Wild Heritage

by Wild Heritage (retail) (epub)

  The housekeeper asked what was the matter and Marie croaked, ‘My throat hurts.’

  ‘I’ll tell Madam,’ said the housekeeper.

  Eventually Mrs Roxburgh arrived with her glasses still on her nose. ‘I’m told you’re ill. What’s the trouble?’ she asked.

  ‘My throat is sore,’ said Marie, wishing that this whole charade had never started.

  ‘Let me look at it,’ said Mrs Roxburgh. When she had peered down Marie’s open mouth she sat down on the bed and said, ‘It looks perfectly all right to me. Are you nervous of us? Is that what’s wrong?’

  ‘Yes, I’m nervous. I’m not used to strangers…’

  ‘You don’t dine out much, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, my dear, I’ve found in life that sometimes the things you dread turn out to be not so terrifying if you face them straight on. You’ve got to start being sociable some time. I often don’t feel like taking dinner with a crowd of people but even if I dread it, it’s often very enjoyable. Come down to dinner and sit by me and you’ll be all right. There’s not many of us, only seven at table tonight, and Amy does most of the talking so you won’t need to exercise your vocal chords too much.’

  Marie sensed that this woman guessed a good deal more about her than she was saying and she longed to be able to unburden herself of her secrets, to tell all about Tibbie and Bethya and Kitty and David and her dead father and mother, but she was far too overwhelmed, so instead she nodded her head and said, ‘Thank you. I’ll come down to dinner.’

  In fact, as Mrs Roxburgh had predicted, the dinner party was not so terrifying after all, though Marie quailed when she saw the table gleaming with silver and laden with glittering glassware. Again her hostess seemed to know what was worrying her. Whenever a new course arrived, she took up the requisite spoon, knife or fork and held it still for a few seconds before she started eating.

  Amy did indeed do most of the talking, teasing her three handsome brothers and her indulgent father, who laughed at every sally she made. She was obviously the spoiled darling of the household and only her mother seemed to look on her without utter infatuation.

  The brothers, all as dark as Amy, were called George, Murray and Albert and they dazzled Marie by their poise and handsomeness. They were all older than their sister and went out of their way to be charming to her friend, but Marie was particularly taken with the middle brother, Murray, who had the most brilliant smile and most dancing eyes of them all. Between the attentions of Murray and his mother, she lost her nervousness and began to enjoy herself.

  The dinner party broke up after a lot of family banter and laughter. When she went to bed she felt as if she had been reborn; another new world had opened up before her and was welcoming her in.

  Chapter Eight

  When his wife and children arrived back from Bella Vista with the minimum of warning, Sydney was taken aback and suspicious because he thought that Bethya might be spying on him or trying to catch him out.

  He had two major things on his conscience. The first was heavy gambling which he always turned to when he was bored and which Bethya had several times made him promise to give up. During her stay at Bella Vista, however, he had been gambling every night and already his debts were so large that he was planning to sell some property in order to pay them.

  His second secret was a growing obsession with Lucy Beresford. When he first saw her he had been amused that his friend Allandale should have fallen prey to such a girl but, from time to time, he had found himself wandering to Rotten Row with the specific purpose of watching her.

  Over a period of several years that habit of watching gradually became an obsession, one which he could neither break nor explain. She was conscious of him too and he knew that when he was watching, she put her horses through their paces with more flamboyance than was absolutely necessary. Though they never spoke to each other, there was a strong current of mutual attraction flowing between them.

  It was not as if he compared Lucy with Bethya whose beauty never failed to delight him. There was a coarseness about the young courtesan that, instead of detracting from her appeal, actually added to it for him. He liked the thought that she would not smell of camellias but of straw and sweat, her hair would not run through his hands like silk but would tickle like tow. She did not seem so fragile and delicate that her bones would snap. She was strong and vigorous, noisy and ebullient. No one could be more different to his elegant wife.

