Portrait of a Girl Read Online Free PDF

momentary, irrational depression. Why? A second later I’d dispelled it. I was, after all, half Welsh, half Breton, which could be the reason for my Celtic mood.
    It was the only sensible answer and one I made myself accept.

 
    Chapter Two
     
    During those first few days at Tregonnis, Dame Jenny was completely non-communicative about matters concerning Kerrysmoor or the Verne family, and when I questioned her about the history of the cottage and priceless valuables of the ‘treasure room’, she became stubbornly silent — almost hostile.
    ‘ None of your business, miss,’ she said in her thin piping tones. ‘All you have to do is help me, as the master said — take down anything that needs dusting so there’s no danger of it falling, and polishing — those fancy chairs’ legs need attention. ‘Tisn’t so easy any more for me to bend or get down on my old knees. I keep the key of the room myself. Every morning I take a look round, so see you’re about between ten and eleven, an’ I’ll be able to let thee in.’
    ‘ Yes, Dame Jenny,’ I agreed meekly.
    She nodded, adding, ‘You can help me with the baking too. There’s an apron in the kitchen to cover all those fancy things you do wear. Then soon as possible we’ll get to thinking ‘bout what stitching’s to be done to make thee presentable for meeting the music man.’
    I smiled to myself at her reference to Signor Luigi as ‘the music man’.
    ‘ Hope you know how to use the needle properly ,’ she added. ‘I was always one with a liking for dainty flowers and tucks. But, of course, your cape must be quiet and moderate, I’ve a piece of brown velvet upstairs might do. No use worrying the master for gold to waste on material when it’s there safely folded in my chest upstairs. Still, we’ll see ‘bout those things a bit later; maybe tomorrow. You take things easily today, girl, get used to the cottage an’ garden. Done any prunin’ or weedin’, have thee?’
    I shook my head. ‘No. In Falmouth we didn’t have a garden.’
    ‘ Hm. Well, there’ll be bits to do here. But never touch my roses, mind. Roses is delicate things that need dainty handling. With care I have them bloomin’ most all the year round. Even at Christmas I’ve known red buds openin’ to cheer the winter.’
    When I went out to the back later I discovered that she had in no way exaggerated. On one side of a path comprised of pebbles and small rocks of granite quartz reflecting different shades, in the early morning sunlight crimson roses blossomed, mingling colourfully with bronze and gold chrysanthemums.
    On the other side, half shadowed by drooping willow, water-lily leaves dappled the surface of a motionless pool. It appeared deep, reflecting the shape of a poised white marble statue at the far end — that of a woman emerging from reeds and ferns, staring into the water. She had one arm over a breast, a bowl or kind of urn held in the other, from which delicate plants trailed. Much of the figure was lost in the verdant undergrowth, but the evasive light gave an uncanny impression of life and momentary movement. The whole effect emanated an emotional quality that affected me oddly.
    I tore my eyes from the pool and glared up at the great hill behind. The morning light emphasised the rugged character of the rising moor — great boulders and clumps of heather and gorse, interspersed with the inky grassy darkness of bog and gaping shafts. A derelict mine stack stood halfway down below the Three Maidens. Not a pleasant vista exactly — primitive, intimidating almost, in its wild aloofness, yet challenging, and I knew, despite Rupert Verne’s warning, a day would come when I would set out in exploration.
    Meanwhile I determined to make every effort at pleasing the quaint keeper of Tregonnis, and managed to acquire a certain amount of trust from her, though her old eyes had a watchful look whenever I strayed beyond the garden gate.
    ‘ Ye recall what the master told