Читать книгу An Innocent Masquerade - Paula Marshall - Страница 6

Villa Dilhorne, Sydney, 1851

Thomas Dilhorne, that proud and serious man once known as Young Tom, but now, by his own wish, always referred to as Thomas, walked into the nursery at Villa Dilhorne, his parents’ home. Thomas’s mother, Hester, had just finished feeding his infant son, Lachlan. When he sat by her, she handed the empty dish to the boy’s nurse and the little boy to his father.

Thomas sat the lively child awkwardly on his knee, fearful that his careful and elegant clothing might be stained. Hester watched him, pain in her eyes, as Thomas carefully lifted Lachlan to his shoulder, kissing him gently on the way, his cold face never relaxing.

Hester loved her eldest son, but sometimes his sobriety, his almost total lack of humour compared with his father and his younger twin, Alan, troubled her. He had always been a serious, earnest child who rarely showed open affection, and as a man he was the same. In intellect very like his father, in appearance and temperament he bore him no resemblance.

The only person who had ever shattered Thomas’s calm severity a little had been his wife, Bethia. Hester sighed again when the coldly handsome face opposite relaxed into the faintest of smiles while the little boy stroked his father’s cheek—and then lost it when Thomas saw his mother watching him.

He stood up. ‘I must go,’ he said, handing the child back to Hester. ‘I have a busy day ahead of me. Master Lachlan will have to wait until the evening for further play.’

His mother smiled at him—a trifle ruefully this time—saying, ‘Don’t forget that we have a dinner party tonight’, but she thought with dismay, Play, he calls that play! Two minutes and then he hands his son back to me like a parcel.

Thomas turned briefly at the door, to see Lachlan crawling towards him. His smile half-appeared, but was soon lost. He turned again and walked, straight-backed, through the door and into the world of work: the only world he now cared to inhabit.

Eleven years ago Thomas had married his childhood sweetheart, Bethia Kerr. Her father had been his father’s best friend and the marriage had been a happy one. Bethia was a loving and gentle girl for whom Thomas was the centre of the universe. She had a gift for home-making and their beautiful villa in the newest part of Sydney was full of love, friends and happiness. The only thing it was not full of was children.

At first this had not mattered but, as time went by, Thomas and Bethia became increasingly disappointed that their happiness was not crowned with a family. At length they became reconciled to their lack, although every time that they heard of an addition to Alan’s a small shadow crossed Bethia’s face.

Suddenly, after years of marriage, the miracle happened. Seated at dinner one evening she told Thomas that their dreams had come true: she was increasing. For once Thomas’s iron control broke and they had wept in one another’s arms. Bethia’s pregnancy was an easy one; even the birth had not been difficult, and she was able to hand Thomas their long-awaited son herself.

Alas, within twenty-four hours she was showing signs of fever; two days later she was dead. Hester sometimes thought that her son had died with his wife. Always reserved, he became impenetrable. Any affection which he had felt for anyone had descended into the grave with Bethia. He had never wept for her, and on the day of her funeral he had stood, cold and rigid, among the crying mourners. He was the only person present to show no emotion, to shed no tear.

Both his parents thought that only the fact that Lachlan was his last link with Bethia was why he tolerated him at all. Passing time appeared to make little difference to him—other than to drive him further into himself. He closed his own home and moved into Villa Dilhorne for Lachlan’s sake, but he might as well have been a stranger or a lodger for all the emotion he showed, or the family life he shared.

‘I’m afraid for him,’ Hester said to Tom later that afternoon.

‘I know,’ said Tom sorrowfully, ‘but there’s little we can do but hope. I’ve tried to interest him in other than work, but…’ and he shrugged his shoulders regretfully.

‘He doesn’t really love Lachlan either,’ said Hester. ‘He’s just… Indifferent is the only word which fits him.’

‘Yes, indifferent describes him well. I know it was a terrible blow for him to lose Bethia, who really brought him out of his shell—but now he’s back in it with a vengeance! I’ve tried to encourage him to be easier with himself, but when I do he looks at me as though I were a stranger.’

They were silent for a little until Tom said, hope in his voice, ‘Everything here reminds him of the past, so perhaps a change of scene might help. He sees Bethia around every corner. I could send him to Melbourne. Since the gold rush, it has turned into a major centre. He can look into our interests there, invest in the new railway and find out where else we can expand. We don’t want Dilhorne’s to be left behind. He’s still a superb businessman; it’s all he seems to care for—which isn’t enough.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Hester, her face sad. She had already lost one son to distant England and did not like to see the other disappear, even if only inside Australia, but Thomas’s needs came first. Hard though it was, it was time that he broke with the past. Bethia was gone, and grieving would not bring her back.

Thomas was seated alone at table the next morning when his father came in. Tom sat down in front of the giant Japanese screen which ran the entire length of the room. A rampaging tiger charged across it in full view of Thomas.

Tom poured himself tea. ‘I’m getting old,’ he said abruptly.

‘Never,’ said his son, affection for once in his voice.

‘I’m in my early seventies, I reckon,’ continued Tom, who was not sure of his exact age. ‘I don’t want to gallivant about these days. With this gold strike in Victoria and the new railway being projected, as well increased trade in shipping, one of us should go to Melbourne and, with Jack away in Macao, I think it ought to be you.’

