The words steadied Esmie and strengthened her weakening resolve. She smiled at her guardian in gratitude and managed a tremulous, ‘Thank you.’
‘Now, come,’ Isobel said more briskly, ‘let’s not keep the Guthries waiting.’
Emerging from Isobel’s cottage beside her aunt, Esmie was overwhelmed to see the way to the chapel lined with well-wishers from among the patients. Workers from the farm had also come to wave and cheer her on. In the distance she could hear the blast of bagpipes playing and wondered whom her aunt had got to play for her.
As they rounded the corner to the chapel entrance, Esmie gasped in astonishment. Tommy Grey was sitting on a dining chair playing his pipes and wearing his old regimental trews over the stumps of his legs. Tears flooded her eyes to see the effort he was making for her.
Isobel leaned close to shout in her ear. ‘He’s been practising daily down in the byre.’
‘Thank you, Tommy!’ Esmie called and raised her posy of flowers in salute.
He managed a quick nod as he continued piping. Inside the chapel, the bride’s side of the church was filled with members of staff and patients while on the groom’s side there was just one row taken up by Lydia, the Guthrie women and Tibby, with the groom and his best man sitting in front of them. Esmie was overwhelmed that so many had come to see her married. She had wanted no fuss but she was touched by the warmth and goodwill shown by so many.
As Esmie walked down the aisle with her guardian and saw Harold and Tom standing at the end waiting for her, her insides somersaulted. She had to force herself not to look at Tom. Harold, dressed in his best Sunday suit, stepped into the aisle and gave her a nervous smile.
The service was over quickly. The minister’s short address was drowned out by excited exclamations from some of the patients and enthusiastic clapping. The hushes of staff members did nothing to curb their noisy enthusiasm. Esmie was amused and pleased that they’d wanted to attend and by the twitching smile on Harold’s face, she was glad to see that he didn’t mind either.
Soon they were out in the mild sunshine again and heading for the staff dining hall where lunch was being laid on.
‘Goodness,’ Lydia said to Esmie with a wrinkle of her nose as they stepped inside, ‘it smells like school meals, doesn’t it?’
‘Except the food’s better,’ said Esmie, smiling. ‘And we won’t make you sit until you finish your tapioca pudding.’
Tom appeared at their side. ‘My wife has got too used to rich hotel food these past two weeks,’ he said with a grin.
Esmie tried to control her hammering heart. He was looking so handsome and relaxed.
‘Well, I’ve been gathering ideas for the Raj Hotel,’ said Lydia. ‘It’s going to be the best place to dine in Rawalpindi. I think we should hire a French chef but Tom’s not sure.’
‘I’m a man of simple tastes. Give me plain fish and a boiled potato over meat with fancy sauces.’
‘Well, I’m sorry but you’ll be disappointed here,’ Esmie quipped. ‘You’ll have to force yourself to enjoy our roast mutton, reared on the hospital farm, and roast potatoes – also grown by our patients.’
‘Sounds delicious,’ Tom said. ‘I always make an exception for mutton.’
At that moment, Harold came to steer her away to sit beside his mother and aunt.
The lunch passed pleasantly and yet Esmie’s stomach was too knotted to eat much. She was acutely aware of Tom and Lydia holding forth at the far end of the table about their honeymoon in the Lake District. Lydia was complaining that Tom had spent far too much time dragging her around Roman archaeological sites and old churches but Tom just laughed off her comments in amusement. Esmie could tell that Lydia was enjoying the banter and, from the flirtatious looks she was giving her husband, it was obvious that it was all said in jest. They had a loving, teasing relationship and she had a pang of envy.
Esmie studied Harold while he spoke earnestly to Isobel; they were deep in conversation about the hospital. Soon Esmie would be leaving with him and they’d be alone for the first time as husband and wife. Taking advice from Isobel, Harold had booked them into a house on the shores of Loch Vaullay where a widow, Mrs Macmillan, rented out her spare room. A forty-minute drive away along a single-track road, they would stay there for three nights and then return to Isobel’s cottage for a couple of nights before heading down to Ebbsmouth to say farewell to Agnes and Edith. Their passage to India was booked for the beginning of September, sailing from Liverpool.