  The confused state of his mind made him extremely ill-tempered and one morning, soon after she returned, he charged Bethya with becoming a neurotic hypochondriac. She burst into tears and said, ‘How can you say that when I’m really ill? I’m having another baby and I’m so afraid that I’ll lose it like the last one.’

  ‘My God, that’s awful,’ he gasped.

  She stared at him through tear-filled eyes. ‘But I thought you’d be pleased! I’ve been waiting till I was sure about it before I told you… I’m nearly four months now.’

  He groaned and she began sobbing heartbrokenly. ‘It won’t make any difference to your life. I’ll not force you to spend time with me. I knew you were getting bored with me being ill all the time so I’ve written to my sister Miriam and asked her to come to stay and keep me company. I don’t want you to feel trapped by my illness or by this pregnancy.’

  ‘I don’t feel trapped,’ he told her but both of them knew that he was telling a lie. Nevertheless he was glad that Bethya would have her sister with her, for he realised that she was lonely and sadly in need of a confidante. He was no longer sufficient company for her because what she needed now was someone to talk to about him.

  ‘When is your sister coming?’ he asked in a gentler tone.

  ‘I told her to take the first passage she could get. She should be here soon. It’ll free you from staying with me so much.’

  He snorted. ‘Free me! You make it sound as if I’m in prison. That’s nonsense.’

  Bethya was the one to step back from confrontation. ‘I’m sorry, I’m probably only being fanciful. It’s my condition,’ she said softly. She was afraid to open the pit that lay between them in case it proved to be full of writhing snakes. Better to walk round it and look the other way.

  After the argument he went to the park, though he knew he shouldn’t. In fact, he started off walking in the opposite direction, but his feet would not carry him there. They would only go to Rotten Row.

  The Duke of Allandale was sitting beside the ride in a huge barouche watching his mistress disport herself and he waved his whip at Sydney inviting him to climb into a seat beside him.

  ‘You’re looking glum, Godders,’ he said.

  ‘Am I? But you know I’m not one for going around with a grin on my face,’ was Sydney’s reply.

  His friend put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You need some diversion. I’m going to the theatre tonight. There’s a French company at the Haymarket. It’s a long time since we went out together. Come with me. I’ll call for you at seven. Bethya won’t mind, will she?’

  Sydney looked hard at his friend. ‘No, she won’t mind. That sounds tempting. Yes, I’ll come, Dicky.’

  That night they did not go out in either of their crested private carriages but walked onto the street and hailed a hansom cab, for both knew that they were trying to re-create one of the old adventures they had shared when young and wild.

  The broad thoroughfare outside the Haymarket Theatre was crowded with carriages and its brightly lit foyer packed with people wearing the most fashionable clothes, but there were no modestly dressed ladies, no respectable middle-class wives and daughters among the crowd.

  All the women parading in the open space behind the glass doors were women of pleasure, powdered and painted, corsetted and gowned in silks and satins that cost the equivalent of a year’s wages for a working man and sometimes even more. These were the poules de luxe who had graduated from the streets into the protection of rich men. Some were young, little more than childre
n, while others were well past their prime though making up for that by the magnificence of their apparel and the assurance of their behaviour. Every woman knew to a shilling how much the others’ gowns had cost.

  The most famous young woman of them all deliberately made a late entrance into this throng. Her smart little barouche drew up in front of the door of the theatre with a clatter and her handsome footman leaped down to lower the steps so that she could alight and pass through the gaping crowd. Heads turned to watch her approach, as she smiled and waved a folded fan at the favoured few she deigned to recognise. A wake of whispers followed her.

  She was wearing a pink gown with an immense stiffened skirt that took up a huge area of floor. The bodice was cut very low showing the division between her milk-white breasts that rose up very high on each side of an immense pink rose tucked between them. For a woman who took so much exercise riding in the park every morning, she was, surprisingly, as round and plump as a dairymaid.

