The Emerald Affair

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  Moments later the waltz ended and Tom, disengaging, took her back to her seat. Esmie was suddenly deflated. She looked around for Lydia but couldn’t see her. Geraldine though, was making a bee-line for her.

  ‘Have you enjoyed the evening, Mrs Guthrie?’

  ‘Very much, thank you. I haven’t danced this much in ages.’

  ‘I’m so pleased,’ she said, her fleshy chin creasing in a smile of satisfaction. ‘I could see you were in great demand among the young men. What a shame your husband couldn’t be here. I do hope he’s feeling better soon.’

  Esmie flushed at the mention of Harold. Was Geraldine rebuking her for enjoying herself too much without him? While he lay ill and alone, she had indulged in lustful thoughts about Tom. How ashamed she felt!

  ‘Thank you for your concern, Mrs Hopkirk,’ Esmie said. ‘And for such a wonderful evening. I must go now and see how Harold is.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Geraldine, with a steely look at Tom.

  ‘I’ll go and rustle up a tonga,’ he said, leading the way to the entrance.

  En route, they found Lydia with Dickie. Lydia, hearing how Esmie was keen to get back to check on Harold, waved at her and Tom to go ahead.

  ‘Lieutenant Mason will see me safely home,’ she said. ‘Won’t you, Dickie?’

  Dickie grinned. ‘I’d be honoured.’

  Glancing at Tom, Esmie saw annoyance in his clenched expression. But he nodded and steered Esmie out of the building. In the sharp air, people were calling goodnight to each other as they climbed into tongas. Esmie wrapped a shawl about her shoulders and then Tom was helping her up into the seat of their hired vehicle and climbing in beside her. The driver cracked his whip and they moved off along the Mall. Esmie thought how magical it looked in the soft glow of the kerosene street lamps but kept the thought to herself. They sat in awkward silence. Esmie could not avoid jostling against Tom’s arm as the tonga swayed.

  ‘You’re shivering?’ Tom said.

  ‘Just a bit.’ Esmie gritted her teeth to stop them chattering. It was proximity to Tom that was making her shake. He pulled a rug from behind the seat and spread it over her knees.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said huskily.

  They continued in silence. As the tonga turned up Dalhousie Road Tom asked in a low voice, ‘Is there something going on between Lydia and Dickie?’

  Esmie’s pulse quickened. ‘I don’t . . . I think she’s just being flirtatious. And so is Dickie – and half the officers in the cantonment, as far as I can see. It doesn’t mean anything.’

  Tom gave her a searching look. ‘You’re very loyal to your friend.’

  It suddenly struck Esmie that Tom’s ardour on the dance floor might have been to make Lydia jealous. Perhaps he didn’t have the same strong feelings for her that she had for him after all? It gave her an odd feeling of disappointment and relief. She looked away, her eyes prickling with unwanted tears. It hurt to be caught in the middle of a jealous tussle between Tom and Lydia.

  As if reading her mind, Tom said, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked such a question. The last thing you want on your holiday is to be dragged into our squabbles. Forgive me, Esmie.’

  They didn’t speak as they disembarked and walked into the hotel. All was quiet and the guests had gone to bed. Charlie was there to greet them with a tired smile.

  ‘Did you have a splendid evening, Mrs Guthrie?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She returned the smile. ‘And did you?’

  He nodded. ‘All the guests seemed to partake of the punch with great gusto.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Esmie. ‘It tasted delicious. Did Harold have some? Has he been any better this evening?’

  ‘Stella took him up a glass of punch and some cake. He gobbled the lot. Dr Guthrie has been sleeping as soundly as a newborn baby since nine o’clock.’

  ‘I’m so glad,’ said Esmie. ‘Please thank Stella for looking after him so well.’

  He bowed. ‘Certainly I will.’

  Unexpectedly, Tom asked, ‘Esmie, would you like a nightcap? I’m sure Charlie will join us.’

  Unnerved, Esmie shook her head. ‘Thank you but I’m ready for bed – and I want to make sure Harold is still sleeping comfortably.’

  Did he look disappointed by her reply? Esmie no longer knew how to read his penetrating looks.

  ‘Well, that just leaves me and you, Dubois,’ Tom said, his voice sounding falsely jovial.

