The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo (12 page)

Now Princess Caraboo got up to dance – not a silly dance like Fred's, and not with her knife, in case she gave him any further cause for alarm. She danced, and after a while she forgot that Frederick Worrall was even there.

‘Magnificent,' he said, clapping, and Caraboo turned to glance at him. Did he mean it? She reminded herself that she didn't care, and sat down again. Fred still looked rather ridiculous, with his dirty, smudgy face.

‘Ah, you don't approve, Princess?' he said. ‘So you won't have me in your tribe after all . . . Look, I'm sorry I jumped away like that before – you know, with the hand,' he said.

Caraboo hoped she showed no emotion.

‘I didn't expect it. Cass always said that you didn't like being touched and, well, that you didn't like men. So, I was . . .' He shook his head. ‘I wasn't expecting it. Not from you. Not at all.'

Caraboo cocked her head on on side.

‘Caraboo, I want to be friends.' Fred's face, under smears of charcoal and blood, was as open and as beautiful as any face she had ever seen.

‘Friends?' he said again. And held out his hand for her to shake.

Caraboo nodded. ‘Friends, yes . . .'

She hesitated, looking at his hand, his face. His eyes. She remembered how he had reacted when she put his hand to her mouth. Had it been disgust? She thought not. Her heart, she realized, was pounding.

She took his hand, but instead of shaking it, simply clasped it in her own, and before she knew what she was doing she had leaned forward to press her lips to his, charcoal-smeared but soft. She felt him hold his breath, and for a moment she did too, but then he was kissing her back, cautious and careful – not like she had imagined a man like him would be. He smelled of fire and pigeon's blood and warm, clean sweat.

His fingers brushed her shoulder, uncertain, and then they were gone – he was still not sure if he could touch her, she realized. She felt a strange fluttering in her chest, and for a moment she wanted to pull him to her, to show him he could—

Suddenly she drew back. She had forgotten herself.

Fred Worrall was looking at her with wide blue eyes. She could tell that he was not disgusted at all.

What had she done?

She quickly got up and ran to the water's edge so that he wouldn't see her face.

Princess Caraboo never blushed.

She stepped into the water and swam as fast as she could, telling herself that all was as it should be; that this had been how she intended it to go, all along. But she still felt warm in spite of the cold water: she could still feel her lips where Fred's lips had touched them, and she knew, in her heart, that it was not what she had planned at all.

Caraboo went back to the house and changed. She thought she would spend some time in the library, even produce the handwriting samples for Mrs Worrall – anything to stop herself thinking about the feel of Fred's mouth and the look in Fred's eyes; about how her plan had somehow been turned topsy turvy.

She did not notice Captain Palmer: he suddenly appeared in the first-floor corridor, out of nowhere, and caught her by the arm so tightly that she could not reach for her knife. He pulled her close, and even at this early hour his breath was thick with rum and tobacco. Caraboo tried to pull away, to summon up the image of the leopard growling beside her, but it eluded her. She was trapped, alone.

‘All right, Princess?' The captain spoke low, his manner completely changed. Ice cold, and hard, not the jolly sailor any more. ‘Nobody's here,' he whispered, ‘so you just keep it quiet as you like.'

Caraboo said nothing. If she had bothered to examine her thoughts, she had been prepared for some kind of conversation like this. But she had pushed the idea away. She did not want to think about what Captain Palmer might want from her.

She drew herself up: she had been a princess long before this wretched excuse for a man had said so aloud.

‘You play it like that, lady, but I'm no fool,' he said. ‘I know you're hokey. Princess, my salty arse! But if that's what her ladyship here wants, that's what we'll give 'er, see?'

Caraboo cursed silently. She should have known that a man, any man, would want something, would not be content, as she was, just to pretend; just to be someone else.

The captain drew even closer – she could almost taste his stinking breath. ‘I don't know who you are, or what your lay is, but if you're royalty, I'm Horatio Nelson.' His eyes glittered, his fingers dug hard into her arm. ‘But we can get along, you and me. We can be useful to each other. Are you here on the nab, lady? What are you after?' He gripped her even more tightly and she tried to suppress a gasp. She wanted to shout, to yell, to tell him that Caraboo was no thief, but she couldn't. She had to be brave, to be strong. ‘You can tell old Captain Palmer,' he said.