  Lucy Beresford, or Minnie Clough as she was born, rarely allowed her heart to rule her head. Since she’d set herself up as a woman of pleasure at the age of fifteen one principle had ruled her life and that was ‘nothing for nothing’. Even if a man wanted only to hold her hand, he would have to make it worth her while. Her aim was to make a fortune before she was thirty and then retire. She had seen too many raddled old women frantically staving off age and decay in order to pay their bills. She was grimly determined that would never happen to her.

  She spotted her current lover – or one of them – standing in the shadow of an overhanging balcony watching her parading through the admiring men. With him was the man who had been haunting the park to watch her. She waited every day for him to turn up; she put on her best show for him. He interested her because he never made any attempt to approach her and Lucy did not like to be passed over.

  Allandale took Sydney’s arm, ‘Come on, I’ve taken a box. Let’s go and sit down.’

  Lucy did not share the box with them but sat downstairs in the stalls with a collection of eager male admirers. She never glanced up in Allandale’s direction.

  In the interval, the door of the box opened and she walked in, sitting down in a chair vacated by Sydney who stood up at the sight of her. Close to, she was even more delicious than from a distance. Her complexion was as smooth as satin and unmarked by any flaw. She looked as if she was made from spun sugar, good enough to eat. She even smelt like a piece of confectionery. What made her most arresting, however, was the aura of sensuality that seemed to emanate from her, contrasting oddly with her milkmaid appearance. She had thick, pleasure-loving lips, heavily lidded, sleepy eyes and a roguish smile.

  ‘You’ve not been to see me for a week, Allandale,’ she said, tapping his cheek with her fan.

  ‘I’m trying to wean myself off you,’ he told her.

  She flirted her head aside making the golden curls brush over his hand. ‘Lucy’ll get you back. She always does. Come tomorrow at half past three.’

  Then she looked at Sydney and her eye ran up and down his lean frame. ‘You’re the man who watches me in the park,’ she said.

  ‘I live near there,’ he told her.

  ‘So do I. Within walking distance,’ she said as she flounced out of the box.

  When the play was over Allandale said, ‘Let’s go and dine. We could play some cards if you like.’

  Sydney shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. You go to your club but I’ll go home.’

  No blandishments would make him change his mind and when Allandale set off in a cab, Sydney turned and strode along St James’s. It was a surprise to him when a small carriage came out of a side road and drove along by his side. As it passed him the footman on the box leaned down and opened the door. A white-gloved hand waved out at him from inside and Lucy Beresford’s voice called, ‘Come in.’

  ‘Are you in the habit of picking up strange men?’ he asked as he climbed in and sat beside her.

  ‘You’re not strange. I think we know quite a lot about each other,’ she told him. It was difficult to see her, for she was sitting in the darkest corner of the carriage with a dark hood drawn over her head. Then she leaned forward and put a hand on each side of his face pouting her lips at him.

  He kissed her, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her towards him. He could smell her vanilla-like scent and feel the satiny texture of her skin.

  ‘Won’t your footman be jealous?’ he murmured.

  ‘Why should he? He’s my brother,’ she said with a giggle and kissed him again.

  ‘Family enterprise,’ murmured Sydney tasting her lips with his tongue.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said pulling him towards her. Her breasts were like full-blown roses and they tasted of vanilla too.

  Her house was in darkness when they reached it and after the footman opened the door, he disappeared. Their lovemaking was violent and angry. Sydney plunged into passion with a kind of despair and when sated lay back on her satin-covered bed and groaned in anguish. She was lying beside him, totally naked, pink-flushed and sweat-glazed.

  ‘Wasn’t it good? Don’t you like me?’ she asked, raising her head from the satin pillow.

  ‘It was too good. I like you too much. I can’t afford you, though,’ he told her.

  She sat up, her breasts upright and challenging. ‘Did I ask you for any money?’ she demanded.

  He propped his head on his elbow admiring her. ‘No, but you’re not a charitable society for the relief of depressed gentlemen, are you?’

