The Emerald Affair

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  Esmie stumbled, almost losing her balance. ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped.

  Maud jabbed a trembling finger at her. ‘I never want to see you again – so don’t you ever come back here!’

  Reeling from the woman’s vitriolic outburst, Esmie fled down the path, gulping for air. She ran aimlessly, clattering into a steel hoop being bowled down the street by two boys. Ignoring the pain in her knee, she hobbled on, swallowing down the sobs that were choking her. But she couldn’t outrun Maud’s furious, grief-fuelled words that whirled in her head. ‘You killed him! I never want to see you again – so don’t you ever come back here!’

  In turmoil, Esmie did not know for how long she roamed the clifftops of Ebbsmouth, unheeding of those she passed in her hurry to escape the town. As the shadows lengthened, she found herself on the path leading away from the cliffs inland towards ancient St Ebba’s church and its burial ground. The medieval building nestled in a sheltered glade under mature beech and oak trees. Esmie hurried into the cool of the churchyard and sought out her father’s grave.

  Crumpling onto the damp grass, she put her hand on the familiar gravestone and succumbed to the flood of tears she had held in check.

  ‘Oh, Father!’ she sobbed. ‘I’m so sorry! I’ve let you down. I’ve caused so much grief. Poor David. Was I wrong to reject him? If I’d just pretended to love him then perhaps he’d be alive today . . . I can’t forgive myself. If only you were here to tell me what to do. Mrs Drummond hates me but who can blame her? She’s lost her only son and she’ll never get over the pain. I know she won’t – because I know what it’s like to lose the person you love the most – I’ve never stopped grieving for you, dearest Father, never.’

  Esmie buried her face in her hands and continued to weep. In her mind’s eye, she could clearly see the father of her childhood: bald and smiling broadly under a yellowing moustache, smelling of pipe smoke; a slim-built man with a sinewy strength in his arms when he picked her up and swung her round. A man who made people smile the moment he walked into a room, who joked with passers-by about the weather and calmed squalling babies with Highland lullabies. A doctor who made others well but dropped down dead of a weak heart that no one knew he had. A widower who kept his grief private and never let it overshadow her growing-up. A father with a sense of fun who encouraged her to be adventurous but whose comforting hold was the safest place on earth.

  As she felt his presence strongly, her sobbing began to ease. She became aware of birdsong and the soft trickle of the nearby stream. Her father would still have loved her no matter what mistakes she made in life; he would never have judged her.

  A twig cracked nearby. Still on her knees, Esmie swung round, alarmed at the sound of footsteps. A tall figure dressed in tennis flannels loomed out of the trees.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just I heard you . . .’

  Esmie’s pulse raced to see Tom Lomax standing before her. He was peering down at her in concern. What had he overheard? Only her anguish had made her speak her thoughts aloud. As he reached forward to help her up, she scrambled to her feet before he could touch her.

  ‘I was just . . . This is my father’s grave,’ she explained.

  ‘Yes, I see that,’ he answered, stepping back. ‘Sorry, I’m intruding.’

  There was something vulnerable in his look that made Esmie say, ‘No, you’re not. Please don’t go on my account.’

  They eyed each other. ‘I didn’t expect to find anyone here this late in the day,’ said Tom.

  ‘Neither did I,’ said Esmie, trying to calm her emotions. ‘I thought you were playing tennis at Lydia’s?’

  Tom nodded. ‘I was. Harold dropped me off – he’s taking Tibby home.’

  Then it struck Esmie what he was doing here; he had come from the direction of the Lomaxes’ grave enclosure.

  She made a guess. ‘Have you been to see your mother’s grave?’

  Tom gave a sad smile. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But not with your sister?’

  He shook his head. ‘My sister thinks it’s morbid. She doesn’t understand why I still like coming here so long after Mama’s death.’

  Esmie glanced at her father’s headstone. ‘I understand,’ she murmured. ‘Do you talk to your mother here?’

  ‘Not out loud,’ he said, with the twitch of a smile.

  Esmie coloured. ‘I was upset.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said quickly, ‘I didn’t hear what you were saying. But I could tell you were distressed.’

