by Deborah Hale
“Nothing of the kind.” Steeling himself against the pain and the tormenting memories it stirred, Simon moved forwards again, trying not to be too obvious about sparing his injured leg.
Bethan scurried along beside him. “What did happen to you, then?”
This was the first time his curt tone and stony scowl had failed to discourage intrusive questions about his past. No wonder the woman had landed in trouble the moment she’d stepped off the boat.
It alarmed Simon to find himself tempted to confide in her. With ruthless force, he quelled the mutinous urge. “I prefer not to dwell on the past. I will thank you not to raise the subject again.”
Bethan’s lush lower lip thrust out in a rebellious expression. Her changeable eyes flashed with sparks of emerald vexation and something even more dangerous to his peace of mind.
Burning curiosity.
What had happened to the man that he was so grimly determined not to speak of? Bethan fairly sizzled with curiosity as he bundled her into a two-wheeled gig driven by one his workers.
“Mahmud, fetch Miss Conway back to the house and tell Ah-Ming to make her comfortable.” Simon Grimshaw took leave of Bethan with a stiff bow. “I will see you at dinner this evening. We can talk then.”
As the gig pulled away, she wondered what they would talk about. How would they ever become acquainted if he refused to tell her about his past? It was bad enough having to wed a stranger. But how much worse would it be, married to a man who seemed resolved to remain one?
She didn’t know what to make of Simon Grimshaw. As she had freely admitted, he was nothing like what she’d expected. In many ways he was a great deal better. He could not be much above thirty and he was quite attractive in spite of his grave severity. He’d shown great courage, facing down that hostile crowd to rescue her from danger. And he’d used his wits to do it, rather than brute force. Set against all those fine qualities was his forbidding manner and secretive, solitary air.
Besides, he was clearly disappointed in her. No doubt he’d wanted a meek, mousy wife who would never question him about anything and always behave with perfect propriety. What would he think if he suspected she’d come to Singapore in search of a mutineer? He might toss her back on the streets, among those angry people whose language and ways were a dangerous mystery to her.
Bethan was still so shaken by what had happened that she did not dare speak to the driver, a brown-skinned man who wore a white turban. It felt rude to ignore him, but she feared he might take offence at her innocent overture. To cover her confusion, she stared around her as if spellbound…which was not far from the truth.
The gig moved quickly through a tight-packed, bustling area of shops and warehouses along the banks of the river. Then it passed through a large open square with only a few large white buildings around the edge and lines of tents off in one corner. A hill topped by a cluster of low buildings and a tall flagstaff towered behind it. After crossing the square, the gig headed down a wide road lined with large properties, each occupied by a big white house nestled in spacious grounds.
“My word!” Bethan’s eyes widened as they drove through a gate and stopped in front of a sprawling villa with spotless white walls and a vast red roof. A deep, pillared veranda wrapped around the whole house.
She’d known Simon Grimshaw was a successful merchant, but only now did she realise how great a fortune he must have. Why had such a man been obliged to send all the way to England for a wife? And why on earth had Mr Northmore thought an inexperienced Welsh nursemaid would be a fitting mistress for this grand house?
Her driver turned Bethan over to the care of an Asian servant woman, whose high-necked tunic and baggy trousers looked three times too large for her tiny frame. With the most perfect courtesy and no hint of surprise at her master’s unexpected guest, she introduced herself as Ah-Ming, the housekeeper. She wasted no time seeing to Bethan’s comfort, offering all manner of food and drink. When those failed to tempt the guest, Ah-Ming made another offer of hospitality that Bethan could not refuse—a bath.
After her long voyage it felt blissful to bathe and wash her hair. The luxurious soak relaxed Bethan, restoring a measure of her usual hopeful spirits. By the time she finished, her trunk had arrived and she was able to change into clean clothes.
With her hair combed out and left hanging long to dry, she thanked Ah-Ming and accepted her offer of tea. While the housekeeper went to fetch it, she wandered into the spacious sitting room.