  She giggled. ‘I certainly am not. You can pay me extra next time.’ She was quite sure there would be a next time. They always came back.

  Next morning his wife told him that her sister Miriam was arriving on the mail-boat due in a week’s time.

  ‘That’s very good, my dear,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘She’ll be company for you.’

  On the day that the ship carrying Miriam from Bombay was scheduled to arrive at Tilbury, Bethya was too unwell to go to meet it, but Sydney was waiting on the quayside.

  A sharp feeling of wanderlust gripped him as he watched the crewmen and stevedores rushing about tying up the vessel. When Bethya’s child is born we’ll travel again, he told himself, and not for the first time resolved to mend his errant ways, to give up Lucy Beresford and stay away from the gambling tables.

  The first passengers were flooding down the gangplank to be met with cries and embraces from waiting friends and relatives. He had no idea what Bethya’s sister looked like so he fought his way through the crowds to grab the sleeve of one of the officers and tell him, ‘Find Miss Miriam Jordan for me, old chap.’

  The man was sufficiently impressed by Sydney’s commanding manner to do as he was asked. In a short while he came off the ship ushering a small woman in front of him.

  The sight of her was a complete surprise to her brother-in-law, who had been expecting a pretty woman like Bethya. What he was presented with was a wraith in a white dress and plain bonnet whose bird bones and anxious face made him remember the sari-clad women he’d seen begging on the streets of Bombay during his only visit to the sub-continent many years before.

  The trouble was that Miriam resembled Bethya in the same way as a caricature resembles the sitter and it only took one glance for him to be sure that they were sisters.

  Miriam was shy and visibly shaking as she was presented to Sydney so he went out of his way to reassure her, taking her hand and welcoming her to England. She smiled then and said, ‘You must be my sister’s husband. She’s described you so well.’

  ‘And you’re as beautiful as she is,’ he lied gallantly. Where Bethya was ivory skinned and her half-caste breeding only showed in the lambent beauty of her dark eyes and her strange, high cheekbones, this young woman looked pure Indian. Her skin was very dark and her body bony. She had a wide mouth with a broad jawline and prominent white teeth. Her velvety brown eyes seemed to beseech him to think well of her, which made him compare her to an endearing puppy do
g, the kind that goes on wagging its tail till it falls over.

  If Bethya tries to introduce this sister into her London circle of friends, she will be committing social suicide with most of them, was his first thought.

  Sydney had never felt any shame about his wife’s mixed origins. He liked the fact that she was so different from the milk-and-water prettiness of English misses but now, faced with Miriam, he suddenly realised that his daughters might be looked down on because of their mother’s background, for they were the ones who looked most like her. The boys were all blond, like himself. People who had only suspected that Bethya was of mixed blood, would be in no doubt of it after they met Miriam.

  He was angry at himself for thinking this way – it went against everything he had ever believed – and as recompense, he went out of his way to be even more charming and attentive to the stranger. He took her arm, gave orders about her baggage, whisked her off to his carriage and had the hood lowered so that she could have a good view as they drove along. He entertained her during their drive back to London with amusing stories about his family and tales about the places they passed through. He even told the coachman to make detours so that she could see special sights. Before they reached Berkeley Square, she was his slave, totally enamoured of him.

  The plainest and youngest of five sisters, Miriam had always yearned for the ideal lover but none came along for her as one by one her prettier siblings married and left home.

  Bethya, the second eldest, had been the first to go, marrying fat and red-faced Gus Anstruther. Miriam had not envied her Gus except that he was an Englishman who would take her away from India and a society that looked down on them all for being half-castes.

  The other sisters all married men from their own community, merchants and traders with money in the bank and big mansions on Colaba Causeway, but Miriam remained with Mama and Papa till news came of Bethya’s illness. The family were horrified to learn that she was sick and lonely. One of them would have to go to help, they decided. The one they chose was Miriam.