Hewson appeared at the rail. “We will be docking soon,” he said as the first glimpse of the city of Para appeared around a bend in the river.
*****
Ships and native canoes crowded the busy port. Heavy-toned vessels from Europe unloaded materials for the ship builders. Bales of cotton were loaded onto the ships heading north.
Exotic Para was a city of white buildings roofed with red tiles, dotted with palm trees and ringed by forests. The towers and cupolas of churches and convents rose against a brilliant blue skyline, which was a jolt to the eye after the crepuscular skies of the cold north. A banquet of color sound and movement that was hard to take in.
The men walked through the narrow streets. Heavy rain fell without warning, startling them. Not gentle rain like at home, but needle-like drops, drumming into the streets, filling the gutters and forming rivulets across the road in a matter of minutes. The men sought cover in a doorway, but a moment later, the rain ceased abruptly, as if someone had turned off a tap. It refreshed Julian and offered some relief from the hot, moist air, but proved a brief respite, before a heavy blanket of heat settled over him again. They continued through the busy throng of merchants, soldiers and priests appearing like magic from the shops and buildings.
A woman passed them carrying a red water-jar on her head, her hips swaying. Julian turned to watch her, marveling at her grace and balance. Hewson met his eye and winked. “What a pity English women don’t do that.”
“Everything is magnified here.” Forster grinned, obviously thrilled to be back. “The smells, the sounds, the sights. There’s one word for it—abundance.”
The fragrant air was heavy with the scent of fruit trees bowed down with blossoms and alive with humming birds, the tiny wings a blur, almost too fast for the human eye to see.
Conscious of the cacophony of whirring cicadas, Julian paused to absorb the ripeness and brilliant color, the antithesis of England’s muted tones. Para was impossibly bright and burgeoning with life, it bored its way into his soul, its rampant beauty almost hurting his eyes.
The men had been invited by a local government official to stay in a bare, stone-walled country house. They would remain in Para for a few days while they saw to the landing of their baggage and apparatus, and hired native bearers and pack mules. They spent the rest of the day checking through their provisions, as they were unloaded on the dock. Hewson examined the mosquito nets for holes, Horace Carpenter scanned the medical supplies, and Julian checked the food and the rest of the equipment with Lord Foster. Boyed, they discovered all had arrived unscathed. However, the most taxing part of the journey was yet to come. Continuing by river, they planned to use the many tributaries which would take them closer to their destination in a relatively short period. After that, they had a trek on foot through the awaiting jungle.
The accommodations were Spartan but adequate. It would be the last reasonably comfortable quarters they would enjoy for some months. As the men sat around drinking and talking, Julian wandered outside. A small flock of brightly colored parrots flew two by two at a great height in the blue sky. Raindrops lay moist on the foliage, steaming in the glowing sun. A two-tailed yellow lizard climbed a stone wall, disappearing into a brilliantly flowered creeper, and a wonderful variety of butterflies rode the soft breeze. Julian waited for the usual kick of excitement such a sight gave him. It failed to emerge; instead, he felt his shoulder muscles tighten. Would everything be all right at home, he asked himself for the hundredth time. He went inside to write Vanessa a letter, planning to send it that afternoon, knowing it would not reach them for some time.
As night fell, they ate a meal and discussed the first leg of their journey as insects circled and hurled themselves against the glass lamps. Hewson bashed at a brazil nut with an iron frying pan. “Hard as a rock,” he said, giving up. “A macaw can crush these to a pulp with its mighty beak, but I need a hammer.”
Night descended quickly to utter blackness. Julian swayed in his hammock, listening to the shrill crickets and croaking tree frogs. He swung gently, missing Vanessa’s soft body beside him, and waited for sleep to claim him in the strange, makeshift bed.
An hour later, with snores erupting around him, Julian was still wide-awake. He gave up and fumbled to light a candle, then left the hammock. After moving outside into the warm night, he lit a cigarillo from the candle and stared into the velvety darkness.