In some ways it looked like the house where she’d worked back in Newcastle. But the ceiling was much higher and the walls were not papered but clean, stark white. There were many more windows, too, all tall and narrow, with rolled-up blinds made of thin wooden slats instead of curtains. And there was no sign of an imposing mantelpiece the likes of which dominated most rooms back home. The whole place had an air of light and openness that appealed to her free spirit.
A warm breeze blew in through the windows, carrying the fresh tang of the sea mingled with aromas of tropical flowers and spices. After the bustle of the harbour, Simon Grimshaw’s house was a haven of tranquillity. The only sounds Bethan could hear were the familiar, calming rhythm of the sea and a shrill clicking sound she’d never heard before.
Then she picked up another sound, faint but growing louder as it drew nearer—a pair of high-pitched voices talking back and forth in hushed tones, speaking a language Bethan could not understand.
A moment later, another Asian woman appeared. She wore the same sort of loose tunic and trousers as Ah-Ming, but she looked older and even tinier. She was accompanied by a little European girl. The child wore a white muslin frock with a pale green sash. Her dark hair was plaited in two long braids, tied with green ribbons to match her sash. She had delicate features and enormous brown eyes that fixed on Bethan with a look of uneasy curiosity.
“Pardon me.” The child made a graceful curtsy, then began to back away. “I didn’t know we had company.”
She spoke with a charming accent, a bit like the French governess at the house in Newcastle where Bethan had worked.
“Please don’t go on my account.” Bethan dropped to one knee and smiled warmly. “Shall we introduce ourselves? My name is Bethan Conway. I’ve come from England. Do you live here?”
Perhaps Simon Grimshaw had another partner besides Mr Northmore.
Before the child could reply, her companion spoke in a sharp tone, as if offended by the question. “Missy lives here, of course. She is Rosalia Eva da Silva Grimshaw. Her father is master of this house.”
Father? The word rocked Bethan. She was quite certain Mr Northmore hadn’t said anything about Simon Grimshaw having a child. But perhaps this explained why he’d chosen a nurserymaid as a wife for his partner.
She could not decide how she felt about coming into a ready-made family like this. The childlike part of her longed for a little playmate to romp about with, and this dainty little creature was vastly appealing. But marriage would be a difficult enough adjustment without the added responsibility of a young daughter right away.
“You came from England?” Rosalia gave Bethan no time to sort through her confused feelings. “That is where Uncle Hadrian went. Ah-sam says it is very far away. Did he come back to Singapore with you?”
It was clear from her tone that Rosalia was eager to see Mr Northmore again. Bethan hated to dash her hopes. She remembered the bitter disappointment of waiting in vain for the return of a loved one.
“I met your Uncle Hadrian in England.” She tried to break the news as gently as possible. “I think he means to stay there for a while. I don’t think his wife would want to make such a long journey with a wee one on the way.”
Rosalia’s dark brows bunched. “A wee what on the way? Where was it coming from?”
“Er…” Bethan chided herself for speaking so freely to a young child about such matters. She was certain Rosalia’s father would not approve.
Fortunately the servant woman rescued her from awkward e
xplanations by crying out, “Wah! Mr Hadrian has found a wife and started a family? This is good news! First Mr Ford, now him. Only one left now.”
All trace of her earlier annoyance with Bethan disappeared, replaced with a beaming smile reserved for the bearer of welcome news. “What brings you to Singapore, my lady?”
A shrewd twinkle in the woman’s dark eyes suggested that she guessed the reason. Bethan made a special effort to mind her tongue, for the child’s sake. If Mr Grimshaw had not told his little daughter of his marriage plans, she did not want to blurt out the news that Rosalia would soon be getting a stepmother. She would rather make friends with the child first.
“I’ve come for a…visit.” With a beseeching gaze she silently urged the servant not to betray her suspicions. “And I might stay longer if things work out.” Quickly she changed the subject. “Rosalia isn’t a name I’ve heard before, but it’s very pretty. It sounds a bit like Rhosyn. That’s a Welsh name I always liked.”