  ‘I’m all right.’ She brushed at her damp cheeks.

  ‘Why don’t we sit for a minute,’ he suggested, nodding at the bench by the church wall that was still in sunshine.

  Esmie hesitated and then agreed. By the time they sat down, she had recovered her poise.

  ‘Is it an anniversary for your mother?’ she asked.

  Tom shook his head. ‘I just felt . . .’ He slid her a glance, hesitating.

  ‘Go on,’ she encouraged.

  ‘I felt the need to come and see her – tell her about my decision to buy the hotel. Not that I think the dead can hear . . .’ He reddened. ‘Now you’ll think I’m like one of your mental cases.’

  Esmie gave him a wry look. ‘You’re saying that to a woman you’ve just overheard talking to her dead father, remember?’

  Tom smiled. ‘That’s true.’

  They sat in stillness for a moment, though the silence between them didn’t feel awkward. It surprised her that Tom would be the kind of man to come and commune beside his mother’s grave; she liked him for it. His strong features were softened in the evening sun and his expression was reflective. Gone were the masculine bravado and teasing quips behind which he usually hid. She had a sudden urge to touch his face and smooth away the sad frown lines that etched his brow. To stop herself, she broke the silence.

  ‘Your mother was a beautiful woman.’

  Tom stared. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘From the portrait of her that hangs in the dining room,’ said Esmie. ‘Or at least it did when I was nursing there. She was not just beautiful to look at but something shone out of her too. I used to think she was encouraging us nurses when things were really hectic. I’d look up and she’d be smiling right at me.’

  Tom’s eyes glistened. ‘Yes, I always think that about her picture too – that she’s smiling just for me.’

  ‘And she cheered up the men,’ Esmie added.

  ‘Did she?’ Tom looked pleased.

  Esmie smiled. ‘Yes, the patients nicknamed her their “Guardian Angel”.’

  He looked away, overcome. ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ he said, his voice husky. ‘That’s the way I think of her.’ He sighed. ‘Tibby believes that’s unhealthy too. My sister always says, she was just a mother not a saint. But I think she must have been a saint to have put up with my father. Perhaps Tibby’s right and I have this idealised memory of Mama – the memories of a ten-year-old after all.’

  Esmie was taken aback by his candidness; it was as if in this quiet sanctuary they had both let down their guard.

  ‘It sounds as if you were closer to your mother than Tibby was,’ she said, ‘so you have every right to remember her in a special way. You were lucky to have such memories. I hardly recall anything about my mother – she died when I was five – caught diphtheria from a child she was helping to nurse.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom.

  ‘There’s no need to be,’ said Esmie. ‘My father filled her place ten-fold.’

  Tom’s blue eyes shone with compassion. ‘How cruel that you lost him too. I liked your father – he was a kind doctor.’

  Esmie gave a teary smile. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So what has upset you so much that you’ve come here, Esmie?’ he asked. ‘Was it visiting the Drummonds? Lydia said you had gone to see them.’

  Esmie tensed as she thought again of the upsetting visit. ‘It was terrible.’

  Tom nodded. ‘You must all be so sad about Davi
d.’ He reached out and covered her hand with his.

  Esmie flinched at the unexpected contact. She withdrew her hand quickly and stood up, the intimacy broken.

  ‘Please don’t feel sorry for me,’ she said. ‘I don’t deserve it. It’s my fault that the Drummonds are grieving so badly.’

  Tom frowned in confusion. ‘How could you possibly be at fault?’

  Esmie felt short of breath as he stood too and towered over her. She forced out her words.

  ‘I refused David’s proposal just before he died. Mrs Drummond found out. She will never forgive me. She blames me for his death – said he was reckless after I’d turned him down – and that he had nothing to live for.’

  ‘That’s hardly fair,’ Tom protested.

  Esmie looked at him unhappily. ‘But it’s true. When I wrote to tell David I couldn’t marry him, I was relieved it was done. And just to make sure he wouldn’t hold out any more hope for me, I told him that I’d never been in love with him so wouldn’t change my mind in the future. I never for a moment thought David would try and harm himself. But I should have known, shouldn’t I? David was always such a sensitive person. So his mother is right to hate me. I’ve robbed her of her boy.’

