The Ugly Sister (7 page)

‘They'll be home soon,' said Aunt Anna, staring out of the window with absent blue eyes. ‘Clive and David. You told me their frigate would be home soon. Have you heard when?'

‘Not yet awhile,' said Uncle Davey, playing the game we now all had to play. ‘Maybe at the end of the summer.'

‘You should write to the Admiralty. They have been away so long.'

‘Oh, I will, my dear. So I will.'

H
E DIED
on 27 November at eight o'clock in the evening, not at Place House but at Tregolls, where all his children had been summoned. Only three arrived in time, Samuel being at sea. Everyone was greatly upset.

The coffin was brought to Place on 3 December and was laid in the church beside the house until the fifth, when the funeral took place. The wide gravelled carriageway and the larger quadrangle before the house, for turning, were crowded with black carriages. Related as he was to a fair number of the gentry of Cornwall, Uncle Davey was also liked and respected by most people with whom he had had dealings. Naval officers from Plymouth came, his peaked admiral's hat was placed on the coffin among the family flowers, and six naval lieutenants carried the bier. Davey's brother was there – I had only seen him once, though he lived in Cornwall – the four children, including Anna Maria's first two toddlers, Thomas Tristram and Edward Augustus. Two cousins I had never set eyes on. Three Carlyons from Tregrehan – including, of course, Major Edward, his son-in-law – the Earl and Countess of Falmouth, young Mr Agar-Robartes from Lanhydrock, his distant cousin Canon Robartes of Blisland – who took the service – two Foxes – though not Abraham – the Polwheles of Polwhele, Sir William and Lady Molesworth from Pencarrow, the St Aubyns from St Michael's Mount, and the Stackhouses from Trehane. Miss Betsy Slocombe was noticeably absent.

Desmond, in spite of his youth and his preoccupation with birds, seemed to know the name of every one of the mourners, and whispered bits of information and gossip as he stood between Tamsin and me in the church. (For instance that Sir John St Aubyn had only recently married his mistress, by whom he had had ten children, who were already all grown up.) Most of his confidences were whispered to Tamsin, but I was able to pick them up, having the hearing, as my mother once kindly said, of a tame ferret.

Aunt Anna had made two escapes from the house in October, so she had had to be taken away again. They had not told her of her husband's death, nor was she considered well enough to be brought back for the funeral.

When it was all over, when all had taken refreshment and gone except the immediate family, there was a gathering in the south drawing room. Samuel, who had managed to get home for the interment, was now, at twenty-eight, the head of the family. A heavily built young man with a mop of stiff bristly hair worn shorter than was fashionable. I was a little afraid of him: I knew the other three by now very well, but Samuel had been so much away that he was almost a stranger, and I knew he had fixed ideas and a strong will. I was anxious – and I knew my mother and Tamsin were – lest our position should be changed. Of course we were cousins and were accepted as such, but we had existed and lived here on the goodwill of Uncle Davey. How would his son feel about it all? Would Samuel have the heartlessness to turn us out? He owed us nothing.

He said: ‘Mr Lewis will be here in the morning to give details of my father's will. I do not think there will be any exceptional surprises. What we should perhaps give our minds to over the next few days is the general planning of our futures.' No one spoke. He went on:

‘For my own part I intend to resign from the Navy at some suitable early opportunity. I have never liked the life, and went on with it solely to please my father. Now that he has gone the reason for my continuing has gone.'

Mary said: ‘Shall you come and live here, Samuel?'

‘No. I shall make a home for myself in London and intend to go into politics.'

After a pause Desmond said: ‘ What is to become of our mother?'

‘If she recovers she can return here. But the doctors do not hold out a hope of permanent improvement. They say she may live a long time. Our father, as you know, was seventy-five. Mama is only sixty-four, and keeping her in a comfortable home will be a considerable extra drain on the family purse.'

‘I would wish to look after her,' said Mary. ‘But she
is
very difficult.'

