Tom’s heart began a slow thudding. Esmie in Taha was an unsettling thought. It was a long day’s journey from Rawalpindi, and Harold and he could go for months without seeing each other, but they were bound to bump into one another – more than that – Lydia would want her friend to stay from time to time. Tom took a drag of his cigarette, wondering why the idea disturbed him.
‘So, will you help her?’ Tom asked.
‘Well, it’s out of the question,’ Harold answered. ‘I’ll tell her that the mission would never offer a position to a spinster. The tribesmen wouldn’t accept a woman who wasn’t under the protection of a man – they’d get quite the wrong impression. I’d be putting Esmie in danger.’
Tom squinted at his friend through cigarette smoke. ‘But not if she went out as your wife?’
Harold turned beetroot red. ‘I—I couldn’t possibly ask her,’ he stammered.
‘Why not?’
Harold threw up his hands. ‘For all the reasons I’ve said before. It wouldn’t be fair to take a wife into such a place. It’s a man’s world. There’d be little society there for a British woman.’
Tom gave a grunt of amusement. ‘I don’t imagine that’s what Esmie would be expecting or wanting. She’d be there to work, not keep house.’
Harold studied him with pensive hazel eyes. ‘But she doesn’t love me. She would most likely turn me down.’
Tom thought of the time in the churchyard when Esmie had opened up to him about David and her inability to love him. Would Esmie reject another marriage proposal because she wasn’t head over heels in love with Harold? Possibly, but wasn’t it worth Harold taking the risk?
Instinct told him that Harold secretly yearned to have a companion, despite his protestations that, to best do his work, he should remain a bachelor. Harold was a loving man and deserved to have a helpmate in his lonely posting. He knew Harold would do nothing about it without a bit of encouragement, yet, if Tom did so, there would be no way he could avoid Esmie in India. But what was so bad about that? He was besotted by his entrancing fiancée and had hardly thought of Esmie for the past three weeks. He stared out of the boathouse at the rain pounding on the sand and had an image of Esmie running into the sea, shrieking with joy. His stomach twisted in regret.
He ground out his cigarette. His feelings had been confused in the weeks after returning home from war. Seeing Esmie swimming here had triggered his loss for Mary – she had been a keen swimmer too – but Esmie was quite a different woman from his gentle deceased wife. She had a strength of character that would be able to cope in India’s wild frontier. She’d be good for Harold and the mission. There was nothing to feel uneasy about. And Lydia would love having Esmie nearby. He felt a wave of protectiveness towards his wife-to-be and put his selfish thoughts aside.
‘Ask her to marry you,’ Tom advised. ‘You’ll never know her answer unless you do. What’s the worst that could happen? She says no and you return to Taha just as you planned, without anyone else being the wiser.’
Harold cracked his knuckles, which he did when under stress. ‘You really think I should?’
Tom nodded. ‘She’s worked at the battlefront – she’ll have no fanciful ideas of what life will be like. She’d be ideal. You get a nurse and a wife all in one. You may not be in love with Esmie, but you get on with her, don’t you?’
Harold hesitated, his expression hard to fathom. ‘I hold her in high regard,’ he admitted. ‘And, I must say, it would be pleasant to have a companion.’
‘And a pretty one too,’ Tom chuckled. ‘So there you are then!’ He stood up. ‘If you marry Esmie and bring her to India, you’ll make Lydia ecstatic.’
Bashfully, Harold glanced away. ‘I’ll think it over. Pray about it.’
Tom nodded, leading the way. ‘Come on, Guthrie; let’s make a dash for it.’
Esmie couldn’t settle to anything. She went for a long walk around Loch Vaullay, Harold’s letter – which he’d sent almost by return – burning a hole in her jacket pocket. She’d read it several times and shown it to her aunt who had shaken her head in bemusement. Stopping to sit on a rock by the lapping water, she pulled it out and reread his diffident words.
‘. . . I think your request to work at the mission might be an answer to my prayers. You are a brave and caring nurse with all the qualities needed to thrive in such a place as Taha – a sympathetic nature and a strong constitution. But the mission would not consider you in your spinster state because you might be a target for kidnap or worse.