“Yours is very nice too.” One corner of the child’s rosebud lips arched upward in a bashful half-smile. “I hope you will stay. So many ships come here, but we never get any company.”
Rosalia’s wistful tone went straight to Bethan’s heart. “When I was your age, I lived in a quiet little village. We never got much company, either. At least you have your father here with you. My daddy had to go away to work.”
His visits home had been the best times of her young life. The worst had been the day her mother told her he would never be coming home again.
The servant woman said something to her young charge in another language.
Rosalia replied with an eager nod, then held out her hand to Bethan. “Would you like to see our garden?”
Rising from her crouch, Bethan took the child’s outstretched hand. “Yes, I would, thank you. Tell me, what’s that clicking sound? It seems to be getting louder.”
“The cicadas, you mean? They’re bugs who chirp—the hotter it gets the louder the noise they make. Do they not have cicadas in England?”
As Rosalia led her away, the servant called after them.
“What did she say?” asked Bethan, marvelling at such a young child being fluent in two languages.
“Ah-sam told me to be a good girl so you will want to stay with us.”
The offhand remark troubled Bethan. She knew how easily a sensitive child could take such well-meant warnings to heart.
“I’m sure you are a very good girl.” She gave Rosalia’s hand a squeeze. “Whether or not I stay in Singapore will have nothing to do with how you behave.”
More likely it would depend on her behaviour, Bethan reflected. After the trouble she’d caused at the harbour and the way she’d questioned him about his injury, Mr Grimshaw might decide she was not the proper sort of wife for him.
Provided he let her stay long enough to look for her brother that might be for the best. Despite Simon Grimshaw’s fortune and his fine looks, Bethan was not at all certain she wanted to surrender her newfound freedom to such a cold, disapproving man.
Chapter Three
“What is that noise?” Simon Grimshaw demanded as he strode out on to the deep veranda of his new villa.
Though his housekeeper hovered nearby, attentive as always, Simon’s question was not addressed to her or anyone else. He scarcely realised he’d spoken aloud as he scanned the back garden for the source of the unfamiliar sound. Was it the call of an exotic bird he’d never before encountered? Or perhaps the music of some traditional Malay instrument wafting down from the Sultan’s istana?
The sound rose again from among the brightly flowering shrubberies below, this time accompanied by a similar one, deeper and warmer in timbre. Together they created a beguiling harmony. With a start, Simon realised he was hearing the clear, merry laughter of a woman and child. Had he not heard that sound for so long he’d forgotten it?
An instant later Bethan Conway burst into view, her vibrant auburn hair streaming behind her as she ran. The fluid grace of her movement reminded him of a wild antelope he’d seen in India. Her winsome peal of laughter seemed to reach into his chest and strike a reluctant trill over the cords of his heart.
As he fought to subdue that foolish reaction, Rosalia appeared from behind the rhododendron bush and called out to Bethan. Her accent, which mingled Portuguese and a trace of Cantonese, sounded very much like her late mother’s. Had the child grown taller since the last time he’d seen her?
That thought dealt Simon a faint stab of guilt. Ever since he’d taken sole charge of Vindicara, he’d had little time to spare for Rosalia. After they’d moved to this spacious new house from the old one beside the godown, he’d seen less of her than ever.
His attention was so tightly fixed on the garden below that he did not notice Ah-Ming standing beside him until she spoke. “Mr Hadrian chose well for you. The lady is polite and cheerful. She will make you a good wife.”
“She is not here to be my wife,” Simon replied firmly in Cantonese. “I mean to take her as my…concubine.”
He knew that was not precisely the right word, but it was the closest he could come in her language.
“Aiyah!” Ah-Ming shook her head. “You will take a concubine before a wife?”
“Instead of a wife,” Simon growled. He was sick to death of the constant, subtle pressure to remarry from his housekeeper and Rosalia’s amah. “One marriage was more than enough for me. I will not wed again.”
