After that there would be no further communication between her and Lord and Lady Trevellyan. Yet, despite her philosophical understanding of the situation, she sighed with a deep unfamiliar feeling of regret.
She arrived at the hotel just as afternoon tea was being served in the dining room. Leaving Yang Ling in the foyer to wait for her, she went up the wide, curving staircase and along corridors, stopping outside a door. Next to it was a brass bracket with Lord and Lady Trevellyan written on the card. Her knock was not answered. Disappointed, she was about to turn away when she thought she heard a sound from within.
For some seconds she stood, not knowing what to do, then, her curiosity getting the better of her, she tried the knob. The door wasn’t locked. Hesitantly she pushed it open and entered a small ante-room. Slowly she moved to one of the two bedrooms and went in. The curtains were half-drawn so that the room was dimmed. A queer smell hung in the air. It was a sour stench—blood, she thought. Her eyes were drawn to the bed, where Lady Trevellyan lay against the pillows, a brightly patterned Chinese robe draped on top of the bed covers. Her eyes were wide open and staring. Her skin was pasty and beaded with perspiration, her eyes fever bright and there was a desperate look about her.
Concerned, Marietta went to stand beside the bed, but the poor woman didn’t acknowledge her presence. In her delirium she rambled and muttered softly. Marietta was both shocked and alarmed by her condition. She took a deep, controlling breath. Lady Trevellyan was obviously very ill and must have been like this for a long time. But where was her maid and why wasn’t her husband with her? Taking her hand, Marietta squeezed it gently, leaning over to speak.
‘Lady Trevellyan? It’s Marietta Westwood. I—I’ve come to return your fan. I found it at the ball at Government House. I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long.’ Placing the fan on the bedside table, she gazed down at her. Her voice must have penetrated Lady Trevellyan’s mind, for suddenly she clutched Marietta’s hand. Her fingers were dry and hot, her breathing shallow.
‘Marietta...? Oh, yes...I remember you—such a pretty little thing. You fell off your horse, didn’t you? Max was so angry—and you were so very brave. I congratulate you,’ she breathed softly. ‘There are not many people who would dare face up to my husband’s wrath head-on—especially a woman. Please don’t go—don’t leave me. I have been at my wit’s end, not knowing what to do.’
‘But you do look very ill. I think I should find someone...’
‘No—no, you mustn’t.’ Closing her eyes, she took a moment to catch her breath, her weakness almost overpowering her. ‘I need your help. There is no one else. You must promise to help me... He doesn’t love me, you see,’ she uttered quickly, her eyes opening and fastening on Marietta’s. ‘He doesn’t want me or our baby. What kind of man is it that doesn’t want his own child?’ she whispered wretchedly.
Marietta didn’t want to listen to this. ‘Please let go of my hand. I must get someone to help...’
‘No—no. Stay with me—you mustn’t leave me. Promise me you will help me.’
‘But how can I help you if I don’t know what the problem is?’ Marietta cautiously replied. ‘You look very ill. How long have you been like this? Have you seen a doctor? If not, I must get one to come and see you.’
She became alarmed. ‘No—no doctor.’
‘Are you in pain?’
She shook her head, exhausted and perspiring heavily. ‘Not any more. I was—but it’s over now. No one must know what I’ve done.’
‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’ Marietta’s heart began to pound and she had an awful premonition that what Lady Trevellyan was about to disclose would horrify her. ‘Lady Trevellyan—what have you done?’
‘The baby—he didn’t want it. I had to do it. Please don’t hate me. I had to get rid of the baby, you see... It was the only way...’ Calmer now and beginning to float away into a dark oblivion, she looked at Marietta as if she saw her for the first time. ‘How could he do this? He has ruined my life.’ Closing her eyes, she whispered, ‘Don’t fall in love, Marietta. All it brings is pain and heartache.’
‘But—your husband—he will support you.’
‘My husband?’ Her lips twisted with bitterness. ‘My husband hates me.’ She became still and closed her eyes. ‘I—think I’m bleeding. Would you—look?’