Hewson joined him. “I can’t sleep either. It takes a while to adjust to this heat.” He sat beside Julian and lit his pipe. He winked at Julian. “Missing home? I was initially surprised at your choice of bride, I must say, but on meeting Vanessa, I understood. She’s refreshing.”
Julian nodded. When he married Vanessa, he’d been prepared for some barely disguised astonishment from friends and colleagues, but hadn’t cared about their opinion, as long as Blythe was happy. Blythe’s face had lit up when told of their plans to marry. Her little face was more fascinating to him than the electric illumination newly revealed to audiences at the Royal Institute in London.
“I’d begun to think you would pick the Patterson girl,” Hewson said. “Sulky piece that. She seems desperate to escape her mother.” He grimaced. “And her mother had you in her sights.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“You wouldn’t, Grieve. You never see much farther than your latest specimen.”
Julian yawned. “I don’t see why I attracted Mrs. Patterson’s attention. There are far bigger fish to fry. The Earl of Summerforde for one.”
“Dry as dust and old to boot.” Hewson cast Julian a shrewd look. “Perhaps it’s the daughter who picked you.”
Julian shrugged and tapped his cigarillo out on the wall.
“I worried that you would never get over Clara,” Hewson went on. “Clara’s beauty was peerless.”
“You don’t find the sort of love I felt for Clara twice in a lifetime,” Julian said. It had been the destructive kind that burned a fellow up, and he understood well enough why his marriage had failed. Clara had hated his frequent absences. She wished him to worship at her feet as many men had done, but that wasn’t in his nature. He was contemptuous of those ruled by passion; it seemed uncivilized. He preferred to remain the master of his emotions.
Hewson tapped out his pipe. “I think I’ll try to sleep.”
Julian followed him in. He lay recalling the conversation he had with Abigail Patterson in the wood when he escorted her home the day after he and Vanessa had wed. He considered he’d had a lucky escape. He dwelt on what he would do if Vanessa were lying in the hammock with him. It would prove difficult but quite interesting. He smiled as he fell asleep.
Chapter Sixteen
Autumn gained a steady hold on the landscape, as the last of the leaves fell, joining great drifts to be raked up and burned by the gardeners. Here and there over the estate grounds, thin trails of smoke spiraled into the cooling air.
As the weather remained fine, Vanessa and Blythe ventured out through the Hall front gates. The going was smoother on the road; they sailed along, exerting little energy on the gradual downhill slope towards the village. Blythe’s laughter filled the air. Delighted, Vanessa laughed too. Blythe’s simple joy of life had been absent for a while.
“Shall we go as far as the village, Nessa?”
“Aren’t you tired?”
Blythe shook her head. “Can we have scones, jam, and cream at the teashop?”
She smiled. “Like a Cornish cream tea? What a splendid idea.” Lessons would have to wait. Heavens, she was becoming as indulgent as Julian was.
Blythe had no trouble cycling the few miles to the village teashop. Vanessa was pleased to see how the exercise put roses in the girl’s cheeks and brightened her eyes. They chose a table beside the window.
A curricle pulled up outside, and a smartly dressed gentleman stepped down. When he caught sight of Vanessa and Blythe through the window, he removed his hat and bowed. With a sigh of dismay, Vanessa replaced her cup in its sauce
r and turned to welcome Charles Frobisher as he walked through the door. “This is a nice surprise,” he said. “May I join you?”
“Please do,” Vanessa said. “Blythe, have you met Mr. Frobisher, a colleague of your father’s? My stepdaughter, Blythe.”
Mr. Frobisher nodded. “I met Miss Blythe briefly at the tennis party.”
He removed his dark coat. Placing his hat, gloves, and cane on the spare chair, he sat down.
Julian had forbidden her to associate with Charles, but she could hardly refuse him without being rude. “Has your father’s health improved, Mr. Frobisher?”
He nodded. “He is much recovered, thank you.”
“I’m surprised to find you in our neck of the woods.”
“I have been calling on a friend.” He beckoned the waitress.
“Someone I might know?”