  ‘Good night then,’ she said and made for the stairs. As she turned on the landing, she saw that Tom was still watching her. She gave a self-conscious smile and hurried on. By the time she reached her bedroom door she could hear the murmur of the men’s voices moving off.

  By the light of the table lamp, Esmie could see that Harold was sleeping peacefully. He had a touch of colour back in his face and the lines of tension across his brow had vanished. It struck her how often, when awake, her husband wore a perpetual careworn expression. He carried the concerns of so many on his shoulders. She felt another rush of guilt for the desire she harboured for Tom. She had made solemn vows to Harold that now weighed heavily on her heart.

  Esmie determined that, once and for all, she must rid her mind of feverish thoughts about Tom – and redouble her efforts to keep the promises she had made to her husband.

  Chapter 23

  Christmas morning passed pleasantly and more peacefully than Esmie had feared. In good spirits, Harold rose early and ate a hearty breakfast with the other guests. His sickness appeared over and Esmie suspected that the rich club dinner and too many drams with Tom had been to blame.

  Tom and Lydia came down just in time to accompany their friends to the morning service at the Scots Kirk. To Esmie’s relief, both of them seemed in good humour and Lydia hung on Tom’s arm as they walked into church.

  Esmie felt emotional as the building rang with the sound of hymn-singing and a padre from one of the Scottish regiments preached the sermon. Her eyes stung with tears as she thought of her dear Aunt Isobel and the patients gathering in the asylum chapel at Vaullay. When would she see them again? She exchanged looks with Harold and saw from his shining eyes that he was thinking of his loved ones at home too. She knew how much his mother and aunt would be missing him, even though they were used to him being away for years at a time. This was the biggest price that all those in service in India paid for working abroad: the long separation from family and home.

  Afterwards, they stood in the sunshine as members of the congregation greeted each other. Being Presbyterian, the celebration of Christmas was low-key, yet there was a convivial air. No doubt the Anglicans at the garrison church would be belting out carols – is that where Dickie Mason and his fellow officers were this morning? – and perhaps there would be sherry and mince pies in the hall afterwards.

  But Esmie was content to slip her arm through Harold’s and stroll back along the Mall. She needed time with her husband.

  ‘We’ll go ahead by tonga,’ said Lydia. ‘We have to play lord and lady bountiful to the staff. See you back at the hotel for a stiff gin afterwards.’ She left, blowing them a kiss.

  ‘Lydia seems on good form today,’ commented Harold. ‘They’ve obviously got over their tiff.’

  ‘Tiff?’ Esmie queried, hiding her disquiet.

  ‘In the night,’ he said. ‘Heard them arguing. I suppose it woke me up.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ Esmie admitted.

  ‘No, you were sound asleep.’

  ‘Could you hear what it was about?’

  ‘No. Though I think I heard Tom shouting about Dickie.’ Harold glanced at her. ‘Did something happen last night at the dance?’

  Esmie coloured. ‘Lydia and Dickie spent a lot of time together. She was in high spirits – you know what Lydia’s like – and Dickie is a bit of a flirt too. I think Tom read more into it than was really going on.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Harold. ‘Lydia breaks hearts without even knowing it.’

  Esmie
was jolted by his words. Was that how he still felt about her? She decided to ignore the comment.

  ‘I think there’s something else that’s upsetting Tom,’ she confided. ‘He seems to think he’s being ostracised by some of Rawalpindi society for leaving the Peshawar Rifles.’

  Harold seemed startled by this. ‘He told you that?’

  ‘Yes; when we went for a drive yesterday.’

  ‘What did he say exactly?’

  ‘That Dickie was avoiding riding with him because of it – and army people in particular thought he’d let them down.’

  ‘Poor Lomax,’ Harold said with feeling. ‘Has anyone said anything to you about it? Has Lydia?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Good,’ said Harold.

  ‘So you think there’s something in it?’ Esmie asked.

  Harold gave an evasive shrug. ‘Shouldn’t listen to cantonment gossip. Tom left the Rifles for honourable reasons.’

  Esmie glanced at him in surprise. She hadn’t ever questioned that Tom would have left for reasons that weren’t honourable. She had a suspicion that Harold was keeping something from her. But she didn’t want to spoil the good mood between them, so didn’t press him further.