Anna Maria said: ‘When I saw her last it was a great distress to me. She was so restless, so argumentative, and so strong, physically strong. It took Mary and me and Mrs Whattle all our time to restrain her. She is better away unless there is a great improvement.'

‘If she does not come back,' said Mary, fingering the lace at her throat, ‘I should prefer to live at Tregolls. It is so much more convenient.'

‘And you, Desmond?' said Samuel.

‘Oh …' Desmond shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘I am happy here. After all, this is the family house and I should like to spend something on repairs, which it badly needs. Also I know no place better for seabirds, which are my principal study … Yes, I am very happy here. That is so long as you do not want it for yourself …'

‘There should be room enough here for more than one brother,' said Samuel. ‘Or more than one family.' He looked at Claudine for the first time. ‘You have made your home here, Aunt – and my two cousins with you. Do you have plans to change, to return to London or Bath?'

My mother said: ‘As you know, Samuel, your father had entrusted me with much of the running of the house – that is since your mother became incapable of doing so. I shall be happy to continue in that way, at least temporarily. But you must tell me what you shall want to do. If you are not likely to use it as a permanent home … and if Desmond wishes to stay, I shall be glad to look after him … until, well …'

‘Until?' Samuel said.

‘Until he marries,' said my mother with a sidelong glance.

‘I do not think
I
shall ever marry,' said Samuel. ‘There is so much to do in the world. Or not at least until I am forty, when perhaps there may be more time for trivialities … I'm sorry, Edward,' he said to his brother-in-law. ‘This was not intended in any way as a personal reflection.'

Edward Carlyon half smiled as he fingered his short moustache, but his wife said warmly: ‘How fortunate that we do not all think the same! The Major, apart from me, has three fascinating trivialities to his name, called Thomas, Edward and George.'

‘Already.' Desmond, smiling at his sister.

‘Yes, already!'

‘And with that I am more than content! I've no doubt, Samuel, when you have a family of your own, you will find just as much time to pursue your profession – and a greater ambition in doing so.'

Samuel grunted and looked across at Claudine.

‘If my mother does not come back, and Mary decides to live in Truro, you and your daughters will more or less have the run of the place.'

‘Apart from myself,' said Desmond.

‘Of course, of course, of course … We shall all come here from time to time, meeting at Christmas or some other suitable vacation. But I think it would be only prudent to cut down the permanent staff by half. Extra servants can be engaged from time to time. My mother's comfort in the special home she is in must come first.'

‘Do we know what is going to happen to Miss Slocombe?' Mary asked. It was the first time her name had been mentioned all day.

‘Perhaps Papa will have made some provision for her,' said Anna Maria. ‘We shall know tomorrow.'

I wondered if he had made any ‘provision' for my mother.

‘Slade ought to leave,' said Anna Maria. ‘Perhaps Papa has left him a suitable pension too.'

My mother said: ‘Many of the servants have been here as long as I have. I hope we can consider them individually rather than making a blanket decision.'

‘Of course, of course, of course.' It was one of Samuel's pet phrases. ‘But I have noticed a deal of slackness since I came home. We must see to that.'

T
HE SOLICITOR
and his clerk arrived at eleven and read the will. I was not invited in, nor was my mother or sister. The rest of the family emerged at one, but it took time for the details to filter through to us.

Uncle Davey had left almost everything in trust to his wife, but power of attorney was granted to her children, and of them Samuel was to be the main legatee. On him would devolve the ownership of Place House and all land in or near the Roseland Peninsula, together with numerous investments. The house and property of Tregolls near Truro was left jointly to Desmond and Mary. To Anna Maria he had left his London house and property in Devon. The house of Killiganoon was to go to Desmond and Mary, but Miss Betsy Slocombe was to have free occupancy of it for five years and a life income of £250. Slade was left an annuity of £50, and several of the other servants received small gifts. My mother was left £100, and so was Thomasine, and so was I. I was thrilled for it was the very first money I had ever possessed of my own.

