by Mary Nichols
‘No,’ she said. ‘I meant I would not marry for expediency’s sake.’
‘Then I strongly suggest you go home to England. There is nothing like family when you have a bereavement. I am sure Viscount Mountforest will be delighted to receive you.’
Emma doubted it. There had been bad blood between her father and his older brother and they had never corresponded in all the years Papa had been in India. As far as she was aware, her uncle did not even know of the existence of his niece and nephew.
She had asked her papa once why that was. She remembered it clearly because it was just after her mother died. He had returned from the Poona campaign in 1802 too late to see Mama alive and the effect on him of her untimely death had been distressing to watch. He blamed the climate; he blamed the way they were always being separated by campaigns which he felt were due to British expansionism and nothing to do with defending The Company’s people and property which was what he was paid for. But most of all he blamed himself.
‘I should have taken her home, no matter what,’ he had said, when he came out of his anguish sufficiently to speak of his wife at all. ‘The doctor said the climate would kill her…’
Emma, then eight years old and grief-stricken for her beloved mama, had not tried to placate him, she had simply demanded, ‘Why didn’t you? Take her back to England, I mean.’
He had looked at his little daughter and sighed. ‘It is not so easy, sweetheart, I am an exile, your mother understood that. She knew the whole story.’
‘What does exile mean?’
‘It means I was sent away and cannot go back.’
‘Not ever?’
‘I do not think so. Not unless certain people are prepared publicly to admit the wrong they did me and I do not think they will ever do that.’
‘Why not?’
He had smiled and taken her on to his knee, rubbing his chin across her hair, which had not yet taken on the auburn tones it now had and was a soft light brown. ‘Why all the questions? Do you wish to go to England?’
‘Not without you, but I think I might like to go on a visit, just to see what it is like.’
‘One day, perhaps, you will, when you are grown up and very rich, then it will not matter what the gossips say.’
‘What do they say?’
He had said nothing for a whole minute and she had begun to think he did not intend to answer her; when he did, his voice was so low she could hardly hear him. ‘They say that I have besmirched the name of a noble family, that I am responsible for a man’s death, that I am a coward, that I have no honour.’ He paused and then added softly, ‘But it was honour which bound me as surely as chains.’
She hadn’t understood then, nor even now when she was old enough to comprehend the meaning of the words. Her answer, spoken from the heart of a child, had pleased him. ‘Papa, you are the bravest man I know.’
His eyes had taken on a faraway look as if he were in another place at another time. Then he had hugged her and set her down. ‘Don’t worry, child, it was all for the best. I met and married your mother, here in Calcutta, and not for a single second have I ever regretted that. India has become home and I would have it no other way. I shall die here and no one in England will mourn me.’ He had put on a cheerful voice, but she had detected the note of sadness and knew he would brood over it until the end of his days.
‘Have your servant pack a bag and come with me now,’ Mrs Goodwright said. ‘You can stay with us until you leave.’
‘Thank you, ma’am, but I would rather stay here. There is so much to do, arrangements to make.’
‘Of course. But if you change your mind, you know you are welcome.’
Emma hadn’t contemplated leaving Calcutta, not even then. It had taken another shock to force her to consider it. She had gone to see Mr Chapman, who looked after her father’s legal and financial affairs. Papa had never spoken of money to them and, as they had never been stinted, she imagined they would be comfortable.
She realised how wrong she was before she had been in his office five minutes. Apart from small bequests to the servants, her father’s will left everything to her and Teddy equally. This was no surprise, but what took her aback was the tiny amount involved.
‘Your father was always generous and never saw the need to husband his resources,’ Mr Chapman said. ‘He was indifferent to money and never bothered to collect his debts, though he was always scrupulous in paying his own.’
‘But surely he must have done some trading?’ she queried, knowing that it was common practice for Company employees and soldiers to supplement their pay with private trade. Some of them had become very wealthy by it. ‘Everyone does that in India, don’t they? Silks, spices, precious stones, opium, bought and sold for profit.’
He smiled at her over the top of his spectacles, which were perched on the end of his nose. ‘The days of the nabob are passed, Miss Mountforest. Company employees, whether civilian or soldier, are no longer allowed to trade privately. Oh, I know it is still done, but if your father was ever engaged in it, I know nothing of it.’
‘He was obviously a great deal more scrupulous about such things than his contemporaries,’ she said. ‘An honourable man.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘I believe he received an allowance from England,’ she said. ‘Will that continue?’
He looked embarrassed and shuffled the papers on the desk in front of him as if reluctant to speak. ‘The allowance was paid to Major Mountforest by his father and was conditional on his never returning to England,’ he said. ‘It ceased when his brother succeeded to the title.’
‘My uncle stopped it?’ she asked, in disbelief.
‘Yes.’
‘Then what are we left with, my brother and I?’
‘A small pension from The Company. It may be enough to live on if you are frugal. It is certainly not enough to pay school fees.’ He paused, then went on in a kindly voice, ‘I am so sorry, my dear; perhaps you should write to your uncle. I cannot believe he will hold his brother’s sins against you. As soon as he knows your circumstances, I am sure he will send for you to go and live with him.’
