‘I should say so, George,' Edmund said. ‘There are places like this everywhere – if one knows where to look.'

‘So which one's your Letty?' asked George.

‘She's hardly
my
Letty.' Frederick drained his brandy glass. ‘Ed's had her as often as I have. In fact, it was Ed who had her first, wasn't it?'

Edmund Gresham ground what remained of one of his father's best Havana cigars into the floor. ‘First, I grant you, but you've had her more than me, Fred; many times more! You must have lost count. And anyway, she
is
your Letty. The girl doesn't just carry a torch for you, it's more like a bloody brazier!' He leaned closer to George and said in a kind of stage whisper, ‘She does it with Fred for nothing!'

Frederick Worrall lent back in his chair and blew a perfect circle of smoke up into the air. ‘It's a gift. The ladies love me – what can I do?'

‘Speak of the devil,' Edmund said as a second girl was brought in, long red hair curling down over her naked shoulders, nipples rouged, a kind of gauzy silver scarf around her waist. She was all pink and white curves.

‘That's her? What a smasher!' George's eyes were huge; he was practically drooling.

‘Well, George, my friend, you can have her. She is all yours – at least while you've cash in your pocket. A couple of shillings and she'll do anything you like,' Fred said.

‘Anything?'

Edmund nodded. ‘It's in their nature. They're a breed apart.'

‘She is looking at you!' George nudged Fred so hard he nearly spilled his brandy.

Fred sighed. ‘I wish she wouldn't.'

Edmund explained. ‘What he means, George, is that she's in love with him. Arse over tit.'

‘And that is a problem?' George made a face and looked from Edmund to Fred. ‘How exactly is that a problem?'

‘She wants me to buy her out of here. She doesn't want to be a tart any more. She expects me to buy her off Mrs Ingrams, then find her rooms, pay for her clothes, set her up as a respectable young lady – hah! Even – in her rose-tinted daydreams – marry her! Which of course I'd never do, even if my allowance did stretch to my very own trollop. Thank God term's nearly over – very soon I'll never have to see the little minx again.'

‘You two aren't coming back after Easter, then?' George said, not taking his eyes from the girl.

Edmund shook his head. ‘School is done. No masters for me. I shall traverse the globe like a Titan.'

Fred made a face. ‘I won't be returning. Election term without Edmund? I shall have to suffer several weeks with my people, though. Which will be dull as hell.'

‘Surely not!' Edmund said. He turned to George. ‘I do believe our Fred is making much of nothing. Knole Park is a riot. There is the beautiful Cassandra – most diverting – and your mother, Fred – she always has some wild scheme. Last Christmas she had us all dress up in Chinese clothes to celebrate the new drawing room! You had a pigtail, as I remember! Why, I do believe your mother is one of a kind. I say, George, if you want some free entertainment you should hear Fred's mother talk!' Edmund put on an approximation of an American accent: ‘Nice to meet yeeewww!'

‘Your ma's American?' George asked.

‘I'd rather not think of Mama in here, thank you.' Fred lit a cigar. ‘You will visit, Edmund? It will be utterly tedious without you. No company to speak of and only the prospect of some decent dances and pretty girls in Bath once the season starts.'

‘You'll be taking a house this year?' Edmund asked.

‘Papa has promised. My only consolation in a future that promises university and a lifetime of drudgery at the bank.'

George sighed. ‘Bath. I hope to go one day. There is a boy in my Greek class who says Bath is a riot.'

Edmund nodded. ‘Bath is my favourite place. So many amenable girls. Fred'll be fighting them off with a stick! Your sister – will she be there?'

‘If you try anything on with Cass, you know I'll knock you down.'

Edmund smirked. ‘And there was me thinking I'd like to see your little sister tricked out in nothing but a silk scarf—'

‘Edmund!' Fred scowled.

His friend put his hands up. ‘I admit it, I'd marry her tomorrow. Cassandra is a peach, a peach of the first and most supreme order! Fred, I swear on the good book I'd happily behave and she'd be Lady Gresham and have as many new frocks as her beautiful heart desired.'

‘You better behave around Cass, Ed, or I swear you'll end up with fewer teeth in your head than God gave you.'

‘Fred! I am only teasing. But the truth is, she couldn't do better than me.'

Fred bristled slightly. ‘Possibly. Problem is, I know what you're like. You'd soon grow bored of a wife.'

‘And you wouldn't? Fred, that's nature's way. Cassandra would bear me a couple of sons, at least half as handsome as the Worralls, and we'd be brothers! Brothers, Fred!' Edmund smiled. ‘You know, old chap, I can't see a rosier future.' He refilled Fred's glass. ‘A toast to beauty, and to your lovely sister.' They clinked glasses just as another girl was carried in. ‘And who in heaven's name is
that
?'

All heads had turned as a small dark-haired girl with long slender limbs and wearing nothing but a pair of wings was carried in. But instead of blankly staring straight ahead like the other girls, she seemed nervous, even scared. Fred saw her hands shaking and there was a hint of redness around the eyes.

‘New, if I'm not mistaken,' Edmund said, leaning forward to get a clearer look.

‘Variety is the spice of life.' Fred couldn't take his eyes off the girl.

‘Oi! I saw her first!'

‘Ah, but you're saving yourself for my sister.' Fred smiled. ‘And she does look most deliciously
fresh
 . . .'

Fred Worrall examined himself in the looking glass above the wash basin. He was a catch, even though he said it himself: dark blue eyes that looked as free of sin as a summer's day, hair nearly as golden as his sister's, and tall enough to have to watch out he didn't brush the ceilings in these old buildings. He studied himself and frowned: had his looks failed him last night? The girl in the bed made a noise in her sleep and rolled over.

He finished washing. The church bells were ringing for seven and he would be in trouble if he didn't return home over Easter. He had decided to travel with Edmund as far as Gresham Hall and spend a few days there before going on to Knole Park.

Edmund would be on the Newbury coach, which left from the Swan with Two Necks by St Martin in the Fields in an hour. He looked at the girl, her dark hair spilling over the pillows. She opened her eyes, startled, pulling the sheets up over her nakedness.

He would try some tenderness; there was, after all, still time to make it an interesting morning.

‘You are a stunner, Betsy, a peach,' Fred said, sitting on the bed. ‘The moment I saw you—'

‘My name's Essie, sir.'