Читать книгу Dear Deceiver - Mary Nichols, Mary Nichols - Страница 4

1816

Emma stood leaning over the rail of the Silken Maid as it made its way up the river estuary, but she could not see the shore for the mist which blanketed everything except the deck at her feet and the grey water immediately around the brig, in which floated the detritus of a large city: lumps of wood, cabbage leaves, even a dead dog. It was every bit as dirty as the Hooghly in Calcutta, though the smells were different, less spicy, more rank.

The mist was enough to soak her cloak and make her auburn hair spring into tight little curls, but it was nothing like the fog of Calcutta, nor the torrential rain of the monsoon they had left behind them; it was simply wet and uncomfortable.

So this was England! This, grey, murky, cold place was the country which the British in India referred to so longingly as home. Even her father, who had lived in India over twenty-five years, had spoken of it with a wistful note in his voice. She and her brother, Teddy, had been born in Calcutta, had left it only in the summer to go to the hills away from the oppressive heat; they had never dreamed they would one day be sailing into London docks on a cargo ship with everything they possessed contained in one tin trunk and two canvas bags.

The mist lifted as they left the flat estuary behind and entered the London docks and she could see the dock basin was filled with ships, flying the flags of all nations and dozens of different shipping lines, but predominantly that of the British East India Company, known to everyone employed by it as The Company.

Dockers were swarming everywhere, moving backwards and forwards from the warehouses which lined the quayside, loading and unloading cargo: sacks, barrels, and great oil-skin wrapped bundles were being winched out on hoists, to the accompaniment of shouting and banter and the noise of squealing chains.

As the brig bumped against the side and the lines were thrown out, her brother joined her. He was tall and well built for his sixteen years, but there was still something of the boy about his features and the expression in his blue eyes. They were still bleak; he had not yet come to terms with the death of the father he idolised. But then, neither had she.

She turned to smile at him. ‘It’s a little like Calcutta, don’t you think? All this shipping and the mist over the river and men at work.’ She paused. ‘Not Indian, of course.’

‘Colder,’ he said, pulling up the collar of his coat. ‘Mrs Goodwright said it would be pleasantly warm at this time of the year. April is surely springtime in England.’

‘Ah, well, you cannot take a great deal of notice of Mrs Goodwright. She thinks Calcutta winters are too hot to be borne.’ Mrs Goodwright was the adjutant’s wife and had appointed herself their guardian when the news arrived that their father had been killed in action.

Emma could see Captain Greenaway making his way towards them. He had a full, almost white, beard and craggy features which bore evidence of long periods spent on the open deck in all weathers. But the toughness was mitigated by twinkling blue eyes and a jovial smile.

‘Well, here we are, ma’am, safe and sound,’ he said. ‘A welcome sight, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ she said, watching two men coming up the gangplank onto the ship, not sailors or dockers, but officials of some sort.

‘I am sorry the weather is not welcoming. April showers they call it. The sun will come out directly and you will see what a pleasant country this is, not too hot, not too cold.’

‘Yes, I am sure you are right.’

‘You will be wanting to go ashore. As soon as the revenue men and the health inspector have done their work, you will be free to disembark. I will have your trunk taken to the quay.’ He held out his hand. ‘I shall be busy later, so I will say goodbye now.’

She took the proffered hand. ‘Goodbye, Captain. And thank you for everything.’

‘It was my pleasure. And may I say, ma’am, you have been a doughty sailor.’ He turned to Teddy. ‘And you, too, sir. May I wish you luck with your endeavours.’

‘Thank you.’ Teddy said, shaking him by the hand.

He turned and left them to join the newcomers, greeting them cheerfully and taking them below to his cabin.

It had been a rough voyage, during which a great deal of salt water had found its way into their baggage and Emma had told Teddy she was looking forward to being on dry land again, finding a respectable hotel, repairing the ravages to her wardrobe and washing the salt from her hair. As she watched the crew stowing the sails and clearing the deck ready to open the cargo hatches, however, she felt a strange reluctance to set foot on the land of her ancestors.

