The Ugly Sister (29 page)

After a second: ‘My coach goes at noon,' I said.

He stared at me, frowning his concentration. ‘Really you're the same, aren't you. The same Emma I – came to – know.'

‘We're going to spend the night in Exeter,' I said.

‘Did she – did Effie tell you what she told me she had?'

‘I asked her to say nothing about my visit. That would have been easiest.'

‘She blurted it out as soon as I came in. I'm sorry she …'

Now we were alone it seemed even harder to talk.

He said: ‘ I told her before I ever asked her to marry me—'

‘Yes,
what
did you tell her? What
could
you tell her?'

‘That I was, well, it's hard to say to your face, but I was hopelessly in love with you – but that hopeless was the word.'

‘Was I such a wonderful catch, disfigured and penniless?'

‘You would have been to me. That's how I felt. I'm sorry …'

‘Your wife told me not to disrupt your marriage. I told her there was no possibility of my doing so—'

‘But she told you that I loved you.'

‘Whatever it was, it's a thing of the past, Charles.'

He put his face in his hands. ‘
Could
it have meant something?'

‘I don't know. I never considered it. I thought that sort of love was out of my reach. But whatever – I
have
changed, Charles my dear. Two years ago I was ugly and with less than fifty pounds to call my own. Now I am – not so ugly, and have some money. As I have grown older I really have grown harder – everyone agrees about that. But I am still quite young. So I am going to live as I please and where I please, in Cornwall, in London, in Bristol.'

‘Without a care in the world.'

‘No … No one can do that. But I don't want to leave unhappiness behind me
here
. It would be better if we did not write again.'

‘Why ever not? Am I to be deprived even of that pleasure?'

I hedged the answer. ‘ You have a wonderful future ahead of you. Mr Brunel will go on to even greater things. You have a worthy and loving wife. Take care of her and forget me.'

‘Will you forget me?' he asked.

‘No!'

‘You who care so little won't forget. Am I likely to who – who care so much?'

I took out my watch. ‘I do not know if the coach will go today. How much better it would be on one of your trains!'

‘Then stay another day. You can be in no hurry.'

‘I
want
to leave. You know I must. Even if we only get to Taunton.'

He took a step forward. ‘Look, Emma …'

‘Yes?'

‘I can't bear that we should separate.'

‘We have to.'

He put his big hands on my shoulders. ‘All right. If that is the way you want it.'

He bent and kissed me. His lips were not big but gentle. It was hasty and ingenuous, but not so ingenuous as I had expected.

When we parted I pulled a face. ‘'Twas disagreeable. That proves a point does it not. It proves that Effie has nothing to fear from me!'

He took a deep breath, slowly let it out. ‘I – don't believe that, Emma. I don't and won't believe what you've just said. I know I have made a terrible mistake in my life, and now I must live with it. I suppose it's better that we end now. It's better that we shouldn't write.'

A
WEEK
with Mrs Caroline Collins, seeing old friends, riding, meeting the new (now well established) rector of Blisland; a week with Mrs Susanna Austen. Caroline Collins was some twenty years older than I was but we got along famously together. Mrs Austen was older still, but was someone who greatly appealed to me, as I apparently appealed to her. Her son Joseph, who was rapidly restoring the Treffry fortunes, had recently been appointed High Sheriff of Cornwall, so he was seldom at home during my visit, but I enjoyed my time there and took especial pleasure from the surprise they all showed at my change of appearance.

Most people must know how it is: you plan a trip – a holiday or a pleasurable visit – and it takes place and is everything you could want. But something happens – or something
has
happened before you start off – and your pleasure all the time is soured by this happening that you did not expect or did not seek; it is a sort of nagging tooth, a sadness and a soreness of the spirit, so that you are aware all the time of this incubus of depression.

I eventually arrived at Tregolls in Truro, to be greeted by Mary and her two cousins. Desmond, they said, was in Bath taking a cure. Here I had expected unpleasantness, so I was not disappointed. The three women were greatly disapproving of Tamsin's behaviour, and did not hesitate to tell it all to Tamsin's sister. It took me a little while to discover that Samuel had been as good as his word, and I had been granted a twelve-month lease of Killiganoon. I stayed two days at Tregolls and then thankfully hired a trap to drive to the house previously occupied by Admiral Davey's mistress.