After several deep breaths, Marietta turned back the covers, steeling herself to look at the sickening pool of blood Lady Trevellyan was lying in. Her stomach rolled. So much blood— Oh God, she had seen it all before. Memories, images of her mother—three
babies—dead babies, two boys and one girl, two of them not quite right.
‘Oh, my goodness—what shall I do?’ Her face was frozen, but her eyes were enormous and there was
disbelief in them. She looked at Lady Trevellyan, only to find she appeared to have slipped into unconsciousness.
There was the taste of bile in her mouth. Feeling sick and terribly light-headed, she darted through the open door of the adjoining dressing room and was sick into a bowl. Reluctant to go back into the room, she wiped her mouth and slowly went to the door at the same time that someone came into the room. Unable to make her escape as a visiting stranger should have done, Marietta stayed where she was, her hands shaking as she pulled the dressing-room door to, so that it was almost closed, hiding like some dispossessed ghost. She watched what whoever had come in was doing through the crack. It was Lord Trevellyan. Holding her breath hurt her chest and throat. She exhaled silently, not wishing to draw attention to herself.
Striding to the bed, he stood and looked down at his wife. His back was towards Marietta so she couldn’t see his face, but she saw the tension in his shoulders as he pulled the covers up over his wife. Striding back to the door, he went out quickly.
Marietta emerged from the dressing room. Alone now, the silence settled around her like a shroud in the room with its elegant hangings and brooding pictures. Looking towards the bed where Lady Trevellyan lay so still, pity for the poor woman welled up within her. Not wishing to be found, she rationalised that it would be imprudent of her to stay.
So extreme were her thoughts that her brain retreated into some kind of limbo. She waited until her breathing was normal and the resolve to act like nothing untoward had occurred became cold and firm with her before she let herself out of the room, but she had no clear recollection of leaving the hotel, for the insensibility nature provides to protect the mind fell over her.
She thought she would wake any moment and find that it had all been a hideous nightmare, no more than that.
* * *
The next day when the sun came up over the harbour and the community was abuzz with Lady Trevellyan’s sudden and unexplained death, Marietta realised it had all been real and the reality of what she had witnessed began to solidify in her mind.
Her feelings for Lord Trevellyan had always been nebulous. Now a part of her hated him because she judged him to be cold, heartless, cruel and the cause of his wife’s death.
* * *
Monty Westwood’s health declined steadily over the following days. Fearing the end could not be long, Marietta sent for Dr White. It was a joyless time for her. She waited, looking drawn and anxious, the handkerchief in her hand limp and damp with her tears.
‘How is he?’ she asked when a sombre-faced Dr White appeared. ‘Is he worse?’
‘I fear so. You must prepare yourself.’
Bright tears filled her eyes. She swallowed and held herself very erect. ‘Then I will go to him.’
* * *
Because it was the height of summer the funeral was held without delay. Teddy took care of all the arrangements. After a brief ceremony Monty Westwood was laid to rest in the colonial cemetery on the island. Marietta held herself tightly in check as the coffin was lowered into the deep pit. The cleric intoned the final words of interment, reminding them all of where they had come from and where they would return to, then it was over.
It was a modest affa
ir with few mourners, for even in her innocence and grief Marietta was not ignorant of the rumours concerning her father’s questionable business affairs, which instigated cautious messages of sympathy.
From a discreet distance Max watched her. Even in the depths of his own misery, he could feel her despair. Her face was creased with pain and her eyes were lost and lonely, like those of a child who found itself among unfriendly strangers.
In a moment of weakness when Marietta felt that everything was just too much for her to bear, she swayed. Someone took her arm. She felt a chill touch her, and because there were some feelings too painful to hide, she spun round to find Lord Trevellyan by her side.
She was still in a state of devastation over the loss of her father and unable to shake off the appalling death of Lord Trevellyan’s wife and what had transpired in that hotel room. It had been a constant wearing down of her strength, which was at its lowest ebb. Now she looked at this man who would give her comfort. Through her pain, wonderingly she saw compassion in his eyes, but she didn’t want it. She didn’t want anything from him.