My mother was equally satisfied at the outcome – not for her small legacy but for the future dispositions of our lives. So the family party broke up. Samuel returned to his ship in Portsmouth. Anna Maria and her husband and two children left for London. The Admiral's brother – granted a legacy of £500 – returned to his home near Truro; as did the two cousins – who had been entirely ignored (Uncle Davey never liked them). Always depending on the continuing goodwill of Samuel, Claudine might consider she had been left as undisputed mistress. She had unfailingly been tactful with her nephews and nieces, and she knew she could manage Desmond and Mary. Anna Maria, with whom she did not get on so well, was safely busy childbearing and usually in London. The rest were servants.

Before he left she had had a detailed discussion with Samuel and had agreed which servants should leave. Fetch's position was under threat but I had insisted to Mama that she should be one who must stay, even if I had to pay her wages out of my new-found legacy.

Meanwhile Desmond's courtship of Tamsin continued. One night I asked her about it.

‘Oh.' She shrugged. ‘He is passably nice. I sometimes think he is more interested in ornithology.'

‘Oh, Tamsin, you cannot say that! He comes at every crook of your little finger.'

She sighed. ‘Mama would like it, I believe. It would suit her in many ways. But I am only just twenty-two. There are plenty of other fish in the sea.'

‘Such as Mr Abraham Fox?'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘Because I know you have such a taking for him.'

‘Have? Had? Which is it? I am not sure if Mr Fox is not really a rattlesnake.'

She was sitting on the end of the bed, her head up, regarding the fading daylight. The frills of her nightdress ringed her face like the cup of a daffodil, the skin of her neck and chin so pure, the profile so perfect.

‘You never told me,' I said, ‘what happened when we were in Bank House greeting the Queen of Portugal.'

‘What happened? What could happen? I felt faint. That was what happened. You know I suffer severely when it is one of my monthlies.'

I waited, but she said no more. ‘What has changed you, then? Are you pretending to yourself to dislike him just to please Mama?'

‘Emma, you are always very disagreeable with your probing questions. What are my feelings for Bram Fox? What are yours? What are Mama's?'

‘Mama's?' I was startled. ‘She has made that clear.'

‘And yours,' she said, ‘you have made yours clear, have you not? You are besotted with him!'

This was a profound shock to me, that I had allowed any such feelings to show.

‘He – he has been kind to me,' I stammered. ‘That's all. It is rare for a man not to be put off by my disfigurement. Of course he means nothing, but I appreciate such courtesy.'

‘Have a care that you do not appreciate it too much.'

A
FEW
months before Uncle Davey's death he had come back full of a concert he had been to in Plymouth, and of a musician who had made a great impression on him.

‘Black man; would you believe it? Black as a spade. But the way he handles that violin! You know I'm not a great one for music – at least not these cats' concerts that they organize in Falmouth. But this was extraordinary. Made my hair stand up.'

‘What was his name?' I asked.

‘Oh, can't remember that, my dear girl. Never can. Hemway or some such. But his story is still more extraordinary. Don't know whether 'tis generally known, but Admiral Cawthorne told me, and he knows everything. It seems this feller was a slave taken as a boy by Portuguese traders, sold in Brazil and then brought back to Lisbon as a sort of slave servant – they are fashionable in Portugal among the aristocracy, and the blacker the better! Well, this slave-owner found his boy so highly musical that in a couple of years he was playing in the orchestra at the Lisbon opera! Is that that damned dog I hear?'

‘You know it's not,' said my mother impatiently. ‘ Parish is in his kennel as you instructed. So?'

‘So? …' Uncle Davey blinked. ‘Oh, you mean about this slave feller. Well about this time, according to Cawthorne, the
Indefatigable
, under Edward Pellew – captain as he then was – ran aground when chasing an enemy and had to put in to Lisbon for repairs. He was there far too long for his own satisfaction, and one night he went to the Lisbon opera and spotted the black man, leading the violins by then; so a couple of weeks later, when he was ready to sail, he had this black man impressed as he came out of the opera and taken aboard the
Indefatigable
, and sailed away with him!'

‘From one slavery to a worse,' said Mary.