She glared at him. He whispered into her ear: she could feel the flecks of spit on her skin and felt a wave of sickness come over her.

‘I think we can make our fortune with this little play,' the captain said. ‘Here or on the fairgrounds – you the Princess, me your interpreter. I haven't set my plan in stone, but you'll go along with it, or I'll drop you in it. Head first into the fire, lady.'

Caraboo felt her heart speed up, hammering so loud she thought it would burst.

‘So play along, lady, and remember – if you leave before I'm good and ready, I will find you.' He traced a line across her throat and she felt her legs give way. She put one hand out against the wall to steady herself.

‘I will find you and I will make you pay.' The captain looked her up and down, and all the bones in her legs turned to jelly. ‘In every way possible.' He shook her off.

At that moment Phoebe came bustling past and the captain's manner changed, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. He laughed, as if Caraboo had just said something amusing.

‘Come along, Princess!' he said, exactly like a jolly uncle, or the good-hearted seafaring war hero everyone knew him to be.

But Caraboo stood there, frozen.

Knole Park House
May 1819

‘Miss Cassandra.' He said her name, deep and low, like a moan. Cassandra kissed him again. She knew she was desirable – she had seen it reflected in the faces of quite a few young men in Bath. But she thought she had never felt it so strongly, never felt so utterly adored. He wanted her so much it made her dizzy with the power of it. She looked up into the trees where the light came through in moving diamonds, and felt happier than ever. Since she'd begun meeting Will, and welcomed Caraboo into her life, Knole had become almost bearable.

She lay back against the soft mossy tree trunk, Will's jacket folded up beneath her head, his body pressed hard against hers. She was tingling all over, as if every nerve ending sparkled with that same electricity Professor Heyford used in his beastly experiments.

Will closed his eyes as if in pain, and rolled away.

‘Will? Is everything all right? Will?'

‘This is not right. I shouldn't . . . you are too perfect,' he said, looking away. ‘You deserve everything . . . everything in the world . . .'

Cassandra picked a handful of grass and threw it at him. ‘Will! I have everything I need. I have your complete adoration . . . don't I?'

He turned back. ‘You know that.'

She reached out a hand. ‘Yes, I do.'

‘Miss Cassandra . . .'

‘Look at me, Will.' She took his face in her hands, tracing the outline; she felt him shudder when her fingertip touched his lips.

‘Oh, I love you, Miss Cassandra,' he sighed. ‘So much.'

Cassandra smiled. ‘Then everything is exactly as it should be.' She kissed him.

‘I promise you, Miss Cassandra, even if it takes me two, three years, I will ask your father. Then, when we are married—'

‘Two years!' Cassandra's mouth turned down in a pout. ‘Will, I am bound to
die
if I have to wait two
weeks
! I want to be with you
now
!' She held him close and looked across the meadow towards the park, where Knole glittered white like a tiny sugar palace.

‘But, Miss Cassandra—'

She put a finger to his lips. ‘Cassandra. No “Miss” when we are together.'

‘I want to do right by you and your family. I have nothing,' Will said. ‘I am an innkeeper's son . . .'

‘You could be a chimney sweep for all I care. I am sixteen! We could go abroad. The Alps! Italy! Mary Shelley went to—'

‘Mary Shelley?' Will said, making a face.

Cassandra waved a hand. ‘She is a lady novelist – she wrote
Frankenstein
when she was just eighteen! . . .'

Will coughed. ‘I was thinking, perhaps, of America. There are so many opportunities there, Captain Palmer—'

Cassandra sat up. ‘Mama's family is from America. From Philadelphia. She has never wanted to return—'

‘But we would be together,' Will said. ‘In America no one cares who your father is. We could have a place of our own, an inn that serves travellers and traders . . .'

Cassandra sighed heavily. ‘Mama says that America is backward in art and fashion, and not in the least picturesque.'