Her eyes were ice-cold green, hard and merciless when she spoke coldly and quietly, for his ears alone. ‘Please don’t touch me. You’re vile. I know about your wife. I know what she did—what you made her do. I had no idea you could be so brutal.’
Max stepped back. Her words cut him to the bone, sliced into his heart, but his face remained impassive. ‘You are at liberty to think so, Miss Westwood.’ He inclined his head stiffly. ‘I bid you good day.’
* * *
Afterwards close friends and acquaintances gathered at the house to discuss with a great deal of interest what was to be done with Marietta. She would spend the next twelve months in mourning. There would be no outings, no parties, no nothing. It had all been too much of a strain, for Marietta was far too shocked and weary to be dragged into the argument of where she would live.
It was a relief to her that the scene in the garden when Teddy had proposed marriage was not repeated. No doubt he had taken her at her word and was prepared to leave it at that. Besides, it was all taken care of—her father had seen to that. She had inherited his half of the business. Since it was unacceptable for a woman to enter into the male domain of business affairs, his lawyer told her he would deal with everything and send her regular reports.
He was astonished when she instructed him to find a buyer for her share in the business, and that he should approach Teddy, since he had shown an interest. She didn’t want it. She would not be party to anything that was illegal, that ruined people’s lives and might result in her being arrested.
* * *
Marietta was to go to her grandmother in England, who would be her guardian until she married or reached twenty-one. But Marietta didn’t want to go to England and live with some unknown old lady who would have charge of her. Even though Oliver and Julian had already left the island for England, she doubted that she would be allowed to see them. She wasn’t ready to leave. She didn’t want to leave Hong Kong. She didn’t want to change her life. She liked things the way they had been before... But she had no choice in the matter.
The weeks of her father’s illness and Lady Trevellyan’s death had had a profound effect on her. It had also made her strong. She felt a cold, powerful determination to endure like nothing she had felt before and that made her able to face things she hadn’t thought she could face.
* * *
On the long voyage to England, through the blistering heat of the Indian Ocean and the passage through the newly opened Suez Canal, which cut weeks off the voyage, as the knowledge of all that had happened surged through her veins, she had to stop and steady herself, to reassure herself that the years of carefree days, of laughter and dreaming, were behind her and, no matter what the future held, she must get on with it.
She was resolved to marry as soon as possible, because being a married woman would have its benefits. She would have more freedom, for it would liberate her from a good many restrictions—but no matter who she married, she was determined that there would be no children. Let other women bear them if they wished, but childbirth was not for her.
Chapter Four
The night was sultry, the sky a canopy of twinkling stars as the day slipped slowly by. Delicate lanterns suspended at intervals among the trees shone down on exquisitely manicured gardens, where the rich and privileged of London’s society promenaded. They wandered between herbaceous borders, pausing to admire the elegant Grecian statues and Roman gods and cascading fountains. The splendour and grandeur of the scene—a shimmering sea of sweeping skirts, rustling silks and satins all the colours of nature, and delicate lace festooned with ruffles and bows, low-cut bodices, sparkling diamonds and softly glimmering pearls, jewel-encrusted headwear festooned with feathers, hair arranged in curls and ringlets adorned with ribbons and flowers—gave to the occasion an effect so unique, so fraught with grace and grandeur, that it seemed exquisite, sublime and joyous.
Green liveried footmen passed among the guests with salvers of champagne and exotic delicacies. Inside the house tables were laden with an amazing feast—a riot of plenty to be eaten off Sèvres plates and wine to be drunk out of Venetian glasses. Guests wandered into the ballroom through French windows opening on to the lawns. Here music played by an orchestra floated out on to the air.
The whole was an elaborate display, exquisitely beautiful, for this reception being given by the Dowager Lady Wingrove in her London house for the introduction of her granddaughter into London society. To be invited to such an important occasion was an honour and a privilege and a true mark of distinction, for Lady Wingrove was only ever seen in choicest circles and her friendship with prominent members of royalty meant that her invitations were not bestowed lightly.
The orchestra stopped playing and a lightning bolt of anticipation fell over the guests. Heads turned, champagne glasses halted halfway to lips, conversation ceased in mid-sentence and left behind a silence. All eyes gravitated to the terrace. They waited with baited breath for this, their first glimpse of the girl from Hong Kong, possibly the wealthiest young woman to leave the island.