Therefore, I am suggesting marriage. I think we admire one another’s work and enjoy each other’s company. I can offer you companionship and protection – and a comfortable house in the cantonment. We get local leave twice a year and a longer furlough back to Scotland every three years, so you would be able to visit Dr Carruthers then.
We would have to marry before I’m back in post in late September, which doesn’t give you much time to make a decision. I quite understand if you’d rather not. There are other places in India where I’m sure they would accept a nurse of your expertise – there are hospitals in Peshawar and Rawalpindi – if you have your heart set on that part of the world.
But if my offer is of interest, then please write back and let me know as soon as you can.
Yours sincerely,
Harold Guthrie
P.S. I do miss our conversations and walks.’
Esmie couldn’t help a wry smile. She wondered how long Harold had laboured over the wording. It certainly wasn’t romantic – it read like a business proposal – but in its awkwardness she detected his shy eagerness. He was offering marriage but was bracing himself for her turning him down. She felt a wave of affection for the red-haired doctor.
Yet Esmie’s first reaction was to say no. She didn’t want to be his wife – or anyone’s wife – she had decided to dedicate herself to nursing. She valued her freedom more than she wanted a husband.
Reading the letter again, Esmie was struck by what was left unsaid but was still acknowledged; that neither of them loved each other in a romantic sense. To Harold that didn’t seem to matter; they had enough in common to make a successful partnership as colleagues and companions. Was that enough for her?
Esmie sighed and gazed out across the water. Perhaps she wasn’t suited to marriage? She had been hopeless with men so far. She had shied away from involvement with David, whom everyone else thought would be the perfect husband for her, and she had fallen for Tom knowing that he was out of her reach.
Was she afraid of falling in love or letting herself truly love a man because she feared losing him? She saw now how she kept men at arm’s length emotionally. Was this why she had run away from Tom Lomax? He was a man she had found it all too easy to fall in love with and she hated the feeling of not being in control of her emotions. But surely her feelings towards him would dissipate now that he was safely engaged and about to become Lydia’s husband?
But what about Harold? She liked and admired him; in time she might well grow fond of him. He spoke of his work with passion in the way that her Aunt Isobel did. Esmie knew she could work well with him because she respected him as a doctor. But was that enough? Marriage was for life. If she accepted him then they would be bound together forever. There was a certain attractiveness about him and the thought of being intimate with him didn’t displease her. But he might want her to bear his children and that thought filled her with alarm. Her nightmares of dying children were a constant reminder of the fragility of young life and she was terrified at the thought of having babies who could so easily be snatched away by death.
Esmie sighed as she watched a heron take off with slow flapping wings across the loch. She was twenty-five and at a crossroads in her life. The one thing she was sure of was that she wished to go abroad again to work. Harold was offering her that opportunity. Then she was struck by a sudden thought. Was Harold only proposing to her to overcome his unhappiness at Lydia marrying Tom? She was catching him on the rebound from disapp
ointment. He might think marrying her was a good idea at the moment but would he come to regret it once he’d got used to Lydia being Mrs Lomax?
Esmie wrestled with indecision all the way home. Only when Isobel brought up the subject at supper time did her mind become clearer.
‘So, dearie, what are you going to say to Mr Guthrie? Yes or no?’
‘Neither,’ said Esmie. ‘Not yet. It’s not something that should ever be decided by letter – I’ll not repeat the terrible mistake I made with David. I need to talk to Harold face-to-face. The wedding is next week, so I’ll see him when I go back to Ebbsmouth. Then I’ll decide.’
Isobel nodded. ‘Good decision.’
Esmie smiled in relief. ‘Thank you.’
After that, her aunt changed the subject and began discussing the forthcoming summer fete.
Chapter 8
Ebbsmouth, late July
A couple of days before the wedding, Esmie arrived back at Templeton Hall in the middle of a crisis. A distracted Lydia met her at the station. She drove back erratically as she fulminated about the wedding plans. Her sister Grace’s third pregnancy was too advanced and the post-war trains still too chaotic for her to travel from Switzerland. Both her husband and her doctor had advised against it.
