‘When can we meet again?’
‘A week today?’
‘So long?’
‘I must be careful not to arouse suspicions. A week today, dear Richard.’ She smiled at him. ‘Promise me you will not importune. That would be disastrous!’
He kissed her nose. ‘I shall ignore you completely, for a whole week, Barbara.’
She laughed, deliciously. ‘And I shall ignore you. But…a week today.’ She kissed him a last time, then led him back to where their horses were waiting.
*
Clearly she was the most unprincipled flirt. The thought that one of his sisters—he had three—could possibly behave in so unseemly a manner quite alarmed him. To survey a group of men, and decide: I want you and will have you, and then set out without hesitation to secure her prize...but he was the prize she had selected. Therefore her forwardness became positively desirable. He was the man on whom she intended to bestow all of that strength, all of that sexuality, and of course, all of that love. No matter that she clearly felt she was being forced to love where she was not perhaps quite ready, for fear of being confronted with an unpalatable choice. She was his. Nothing else mattered.
*
He spent the next week in a state of euphoria, which confounded Forsythe in view of his recent pessimism and general disenchantment with his situation, and especially as he denigrated Miss Smythe at every opportunity, and quite refused to attend her at church.
‘I sought to approach her in a friendly fashion last week, and was thoroughly snubbed for my pains. I’ll not expose myself to such rejection again.’
‘Hm,’ Forsythe commented. ‘Perhaps you approached the matter in too much of the spirit of a bull in a china shop. I take it, then, that you will not be accepting the invitation?’
‘What invitation?’
‘Why, to the reception at the Smythes’ a week come Saturday.’
‘You have received an invitation?’
Forsythe gave a shout of laughter. ‘So have you.’ He threw it on the table. ‘I merely doubted the necessity of giving it to you, if you’re so off the girl. But you’re not off her at all, are you? You are merely hurt because she did not respond to your loutish buttonholing.’
‘Yes,’ Richard said equably. ‘I am damnably hurt. But I shall certainly attend the lady’s soirée.’
*
‘We shall dance every dance,’ he told Barbara, as she nestled in his arms on the beach the following Monday.
‘That would be disastrous,’ she said. ‘No, no, I can allow you only one.’
‘One?’ he cried in dismay.
‘Of course, dear Richard. All the gentlemen will wish to dance with me. I cannot possibly accommodate them all in the time available. As for dancing with any one man more than once—you must see that is impossible.’
‘I suppose you are right,’ he said sadly.
His joy was quite crushed, but it recovered when she kissed him and, seeing how downcast he was, she took his hand and rested it on her breasts. He felt paralysed, unable to close the fingers.
‘Remember that I belong to you, dearest Richard,’ she told him. ‘No matter how I am forced to dissemble.’
*
The Smythes’ ball was the great occasion of the year, and the talk of the island. Dressmakers were beseeched to make new gowns for the ladies, house boys were employed by the hour in cleaning and polishing, starching shirts and cravats, endeavouring to make sure that each male guest would outshine every other.
‘How do I look?’ Forsythe asked, turning this way and that before his dressing mirror.
‘Quite splendid, my dear fellow,’ Richard acknowledged.
‘Well, you look fairly fine yourself. How soon do you think we should leave?’
‘We don’t want to be the first to arrive…’
‘Sahib should go now,’ Hanif recommended.
‘Eh? What for?’
‘Because it is commencing to rain, sahib. And the rain will soon be heavy.’
‘Damnation,’ Forsythe snapped. ‘The monsoon isn’t due for another month. We shall be soaked.’
They put on their cloaks, and Hanif and the yardboy produced umbrellas, but even so they were indeed damp by the time they reached Malabar Point, where they found that they were not after all the first arrivals; most of the other guests had also hurried out early at the first sign of rain. They too were wet, and the entry hall steamed, with women complaining that their hair was coming down and men endeavouring to get the mud off their boots.
‘Incredible, that the monsoon should have chosen this night to start early,’ Smythe said, signalling his boys to start moving amongst the guests with glasses of punch. ‘We will simply have to get as wet inside as out.’