Lydia had been vexed that Harold had not been able to get them onto the same ship going east as she and Tom in late August. Harold had confided in Esmie that even if he had, they wouldn’t be able to afford travelling in first class like the Lomaxes so it might have proved awkward. Harold had seemed embarrassed by this but Esmie had assured him that second class would be luxurious enough for her.
‘I’m used to economising when travelling,’ she said. ‘And sailing to India will be like a first-class holiday anyway.’
Privately, she’d been relieved that Lydia and Tom would be leaving for India before them and that it would be a while before she saw them again.
Harold glanced up and caught her gazing at him. They swapped tentative smiles and Esmie felt herself blushing. Would Harold stick to his pronouncement that they would not seek intimacy in the bedroom? Suddenly she hoped not. Now that the ceremony was over and she was committed to being Harold’s wife, Esmie wanted to get the first night over with – to consummate their marriage – and begin their life together. And she wanted to get away from Tom. Even listening to his deep voice and amused conversation made her chest constrict with longing.
Harold stood up. He must have sensed Esmie’s desire for lunch to be over for he swiftly thanked everyone for coming and said it was time for him and his bride to leave.
They said their goodbyes. Lydia and Esmie kissed cheeks.
‘Oh, darling Esmie! The next time we see each other will be in India. Isn’t that the most exciting thought in the world?’ Then she whispered in her ear. ‘You’re going to have so much fun, Mrs Guthrie. Marriage really is a bed of roses,’ she grinned. ‘At least it is for me.’
Esmie’s stomach tensed as she thought how different her marriage to Harold was going to be. It would be a union of convenience and purpose, not one of easy pleasure like Lydia’s obviously was.
She managed to smile and say, ‘Have a safe journey and see you in India.’
When it came to saying goodbye to Tom, Esmie stuck out her hand so that there would be no repeat of the impetuous kiss Tom had given her at his own wedding. This occasion had been a much more sober affair – a glass of sherry to toast the couple – and Tom wasn’t the least bit inebriated.
‘Well, Mrs Guthrie,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘I wish you and Harold many years of happiness together.’
She allowed herself only a brief exchange of glances and a fleeting smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and pulled her hand out of his clasp.
Her pulse was still racing as she retreated to Harold’s motor car. Some of the patients had attached old shoes on strings to the back of the car and they made a clattering noise as they drove off. Stopping briefly at the cottage for Esmie to discard her veil and fetch her small suitcase, they set off for the drive along Loch Vaullay.
Their landlady, Mrs Macmillan, recognised Esmie as the young nurse from the hospital who frequently went for hikes along the shore or up into the hills.
‘Knew your parents too,’ she said. ‘Your mother was well-known for helping out the folk around here – brought food and medicines if she knew there was illness in the family. Aye, a good woman she was, right enough.’
Esmie was touched to hear how popular her mother had been. Yet she wondered if Harold should have chosen somewhere further from Vaullay for their honeymoon, where they wouldn’t be known or talked about. But Isobel had told Harold that the fishing was good and he was keen to try his rod in the loch.
Taking their cases upstairs, Esmie was
encouraged to see that most of the attic room was taken up with a double bed; Harold could hardly avoid lying with her. There was a washstand with a basin, water jug and mirror; a chest of drawers for their clothes and a single chair. One of them would have to climb in over the bed to reach the far side. There was a chamber pot under the washstand, otherwise they would have to trek downstairs and outside to the privy in the outhouse.
Esmie suggested a walk by the lochside, thinking to put Harold at his ease. There was a new self-consciousness between them and they had said little to each other since leaving the asylum. He agreed with alacrity and went downstairs while she changed out of her wedding dress and into a comfortable skirt, light jumper and walking shoes.
As they strolled in the hazy sunshine, Esmie slipped an arm through Harold’s and encouraged him to talk about the mission.
‘Tell me what to expect when we get to India. From the moment we land, I want to know everything.’
