Portrait of a Girl by Mary Williams Page B

in the success or failure of an illegal operation.
    Swift as lightning the question flashed through my brain. Was Rupert Verne entirely the conventional well-bred gentleman he appeared to be? Or was that merely a daytime front, a facade to hide a more dangerous daring side of his character. This could be. If so it would explain much — the adventurous gleam in his strange amber eyes — the quick flash of desire and challenge roused unexpectedly through a chance word or incident. He could be a man to whom fresh challenge was the breath of life. And I had been a part of it. He’d thought to create a legend of me — through my voice and looks expand his own dream of self-expression. Likewise in outwitting the law, he would be proving master of circumstance and other men.
    Freedom! Beneath the elegant front surely was a rebellious spirit, equal to my own — as wild as the gales and storm-swept granite shores — as live and unquenchable as the impulse in me that all my life until so very recently had stirred me to joy and tears and the sweet fulfilment of song.
    ‘ Oh Rupert, Rupert,’ I thought, as I turned my gaze from the pool towards the moorland ridge, ‘why did you have to marry that proud iceberg of a woman? Why couldn’t I have lain in your arms at night feeling our bodies close in passion — abandoned and rich in love?’
    With the tangy sweet air soft and sensuous against my cheeks, I could imagine the touch of his flesh against mine — the oneness of giving and taking — a throbbing unity bred from the very heart of Nature itself. Even as I stood there my senses thrilled in wild anticipation; I released my wealth of dark curls, and loosened my bodice at the neck. Just for a brief interim the whole world seemed to sing, and a treble of music broke briefly from my throat.
    Then, suddenly, I remembered.
    The moments of ecstasy passed. Sober commonsense replaced the dream. I was Josephine Lebrun, servant to Dame Jenny, employed by the Master of Kerrysmoor who insisted on paying me for my services, although most of what he gave was put away in a drawer, so that when the appropriate time came and other help could be found for the old lady I would be able to return the money, either by Messenger or in person, with the words, ‘Thank you so much, sir, your ladyship, — for the charity so kindly offered. I’m glad to have been of use, but I really do not need your gold.’
    Yes; the latter method of repayment would give me the greater satisfaction — to lift my chin arrogantly at Lady Verne’s cold countenance, savour the amazed astonishment in her narrowed eyes and on her thin lips. During the brief occasions we’d met so far she’d used every subtle means to insult me, but one day, I told myself, my pride alone would defeat her.
    ‘ A princess,’ Pierre had told me so often. ‘You are my princess. Never forget that, ma chère .’ Remembering now, urged me into a gentler mood. It was as though a soothing hand and voice from the past were resurrected momentarily lulling conflicting emotions to reason and renewed confidence.
    Presently I went back into the cottage. The sky had darkened slightly, bringing a train of cloud from the west. A faint breeze stirred the stillness taking the frail hazed sunlight behind a veil of grey.
    ‘ Shouldn’t be surprised if we had a storm later,’ Dame Jenny said when I walked into the kitchen. ‘There was the smell of rain about in the early hours.’
    ‘ That will be good for your garden, won’t it?’
    ‘ S’long as it doesn’t beat my roses down,’ she replied guardedly.
    She needn’t have feared. When evening came only misted rain fell, clearing sufficiently to give at intervals a glimmer of blurred moonlight. A strange, nostalgic kind of night, reminding me again of times long ago, when as a child I’d waited by Falmouth harbour searching the waters for the sight of a ship emerging from a grey horizon with my father at the helm. Perhaps it was the