The orchestra, recruited from the band of one of the sepoy battalions and wearing full dress uniform with silver facings on their red tunics, was already playing, and the great withdrawing room, in which the furniture had been pushed back against the walls, was all ready for dancing. The weather outside was very rapidly forgotten as the punch went down, the temperature went up, and the conversation began to seethe.
Besides, there was always Barbara to be admired.
For this special occasion she had produced the latest in English fashion, leaving men and women speechless. Her pale green satin dress was worn over panniers and ballooned around her in a mass of ruches and ruffles, overstitched with cloth of gold. Cloth of gold was also sewn into her bodice, not that there was much of that, for the gown was shoulderless—although her arms were concealed beneath ruffled sleeves as well as white gloves—and the décolletage was as dangerously low as anyone present had ever seen.
‘One almost expects ’em to jump out whenever she breathes,’ muttered old Mr Lanfrew, the senior writer.
No doubt Mrs Smythe had persuaded her against wearing a powdered wig in the Bombay heat; instead her auburn hair was carefully dressed, so that only a single ringlet lay on her left shoulder, the remainder being chignoned and decorated with ostrich feathers and pearls. She also wore a pearl choker which served to separate the handsome face from the alarming beauty beneath it.
Instantly she was surrounded by men eager to mark her card, and as she had prophesied, she had a difficult time deciding whom to accept. Richard pushed with the rest of them, suddenly terrified of being squeezed out, and indeed when he finally got to her there were still a dozen men round her, and...she tapped her teeth with her pencil. ‘There is only one dance left,’ she said plaintively. ‘Oh that I could share it with you all!’
She looked from face to face and they looked back, like convicted criminals praying for a reprieve, Richard thought. No doubt he looked as anxious as anyone. Barbara’s smile reached him. ‘Why, Mr Bryant,’ she said. ‘You have managed to come after all. I think, in reward for such devotion, that you should have the dance. Do you not agree, gentlemen?’
Her smile, and virtually her command, embraced them all, and if they had no idea what had almost prevented Richard from attending—neither did Richard—they could do no less than mutter their consent.
She held out the card. The vacant dance was the very last of the evening. He supposed that too was a compliment.
‘I trust you will be able to stay awake that late, dear Richard,’ she whispered as he wrote his name.
‘And I trust you will not be too exhausted, dear Barbara,’ he replied.
‘I am sure we will manage to hold each other up,’ she laughed, and tapped him on the shoulder with her fan, before turning to her partner for the opening number, who was already waiting.
‘Did you meet with any success?’ Forsythe asked.
‘Oh, indeed.’
‘Why, you scoundrel!’
‘My dear fellow, she is the guest of honour. Will you not dance with her?’
‘I tried, but gave it up fairly rapidly. I am afraid that, barring a miracle, the beautiful Miss Smythe is not for me. Now I suppose we had better do our duties.’
So they embar
ked on a round of courtesies to the wives of the senior writers and army officers. No doubt some of them had been pretty once, but heat and malaria, child-bearing and the sheer malaise of being married to men who drank too much, gambled too extravagantly, and no doubt kept Indian mistresses, had left them all sallow-cheeked, small-bosomed and enervated.
But they still wished to be treated like women, to gossip and flirt, especially with young men half their ages.
Some discussed the news of the war which, if still far away, seemed to be getting worse and worse as far as England was concerned. The rebels were trouncing their lawful rulers, while Spain had now elected to join Holland and France in alliance with the Americans, and was busily engaged in besieging Gibraltar.
‘Have you ever been to Gibraltar, Mr Bryant?’ inquired Mrs Lake.
‘Briefly, ma’am. On my voyage out.’
‘One does not know where it will end,’ said Mrs Lake. ‘Poor Arthur is beside himself with worry.’
Others mourned the death of David Garrick.
‘I saw him once, playing Shylock,’ said Mrs Hamilton. ‘Oh, it was a wonderful experience. Did you ever see him, Mr Bryant?’