Will took a deep breath. ‘But, Miss Cassandra, you don't know what it's like to be poor. In America I could earn my fortune, then you could follow me. If we both leave now, it'll be hard. You've never had to live without money—'

‘I don't care about money, Will!' She didn't want to hear about America. She clung to him, and felt his heart beating, louder than a volley of rifles under his shirt.

‘Truly, Cassandra?'

She kissed him again. She had had quite enough of talking.

‘Caraboo! Princess Caraboo!' Mrs Worrall stood on the steps that led out of the library and down towards the park. Caraboo could not fail to hear her, but she didn't move. She was in the library, hidden in the window seat, curtain drawn tight so none might see her, one of Mrs Worrall's books lying open upon her lap. She had spent all the previous day avoiding everyone. She had planned to spend the day on the island, but the thought that Captain Palmer might follow her and catch her alone, made her shiver.

She should have realized that she was betraying her secret by letting him interpret Caraboo. She had put herself in his hands and could not see a way out.

She had tried to clear her mind, to think of some plan to get a head start out of Knole, before the captain found out that she was gone. But as yet she had none. She had not been able to concentrate on anything – even the words on the page swam in front of her eyes – and when she shut them, all she could see was Captain Palmer's face, all she could smell was the foul stink of liquor on his breath.

Caraboo would have to be killed off – she would have to become somebody else; someone the captain would never find . . .

Her plans for Fred Worrall seemed childish now. What had happened with him on the island, merely a few days ago, felt like a lifetime away.

She heard the doors open, and froze.

‘Ah, Professor Heyford!' Mrs Worrall said, and Caraboo relaxed a little.

‘Madam?'

‘I wonder if you had seen my latest addition to the library? My
Pantographia
?'

‘No, madam, though I admit I should like to.'

‘Perhaps Fred or the captain has spirited it away. I do so wish they would leave books on the shelf where they found them!'

‘Quite so,' the professor agreed.

Caraboo thought that Mary Willcox would have called Professor Heyford a regular needy mizzler, a right royal suck-up.

‘And the captain? Have you seen him? I would so prefer to talk to the both of you at once.'

Caraboo felt sick simply hearing the man mentioned.

‘I think the captain is, ah, resting.' Professor Heyford cleared his throat. ‘If I may be so bold, Mrs Worrall, I think Captain Palmer is a little too fond of his drink.'

‘He is a naval man – it is the way of things in the navy, I think – at least, that is what Mr Worrall tells me. If you had seen half of what he has experienced across the world . . . Has he told you of those spirits, those blood-sucking harpies, the Penanggalan?'

‘More than once, actually, Mrs Worrall.'

‘Well, there you are! The man is a marvel,' she said. ‘I had nightmares for three whole nights after hearing that story. Well, then, if he is not here, I will at least tell you, Professor . . .' She paused and Caraboo listened. Perhaps she might hear something useful.

‘See!' Mrs Worrall went on excitedly. ‘I have a letter from Mr Gutch at the
Bristol Advertiser
. He has heard of Caraboo and he wants to visit our princess here at Knole! This weekend! Marvellous, isn't it? Caraboo is so exciting, Mr Gutch says he would like to write about her, fancy that! And I have had a wonderful idea! I have already sent out some other invitations, after all. I wonder – are there perhaps any of your fellow academics who would like to meet an authentic Javan princess?'

‘Yes, yes.' Professor Heyford sounded enthusiastic. ‘I do have an acquantaince in London who is measuring native people's brains—'

‘Surely Princess Caraboo's brain is currently in use, sir.'

Professor Heyford laughed. ‘Of course, madam, of course, but if – when – she dies, he would be first in line to explore that organ. Did you know, Mrs Worrall, that the English brain is always twice the weight and quality of any native one?'

‘Is that so, Professor?'

‘Oh yes. It is on account of the amount of roast beef consumed in these islands. And naturally, a male brain is larger and more complex than a woman's . . .'

Mrs Worrall harrumphed at that.

‘One cannot argue with fact,' the professor said.