‘And now Colonel Lomax is refusing to come to the wedding.’ Lydia sounded the horn in frustration. A delivery boy jumped out of the way.
‘Whatever for?’ asked Esmie.
‘Because he’s a pig-headed old reactionary!’ Lydia replied, her fair face red with indignation.
‘Meaning?’
‘He says it’s because he’s housebound but that’s a load of tosh. He’s a snob. He thinks Tom is marrying beneath him just because Daddy wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth and can’t trace his ancestry back to Robert the Bruce – or some such nonsense. It’s not as if he has to put his stingy hand in his pocket,’ Lydia cried, accelerating down the lane. ‘Daddy’s paying for everything, of course. But “his highness” won’t set foot in Templeton Hall because we’re “trade”. Mummy’s terribly upset and so am I. I’ve been nice to him all summer – the wretched old fool.’
‘What does Tom say?’ asked Esmie.
Lydia huffed in exasperation. ‘He couldn’t care less. Says I shouldn’t get so het up about it. But of course I do. The colonel’s going to be my father-in-law. I’m going to be a Lomax and The Anchorage will be my home – even though it’s just for a short time before India. Is he going to refuse to have my parents round to visit? Imagine the indignity!’
‘I know it’s upsetting,’ said Esmie, ‘but he’s always been an old curmudgeon and he’s not going to change now. Perhaps if you make less of a fuss, he’ll come round to the idea of attending. He’s probably enjoying the drama.’
Lydia shot her a look. ‘You sound just like Tom.’
Esmie flushed. ‘Well, you shouldn’t worry about living at the castle. Tibby said her father was very taken with you personally. He’s just being provocative about your parents but no one at the wedding will care if he’s there or not. He’s known to be a recluse so people will just think he’s not well enough.’ She touched Lydia’s arm. ‘It’s your special day – don’t let the colonel spoil it.’
Lydia flashed a smile. ‘Oh, darling Esmie, I’ve missed you. I need you to keep me calm. You had no right to stay away so long.’
Esmie sat back and unpinned her hat, letting the sea breeze whip at her hair. She asked, ‘Have you seen much of Harold recently?’
‘Not much,’ said Lydia. ‘He’s been away the past couple of days visiting relations in Dumfriesshire – doing the rounds before he heads back to India, I suppose.’
Esmie slid her a look. Harold had obviously said nothing about the proposal or Lydia would have been interrogating her about it by now. She wondered if he had discussed it with Tom. Her stomach curdled. Soon she would have to face them both and make up her mind about the future. She closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of salty air. Either way, she was going to enjoy spending these last two days with Lydia before her childhood friend got married.
On the spur of the moment, Tom decided to drive over to Dumfriesshire and join Harold for a day’s fishing before the wedding. He’d heard from Lydia that Esmie had arrived and he decided to leave the two friends to enjoy their time together. It would be a relief to get away from the hectic preparations and heightened emotions at Templeton Hall. He booked into a guest house in Dumfries and went out that afternoon to fish with his friend.
‘You would think they were preparing for a royal durbar,’ Tom reported to Harold as they cast their lines out over the river. ‘The place is done up like a maharajah’s palace, with marquees and bunting and electric lights all over the garden. It’s completely over the top.’
Harold smiled. ‘So you’ve left them to it.’
‘Thankfully! Esmie’s arrived and I hope will steady the ship. Lydia’s still up to high doh about my father refusing to attend. I should have whisked her off to India and got married out there. I didn’t want all this fuss – I just wish to have Lydia as my wife.’
Harold gave a nod of understanding. After casting his line again, he asked, ‘And did you see Esmie before you left?’
‘No, she was out with Lydia’s mother on some errand while Lydia was resting.’ He eyed his friend. ‘Are you any further forward with your own marriage plans?’
‘There are no marriage plans,’ said Harold glumly.
Tom gave him a sympathetic look. ‘So she’s said no?’
‘Not in so many words. She wants to tell me in person – but that’s probably because she’s letting me down gently.’
