Portrait of a Girl Read Online Free PDF Page B

thee—’ she said one day. ‘Keep away from the hill. There’s plenty of interest in the garden since you like fresh air, and I can teach thee a deal ‘bout herbs from my own small patch — it’s at the side beyond the roses. There’s some bunchings to do before drying — your hands look nimble enough. And what about your voice? I haven’t heard any singing yet to speak of — just that humming when you’re in the treasure room. There’s my fiddle to accompany you when you feel like practising. I was good on the strings in my day.’
    I didn’t attempt to explain to her that all her fussy restrictions quelled any natural impulse to burst into song, or that her country style of fiddling would only put me off. However, she didn’t press the point, but insisted on me putting certain hours of every day into stitching at my ‘wardrobe’. The velvet material was used for a cloak-coat with velvet band trimmings. The material was sent to Truro to be cut by a costumier patronised by Lady Verne and sent back to Dame Jenny for making up. This was a tiring business for me, and my day-dress of green silk to be fixed over a moderate bustle, was more so. It had an apron front and white lace collar. There was a good deal of piping to do, and numerous tiny buttons to sew on. Dame Jenny was certainly nimble with her fingers. If she hadn’t been I should have been working day and night, because in the past I’d worn mostly colourful shawls to cover hastily converted gowns. Inwardly I fumed and fretted; how much easier and more relaxing it would have been to have taken Rupert Verne’s offer of buying clothes from a professional establishment.
    I liked the headgear. It was re-styled, hardly a bonnet, hardly a hat — with small flowers and bows on it, and was a relic from the old lady’s chest where she kept precious nick-nacks of her own stowed away. A single white plume curved neatly round the back of the crown, with a shred of veiling floating behind. Tilted precociously forward on my coiled upswept hair it looked quite intriguing. Dame Jenny nodded cautiously when I turned from the mirror to face her.
    ‘ It will do, I suppose,’ she said one afternoon with a hint of criticism in her voice. ‘A little saucy, but then you’ve that air about you. So long as you do keep your eyes fixed down modest-like we must hope it won’t offend. I’ve heard tell those Italians, singers and such-like, go in for a bit of show. A little rice powder on your cheeks will help make you less — colourful.’ Her lips closed primly on the last word.
    I laughed; I couldn’t help it. Everything — the whole situation, the future, the old lady’s grudging admiration and the thought of extending a gloved hand to Signor Luigi like any duchess stirred pleasurable excitement in me. I felt my throat trembling, and without warning joyous notes of solfa rose from my lips, turning involuntarily into a song — a song of mountains and rivers, of far off places and unknown passion luring me to the sweet rich fulfilment of love. I was trilling in the only way I knew — naturally, with abandon. My voice was firm, and full and sweet, realising all the longing I’d felt during the last few weeks for Rupert Verne.
    When the sound died and I waited hesitantly with my bosom rising and falling breathlessly under my bodice, there was a prolonged pause from the old lady. She stood simply staring before remarking: ‘You certainly have a pair of good lungs, girl. But if you take my advice you’ll remember to control them in a ladylike fashion when the time comes to meet the great man. No doubt in low class hostelries, sailors and drinking folk ‘ppreciate a deal of show and noise — but any famous acquaintance of the master will expect a taste of refinement.’
    ‘ Oh, but I have to sing as I feel,’ I told her bluntly. ‘Refinement or — or coarseness doesn’t come into it. If I had to be controlled and careful there’d be no song—’ I broke off