What was she letting herself in for? Why had they set out, she and Teddy, on this journey into the unknown? The frisson of fear she had felt during the storm at sea was nothing compared to the dread she felt now. What if they had made a terrible mistake? In this strange country she had no one to turn to for advice, no one who cared. She almost wished they had not come, that they could go back…

The rocking of the ship’s motion against its mooring ropes, the shouts and laughter of the men on the docks faded and she was on horseback, galloping across the Maidan in Calcutta, the beating of hooves loud in her ears.

The vast open space around the fort had been cleared from the jungle by Robert Clive over fifty years before in order to allow the guns a clear view. The guns had been silent for years; now it was used by the British and the higher castes of Calcutta Society as a place for leisure, somewhere to ride in the early morning, to stroll in the cool of the evening, a quiet place with English lawns and gardens, where cattle grazed and goats were tethered.

It was a place where snake-charmers and jugglers amused the passers-by and where festivals were held, and cricket played, where monkeys climbed the banyan trees. But on that never-to-be-forgotten day there were few people about, it being very early and also the end of the rainy season.

She reined in and sat straight-backed in the saddle to look about her, waiting for her brother to draw up alongside her. The sun was rising and a small trickle of perspiration ran down between her shoulder blades. Later it would rain, as it did every day at this time of year. Then the temperature would drop a few degrees and it would pour down in torrents, which was hardly less uncomfortable than the torrid heat which preceded it.

It would run in rivulets down the hard-baked roads, making puddles in the cart tracks. The trees would drip, the gutters overflow, and the usually sluggish River Hooghly would threaten to burst its banks, as it had done on numerous occasions before.

But Emma and Teddy were used to it; their concerns were not over the weather, which was predictable, but over the prolonged absence of their father, Major Edward Mountforest, on active service against the Gurkhas who were attacking Indian lands from the hills of Nepal.

‘It’s no place to fight a campaign,’ Teddy said, repeating the dissenting views he had picked up from some of his classmates at Fort William College. ‘Nothing but rocks and ravines, bare mountains and raging torrents. It’s practically impossible to get supplies and artillery through without the problem of knowing there’s likely to be a marksman behind every boulder.’

Emma laughed, bringing her green eyes to sparkling life behind the veil of her riding hat. ‘It wouldn’t do for the Colonel to hear you say that. It’s tantamount to treason.’

‘He’s with Papa, as well you know, so he cannot hear. And Papa thinks the same because I heard him say so before they left and all he got for his pains was a dressing-down and a hint he was lacking in courage. Papa a coward! Why, he’s the bravest man I know. He would never duck a fight if he thought the cause was just.’

‘I know, Teddy,’ Emma said softly, aware that her brother hero-worshipped their father and missed him every bit as much as she did. ‘Let’s go back; perhaps we shall have news of him today.’

They turned towards the fort where the horses were stabled and handed them over to a syce to unsaddle and groom, then walked side by side past Government House to the residential area to the north where their bungalow was situated. Sita, their house servant, would be preparing their breakfast. Teddy, as always, was hungry, but hunger left him as soon as they came within sight of their verandah, for there was an officer standing on it, watching for their return.

‘It’s Captain Goodwright!’ Teddy exclaimed. ‘They’ve come back.’ He began to run, followed by Emma, impeded by her lightweight riding skirt, which she gathered up in her hand.

By the time she reached the verandah, Teddy was already bombarding the Captain with questions. ‘Where is my father? Did we win a great victory? How long did it take the regiment to get back?’

The Captain turned to greet Emma before attempting to answer. ‘Good morning, Miss Mountforest. I come on behalf of Sir David…’

Emma’s heart sank into her riding boots; the poor man looked so uncomfortable, his usual cheerful expression so gloomy, she knew at once something was wrong. ‘Please come inside where it is cool,’ she said, forcing herself to sound calm as she led the way into the house. ‘You have news?’