‘Indeed I did, ma’am,’ Richard lied. ‘As you say, a wonderful experience.’
‘To think that the Polynesians have murdered Captain Cook,’ remarked Mrs Smythe. ‘Savages! I wonder why we interest ourselves in them, Mr Bryant. Truly I do.’
‘Oh, quite, ma’am,’ Richard agreed.
‘What do you think of Signor Spallanzani, Mr Bryant?’ inquired Mrs Holder. She was somewhat younger than the other matrons, under forty, certainly; with dark hair and a somewhat swarthy complexion. She was very nearly as tall as Richard himself, and just as thin. She was also well known as a rather desperate flirt; her husband, a major in the army, was presently absent, campaigning against the Marathas. Richard had heard that she had a slightly unsavoury reputation, and that, of the other wives, half shunned her while the rest merely felt sorry for her.
For once Richard was taken completely by surprise. ‘Spallanzani, ma’am?’
‘You mean you have never heard of Spallanzani, Mr Bryant? I should have thought his ideas would be of the utmost importance to you young men.’
The dance took them apart, and when they regained each other, she was smiling. ‘He is an Italian scientist,’ she said, ‘who claims to have proven a very important point. Would you like to hear what it is?’
‘Of course, ma’am,’ Richard said politely.
‘He claims to have found out exactly why and how women become pregnant.’
Richard gulped.
‘Did you know, Mr Bryant?’
‘I…ah…I’ve never really thought about it.’
‘Then how did you suppose a woman became pregnant? Merely by accepting a man’s embrace?’
‘I’ve never really thought about that either, Mrs Holder.’ He was sweating. Was this dance never going to end?
‘Apparently very few people have. But if Signor Spallanzani is correct , why…it opens up a whole host of possibilities, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I…I’m sure it does, ma’am,’
Thank God, the music had stopped.
He bowed over her hand. ‘That was most interesting.’
Her eyebrows arched. ‘Why don’t you take tea with me one afternoon, Mr Bryant, and we could discuss it further?’
‘Oh, ah…that would be very nice…’
‘Shall we say tomorrow afternoon?’
She knew he was about the only white in Bombay who didn’t play polo on Sunday afternoons.
‘Well…’
‘I shall expect you,’ she said. ‘Four o’clock.’
Richard gulped again. What on earth had possessed this ridiculous woman to seek a flirtation with him? She was married and almost old enough to be his mother. Maybe she was seeking something more serious than a flirtation. He had no idea what to do, save find Barbara.
He had indeed been finding her, with his eyes, all evening, watching her dancing with a variety of men, smiling into their eyes as was her habit, making them feel that each was the only man in the world for her. Of course it was all an act. He was the only man in the world for her, as she had made perfectly plain. To be jealous was absurd. She was playing a game, but only he knew it. He should be the proudest man on earth. He should be…
She was dancing with Berkeley Ford. Smiling at him with those come-hither eyes, and tapping him on the shoulder with her fan as if he had just made an improper suggestion. Well, no doubt the rascal had. But she was still smiling. It was all a game. He had to keep reminding himself of that.
He had done his duty sufficient for one evening. He sought the bar and a glass of punch. Forsythe was there. Indeed, he had hardly moved all night, and was more than a little tight. Richard was tempted to join him, and would have, but for that last dance. Still, a few glasses of punch made him feel better.
‘Saw you dancing with the Holder,’ Forsythe said. ‘I reckon she’s available.’
‘Yes,’ Richard agreed.
‘Mind you, when Mad Arthur gets home, if he were to find out...’
The music stopped. There was only the one dance left. He took a long breath and sought his prize.
Ford still stood with her, chatting. ‘Hello,’ he remarked. ‘A bit past your bedtime, isn’t it, young Bryant?’
‘I hope not,’ Barbara said, holding out her hand. ‘Mr Bryant is to dance with me.’
‘Is he?’ Ford looked astonished. ‘I didn’t think he knew how.’
The music was starting again, and Barbara led Richard on to the floor. ‘You do know how to dance, I hope, Richard,’ she whispered.
‘Indeed I do.’