  When Tom said nothing, Esmie felt weighed down with renewed guilt. His shocked face spoke of his disapproval. Without another word, she brushed past him.

  He recovered himself and said, ‘Esmie, let me walk you home.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she managed to say, ‘but I’d rather be alone.’

  He didn’t insist. As she walked away, he didn’t come after her. For a short while, in the graveyard, she had felt a bond forming between them that was more than just friendship; a closeness at the shared experience of having lost a beloved parent in childhood. And something else – like a physical spark igniting – that she shouldn’t be feeling for the man her closest friend wanted to marry. She had said too much and been too emotional. This must never happen again.

  Esmie quickened her pace and didn’t look back.

  Tom stood staring after Esmie’s slim retreating figure, dumbfounded by what she had just told him. Not only had the upright nurse turned down David Drummond – a man who could have given her a comfortable life of leisure – but she had confided in Tom about her tortured heart. Still waters run deep, Tibby would say. Until this evening, Esmie had struck him as calmly in control and self-possessed. She joined in Lydia’s banter and enjoyed herself but there was a reserve about her and at times her mind seemed far away.

  Tom had found himself studying her in such moments; the way she rested her chin on her fist and tilted her face to the sky so that the light caught the attractive curve of her cheekbones and button nose. Sometimes she would sense his scrutiny and turn towards him, her eyelids fluttering wide in alarm, and then her large grey eyes would fix him with a quizzical look before she glanced away.

  On first impressions, he had thought Esmie was content to live in the shadow of the pretty, vivacious Lydia. Until the day of their first swim together. It was then that Tom had realised Esmie did not see herself as living in anyone’s shadow, or did not care if she did. She had run across the sand, lithe yet strong-limbed in her bathing suit, and plunged into the cold sea, revelling in the freedom of the moment. He still couldn’t rid his mind of the image of Esmie, her shapely body dripping from the swim, pulling off her bathing cap to release a tumble of long wavy hair, and grinning with sheer joy. He’d felt a stirring of desire for her that day but he’d soon quelled it. Esmie McBride was not his type at all. She saw through flattery and looked upon men as if they all needed help, rather than bolster their egos and try and please them like Lydia did.

  Then, half an hour ago, he had found Esmie distraught at her father’s graveside. Gone was the poised, decisive nurse and in her place was a deeply emotional woman showing her vulnerability. He’d yearned to hold her and comfort her but she had recoiled from his touch.

  Tom wandered back to James McBride’s gravestone. On it was etched a tender inscription: To a loving husband and father, and a true friend. Much beloved and greatly missed.

  His eyes prickled. It was how he felt about his mother, yet her grave was plain and unsentimental with nothing of comfort in the stark listing of her name and dates. He wondered who had commissioned the doctor’s memorial stone: Dr Carruthers or William Drummond perhaps? Had Esmie been consulted about its wording? Probably not; yet whoever had had the stone made would have been in no doubt about the girl’s deeply held love for her father.

  As he turned away, he caught sight of a crumpled cotton handkerchief in the grass. Picking it up, he saw the embroidered initials: E.McB. It was damp with her tears and Tom felt again a pang of tenderness for Esmie. Pressing it to his nose he breathed in its lavender scent. What kind of man would stir the heart of such a woman? Tom had no idea. She was an enigma; like a sea creature that clammed up when you tried to touch it.

  He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket. He’d return it to her another day. Tom filled his lungs with scented air and turned to go.

  Tibby was right; a churchyard full of ghosts was no place for a young man with a future ahead of him. He would press on with his plans for India and the Raj Hotel. The owner – a bachelor – seemed keen to sell quickly. It struck Tom more forcefully than ever how he didn’t want to face such a future on his own. Was it finally time for him to fill the void left by Mary? He had loved brown-eyed Mary since they’d been eight years old and she’d shared her cake with him at a children’s party. She’d been kind and warm-hearted and had grown into a woman of graceful beauty. He’d always known he would marry her. His guts twisted as he thought of her dying so suddenly . . . No, he must not think of her.