  By the time they’d meandered back to the hotel, Tom and Lydia had already distributed gifts to the Duboises and the other staff and servants. Up in the Lomaxes’ sitting room, the tables and floor of the apartment were covered in baskets of fruit and bouquets of flowers which the Duboises and various hotel suppliers had given them.

  ‘How generous!’ Esmie exclaimed.

  ‘It’s nothing to the money and presents we’ve shelled out on the staff,’ Lydia said caustically. ‘And what are we going to do with all this fruit?’

  ‘Stick it in the cocktails,’ Tom said wryly.

  ‘Even we couldn’t get through that much,’ Lydia laughed. ‘No, it’ll all get used in the hotel – and probably bought with the money we gave them.’

  ‘Still,’ said Esmie, ‘you love flowers so that was kind of them.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Lydia was suddenly tearful. ‘It reminds me so much of Mummy – especially the gardenias.’

  Tom threw an arm around her and kissed her head. ‘Come on; no tears on Christmas Day.’ Quickly he handed round large glasses of gin and soda. ‘Let’s have a toast to the Templetons and all absent friends.’

  They raised their glasses and echoed the toast. Esmie was glad to see Tom being solicitous towards Lydia and that she was being affectionate in return. Perhaps last night they had cleared the air between them. Their difficulties were just a proverbial storm in a teacup and nothing more. Esmie didn’t think that her friends’ marriage could be seriously put in jeopardy by a trivial flirtation with Dickie.

  Esmie was painfully aware that she was a much greater threat to Lydia and Tom’s relationship, should she let her feelings be known. For she was deeply in love with Tom and should never have allowed herself to be alone with him. It mustn’t happen again.

  So Esmie declined a second drink and excused herself to go and thank Stella in person for her actions the day before. ‘She was so helpful to me over my outfit,’ said Esmie, ‘and then kindly looking after Harold.’

  Harold seized on the opportunity to go too, agreeing they would meet up for lunch in an hour.

  Esmie soon realised that all the Duboises were frantically busy making preparations for Christmas lunch and looking after the residents. She quickly handed over a present to Stella.

  ‘Just a little something for you as a thank you for yesterday.’

  Stella gaped at her in astonishment. ‘But I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ Esmie said with a smile.

  ‘You were my Florence Nightingale,’ Harold reminded her.

  Stella gave a bashful grin and tore at the wrapping paper.

  ‘Don’t rip it,’ Myrtle cried. ‘You can use it again.’

  The adults laughed as Stella stopped to carefully unknot the string instead, her excitement palpable. Inside was an Indian rag doll exquisitely dressed in a crimson sari, miniature leather slippers, brass earrings and glass bangles. Esmie had spotted it when shopping with Lydia. She’d bought two: one for Stella and one to keep for Gabina for when she was older.

  Stella couldn’t hide her look of disappointment. Esmie wondered if the girl thought herself too old for dolls. She didn’t really know what seven-year-olds played with these days.

  ‘Thank you,’ Stella said, trying to appear pleased.

  ‘I can always exchange it if you’d rather choose another one – or something else.’

  ‘No,’ said Myrtle hastily, ‘she’ll love it. It’s beautifully made – and so kind of you, Mrs Guthrie.’

  Esmie went away baffled. ‘She was probably just overwhelmed that you’d bought her a present. It was a kind thing to do,’ Harold assured her.

  At one o’clock, they all sat down for Christmas lunch in the dining room. Lydia chose Ansom and Fritwell to sit at their table with Esmie and Harold. It was a convivial affair and no one seemed to mind that the food was mediocre, the Bengali chef struggling to produce the traditional turkey luncheon that Myrtle had ordered. There was a rather watery but spicy chestnut soup followed by stringy roast fowl, boiled potatoes, cauliflower, cabbage and bread sauce that tasted of nutmeg. Tom made sure there was plenty of wine or beer for those who wanted it. The Dubois children proudly carried in two large Christmas puddings and handed them over to Tom, who poured brandy over the desserts and set them alight. The diners oohed and aahed as the blue flames flared and then died.

  Stella said eagerly, ‘There’s a five-paise coin hidden in each pudding. I hope I win one!’