He brightened at her request. ‘We’ll disembark at Bombay,’ he said, ‘and spend a night or two at the mission house there. It’ll give us enough time to buy essentials such as medical supplies and anything you might have forgotten. Then we’ll catch the train north to Delhi and Lahore – and then on to the North-West Frontier and Taha. It’ll be two and a half days on trains but they’re comfortable enough. I’m afraid it’ll be terribly hot though – temperature will still be in the nineties – and won’t drop till the end of October.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Esmie, ‘I can work in the heat.’
Harold smiled. ‘The cold season can be very pleasant though; more like our Scottish summer weather with a few days of rain.’
The path narrowed and Harold disengaged his arm to let her walk ahead. He became animated as he talked about his home at Taha.
‘It’s a bungalow in its own compound – might need a bit of repair as it’s been used as an overflow by the army in the recent troubles – but it’s quite spacious. Large dining room and sitting room – and two bedrooms so you can have your own.’
He slid her a look. Esmie was dismayed. ‘Surely that won’t be necessary?’
‘I’m a terribly restless sleeper,’ said Harold. ‘Get up at all times of the night. I wouldn’t want to disturb you.’
Esmie decided not to argue about it but hoped that by the time they got to Taha, sleeping together wouldn’t be an issue.
‘And there’s a garden?’ she asked.
‘Of sorts,’ said Harold. ‘Probably badly overgrown but it has apricot and walnut trees – and a mulberry.’
Esmie smiled. ‘Sounds delightful.’
He told her about the people at the mission: the Pathan orderlies who worked at the hospital and Reverend Bannerman, a retired Scottish padre who helped dispense medicines, extracted teeth and in emergencies drove patients to hospital in Kohat. There was one other female medic, a widow called Rupa Desai.
‘I thought you said single women weren’t allowed at the mission?’ Esmie queried.
‘Mrs Desai is the exception to the rule. She was married to one of our mission doctors, so people knew her before as a married lady. She’s a trained pharmacist in her own right – and an Indian.’
‘So what happened to her husband?’
‘Tragically, Dr Desai was shot dead at Kanki-Khel, our outpost clinic in the hills.’
‘How awful!’
‘Terrible,’ Harold agreed. ‘Mrs Desai was very courageous in agreeing to stay on at Taha.’
‘She sounds remarkable,’ said Esmie. ‘I can’t wait to meet her.’
‘Of course, we won’t let her anywhere near Kanki-Khel,’ said Harold. ‘And from what I hear, it came under attack in the recent war with the Afghans and the clinic got burnt down. I’m hoping for news from Bannerman that all is now well. I won’t be taking you into a theatre of war, my dear.’
‘Harold,’ said Esmie, ‘I’m not new to battlefronts. Wherever you go, I’m going too.’
They walked round to the far side of the loch and stayed out until the sun began to dip in the west. By the time they returned to the house, the first evening star was rising in an aquamarine sky, and Harold had lost his reticence. In the parlour, Mrs Macmillan gave them a simple supper of fish and boiled potatoes. Esmie couldn’t help thinking how Tom would have welcomed such fare. She wondered who would win the battle over the menu at the Raj Hotel and thought it would most likely be Lydia. She forced such thoughts from her mind as the landlady cleared the plates and lit an oil lamp, bidding them to sit in more comfortable chairs. Then she left them alone.
Esmie waited for Harold to suggest that they retire upstairs but instead he went to fetch the exercise book he was using to teach her Pashto so that she could talk to the local staff at the mission. She had encouraged Harold to do so but hadn’t envisaged spending their wedding night wrestling with the new language. For the next two hours he got her to practise sentences and learn vocabulary. Esmie’s head ached with tiredness and she kept stifling yawns.
Finally, fearing that he might keep her up all night learning Pashto, she said, ‘Harold, I can hardly keep my eyes open. Let’s go up to bed.’
‘Sorry, my dear,’ he said, with an anxious look. ‘Have I overdone it?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s fine but that’s enough for one evening.’
Calling goodnight to their hostess who was dozing in the kitchen waiting for them to retire, they mounted the stairs to their bedroom in the eaves of the small house, Harold leading the way with the flickering lamp.
‘I’ll get ready in the corridor,’ he said, grabbing his pyjamas before Esmie could say anything.