  Yet these past couple of weeks in Lydia’s company had made him realise how much he missed a woman’s companionship. He doubted he could ever be as close to another woman as he had been with Mary – he didn’t want to replace her – but there were aspects of marriage he was beginning to long for: sharing silly jokes and enjoying physical intimacy. He hated his empty bed. He wanted to lie again with a woman; one he could grow to love.

  It annoyed him to think that his father might be right; perhaps the moment had come to get married again. A wife for the Raj Hotel. That’s what he needed. Someone who wouldn’t remind him in any way of his dark-haired Mary. He glanced across at the bench by the wall, now in shadow, and pondered his encounter with Esmie. She too had dark, graceful looks and a caring nature.

  But he sensed a dangerous undercurrent to her personality; a woman who took risks and didn’t care about her own safety. She was someone who kept her passions in check, but he had glimpsed today that sometimes she let her feelings overwhelm her. Esmie, with those disturbing, mesmerising eyes that made his pulse quicken, would be no good for him. Besides, she obviously didn’t feel any attraction for him. When he’d touched her hand, she’d jerked away from him as if she’d been scalded.

  The kind of wife he needed for his new life in Rawalpindi would be glamorous and outgoing. Attractive and fair Lydia would be more suited to such a role. She was uncomplicated and full of bonhomie and for some reason appeared to have taken a strong liking to him. Tibby, after her first trip to Templeton Hall, had startled him by saying Lydia was in love with him. ‘She’s like a boisterous, starry-eyed puppy around you,’ Tibby had said. ‘Just longing for your attention.’

  Lydia also showed an aptitude for business which could be very useful and he could see her fitting in well to the busy social scene in Pindi. He wasn’t in love with her yet, but he enjoyed her company greatly and found her physically very attractive. Was that enough to ask her to be his wife? Tom sighed. He wasn’t sure. He would see how the summer – and his relationship with Lydia – progressed. Once the purchase of the hotel had been secured, he would decide.

  Pushing thoughts of Esmie and Lydia to the back of his mind, Tom strode away from St Ebba’s church with renewed determination.

  Chapter 5

  Esmie, still shaken
by Maud’s vitriolic accusations, tried to talk to Lydia about her disastrous visit to the Drummonds. ‘It was even worse than I’d expected. Maud Drummond had read my letter to David and was furious with me. She as good as said that David took his own life because I’d rejected him.’

  ‘What nonsense!’ said Lydia dismissively.

  ‘She told me never to visit again.’

  ‘Well, what’s done is done,’ said Lydia. ‘At least you don’t have to bother with the tiresome woman again – I never did like her at school – always lecturing us on morals and spoiling our fun. Put it all behind you.’

  Esmie could see that Lydia thought the whole Drummond affair was no longer of importance. Her friend didn’t want to talk about such sad things and so Esmie didn’t get the chance to tell her about the emotional meeting in the graveyard with Tom. Esmie was already regretting having unburdened her woes to the former captain. What had possessed her to tell him about her rejection of David? What must he think of her? She contemplated keeping out of his way but then chided herself for being a coward. Tom had been kind to her and was not to blame for any of the mess she had created.

  Yet she needn’t have worried. Tom never referred to their meeting in the churchyard either and kept his distance. He was polite and amiable towards her but there was no hint of the warmth of feeling she had experienced by St Ebba’s Church. Perhaps in her overwrought state she had imagined it. Besides, after her confession about David, Tom appeared wary of her.

  As May gave way to June, the friends continued to meet up, though less frequently as a foursome. Tom was increasingly attentive to Lydia, taking her to tea dances and to dinner parties around the county. Harold wasn’t interested in attending the large formal balls that Lydia relished, as he confided in Esmie when they went on one of their frequent walks together.

  ‘All that inane chit-chat – I’m no good at it. Tom’s always been much better at the social graces than me. And I can’t manage the vast amounts of drink like Tom either. I’m sorry to be a disappointment. I know Lydia is expecting me to partner you.’