I had never been there before. It was just off to the left of the main coaching road, about halfway between Truro and Falmouth, and was protected in its privacy by a copse of fir trees. It was a big house, not at all the
bijou
cosy love nest I had pictured.

Yet it was quite a pretty house: half-timbered (most unusual in Cornwall, where wood was always at a premium), with big sash windows, mostly green-shuttered, a long portico over the front door with climbing roses. The garden was wanton with neglect, but some palms flourished.

‘Will this do for you, Sally?' I asked.

‘'Tis handsome. But what'll we do with it all?'

‘We'll spread ourselves. You'll see.'

A Mrs Bluett was acting as cook and caretaker, and she let us in. She had crimped white hair, spectacles and a cross face. She did not look as if the sun had ever shone for her.

The house was furnished in an old-fashioned style with a number of noticeable gaps, as if Miss Betsy Slocombe had taken some things with her when she left. It all smelt of dust and mildew and mice, but a few weeks of spring-cleaning would put that right.

Mrs Bluett was in touch with three of the maids who had worked for Miss Slocombe, and they were all willing and waiting to return.

That evening I went to the front door, stepped out into the porch and wondered at all this good fortune. Not so many years ago I had walked to the celebrations in Truro, almost penniless, possibly pregnant, enslaved by the fascination of one man, had walked through the rain to try to find him. Now I was fancy-free, a rich young woman, no longer totally disfigured, and in possession of a fine house. The house belonged to the Sprys; my name was Spry.

Killiganoon was on high ground, and not far over the horizon, though miles away, lay the sea. I was a person of consequence. All this thanks to Uncle Francis. The sky this evening was illimitable, immensely remote, as if one were catching a glimpse of Heaven. As the sun sank a few ribbed clouds flushed high above and the sky around them blanched to a pellucid green. A gentle breeze carried a smell of honeysuckle.

So I should be thoroughly content. In a sense I
was
content. But although I was rich, was I fancy-free? Behind me in Bristol Charles ate his heart out and Effie hated me because she knew she was second best. And ahead of me was the meeting with Tamsin and beside her the shadowy but ever formidable figure of Bram Fox. Much had to be resolved, much developed; life, if infinitely more agreeable, was not a bit less complex.

And looking at myself in the mirror I was not altogether convinced that the facial surgery had been the success that had been hoped.

I had not yet written to Tamsin. I was shirking it, and all that the meeting entailed. I went into Truro to make arrangements about the transfer of my London funds. Mr Meadows, manager of the Cornish Bank, was welcoming, and indeed obsequious. I had heard that some shares in the Bodmin–Wadebridge railway were for sale at a bargain price. This was true, said Mr Meadows. The value of the shares had fallen because activity in the local mines and quarries was at a low ebb, neither was the transport of sand as profitable as it had previously been.

I had called to see Mr Preston Wallis in Bodmin while I was staying with the Collinses, and he had painted a bleak picture. The line, he said, was showing a working loss of £200 a half year: his own salary had been reduced from £50 a year to £37.18.0, the engineers' from £104 to £94, and so on down the scale. Unless they could extend the railway to tap new sources of revenue, or arrange and plan some linkage with one of the other lines which were now projected, he could not recommend my investment in the enterprise.

Yet in spite of this, and the doubts of Mr Meadows, I bought the shares that were for sale, paying £850 for them, a parcel that made me one of the largest shareholders. Exquisite pleasure. I did not care whether I lost money or made it, I was employing it as I wanted to.

Next I wrote to Mr Joseph Emidy, inviting him to call. A rather ill-written note came from his wife to say that Mr Emidy had passed away last year and was buried in Kenwyn churchyard. Added was a note in another hand to say that a Mr Charles William Hempel, the organist at St Mary's Church, had taken over Mr Emidy's pupils, and it was suggested I should write to him.