Heart racing, she took off her clothes and pulled on her nightdress, brushed out her hair and crawled over the bed to the far side and under the covers. Any moment now, Harold – her husband! – would be getting into bed beside her. She wondered what it would be like to be encircled in his beefy arms and to feel his breath on her hair. He had a nice firm mouth; would he kiss her on the lips? Excitement fluttered in her belly.
When Harold returned, she watched him carefully fold his clothes over the chair. His pyjama top was buttoned to the neck, tucked into the trousers and tied securely with a cord. Studiously avoiding looking at her, he took a book out of his suitcase. Esmie’s heart sank. Climbing into bed he glanced at her.
‘Do you mind if I read for a bit? It helps me get to sleep.’
Esmie masked her disappointment. ‘Not at all. What are you reading?’
He hesitated and, in the dim light, she thought he looked embarrassed. ‘One of Walter Scott’s novels, Old Mortality.’
Esmie gave a surprised laugh. ‘I was expecting something much more worthy and religious. Does your aunt know you read romantic novels?’
Harold smiled. ‘Yes. She doesn’t approve but she can’t complain because they were left to me by my father – her brother – and the only man who could do no wrong in her eyes. He had all of Scott’s novels – and a large collection of other books of fiction.’
Esmie sat up, delighted. This was something they had in common that she hadn’t expected.
‘Will you read to me?’ she asked.
He looked at her in surprise. ‘But I’m halfway through the novel.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Esmie. ‘I know the story anyway. My father had all of Scott’s novels too and I’ve read every one of them. Sometimes he would read aloud to me.’
‘If you’d really like me to?’ Harold still looked unsure. Esmie nodded.
‘Very well,’ said Harold.
He turned up the flame on the lamp and started to read. He had a pleasant reading voice, not as deep or expressive as her father’s, but with a calming rhythm.
In the cosy glow of the lamplight, Esmie relaxed back onto the pillow and listened. Soon the exhaustion of the day overcame her. She fell fast asleep to the soporific sound of Harold’s voice.
Esmie woke before full light, wondering where she was. She peered around an unfamiliar room full of st
range shadows. With a start she remembered she was lying in bed beside Harold. In the gloom she could see the outline of his bulky body and square face. He was lying on his back, snoring gently.
Esmie inched towards him and peered more closely. He had a strong weathered face but in repose he looked more youthful. The lines around his eyes were less noticeable and his sandy lashes looked soft as a child’s. The buttons of his top strained as his broad chest rose and fell. A tuft of hair showed through a gap between the buttons. She had an urge to trace her finger across his brow and down his cheek, to touch the protruding hair. But would he be annoyed if she woke him?
Her fingers strayed to her own throat and her buttoned-up nightdress, recalling how Harold had read to her until she had fallen asleep. He had made no attempt to touch her. If she had stayed awake, would he at least have given her a goodnight kiss? Perhaps he had done so while she lay sleeping. Had he gazed at her in the lamplight and felt a stirring of desire as she did now? Or had he carried on reading, resolute in his vow of abstinence? She was restless and knew she couldn’t stay there while he slept, and her frustration grew.
Esmie slipped from under the covers and crawled over the bed without disturbing Harold. Half-hoping he might wake and stop her going, she took her time unbuttoning and stepping out of her nightdress, folding it and putting on clothes. He slept on and so she crept from the room. Descending the stairs, she could hear Mrs Macmillan moving about in the kitchen and stoking up the range. Her first instinct was to go and help but she thought the widow might think it odd to find her there on the first day of her honeymoon and would probably chase her back upstairs to her husband.
Husband! Esmie’s insides churned as she let herself out of the back door and across the yard to the outhouse. The air was chilly and the sky pink with the dawn. Minutes later, having used the privy, she left Mrs Macmillan’s and headed down to the loch for a walk.
Leaving the path, she scrambled through a thicket of hazel bushes and reached the pebbly shore. The mountains in the east were dark against a sky that was rapidly turning golden. The still loch was mirroring the dawn light; not a soul was about. A heron took off from a nearby rock and soared across the glinting water. Esmie had never seen the loch look more beautiful and serene.
The Emerald Affair Page 13