Two young women got up from the bench in the rose garden where they sat drinking champagne and nibbling on delicious delicacies. Here the mood was relaxed, the night air filled with the fragrance of roses, sparkling with laughter and conversation spiced with the knowledge that all present were unquestioned elite. One of the ladies was Lady Claudia Murray, a stunning, fair-haired beauty dressed in a low-cut gown of shimmering apricot satin and swirling lace. Her husband, Lord George Murray, was a Member of Parliament, his country seat in Kent.
As curious as everyone else, the two ladies moved closer to the terrace, craning their necks for a better look.
‘At last we are about to see the heiress for ourselves. Lady Wingrove has kept her under wraps for long enough. My dear husband George says he’s heard that she’s a stunning beauty,’ Claudia said, trying not to sound too acid.
‘I believe she is,’ her friend Amelia replied. ‘But what I don’t understand is why everyone is making such a fuss.’
‘Nor do I. George says she’s been raised to believe that money will open any door to her, and, with both her parents dead, her grandmother, whose ambitions for her granddaughter are limitless apparently, has her down for a coronet at least.’
‘I dare say that her kind of wealth can buy her pretty much any husband she chooses within the British aristocracy, but one cannot forget that her wealth stems from trade and if it’s a prince she’s after, then she’ll have to go abroad, where royal titles are plentiful.’
‘That is quite true, Amelia,’ Claudia replied, working her fan vigorously, ‘although there is more than one impecunious blue-blooded man here who would welcome a commoner as his bride if she’s rich enough to enable him to rebuild and refurbish his crumbling estate.’
‘If she proves to be the intelligent beauty everyone is talking about, then she might well wring an offer out of a
duke.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Amelia. There isn’t one duke I can think of without a wife.’
Amelia cast a smug look at her friend. ‘You are mistaken, Claudia,’ she said in a breathy voice. ‘One particular duke does come to mind.’
‘It does? Who?’
Amelia directed her gaze back to the terrace, a faint smile tugging her lips, for she knew perfectly well how her next words would upset Claudia. ‘The Duke of Arden. If what everyone says about Lady Wingrove’s granddaughter is true, then he might find her as irresistible as the rest. Have you ever seen him with a woman who wasn’t a raving beauty on his arm? He’s just come back from America, has he not? If anyone should know, it is you.’
Amelia’s words hit their intended target. Claudia stiffened and her face turned ashen. ‘He wouldn’t,’ she whispered hoarsely.
‘And you are certain of that, are you, Claudia? You know how fond Lady Wingrove is of the Duke of Arden. It’s quite possible she’s paired him up with her granddaughter already.’
They fell silent as they fixed their eyes on the terrace. Two pairs of matching footmen stood on either side of the French doors, their faces impassive in the lantern light. The butler stood to one side, his back ramrod straight, and in stentorian tones announced Lady Wingrove and her granddaughter Miss Marietta Westwood.
Then on to the terrace stepped Lady Wingrove, majestic and elegant in saffron-coloured satin and a diamond necklace. With her white hair and the delicate lines on her face, she looked every one of her sixty-five years, but with a regal quality that made her transcend age.
But it was the young woman who was just a step behind her that everyone’s eyes were focused on. Rumours were rife concerning this lovely young woman, and word was out that she was already being tipped as the next Season’s leading lady of society. Holding her gloved hands loosely at her waist, the exotic goddess with a face of unforgettable beauty stood straight and slender with her head held high. She stared out over the crowd, her slightly slanting, lustrous olive-green eyes above high, delicately moulded cheekbones opened wide. Her reddish-brown shining hair was swept up in a mass of curls about her head, while a fat soft ringlet was draped over one bare shoulder. Her lips were generous, her nose perfect, her cream-coloured silk gown simple yet exquisite. Made for her by one of London’s finest couturiers it skimmed every curve to the waist before floating down in a full skirt. Over it the softest net embroidered with hundreds of tiny crystals sparkled and glinted as though the gown had trapped a galaxy of stars.
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