  ‘The pudding’s delicious,’ Esmie said, glad that she could genuinely say so. It was a cross between fruit cake and ginger sponge, lighter than the traditional Christmas puddings she was used to, with a rich spicy treacle taste and served with sugary brandy butter.

  ‘It’s an old family recipe of my wife’s,’ said Charlie. The Duboises were sitting at the next table.

  ‘Would you give it to me?’ asked Esmie. ‘Or is it a closely guarded secret?’

  ‘I’d be happy to share it,’ said Myrtle, looking pleased.

  Tom leaned over and handed a spoonful to Stella. ‘I’m too full. Can you finish this for me?’

  The girl’s eyes widened. She dropped the spoon onto her plate and fished out a piece of greaseproof paper. Unwrapping it, she squealed, ‘Five paise! Thank you, Captain Lomax!’

  Tom pretended to be shocked. ‘Oh no! Have I given away the coin?’

  Stella giggled. ‘Yes, you have!’

  ‘What a fool I am.’ He dramatically buried his head in his hands.

  For a moment, Stella’s face fell, wondering if he was being serious.

  ‘Would you like it back?’ she asked, holding it out.

  Tom looked up and laughed. ‘No, no.’

  Charlie put his arm around his daughter and chuckled. ‘I think the coin is yours to keep, sweet pea.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Tom reassured her as all the Duboises began to laugh. ‘I was only teasing.’

  Soon after, Lydia led her friends upstairs and ordered coffee to be brought to her sitting room.

  ‘Tom, you shouldn’t have teased Stella over that coin,’ chided Lydia as she sat down on the sofa. ‘She didn’t understand you were joking. Eurasians don’t have the same sense of humour as us.’

  ‘She understood perfectly,’ Tom replied.

  ‘Stella was thrilled with it,’ said Esmie. ‘It’s often the little things about Christmas that give the most pleasure, isn’t it?’

  Harold said ruefully, ‘That’s a good lesson for us all. Stella was happy with the surprise in the pudding rather than the expensive doll you gave her. I must mention it to Bannerman – it’s good material for a sermon.’

  ‘Didn’t Stella like the doll?’ Lydia asked.

  ‘She wasn’t very enthusiastic,’ Esmie admitted.

  ‘I to
ld you so,’ said Lydia. ‘You should have given her something practical like the woolly hat and gloves that I gave her. She was pleased as punch with those.’

  ‘Why did you think she wouldn’t like the doll?’ Harold asked.

  Lydia was forthright. ‘Well, it was too Indian. If you’d given her a British doll she would have loved it. That’s the thing about Eurasians – they’re always trying to be more British than we are.’

  ‘Darling!’ Tom exclaimed. ‘You do talk nonsense sometimes.’

  ‘Not nonsense,’ Lydia said, bristling. ‘I understand more about society here than you do, even though I’ve been here a fraction of the time. I listen and learn whereas you don’t.’

  Tom’s jaw clenched but he didn’t argue back. Lydia turned to Esmie.

  ‘By giving her an Indian doll you’re telling her you think she’s still a native. Which in a way she is; though the Duboises are desperate not to be.’

  ‘But I wasn’t trying to tell her anything,’ Esmie said, baffled. ‘I just liked the doll and thought she would.’

  Lydia shook her head. ‘Darling Esmie, you’ve still got a lot to learn about India. It’s just as well you’ve got me here to teach you what’s what.’

  Esmie wished Harold had never mentioned the doll and provoked further argument between Lydia and Tom about the Duboises, souring the cheery atmosphere. To try and regain his wife’s good humour, Tom suggested that they all had a trip along the Mall to see if there was any cricket being played at the cricket club. Harold quickly agreed.

  Esmie was glad to be out in the fresh air – it was another balmy winter’s day of cloudless blue sky and mellow sunshine – and was relieved that there was cricket to watch. Lydia was soon chatting with the Hopkirks and other Pindi friends who had come to walk off their Christmas meals.

  Taking Harold’s arm, Esmie murmured, ‘Let’s take a stroll around the boundary and leave Lydia to it.’

  Tom watched Esmie and Harold go. His head was fuzzy with too little sleep and too much alcohol. He would have to stop drinking so much once Christmas week was over – or perhaps after New Year – once the Guthries had gone back to Taha. For the moment, liquor numbed his feelings and helped him see life through a detached haze.