I did not write to him, but grieved for the little black man I had once so wanted to meet and now never should. His spirited vivacious music had lived with me for a long time, in spite of what followed it, and I had looked forward to continuing the tuition begun in Zurich. Unlike Professor Elbruz, Mr Emidy had had no academic musical upbringing, but I felt we could have got on so well. Now, as for some church organist …

However the church organist took it upon himself to write to me, and presently he came to call: a fat, rosy-cheeked jolly man on an elderly piebald horse. Mr Hempel was not himself young but his manner while very courteous was not obsequious, and I quite took to him. After all, what was there to lose? We talked a while and he produced a tuning fork and asked me to sing a few notes. He raised his eyebrows and nodded approval.

I told him we had no musical instrument in the house but I proposed to buy a pianoforte, if one could be found. His eyes gleamed at this, and he said he thought one
could
be found. We parted with mutual expressions of esteem.

Now there was nothing more to do to delay the hour. I wrote a note on the Saturday. On the Sunday I went twice to church at St Kea, on the Monday I hired a carriage to take me to Place House.

From Killiganoon the long reaches of the River Fal bar the way, but I was determined not to arrive at my old home by ferry and on foot. So it meant a tedious trip via Truro, Tregony and Gerrans. The weather was fine but with summery showers, and we stopped for a picnic at noon at Portscatho, the journey nearly done.

Sally Fetch was almost as reluctant as I to return to her old home, though I reassured her that the staff had completely changed and that Slade was no longer there.

The big wooden gate at the entrance to the drive was, rather surprisingly, shut. The driver climbed down to open it, and the carriage crunched up the drive and stopped with a squeaking of brakes, a snort from the horse and a rattle of reins.

As I got out my sister appeared on the threshold of the door.

‘Emma! I was about to pick some fruit and I heard the carriage.'

She was in a white muslin dress with flat-pleated sleeves. A dainty apple-green pinafore was the only indication that she had been intending to do the most genteel of work.

‘I've brought Sally Fetch. She has been my maid for nearly two years. You'll remember her.'

‘Of course. Pray come in.'

‘If you please, miss,' said Fetch. ‘I'll stay with the coach.'

I went in. The house looked brighter again and better kept. Tamsin too looked brighter than when I saw her last. She'd put on weight, but it suited her. We made polite conversation. She examined my face and expressed surprise that it was so much improved. ‘ You might even marry now!'

‘I suppose it's possible.'

‘Mother wrote and told me what you'd had done. Quite a change. And how fortunate that Uncle Francis left you money! When you wrote me after his death you were at your wit's end to know what to do.'

‘… I hadn't heard then.'

‘I wasn't able to help you at the time but my marriage was just going wrong and I hardly knew which way to turn myself.'

‘And do you now?'

The look in her eyes changed slightly. ‘ The same blunt Emma. Come help me pick some plums. Cook wants to make jam.'

I followed her through the house, all so full of bittersweet reminiscence, out at the back and into the walled garden.

‘Have you seen our new lighthouse?' she said brightly, making conversation.

‘No, I didn't notice.'

‘You would at night. Built just below the old signal station. Somehow I feel safer here for having this little beacon.'

‘How is Celestine?'

‘In very good health. She is picnicking in Cellars and should be home within the hour.'

The espalier plums were laden. She had brought two baskets and another apron. Trivial talk passed between us as we began to gather the plums. Then she said:

‘Desmond is a pleasant young man, but we should never have married. Mother pushed me into it. It never really worked as a marriage should work. We are better separated.'

‘And you are living alone here?'

‘… Most of the time.' She licked her finger where a spot of plum juice had stained it. ‘ You will I'm sure have heard the rumours that Bram Fox frequently visits me. So there is scandal. Well, it's true. His wife has died. He needs company and companionship and these I give him. And more, of course. And more. He is – a bit of a wild man, but so exciting. I am not the first woman in the world to break her marriage vows.' She put down her basket. ‘But you know Bram. You were obsessed with him yourself at one time.'