‘Yes.’ He paused to swallow. ‘I am afraid I am the bearer of sad tidings.’

‘Papa?’ queried Teddy. ‘Tell me at once. What is it?’

The Captain overlooked the arrogant tone of the boy’s voice because it was laced with anxiety and he was sorry for him, but Emma felt constrained to exclaim, ‘Teddy!’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘It is I who am sorry, my boy. It is my painful duty to tell you that your father, Major Mountforest, fell in battle.’

‘Fell?’ Emma queried, clenching her hands into fists to stop them shaking. ‘You mean he is…’ she gulped ‘…dead?’

‘Yes. I am sorry. They were ambushed, taken by surprise in a narrow pass to the north of Gorakhpur, and all perished, a hundred good men.’

Emma sank into a chair, unaware that Sita had come in and put the tea tray down on a low table or that the punkah-wallah, who sat outside on the verandah, had ceased his rhythmic pulling on the cord of the punkah—the heavy matting which covered the open window of the bungalow—and the cool breeze the movement created had suddenly stopped.

It was a moment of stillness in which no one spoke, for each was remembering the man who had been a gallant soldier and a beloved father. It did not seem possible that they would never see him again, not even in death, for in the heat of India, interment followed swiftly upon demise; and bringing bodies back for burial was out of the question.

‘Are you sure?’ Teddy asked, unable to believe the news. ‘He might have survived, he could still come home. If he was caught by the rains, the roads might be washed away and the bridges would certainly be down. It might take him months to return.’

‘No, that isn’t possible,’ the officer said. ‘A few grasscutters, who had been sent out to gather fodder, rushed back when they heard the gunfire, but too late. There was no one left alive. They were the only survivors.’ The Captain turned to Emma. ‘Miss Mountforest, if there is anything I can do for you, please ask. My wife will visit you later and discuss what is to be done, but I expect you would like to be alone now.’

‘Yes. Thank you, Captain.’

He left, but she was hardly aware of his going. The only sound was her own ragged breathing and Teddy’s muffled sobs, smothered because he believed it was unmanly to cry. In another room to the rear of the bungalow, Sita was wailing and another servant was reciting a prayer in Hindi, over and over again. Teddy rose suddenly and fled from the room.

Emma started after him but changed her mind; he would not wish her to witness his tears. She sat, looking with unseeing eyes at the tigerskin rug on the floor at her feet. Her father had shot the man-eater years before when it had been terrorising villages in the interior. He and Chinkara, his Indian servant, had brought it home on the back of a bullock cart, laughing together like a couple of schoolboys. She would never hear their laughter again.

Her own grief suddenly overwhelmed her. And as she wept the day’s rain began, a sharp patter which grew in volume to a crescendo, beating against the punkah, thumping on to the verandah, swishing like a fast-flowing river, down the road outside. It was as if the very earth was crying with her.

It was a full hour before she roused herself, scrubbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and took the tea tray back to Sita.

Sita, who had long ago been converted to Christianity, always remembered her Hindu origins in times of stress. ‘He has gone to his next life,’ she said, looking up from kneading chuppatti dough. ‘And it will be a better one, for he was a good man, and surely Chinkara is with him there, looking after him still. You must look to Teddy-Sahib. He is the master now.’

‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’ Emma attempted to smile, for the idea of Teddy, the schoolboy, taking over the management of their lives would have been amusing in other circumstances. There was no doubt in her mind who would have to pick up the reins and make the decisions. And for that, she must remain strong and not give way to the grief which was eating away at her heart and mind, making thinking objectively almost impossible.

But when she forced herself to try, her head was filled with a thousand questions, the most important being: how could they manage without Papa? It was not the housekeeping that troubled her, for she had been doing that for years, but whether they would be allowed to remain in the bungalow which belonged to the East India Company and, if not, where would they go? She imagined her papa had left some money, but was it enough to keep Teddy at college? Was there a pension?