‘The sins were not my father’s but his brother’s,’ she retorted. ‘I would not go to him.’
‘Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, you may have to,’ he said, as Emma stood up to leave. ‘It might be as well to swallow your pride and make the best of it, for what can you do here?’
She returned to the bungalow where Teddy, red of eye and puffy of cheeks, had been going round touching everything—the ornaments, the pictures, the tiger’s head—as if by doing so he could convince himself of the enduring nature of things, that if everything around him stayed in exactly the same place, their father might still be alive.
It worried Emma, because he hardly spoke and was certainly in no mood to make plans which would mean altering their way of life. She delayed saying anything, hoping he would come out of his grief and listen to her, though what she was going to tell him, she did not know.
Instead she set about finding work. Everyone was kind to her, though critical of her father who had been so shortsighted as to think he was immortal, and him a soldier too! But it didn’t alter the fact that no one had anything to give her to do for which they were prepared to pay her and Mrs Goodwright wanted to know why she had changed her mind about returning to England when it was so obviously the thing to do. She could not, of course, tell her the true story, nor admit that they simply did not have their passage money.
Her prevarication came to an end very suddenly a month later, when, in the middle of the biggest downpour Calcutta had seen for years, she received notice to quit the bungalow.
She took it to Captain Goodwright, whom she found at the fort, hoping he might be able to help her. ‘I cannot believe anyone could be so callous,’ she said. ‘It is only a month since…’
‘I know, my dear, but the bungalow is the designated quarters of a major and there is one coming soon to replace
Major Mountforest. You do understand, don’t you?’
‘But where are we to go?’
‘England,’ he said. ‘I really think you should consider it. The war in Europe is over at last and Napoleon has been sent into exile. There would be no danger.’
Exile: her father’s, Napoleon’s and now her own, for that was what it seemed like to her. She left him quickly before he could see her tears; the first she had shed since the day she learned of her father’s death. And now they had come, she could not stem the flow. People were looking at her with curiosity and she sought shelter among the trunks of a banyan tree on the Maidan, where she allowed herself the luxury of a good sob, watched by a couple of monkeys, who were sitting in its branches.
Later, when her ribs ached and her handkerchief was sodden, she stopped. Feeling sorry for herself would not achieve anything, but letting herself go had done her good. She emerged from her hiding place, straightened her back and walked home, unaware of the horses, carts of produce, fiacres, tongas, ekkas and pedestrians that eddied round her, nor the steady drip of water from trees and rooftops, which soaked her bonnet. Her mind was still in tumult, but one decision had been taken from her; she could no longer put off speaking to Teddy.
Her brother was still apathetic, but at least he was coming out of the trance-like state which had so worried her, and he sat down to listen to what she had to say with grave attention. ‘We have to leave the bungalow,’ she said. ‘And I think it best if we go to England. We have relatives there.’
‘What relatives?’ he demanded. ‘I have never heard of any.’
‘Viscount Mountforest is our uncle. I am sure he would help us.’
‘Why did Papa never mention him?’
‘I believe they quarrelled.’
‘What about?’
‘I do not know. All I know is that Papa was blamed and sent out here to India and told never to return.’
‘And you expect us to go cap in hand to him?’ he demanded, getting up from floor and pacing the room.
‘Then what do you suggest we do?’
‘Work. At least, I will and you must find yourself a rich husband with a title.’
She managed to laugh, though it sounded hollow. ‘I tried to find work, but no one would give me any. And there are no rich men with titles out in India…not unmarried ones, anyway.’
‘Then we’ll go to England, but not to our uncle. We’ll manage without his help. We’ll make our own way and when we’ve done it, we will force him tell the truth. Papa would never do a dishonourable deed. Never.’
His anger was preferable to his misery, she supposed, but she was beginning to wonder what devils she had unleashed in telling him about their father’s exile. He had suddenly turned from a grieving boy to a very angry young man. And who could blame him?
‘No, of course he wouldn’t,’ she said, deciding to say no more about their uncle for the present. Later she would try and talk to him again. ‘But we cannot go until we’ve raised the passage money.’
‘You’ve got jewellery, haven’t you?’
‘A little, yes. Not enough.’
‘And there is the furniture and the…’ He gulped suddenly, but he was too angry for sentiment. ‘The horses. Prime beasts they are.’
‘Teddy, are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ He kicked at the tigerskin rug. ‘This should fetch a few rupees.’
‘But Papa shot that.’
‘So he did, but what is it good for now, when very soon we will not have a floor to lay it on?’
It had taken time to wind up their father’s affairs, to pay off the servants and make sure they had good positions to go to, to sell the horses and every last stick of furniture, though Emma drew the line at parting with the tigerskin. She would take it with her as a memento of her father. Long before their preparations were complete, they were obliged to take Mrs Goodwright up on her offer.
Within a week Emma was thankful that it was only a temporary state of affairs. The good lady, while meaning well, was dictatorial to say the least, and full of advice about what Emma should and should not do in England. She even gave her a little book of etiquette which afforded her guest a great deal of merriment.