“You do. Miss Patterson.”
Vanessa felt uneasy for Miss Patterson, although she was hardly a friend. “I trust you found her well?”
“Positively blooming with good health, as you both appear to be, I must say. The air is fresher here than London and marvelous for the complexion, if you ladies are anything to go by.” His mouth pulled down at the corners. “It is the only good thing you can say about the area.”
The waitress brought an extra cup and saucer and a fresh pot of tea. “Will you be having something to eat, sir?”
“That will be all.”
Vanessa watched him add lemon and a teaspoon of sugar to his tea. “You prefer London to the countryside, Mr. Frobisher?”
“It offers more excitement, although I prefer Paris, a far more liberal city.”
“Surely one must temper excitement with relaxation.”
He paused to give her a level glance before taking a deep sip. “I have a lover’s thirst for excitement, Lady Falconbridge.”
Vanessa felt her face flush and glanced at Blythe. She had finished her chocolate and stirred restlessly in her seat. “When do you leave for the Amazon?”
“At the end of the week.” He put down his empty cup, making it possible for them to depart.
“We must leave you, I’m afraid. Blythe has a lesson.”
He stood and bowed. “We haven’t set a date for our trip to the museum.”
“Are we to go the museum?” Blythe asked, perking up.
“Your stepmother and I planned to take you,” Frobisher said. “Wouldn’t you like that?”
“I don’t believe we can impose on Mr. Frobisher’s time, Blythe,” Vanessa said quickly. “He has to prepare for his trip. But I promise to take you.”
Frobisher’s eyes glittered. “I’m sure Miss Blythe would appreciate my expertise.”
“No, thank you. Nessa will take me,” Blythe said, coolly polite.
He looked at Blythe intently. “You have your mother’s delicate features, Miss Blythe. You are sure to be a beauty in a few years.”
“We must go.” Vanessa helped Blythe into her coat and gathered up her gloves. “Goodbye, Mr. Frobisher, I do hope your trip is a productive one.”
“Do you wish me to carry a letter to your husband, Lady Falconbridge?”
“Thank you, but there’s no need as we write regularly.”
He opened his mouth. She waited with dread for him to give her away and say it was unlikely Julian would receive them, but he merely nodded.
“I hope you have a successful trip.” Vanessa took Blythe’s hand and led her into the street. His offer to take a letter had been tempting, but she had no wish for Julian to think she’d been spending time in Charles Frobisher’s company.
As they left the village, Blythe pedaled close beside her. “You don’t like Mr. Frobisher, do you, Nessa?”
How perceptive Blythe was, Vanessa thought. “I don’t know him well.”
“I don’t like his eyes. Can we ride our horses tomorrow?”
“I do believe you are horse crazy, Blythe.”
She giggled. “I prefer animals. Some people aren’t nice.”
“Many people are nice.”
“You are, and Father is.”
“And so are you, sweetheart.” Vanessa felt fiercely protective of her and disliked that Blythe had ever encountered a man of Frobisher’s ilk, although it was clear his false charm hadn’t fooled her.
They rode along, her thoughts centering on Miss Abigail Patterson, her jealousy of the woman forgotten. Had she become involved with that man? Vanessa hoped not.
*****
Weeks followed without incident through the autumn chill and mists, the days growing shorter and colder, and then Christmas was upon them.
On Christmas Eve, snow gathered in great drifts, softening and muffling the landscape. It was pretty, and a white Christmas would have been enjoyable but for the big hole in their lives, Julian’s absence had made.
When Vanessa visited the kitchen to stir the sixpences into the plum pudding, she found it decked out with holly. Cook was busy making mincemeat and wassail, and preparing oyster stuffing for the goose. The house rang with good cheer, which made Vanessa miss Julian even more. She busied herself organizing the staff bonuses and gift boxes and buying Blythe’s presents, which she hid in her wardrobe. As she worked, she reflected on how small their family was. Would there be more children around the table in coming years? She prayed it would be so.