There was also the vexing question of Calcutta Society, which might turn a blind eye to her living alone when her father was simply away campaigning; but when the officers’ wives learned he was never coming back, they would be round like flies, giving her gratuitous advice, the gist of which was that she should not live alone with no one for company but her brother and a handful of Indian servants; it was unseemly and she would earn a ‘reputation’.

She was twenty-two, well past the age of needing a chaperon, if she ever had; she dressed as she pleased, went where she pleased within certain practical limits and felt perfectly safe. In her view, her totally loyal servants would be far more help to her in a crisis than any hidebound European woman, concerned only with protocol and etiquette. If they had their way, they would marry her off to one of the newly arrived officers within a month of the poor man’s arrival.

Her fears were confirmed when Mrs Goodwright arrived by ekka which she drove herself, just as soon as the rain ceased. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, but the little garden steamed, so that the trees, shrubs and outbuildings were seen through a haze with no clear outlines. A palm frond near the door dripped on to the wooden steps of the verandah.

‘You must come and stay with us,’ she said briskly, removing her gloves and lifting her veil. Emma wondered why she persisted in dressing as if she were still in Europe, which must have made her unbearably hot. ‘We will have to find you a husband. I’ve no doubt there will be several eligibles coming out from home to replace the men we have lost.’

‘It is very kind of you, ma’am,’ Emma said, wondering if the woman would be quite so cold-blooded if her husband had been among those who had perished, instead of staying behind a desk at headquarters. ‘But I am not ready to think of such things yet…’

‘Oh, surely you are not still grieving for John, child? That was four years ago—it is foolish to go on mourning.’

It wasn’t mourning, it was prudence. She had met John when she was eighteen and he had just arrived from England. He had swept her off her feet and in no time they became engaged. And though she was sure she loved him dearly, she had soon realised he adhered to the widely held view that the British in India were a blessing for which the natives ought to give thanks.

‘We are not here as conquerors,’ he had said. ‘We came to trade, but how can trade be properly carried out if the kings and princes are always warring with each other over who should succeed whom and who pay tribute to whom? It has been necessary to preserve law and order and that means having a military presence. You are a soldier’s daughter, you must surely understand that. Besides, the natives are no more than children, needing education and guidance.’

She had hoped that when he had been in India a little longer, he might come to know and love the country and its inhabitants, as she, her father and brother did. Whether he would have done she was never to know, for he had died of sandfly fever during his first summer. When his parents came out from England to visit his grave, they had not bothered to hide their disapproval of her; she was too free and easy and did not behave like a lady, which had made her laugh, in spite of her grief.

She realised she would never have broken down their antagonism. She and John would probably have regretted marrying if he had lived and taken her back to England. She had mourned him sincerely, but she was determined that if she ever fell in love again, she would be careful that it would be with someone who understood her love of all things Indian.

Such a man had not materialised and now, though still slim, exceedingly healthy and independent, she was almost an old maid.

‘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, it 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?’

Dominic picked up the largest of the diamonds and smiled to himself. He had proved his critics wrong. They had said trade was demeaning in a peer of the realm who should be above such things, and what had he ever done to make him think he could make a profit from it? Profit was vulgar.

There might have been a time when he might have agreed with them, a time when he was young and his father was alive, a time when he had no idea his inheritance would be a pile of debts with an estate which had been allowed to run down until there was nothing left but the old house and the land itself.

The year before, at the age of twenty-six, he had succeeded his father and had cast about him for a remedy, short of parting with the house and its contents. A small parcel of land had been sold in order to stave off the immediate threat, but he needed more, much more, if he was to restore his home and make the land fruitful.

It was Bertie Cosgrove, a boyhood friend, who had told him about the profits to be made from trade, especially with India, and cited an acquaintance of his lately come home from several years out there, who was as rich as Croesus. It was, so he said, impossible to fail and now the war was over and all danger from Napoleon a thing of the past, trading vessels were moving freely again.