‘And we must do something about your clothes,’ she said. ‘I have one or two gowns I no longer need, they are far too warm for this climate. I am sure with a little deft needlework, we can make them fit you.’
‘It is very kind of you, ma’am, but—’
‘No buts. I shall not miss them, I assure you, and you certainly cannot travel to England in a sari. People will think you are half-Indian.’
Emma did not think that was of any consequence, but the matter of a wardrobe had been giving her some problems. The more she spent, the less there was left to live on and telling herself that beggars can’t be choosers, she accepted gratefully and set about her sewing, with the help of a pattern book Mrs Goodwright had had sent out from England.
It was well into the new year before they said goodbye to all their friends, both European and Indian, and paid a last visit to their mother’s grave in the English cemetery. ‘We will come back,’ Teddy said, hiding his distress behind anger. ‘When I have avenged Papa.’
Emma did not remonstrate with him; it would have done no good and she was too choked with tears to speak.
Later in the day, they went aboard the Silken Maid for the voyage to England and a new life with a new name.
Unsure if the scandal attached to their father was still remembered and not wishing to draw attention to themselves, they decided to change their name. So it was Miss Emma and Mr Edward Woodhill who sailed up the Thames to the East India Dock that misty April afternoon.
Emma saw the revenue man and the health inspector leave and knew it was time to go. She could see her old black-painted tin trunk sitting on the quay not far from the gangplank. It looked lonely and isolated, just as she felt. She sighed; it was no good standing there, waiting for a miracle. She turned slowly and made her way along the deck to the gangway but before she could begin the descent, she became aware of a man starting up towards her.
He had evidently not seen her for otherwise he would have stood aside to allow her to come down first, there being no room to pass. It was difficult to see his face because at that angle his top hat obscured it, but he was young and lithe, judging by the way he dashed up the plank. He was dressed in a brown frockcoat and beige pantaloons and was certainly not one of the dockers.
He checked himself when his head reached the level of the deck and he saw her feet, clad in soft black kid. Looking upwards, past a voluminous burnous, he met the gaze of a pair of amused green eyes. In one bound, he reached the deck and stood to doff his top hat, revealing a shock of fair curls. He was also very tall. ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, I did not see you waiting. Pray, forgive me.’
His voice had a warm quality matched by his brown eyes, eyes that held her in thrall. She stood motionless, unable to turn away. It wasn’t like meeting a stranger; it was as if she were being reunited with an old friend, someone she had known forever. She could have told anyone who asked, that he liked his fellow human beings, that he was always gentle with them, that his favourite food was pork and apple pie; that he enjoyed a glass of wine, but was by no means a drinker; that he was chivalrous to women and honourable to men; that he disliked humbug and hated racial prejudice.
She smiled suddenly at her fantasy, realising she had been describing her father, but that didn’t alter the fact that she was sure she was right. Pulling herself together, she put her palms together in front of her face in the Indian manner, and bowed towards him. ‘Think nothing of it, sir.’
For a moment he was taken aback. She had a graceful carriage which reminded him of pictures he had seen of Indian girls in saris, balancing jugs on their heads. Her complexion was smooth and golden, but her eyes were green and the wisp of hair which had escaped from the hood of her cloak was a warm chestnut brown, almost auburn, and though her voice had a soft lilt, i
t had no accent. He smiled. ‘May I escort you down?’
‘No, thank you, my brother is with me.’ She looked about for Teddy, but he had disappeared. Trust him to wander off, just when she needed him. ‘I expect he has gone to fetch our hand baggage from the cabin.’
He bowed and left her, making for the companionway and she went down the gangplank, setting her foot upon English soil for the first time, wondering who the young man was. The ship’s owner, perhaps, then she should have taken the opportunity to speak to him of the poor accommodation.
On the other hand he might be a passenger, intent on the outward journey and in that case they were bound in opposite directions. Or he might simply be a friend of the Captain. She turned to look back but he had gone from sight.
Dominic made his way down to the Captain’s day cabin, musing on the encounter and wondering what was beneath that all-enveloping cloak. The girl was not a beauty by accepted standards, nor was she dressed in anything like the latest mode, but there was something about her that made her out of the ordinary. It might have been her grace; that simple movement of her hands had charmed him. But those green eyes! They were speaking eyes, if such a thing existed.
They told of humour, sadness, pride and compassion in equal measure, yet behind them was a mind that was thoughtful and independent. He checked himself suddenly. How could he possibly deduce so much from a few seconds’ exchange? He smiled at his own foolishness and knocked on Captain Greenaway’s door. There were other things to occupy him. His cargo, for one.
‘Lord Besthorpe.’ The Captain left his desk to come forward, hand outstretched. ‘How good it is to see you.’
Dominic took the proffered hand. ‘Not half as good as it is to see you, Captain. Did you have a good voyage?’
‘It was somewhat rough, but we weathered it. I believe the cargo took no harm. I have spices and the finest silks, saltpetre, opium and precious stones. I have kept those here.’ And he took a key from the drawer of his desk and unlocked a stout cupboard. ‘They are mostly uncut diamonds and rubies, but they should make a tidy profit.’ He took a bag from the cupboard and tipped its contents on the desk. ‘There! What do you say to those?’