‘No,’ said Thomas firmly. ‘I don’t want to leave Sydney.’

‘A proper old woman you’re becoming,’ said his father. ‘Set in your ways. Do you good to go to Melbourne.’

‘I don’t need to be done good to,’ returned Thomas coldly. ‘I’m sick of you and Mother nannying me about. I’m a grown man. Leave me to my own ways or I’ll go back to my old home with Lachlan.’

‘Nannying, is it?’ said his father in his irritatingly equable manner. ‘Seems to me that a grown man who doesn’t want to adventure out a bit needs nannying.’

Thomas looked at his father with acute distaste, inwardly defying him. Why can’t he leave me alone? This is the second time that he has suggested sending me away. Can’t he understand that I shall lose Bethia all over again if I lose the places where we were happy together…places where I can remember her beautiful bluey-green eyes? He remained mute with something that was almost like rage.

‘I’ve never given you an order,’ said Tom, ‘not since you were a lad. But I’m giving you one now. You need a holiday or a change of air. Go to Melbourne. Look things over for the firm. Take it easy, enjoy yourself, have some fun. See life a bit—why not, you’ve never really spread your wings? Let yourself go.’

‘Drink, gamble, brawl and find a woman or two while I’m at it. Is that what you’re suggesting, Father?’

Thomas’s voice was as offensive as he could make it, and his expression was an angry glare. ‘Roister about, like you and Alan did? Horseplay and similar folly. It’s not how I wish to live, and you should know that by now. Or would you prefer me to go the way my grandfather Fred Waring went? A fine example he was before drink, whores and play did for him…’

His father said, a trifle wearily, ‘Oh, yes, I know you, and what I know doesn’t make me happy.’

His son interrupted him. ‘I’m not interested in your happiness, Father. Have you told Mother that you think that I should go off and live the life of a debauchee? A fine piece of advice for an old man to give his grown-up son!’

Tom leaned back in his chair, the running tiger’s head visible behind him. They both shared the same expression of intense irony and predatory determination.

‘You’re a self-righteous sanctimonious prig such as I never thought to have for a son, aren’t you? A damned arrogant swine who thinks only of himself, never of those about him who love and care for him.

‘Poor Lachlan might as well not have a father for all the notice you take of him. It’s in your mind, not mine, that pleasure is associated with debauchery. You must have a fine old sewer swilling about inside you to make you come out with that.’

There was no way that you could put down or annoy his father. He should have known that. He could insult his son with such calmness that the red rage inside Thomas, the rage which he had never known he possessed until Bethia had died, almost burst its bounds.

His usually calm face was twisted and purple. He rose, flinging his napkin down.

‘So, that’s what you think of me. I might have known. It’s not enough for me to live a decent life but you have to twit me with it. Yes, I’ll go to Melbourne, do my duty, and work for the firm just to get away from you. I shan’t tell Mother of your preposterous suggestions and I’m not about to see life as you so charmingly put it. I’ve seen it all in Sydney and it doesn’t attract. I’d as lief crawl around in the gutter.’

He stalked to the door, where he turned to confront his father again. Tom had not moved. His expression was as pleasant and cool as though they had been exchanging polite words over afternoon tea.

‘Your duty? Oh, yes, your duty. By all means,’ said his father drily, his expression still unchanged. ‘I can see that that is what everything has shrunk down to. Yes, I’ll be in the counting house later and talk to you then.’

‘Of business—and nothing else,’ Thomas flung at him. The heavy door shut behind him with a tremendous crash.

Temper, temper, thought Tom mildly. Not really perfect, are we, for all our protestations.

All that day, while preparations were being made for his journey to Melbourne, Thomas was glacially correct to his father, to such a degree that even the clerks commented on it.

His manner remained the same that evening. Before he retired to bed his mother, who had been told of his coming departure, kissed him, saying, ‘You will be careful, Thomas. I understand that Melbourne is a dangerous place these days.’

‘You may depend upon it, Mother. Your advice is always sound, unlike Father’s, which I shall not be taking,’ and he flung out of the room, banging the door behind him for the second time that day.

‘Now what was all that about?’ asked Hester after he had gone.

‘I merely suggested to him this morning that he enjoy himself a little in Melbourne while he is there and he behaved as though I had told him to go straight to the devil.’

‘Oh, dear! That was bad of him—but you know what he’s like these days.’

‘Yes, I do know what Thomas is like,’ said her husband grimly. ‘He’s a man of strong passions who is not aware of it. One of these days he is going to find out. He can’t sit on himself for ever. What will happen then, God knows. I sometimes fear for him. The trouble is, he’s the image of your father—as he was before drink destroyed him. He may be fearful of behaving like him if he’s not careful, consequently he’s denying all human appetites. He eats his food as though he resents it, and a friendly word from anyone in the counting house earns a severe put-down—if he deigns to notice it, that is.

‘At the moment he hates everybody, particularly me because I’m trying to help him, and he resents that most of all. If Bethia hadn’t died, things might have been different…as it is…’ He shrugged his shoulders sadly.

Hester gave a little moan of despair and, to comfort her, Tom said, ‘Try not to worry. He might even enjoy visiting Melbourne. Away from his memories things might yet go well.’

But he did not believe what he was saying, and knew that Hester did not believe him either.