The housekeeper responded with a smug chuckle. “Mr Hadrian and Mr Ford said they would never marry, but something changed their minds.”
“My partners and I are very different men.” Simon turned and strode away.
Perhaps Hadrian’s remarriage should not have surprised him so much. After all, his partner had been happily wed once, but lost his wife and child in an epidemic. It made sense that one day his grief would ease and he would risk trying to recapture what he’d lost. As for Ford, he’d inherited an estate and title that would require an heir. His marriage might have been a matter of necessity.
Simon had better reason than either of them to be wary of marriage and he was by nature far more cautious. He’d already begun to wonder if taking a mistress might be too great a risk. Meeting Bethan Conway had done nothing to ease his misgivings.
But her beauty had roused long-stifled desires that ached for relief. What else could he do with her now that she was here? It was not as if he could pop her on another ship tomorrow and send her back to England. Sea traffic could not sail west again for several months, when the winds shifted. He was not about to subject her to an eastward voyage across the vast Pacific and around the treacherous tip of South America, simply because he had second thoughts about their arrangement.
Having brought her all the way from England, he had an obligation to take care of her. If he did that, everyone in Singapore would assume she was his mistress. And if it got out that she was not sharing his bed, he would be the laughing-stock of the European community, not to mention what the she might think of him.
He was in too deep to back out now. He must go forwards with assurance and make it clear to his imprudent young mistress that he would not tolerate any nonsense.
What had Simon Grimshaw been thinking as he stood on the veranda, glowering down at her and his daughter? Bethan mulled over that question as she dressed for dinner. She’d spied him out of the corner of her eye as she chased about the garden with Rosalia, but pretended not to notice.
Had he been looking her over, trying to decide whether he should call off their wedding? Was he pleased to find her getting on so well with his daughter or did he disapprove of their noisy laughter? The latter, most likely, by the look of him.
She hoped he wouldn’t spend the whole evening finding fault with her. She’d never been able to accept correction in the proper meek spirit, even when she deserved it. Unfair criticism made her bristle like a cornered cat.
Once she’d fixed the final pin in her hair, Bethan hesitated at her bedroom do
or. She was half-inclined to avoid this encounter with Simon Grimshaw by snuffing out the lamp and crawling under the insect netting into bed. But the mouthwatering smells wafting up from the kitchen tempted her out. After months of shipboard rations, it would take worse than her forbidding host to keep her from a good meal!
She found Mr Grimshaw in the sitting room, planted in front of the open windows with his hands clasped behind him. He looked the very picture of severity.
Refusing to be cowed, she breezed in as if she had not a care in the world. “Am I late? You should have sent someone to fetch me.”
He hesitated a moment before answering, his icy blue eyes fixed upon her. Was there a stain on her dress? Something wrong with the way she’d done her hair?
“You are not late.” The words burst out of him, followed by others, stiff as starch. “Ah-Ming will inform us when dinner is served. I hope she took good care of you this afternoon and that you found everything to your satisfaction?”
“She couldn’t have been kinder. She drew me a bath and washed my hair. She and Ah-sam were so pleased to hear about Mr Northmore getting married.”
Bethan knew at once she’d said something wrong by the way the line between Simon Grimshaw’s brows deepened. “I suggest in future you refrain from gossiping with the servants. The European community is very small and private matters can too easily become public tattle.”
There! Just as she’d expected. Almost the first words out of her mouth and already he was finding fault.
“I wasn’t gossiping.” Two spots on her cheeks blazed with heat. “Ah-Ming asked me about Mr Northmore and I told her. I don’t know why his marriage should be a secret. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
What about her speculating that Mrs Northmore might be breeding, her conscience demanded, not only to the servants but in front of his young daughter?
“Perhaps I don’t know my place as well as I should,” she admitted. “I was in service myself, back in Newcastle, so I’m more at ease with servants than masters.”