Vanessa and Blythe dressed the tall pine Christmas tree in the corner of the drawing room. Bright red stockings hung on the fireplace mantel waiting to be filled. The house had taken on a festive air, as if everyone willed it to be a good Christmas. Vanessa doubted even Blythe was fooled by it.
A carriage came down the drive. Moments later, the knocker was sharply rapped.
“The Earl of Gresham, my lady,” Johnson announced at the drawing room door.
Stunned, Vanessa clambered to her feet, clutching a colored globe as the well-dressed man entered followed by a footman with his arms full of wrapped gifts.
“Uncle William, how very nice to see you.” Vanessa hurried to kiss his cheek.
“And you, my dear.”
Her uncle dismissed his servant and accepted the offer of a hot cider to warm him.
She introduced Blythe to her uncle. He smiled and nodded at her.
“The tree still looks a bit bare, Blythe. Could you seek out Mrs. Royce and ask her to find more tinsel? And then go to the nursery, I’ll be up directly.”
Blythe curtsied sweetly and left the room. “A pretty child,” he said, gazing after her. “Her mother was a friend of my wife’s.”
“Was she?”
“I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but for someone who seemed to have everything— beauty, wealth and a handsome husband—she was often unhappy. She only came alive when the center of attention, which she very often was.” He took a sip of cider. “Some women are like that.”
Vanessa said nothing, refusing to be drawn. Discussing Clara seemed disloyal.
“But no one deserves such a horrible death,” her uncle added.
“I’m not sure of the details.” Vanessa didn’t wish to show her ignorance. Julian had never mentioned how Clara died.
He raised his sandy brows. “A cart ran into her carriage on a Parisian bridge. It sent her vehicle crashing into the Seine. She and her maid drowned.”
Vanessa felt a swift rush of compassion for Clara. “How awful!”
“Yes indeed.” He studied her. “You have the Gresham coloring, my dear, but you look like your mother.”
“Do I? Father never said so.”
“Your mother was most attractive, quite stole his heart.” He frowned. “Made him forget his obligations at the time.”
She bristled. “Father never stopped loving my mother.”
“I suppose not.” His gaze slid away from hers. “I expect he was right in the end.”
Surprised, Vanessa glanced at him. The earl’s hair was similar to hers, a reddish-gold color, though turning white now around his ears and moustache. He cradled the mug in his hand and
appeared a little shamefaced as he explained why he’d failed to acknowledge her marriage. “Lord Falconbridge sent a note to inform me of your coming nuptials, but I was in Paris when my secretary sent me the newspaper notice,” he said. “Then I traveled on to America.”
Vanessa hoped he wasn’t offended that she hadn’t invited him to the wedding. “We had very little time before Julian left for South America. It was a small affair, held at the registry office.”
“Yes, I realize that.” He cleared his throat. “Ran into a fellow from my club in St James, some weeks ago. Mentioned he knew you.”
“Might that be Mr. Frobisher? He told me he was a member of your club.”
“That’s the fellow. Had his wife with him. Stayed the night there, I gather. ”
“Wife? Mr. Frobisher is not married.”
His mouth tightened. “He introduced her as such.”
“I think you must have been mistaken, Uncle.”
He shrugged. “They were coming out of a hotel, and as it was morning, I assumed. Pretty girl. Nice hazel eyes as I remember.”
“Perhaps Mr. Frobisher decided to marry before he left for South America.”
“If that’s so, you will learn of it soon enough. If not, it’s not a suitable topic for conversation.”
He was nothing like her father, and she quite understood why they had not got on. She wondered what had brought him here after having ignored her for so long. It no longer mattered; she could never feel any genuine fondness for him. Her father had been a proud and stubborn man, but Gresham could have made amends when things were at their worst before he died.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry your father and I did not see eye to eye.”
“Yes, it was unfortunate.”
“And I should have … done more, I expect.”
“You were of help, Uncle. It was through you that I came here.”
“I’m glad of that,” he said with a strained smile.
The Folly at Falconbridge Hall Page 15