There were many reasons why Dominic could not go to India himself; he had a young sister who was dependent on him, there was the estate which needed his attention and, most of all, there was Sophie.

He had asked her to marry him the year before, somewhat prematurely because he was in mourning for his parents and had only then become aware of the parlous state of his finances. They had gone on a picnic party to Richmond at which there had been a great deal of horseplay among the men and some surreptitious flirting. Although she had always been on the periphery of his acquaintances, he had suddenly become aware of her beauty and easy charm.

She was very popular and was to have her own come-out ball that Season which his mourning precluded him from attending, a source of great regret to him. She had laughingly told him that she expected several offers of marriage on that occasion, which was probably no less than the truth, for she was a viscount’s daughter whose dowry was said to be considerable.

He told himself that the dowry had not been a factor; he wanted her for herself. Afraid of losing her, he had proposed at the picnic and been accepted. All London knew of it, though they had postponed the announcement until he should be out of mourning and had brought his finances about. It was a matter of pride, he had told her; he would not have it said he married her for her money.

It was that more than anything which had made him look seriously at the idea of trading with India and Bertie, who had once been a seagoing man, had introduced him to Captain Joseph Greenaway. The Captain had served throughout the war, but was on half-pay, a state of affairs he had been anxious to remedy. He had a little prize money saved, and Dominic put in all the money he could scrape together, to lease a brig with its crew and pay for a cargo. It had been a gamble, but a gamble that had turned out well.

That first voyage had made a good profit so he had handed the bulk of it back for a second trip, and now here was the Silken Maid, home again with yet another cargo. If they went on like this they would soon be able to buy the ship. A fleet of ships!

He turned the diamond over in his hand, smiling at his own fantasy. ‘This will make a fine betrothal ring,’ he said, tying the stone in the corner of his handkerchief. ‘I’ll take it to Rundell and Bridges myself; they’ll make it up for me. You know what to do with the rest.’

‘Yes, my lord. While I was in Calcutta I was given a glimpse of a diamond the size of a pigeon’s egg which might be for sale at a good price. Obtaining that would set the seal on the venture because I don’t doubt it would make a good profit. The Regent himself would covet it.’

‘Maybe, but buying it would depend on the profit we make on this cargo and what you can make with the outgoing goods.’

‘You have a return cargo?’

‘I am in the middle of negotiating one. It will take another week or two, so take some leave. By the time you come back, it will be ready and waiting. In the meantime, will you come and take a celebratory drink with me?’

‘I thank you, my lord, but my family will be expecting me as soon as news that we have docked reaches them.’

‘Of course.’ He was on the point of leaving, when he turned back. ‘Who was the young lady I met on deck? She was wrapped up in a cloak which was certainly not in the latest mode, but I think she must be a lady by the way she spoke and the way she carried herself. She told me she was travelling with her brother. I did not know we had the facilities to take passengers.’

‘That was Miss Woodhill.’ The Captain smiled. ‘A charming young lady, but I know nothing about her except that she has recently lost her father who was in the employ of the East India Company and she is now the sole guardian of her young brother. It is a great responsibility for one so lacking in years. They were looking for a cheap passage and I thought why not? It’s all grist to the mill.

‘I turned my cabin over to the lady and slept in here on the settle. The boy went in with the first mate; there is a second bunk in his cabin. They both seemed very content with the arrangement, possibly because I asked little more than their board by way of fare. You do not object, do you?’

‘No, though it can hardly have been comfortable. Do they have a family here?’

‘That I do not know, my lord. Do you wish me to make enquiries?’

‘No, not at all, I asked out of curiosity, no more.’

Which was nothing but the truth, he told himself, as he returned to his carriage and ordered his driver to take him to Bond Street. He would have a few rounds of sparring at Gentleman Jackson’s and then go on to Grillons where he had arranged to meet Bertie Cosgrove.