‘Harold!’ Tom chided. ‘Why do you always imagine the worst? Perhaps she just wants more time to think it over. If she’d meant no, she would have told you so before having to see you again.’
Harold looked heartened by this suggestion.
They fished in silence. Tom felt the tension of the past couple of weeks leave him as he emptied his mind of everything but the handling of his rod and reel. The sky was overcast and the tranquil river was the colour of pewter. Beyond the trees he glimpsed the industrious sights and sounds of farming; voices calling across the fields, the neighing of horses and swish of machines. He would like to paint this scene. He’d store away the memory.
Gradually, thoughts of Lydia and the wedding began to intrude. He had seen a new side of his fiancée in recent days. She had taken huge offence at being socially slighted by his father and latched onto it obsessively to the exclusion of all other conversation. Lydia had insisted she did so on behalf of her parents but Tom thought that she merely stoked up their agitation by not letting the matter drop.
When Colonel Lomax had turned down the wedding invitation, she had gone to see him but he had kept to his room and pleaded illness. Since then, Lydia had bombarded his father with daily letters imploring him to attend.
Tom had tried to convince her that it was the wrong approach.
‘Just ignore him. He loves all the adverse attention. It’s just his way of getting at me.’
‘Well, you should have made more effort to get on with your father!’ Lydia had accused. ‘Tibby doesn’t have a problem with him but you seem to delight in riling him. And now it’s going to ruin my wedding day! It’ll be the talk of the county.’
Hurt, Tom had left. Later that day, Lydia had sent round a message inviting him to supper.
‘Sorry,’ she’d apologised. ‘It’s just pre-wedding nerves. I didn’t mean to snap at you. You do know how much I adore you, don’t you?’
In relief, Tom had taken her in his arms and kissed her. ‘I can’t wait for us to be married, my darling,’ he said. ‘Soon it’ll all be over and we can get on with our new life together.’
Her pretty blue eyes had shown surprise. ‘Oh, I don’t wish the day to be over – it’s the most important one of my life – and I want it to be one we’ll always remember.’
Tom felt a twist inside. Mary had
said something similar to him eight years ago. It would be bitter-sweet being married again in St Ebba’s. He’d tentatively suggested having the ceremony in a church in a neighbouring village but Lydia had been so dismayed that he’d let the matter drop. He wanted her to be happy. Her youthful enthusiasm was a tonic for his jaded outlook on life and her excitement infectious. By the time he returned to Ebbsmouth he was sure that the ill-tempered exchanges over his father’s behaviour would be forgotten.
On the morning of the wedding, Esmie grew tearful at the sight of Lydia in her French wedding dress. Her beauty looked ethereal under the long veil and the soft layers of silk and lace that swathed her body. She needed no rouge to bring colour to her pink cheeks or lipstick to her cupid’s mouth. Her look was radiant and her blue eyes shone with joy.
‘You look utterly beautiful,’ Esmie gasped.
Lydia gave a trembling smile. ‘Stop it or you’ll make me cry and my eyes will be all puffy and Tom will look at me in horror and call it all off.’
Esmie laughed. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. He loves you and he’s going to be so proud.’
‘Yes, I think he does love me,’ said Lydia happily.
Esmie’s chest tightened. Lydia and Tom were lucky to have found love with each other and she wished them nothing but happiness together. Her initial doubts over their suitability together had proved unfounded. She knew that Lydia craved to be loved and needed someone to adore her in the way that her parents always had. Tom, she suspected, needed someone to care for him too. He never talked about his dead wife but she knew from Harold that he had taken Mary’s death extremely badly. Harold thought that’s why Tom had been brave to the point of being reckless in Mesopotamia. Lydia, she was certain, would be the right person to heal his bereaved heart.
Esmie was sure that the nerves she felt at the day ahead were nothing to do with seeing Tom but at the thought of seeing Harold for the first time since his proposal of marriage. She still hadn’t made up her mind one way or the other but hoped once the wedding was over – and she had time to talk to Harold – her thinking would become clearer.
The Emerald Affair Page 10