Thanks to his sisters, he danced very well. He gazed into Barbara’s eyes, and then boldly down her décolletage. ‘When you look at me like that, I feel quite weak,’ she said.
‘Like what?’
‘So boldly. As if you were stripping me with your eyes.’
‘Would you like me to be able to do that?’
Her tongue peeped out from her lips, for a moment, and was withdrawn.
‘You have been at the punchbowl,’ she remarked slyly.
‘And should I not? Having to watch you disport yourself with all and sundry.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘Dear Richard, do not spoil what has been a memorable evening. I have saved this very last dance for you, because I value you above any other man in the room. I shall be in your arms on Monday morning. Can you wish anything more of me?’
He gazed at her, and loved her all over again. Before he could stop himself he had kissed the top of her nose. ‘Richard!’ she gasped.
They separated, and came back together.
‘I doubt anyone saw,’ he protested.
‘It was still an unforgiveable familiarity.’
‘But you forgive me? Say that you do!’
‘I’m not sure that I do forgive you.’
She was no longer smiling, and he realised that she was actually quite angry with him.
‘Then I can only pray for forgiveness, eventually, my princess,’ he said. ‘On Monday morning.’
‘If I am there, sir,’ she snapped.
The music stopped, and then started again, as God Save the King. The evening, to all intents and purposes was over. And they had quarrelled.
He bowed. ‘Dearest Barbara, I shall be there,’ he said. ‘If necessary, I shall wait for you forever.’
He straightened, gazed into her eyes. Were they softening? Before he could decide, she was surrounded by chattering people, and he was forced to the rear of the throng.
‘It’s pouring out there,’ Forsythe said gloomily. ‘We’re going to get very wet.’
‘Why, then, let us get wet.’
He wished only to get home and forget the whole sorry evening, dream only of Monday morning. She would be there. She had to be.
People were leaving, the lucky ones in closed, or at least sheltered carriages. Richard
and Forsythe pulled on their cloaks, and went down the steps to where their horses were being held by two grooms sheltering under umbrellas. They were stopped by three officers.
‘You’ll wait a moment, Bryant,’ Berkeley Ford said.
Richard frowned at him. ‘So that we can all catch cold?’
‘You’re going to catch more than that.’ Ford stepped into the area beneath the stairs. Here they were reasonably dry and completely private, and made the more so by the rain falling to either side. Only the grooms could have any idea they were there.
‘How do you explain the diabolical liberty you took with Miss Smythe?’
Richard was feeling fairly annoyed anyway with Barbara for her fit of pique, but he was happy to have another object on which to focus his anger, and the punch had rather gone to his head.
‘Whatever liberty I may have taken is surely between the young lady and myself, my dear fellow.’
‘Indeed? It revealed you to be an unmannerly scoundrel, who does not know how to behave in a drawing-room.’
Forsythe grabbed Richard’s arm. ‘Let’s away,’ he muttered. ‘I am damnably wet, and this fellow wishes to quarrel.’
‘Why, so do I,’ Richard snapped. ‘While you, sir,’ he said to Ford, ‘are a mountebank whose principal pleasure is tormenting helpless women.’
Ford scowled for a moment, then bared his teeth in a savage grin, and slapped Richard across the face.
Richard’s head jerked, and Ford continued to smile. ‘Mr Galpin will act for me.’
‘Will you name your second, sir?’ Galpin asked.
Richard swallowed, and glanced at Forsythe.
‘Here, I say,’ Forsythe protested. ‘Duelling is illegal.’
‘It is the only proper way for gentlemen to settle their differences,’ Galpin pointed out. ‘As everyone knows, including the courts. Will you act for Mr Bryant, or will you condemn him as a coward?’
‘I’ll fight. I’m no coward,’ Richard said, glaring at Ford.
Galpin gave a brief bow. ‘You have choice of weapons, Mr Forsythe.’
‘Pistols,’ Richard muttered.
‘Ah…pistols,’ Forsythe repeated.
‘Then shall we say—dawn? On the west beach.’
Sword of Fortune Page 5
